“That would be lovely. If you’re having some.”
“Sure. Go through to the studio and I’ll bring it now.”
As tribute to the might and dignity of the law, I made the tea in a pot rather than follow my usual teabag-in-a-mug regime. But I did stick with the mugs. Somewhere in a cupboard are teacups and saucers, but in the five years since my divorce and the merciful end of visits from my ex-mother-in-law, they have stayed there.
When I carried the tray through, Pillay was staring out of the window. No art criticism today. He turned as I came in, and waited until I had sat down before he moved to an upright chair facing me.
I thought I might as well take the bull by the horns: “Do you know who the man is … was?”
“Oh yes. He was carrying his ID. We didn’t say anything until we had contacted his family. His son identified the body this morning.” If anything, Pillay looked even sadder. “His name was Ndzoyiya, Phineas Ndzoyiya. He lives in Durban, but he’s originally from the Eastern Cape.”
I said nothing, but I felt ridiculously guilty all the same.
“His son, who works here in Pietermaritzburg, has told us his father was staying with him for a couple of days. He had come to the city to meet an artist: Mr Moyo, in fact. Did you know that?” Pillay was looking hard at me. His appearance was deceptive: he was neither submissive nor sleepy; he wasn’t missing a thing. And he hadn’t missed a thing yesterday either.
I took a deep breath, and a mouthful of tea while I tried to collect my thoughts. “Look, Inspector, yesterday, when Daniel found the body, he had absolutely no idea who it could be. It was only when you showed us the Mendi photograph that he realised there might be a connection with his research.” I spoke slowly, trying to tell the absolute truth without putting Dan into a more difficult situation than the one he seemed to be in already.
“I was surprised by the photograph. It gave me a shock, I suppose, when the sergeant asked about the Mendi. After all, just before Dan found the body, we had been talking about it. It was a crazy kind of coincidence. We told you, remember, that it had been mentioned when we were talking.”
“Yes, you did.”
“It was only earlier today that Daniel said he had begun to realise that it might not be just a coincidence. He had been trying to contact descendants of the survivors of the Mendi, and had arranged to meet a man from Durban this week.” There. That shouldn’t put Dan into a bad light. “I’m sure he’s going to contact you and tell you.”
“No need. Sergeant Dhlomo has gone to see him.” Pillay was watching me, waiting for a reaction.
“Well, that’s okay then. Daniel can tell him what he knows.”
Pillay nodded. “Had Mr Moyo arranged to meet Mr Ndzoyiya here, at your house?”
“No … I don’t think so. I mean, why would he? Dan had just dropped in to see me. We’re old friends, but he’s staying with someone else and probably doing his research at the university. I’d imagine they were going to meet there.”
“But Mr Ndzoyiya’s body was found here.”
“Well, yes. But you said you thought he had been killed somewhere else.”
“Did I?” Pillay looked surprised. “Well, it’s a possibility. We don’t know yet. But if he was, then why dump the body here?”
“I don’t know. I know nothing about all this, really. I know it must look odd, but it’s just a coincidence.”
“You think so?”
“Yes, I do! You’re not suggesting Daniel killed this man, brought him here, dumped him, came round to the front of the house, rang my doorbell, offered to take my dog for a walk and then came rushing back saying he had found a body? I mean, that’s just insane!” I was beginning to sound shrill.
Pillay ran a hand over his face, as if trying to smooth away his weariness. When he took it away, his skin had reddened, but the colour faded quickly.
I went on. “Surely you’re investigating what else Mr Ndzoyiya was doing here; what he did in Durban; who his enemies were? I simply cannot believe that Daniel had anything to do with his death. Or that his death is any way connected to the SS Mendi.”
“We have to investigate everything.” The inspector looked hopefully at the teapot, and reluctantly I poured him another mug. I wanted him gone. Surely they couldn’t be suspecting Daniel? It was completely crazy.
The inspector spoke again: “How did Mr Moyo arrive yesterday? Did he have a car, or a bicycle, or was he on foot?”
He must have known the answer to that. They had seen Daniel here, and had watched him go. “He has a car – an old Golf. I suppose he came in that. I didn’t go and look for it, but I imagine he must have brought it. He came round in it this morning.”
“Oh. He’s been here today, then?”
“Yes. We worked on some photographs.”
“Did he bring his car into your drive, inside the gate?”
“Yes.”
“And yesterday?”
I stared at Pillay. “I suppose so. I don’t remember.” And I didn’t. Which was odd. This morning Dan had come in the gate and parked his red Citi Golf behind my garage. There was a dent on the back, just below the boot lid, which I had noticed when I opened the front door. Had he done the same yesterday afternoon? I somehow didn’t think so, but if not, why not? A whisper of concern, insubstantial but troubling, drifted into my mind. But whether he had parked in the drive or in the road, what did it matter?
Pillay got up. “Mr Moyo did have his car here yesterday. Both Sergeant Dhlomo and I saw it when we arrived. It was parked outside your gate. Now, why would he do that?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he didn’t mean to stay long. He didn’t know the boys were away and so perhaps he thought Rory might be coming back with his car. It was only when he came in and saw I was working that he offered to take Grumpy out.” At the sound of his name, Grumpy, who was sprawled in a patch of sun on the tiled floor, thumped his tail and gave a contented groan.
“We’ll be asking him about that.” Pillay paused, and looked down at me. “Mrs Marsh, I know you’re a friend of Mr Moyo, but I must tell you he could be in some trouble over this.”
I started to protest, but Pillay held up his hand. “How long have you known him?”
“Five, six years. He was studying at university and we got friendly. He’s a Zimbabwean: he was in a difficult situation, trying to get his documents in order and short of money. It’s tough for refugees, as I’m sure you must know. Locals, officials, even the police, are resentful. He stayed here for a while. He’s a friend of my sons as well, and I trust him completely. He’s one of the gentlest people I know – he couldn’t do anything violent.”
“He’s been in some trouble with the police in Johannesburg, part of a vigilante group that got mixed up in a violent altercation. Did you know that?”
“He mentioned it – it was nothing. Just a scuffle, he said.”
Pillay said nothing. He shrugged his shoulders and then asked me if I had walked the dog in the plantations today.
“No. At least, I went up the road and took a lane that runs alongside my neighbours’ house. You can walk along the edge of the trees. It’s a bit steeper, but I didn’t want to go to where … you know.”
“Of course. I’m not sure that walking there alone is a good idea, Mrs Marsh. Nothing to do with this case, but as a general rule. You should be careful.” He looked at me with concern in those deceptively gentle brown eyes. “Well, I must be going. Thank you for the tea. I may need to speak to you again, and if you think of anything, anything at all that could be of help, please phone me.” He handed me his card, and I watched him leave, flicking it backwards and forwards between my fingers. I couldn’t help liking him, though at the same time, my concern for Daniel was growing. Why on earth would someone he was planning to meet have been murdered, and then left here for him to find? And was there more to that “scuffle” than he had told me?
8
AFTER THE INSPECTOR LEFT I felt a deep uneasiness, unable to settle, wa
iting for further interruptions. At around five o’clock the phone rang and, as my hand went out to pick up the receiver, I was aware of a peculiar sensation – as if a storm was about to break, the smell of sulphur in the air. I’m not usually one for premonitions, but sure enough, the caller was Daniel, his voice panicky.
“Laura! The cops are here. They’re taking me in! Dhlomo wants to take me to the Loop Street police station. So I’m phoning you, but they may take my phone. Verne and Chantal are out – I need some help here.”
“What? Why are they taking you in?”
“They want to question me about the murder. Dhlomo seems to think I killed that guy. Please, Laura. Can you do something?”
Oh God. What on earth could I do? Why would they take Dan in? They couldn’t have any evidence, surely? I thought about lawyers, bail. There had to be something. “Okay, Dan. Hang in there. I’ll see what I can do. Loop Street?”
“That’s what he said. God – he’s coming.” Dan cut the connection. I felt sick. He could not be a killer. But the cops seemed to think they could tie him to Ndzoyiya. What the hell was I to do?
My brother is a lawyer, but in a big corporate kind of firm in Johannesburg. He wouldn’t be much help in trying to get bail in Pietermaritzburg for an impecunious Zimbabwean immigrant artist, accused of killing an elderly and seemingly respectable schoolteacher. Put like that, it wasn’t going to be easy to find anyone queuing up for the job.
Then I thought of Robin Watson. He is a lawyer in town who asked me out a couple of times not long after my divorce, or his. We got on fine, but there had been no spark, and while we’re still friends and occasionally help the other out when one of us is asked to something that would be more palatable with a partner, romance is not part of the deal. He had, however, been involved in all kinds of human rights and political cases in the old days, and still did various what he referred to as “public interest” cases. Even if Daniel’s problem wasn’t the kind of thing he dealt with, he could perhaps suggest someone who could help.
Time was important. Lawyers, like the rest of the world, would be knocking off around now. If we wanted to get Dan out, I had to move quickly.
I phoned Robin, and cut through the pleasantries. “Robin, I’m afraid I’ve got a problem, and I’m hoping you can help. I know it’s a cheek, but I need a lawyer fast.”
“What’s wrong – what have you done?”
“Not me. A friend. He’s been picked up by the cops … they seem to think he’s murdered someone. And Robin, he isn’t a killer. It’s all a horrible mistake. What can we do?”
“Slow down, Laura! Who’s he supposed to have killed? And where is he?”
I took a deep breath, and began to explain. It was a long story, and Robin kept stopping me, asking questions and, presumably, making notes. When I got to the end of my saga, I asked whether Dan would be granted bail.
“Well, it all sounds a bit thin, but if they charge him, murder’s a big one, a Schedule 6 offence. And you say he’s been in some trouble in Joburg, for some vigilante group? For sure, we wouldn’t get bail tonight if they do charge him. At least it’s only Tuesday: people who get picked up on Fridays have to sit in the cells until the following week – the cops have 48 hours to get them to court, but weekends don’t count. So he should be in court tomorrow or Thursday – possible Friday morning, depending on when they book him.”
“Oh God, poor Daniel. But Robin … can you do this? It’s a helluva thing to ask you. It’s not as if you even know him.”
“I know you and – most of the time at any rate – I’d trust your judgement. You believe he’s innocent?”
I’m ashamed to admit that when Robin asked me that, I had a hideous qualm. Can we ever really know anyone? Really know what makes them tick? Even my own children as they have grown up have become less predictable, less obvious, doing and saying things that seem to me to be out of character – or at least the character I think is theirs. They are no longer extensions of me, and they are often mysterious to me, despite our closeness. Someone who was a friend based on a shared interest but whose experience as a man who had had to leave his family, country and old life, and struggle with refugee status and poverty was so remote from my white, middle-class, safe, female background that he was inevitably a stranger in many ways. Despite this business of vigilantes, I couldn’t believe he would ever bludgeon a fellow human to death. Not Dan. He was way too gentle, too imaginative.
I tried to articulate some of this to Robin, but even down a phone line I could sense it was, to him, irrelevant. He began to get impatient.
“Okay, okay. Now, what’s Daniel’s status? Is he legal? Does he have a fixed home? And does he have an income? Those are the questions that will be asked in a bail hearing, if we can get one.”
“If! You mean he mightn’t even get a hearing?
“Laura – we’re talking a murder charge. We don’t know what the cops have got. It sounds pretty circumstantial to me, but they may have more evidence than you know about. Look, let me get off now. I’ll go down to the police station and try to see Daniel, explain you phoned me and offer my services. And I’ll see if I can talk to the investigating officer. Adam Pillay, you said? I know him. He’s a good cop, and a decent man – which, I’m afraid, does make it a bit strange if he’s arrested Daniel without more evidence than what you’ve told me about.”
“I told you. This Sergeant Dhlomo made the arrest. And I’m sure he’s got it in for Dan because he’s a foreigner. You hear about xenophobic cops all the time.”
“Well, okay … maybe. Anyway, I’ll see what I can do, and I’ll get back to you a.s.a.p. Hang in there.”
The sun had slipped behind the hills that give my house its backdrop – something I love about it and have loved from the moment I saw it, but do not intend to mention to Simon as we fight over swimming pools and safety – and the garden was in deep shadow as I pulled the studio door shut behind me. Grumpy came with me: he knew it was too late for a walk, but was ever hopeful I would open the gate and take off up the road. “Fat chance, mate. Remember yesterday’s walk,” I said, running my hand across his velvet head and sliding my fingers into the warm crease behind his ears. He gave a soft grunt of affection, and turned his head to lick me.
For the first time this year, there was a foretaste of winter. The breeze that carried the scent of some night-flowering plant from next door was cool and sharp. I stood by the old lemon tree where the green, rough-skinned fruit was beginning to shade to yellow. Later, they would turn almost orange and would be full of juice and pips. Grumpy would roll the windfalls down the slope of the lawn, playing endless, mindless games with them until they burst. I walked round the corner of the house, past the plumbago that mounded on the bank by the pool. Its blue flowers had a special intensity in the fading light, as if they had retained something of the sun even after it had left the rest of the garden.
I saw with a miserable jolt of reality into what had been a few moments of relative peace that dead leaves were beginning to dot the surface of the pool. I would have to do something about that, I supposed, instantly reminded of Simon’s phone call yesterday.
God, I hoped Robin could do something for Dan. And if bail was a possibility – surely it had to be – how much would it be, and where were we going to get money for it? I could put some up, but not much. I doubted if Dan had any: he never seemed to. Would Verne and Chantal be able to help? That reminded me. They had been out when Dan had called me to say he was being arrested. I had better try to get hold of them and let them know what was going on.
9
CHANTAL IS TOUGH AND capable and manages an NGO office working with abused women. She picked up the phone on its first ring. Her Cape accent was sharpened by concern.
“Laura! Thank heavens it’s you, man. What’s going on? I just came in now and there’s a scribbled note from Dan saying: ‘Been arrested’. Where is he? Has he spoken to you? I tried his phone, but it’s switched off.”
I told her
what I knew, and that Robin had gone to the police station. I then asked if Verne was there.
“No. He was meeting some postgrads this afternoon and he’s not back yet. Should we go to the cops when he gets in? See if there’s anything we can do?”
“As soon as Robin gets back to me, I’ll phone you. I don’t think there’s much we can do before then. But Chantal … if it comes to bail … do you know if Dan’s got any money at the moment?”
“Shouldn’t think so. Look, between Verne and me, we could probably scrape something together …”
“So could I, but not if it’s going to be thousands.”
“Well, let’s worry about that when it happens.”
I didn’t know Chantal all that well. She and Verne both came to Pietermaritzburg from the Cape, about five years ago. Verne had supervised Daniel’s master’s degree, and I knew him from the Fine Arts Department, but I wouldn’t have described either him or Chantal as friends of mine. Just reasonably friendly acquaintances. But I asked Chantal if she knew anything about Daniel’s connection with the dead man. Maybe she knew something I could tell Robin.
All she could tell me was that Dan had phoned a week or so ago, saying he wanted to come down as he had arranged to meet someone who lived in Durban and who might have information he could use, and that while he was here he would do some research in the university library. She said she hadn’t talked to him about what it was: he might have spoken to Verne but she didn’t know. I said again that I would get back to them when I heard anything, and hung up.
Waiting for Robin to phone was horrible. I was too restless to work, or to read, and I wasn’t hungry. I didn’t want to tell the boys that Dan had been arrested until I had a better idea of what would happen next. I switched on the television and surfed through the channels, but there was nothing to hold my attention. I roamed the house, straightening cushions, moving a couple of earth-toned Zulu baskets I had picked up over the years to see whether they would look better somewhere else. But my heart wasn’t in it. I’ve often felt I can handle a crisis when I’m in the middle of it, but I’m not cut out for the times when there is nothing concrete to be done and the imagination takes over. Waiting is the real test.
Just a Dead Man Page 4