Just a Dead Man

by Margaret von Klemperer

  Eventually, at around 8 o’clock, Robin rang. The news was not good. “They’ve booked him, Laura, and he’s due in court on Thursday morning.”

  “Oh God – why not tomorrow, Rob?”

  “Be grateful. It could have been Friday. I saw Pillay there, and Dhlomo. I did get the feeling he’s got it in for Daniel, though I don’t know why. He seemed to resent the fact that I was there and wanted to know who had contacted me. So he’s probably got it in for you too now. Anyway, Daniel will appear in the District Court, and we’ll get it remanded to the Regional Court for a bail hearing, probably around the end of next week. I can’t see it happening before then, Laura. I’ve explained to Dan that he’ll be kept in the holding cells until Thursday anyway, and probably until the second court date as well. He’ll be okay. Don’t worry too much about that.”

  But I did worry. Dan was Zimbabwean, and there were always terrible stories about what happened in police cells, especially to people who might not fit in with the other inmates. It seems it doesn’t do to be different even, or particularly, among the criminal classes. And the police and warders either can’t or won’t help. But Robin did say that, for the moment anyway, Dan was alone in a cell.

  “I asked Pillay on what basis they were arresting him, what their evidence was. He was pretty cagey, and I don’t think they’ve got a hell of a lot to go on. But Dan had been in contact with this Ndzoyiya guy, and he did deny any knowledge of him when he found the body.”

  “But he had never seen him! He had no idea who he was!”

  “I know, I know. But it doesn’t look good. And Pillay confirmed he had been in some kind of trouble with the police in Joburg – not arrested, but questioned about something that happened when foreign traders were roughed up and their supporters took on the thugs. The guys here are waiting for more details on that. But it does mean Dan’s name is known to the police, and in connection with a violent incident. Still, if the evidence for this killing is purely circumstantial, we can make a good case for bail. There’ll be conditions. He’ll probably have to stay down here, not go back to Joburg. And report to the police station, etc. Though as he’s an immigrant, and doesn’t own property, it may be tricky.”

  “Rob, what kind of money will we be talking? I mean, I don’t think Dan’s got much at the moment, and while I can help a bit, and probably some of his other friends, it’s not going to be easy to find big bucks.”

  “I would hope we could keep it to under ten grand – maybe even less than that. But it might depend on the magistrate. I’ll find out who the prosecutor is beforehand, and if it’s someone reasonable, we can try to make a plan. I know most of them, and over the years I’ve made a point of establishing working relations with them. Don’t worry yet, Laura. I don’t think the police have much of a case, at least at this stage. We’ll do what we can.”

  “Thanks so much, Rob. I really appreciate this. But the money thing …” I kind of trailed off. I had no idea how I was going to raise the bail, let alone pay Rob. Ten grand was not the sort of cash I had lying around. I could ask my father for money, and he would probably help, but I didn’t like the idea. I’m a middle-aged adult: asking the folks for handouts is something I go a long way to avoid. A very long way.

  “Hey, don’t worry. We’ll sort things out. Relax. Daniel was pretty calm when I left, and he’s given me a bit of info about his contact with this Ndzoyiya. Come into my office tomorrow afternoon and I’ll show you what I’ve got. We can see if there’s anything we can do, or find out. It’s too soon to worry.”

  And I had to be satisfied with that. I sighed, and called Verne. He answered straight away, and I told him what Robin had said. I asked if he knew anything about Phineas Ndzoyiya, and he said he thought Dan had been given his name by someone working for some heritage body: Verne could shed no further light on who Ndzoyiya was or where he worked. Daniel had told him what he had told me, that his contact was the grandson of a Mendi survivor, and apparently was keen to see the tragedy remembered in a practical way. Dan had spoken to him over the phone about the exhibition and arranged to meet him. But more than that, Verne didn’t know.

  10

  WEDNESDAY WAS A DIFFICULT day. News of Dan’s arrest was out. He hadn’t appeared in court, so he hadn’t yet been named in the papers, but word had got around all the same. My mother was on the phone before breakfast, convinced her daughter and beloved grandsons had been harbouring a homicidal maniac. I said, over and over, that it was all a mistake, and I was sure Daniel would soon be released and the real murderer caught. But she wasn’t listening and my assurances were sounding unconvincing, even to me.

  Don’t get me wrong: I’m very fond of my mother, and at least 80 per cent of the time she’s a rational, sensible person. But if something unhinges her, it does a remarkably successful job. Eventually, I spoke to my father. He was more reasonable, but he too was concerned and I didn’t want to raise the subject of bail. That was going to have to wait, at least until Robin had some idea of what we might be looking at.

  I couldn’t work. I prepared a canvas for the mango painting, but I knew I was in the wrong frame of mind. If I started now, it would be a disaster. I tried to think of another subject so that, when I felt like working again, I would be ready to complete the Interiors stuff. But nothing came – apart from a vision of a prison cell. Of course, I had never actually seen one, apart from Nelson Mandela’s on Robben Island, which I had found curiously unreal. A cell was obviously no place for anyone to spend 27 days, let alone 27 years, but it had reminded me of a visit to Dachau when I had been a student and gone to Munich. The horror, the evil, is reduced to the banal by being clean and tidy and turned into, if not a tourist attraction exactly, at least a place of pilgrimage. Reality cannot be replicated. Once the moment is over, it is over for good. Fine idea for an artist to have, I thought.

  I was contemplating all this when the bell rang, announcing a visit from Vanessa Govender, the instigator of Interiors. She had bumped into Chantal, and had been told about Dan, and so had come hotfooting round to me. I like Vanessa – she’s a close friend in many ways, but she’s also a major league gossip with a malicious streak that can be funny but also uncomfortable at times.

  She launched in straight away. “God, Laura! Are you all right? Has Dan really been arrested for murder? What happened? Who’s the guy he killed?”

  “Hang on, hang on. He hasn’t killed anyone. It’s a mistake. The cops have some circumstantial evidence, but that’s all. I hope we’ll get him a bail hearing next week, and then he’ll be out. I’m sure we can get it sorted.”

  “You going to play detective? Just you be careful, that’s all. And do you know … really know … that he’s innocent? I mean, I know the two of you have been friends for years, but …” Vanessa left the sentence unfinished. And once again, I felt doubt creep up on me. Of course I didn’t know Dan was innocent. But I was bloody sure he was, nonetheless.

  Vanessa went on talking. At one stage, she asked me who the investigating officer was, and I told her about Inspector Pillay and Sergeant Dhlomo.

  “Adam Pillay? I know him. He lives a couple of houses down the road from me. He’s an okay kind of guy. Terribly sad: his wife died in childbirth around 10 years ago. Imagine that, in this day and age! And the baby died too. Ridiculous. Anyway, he lives alone, and his mother, who’s a friend of my ma, is always trying to set him up with women. It’s like Vikram Seth’s A Suitable Boy in reverse! But surely he wouldn’t arrest Daniel without some evidence?”

  I tried to explain about Sergeant Dhlomo, and Vanessa immediately went off on another tangent, this time about xenophobia and how certain elements in the cops were always trying to pin everything onto immigrants and refugees. I have no idea what she was basing her view on, but it seemed to me it would fit with Dhlomo’s attitude. Or maybe he was just a tough cop and Dan had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. I sighed.

  “Darling, is this getting to you?”

  “Well, a bit, I su
ppose. After all, the body turned up on my favourite dog walk and now they’ve arrested one of my friends. But other than that, I’m fine.”

  “No, you’re not. Just look at you. Your hair needs washing; no earrings or rings; no make-up; ratty clothes. You’re a sight.”

  “Nonsense, Ness. I was just going to start painting when you came in.”

  “No, you weren’t. Come on, pull yourself together. If Dan’s innocent, it’ll all be sorted quickly. If not – well, then you’ve had an escape. Come on, get changed, and we’ll go out for coffee.”

  Sometimes, with Vanessa, the path of least resistance is the only route to travel: it’s how I had got caught up in painting for her exhibition. And, anyway, the thought of a decent cup of coffee was tempting. She hustled me off to change, and as I pulled off my ancient jeans and shapeless T-shirt, I looked in the mirror. She was right: I did look a mess. I’m not one for make-up, though I usually manage a bit round the eyes. Now I looked pale and, worst of all, old. I swear I could see wrinkles growing and spreading as I watched, like something from a horror flick. And damn her, Ness was right. I always wear earrings. I have a huge collection, and I love the feel of them, and the way they give a different dimension to my face. So I rummaged in my drawer and found a pair of chunky amber ones, set in silver. They were big and heavy, and might draw attention away from my hair, which was indeed looking awful. I pulled it all back, away from my face and put in a wooden slide. There. I looked, if not great, at least a bit less like a bag lady. With stone-coloured cargo pants and a yellow shirt, I could pass as human.

  And I have to admit I felt a lot better after the coffee. Vanessa picked over the Daniel story, and was obviously angling for an invitation to come and see Robin with me, but when it wasn’t forthcoming, she started to tell me about her relationship with Ben, the sculptor. It sounded like a liaison made in hell, but Ness, putting on the full drama queen act, was very funny about it all. I could see an elderly couple at the table behind her shamelessly listening, all pretence at a conversation of their own abandoned. This was better than their afternoon soap opera. Ness gave me a hug on parting, and insisted I call her after I had seen Robin: she wanted to be kept fully up to date. Maybe she would even waylay Inspector Pillay and see what she could find out. I groaned inside.

  Robin’s office is in the centre of town, in an area that is still okay, but certainly not smart. The receptionist told me he had gone to court but would be back any minute, so I sat down in an ancient cane chair that creaked when I moved. The table in front of me held a copy of today’s newspaper and a nasty collection of waiting-room magazines. There was a three-year-old Farmer’s Weekly, a six-month-old Men’s Health and a copy of Femina so ancient and dog-eared that it was impossible to see a date on the cover. None of them appealed, so I sat back and watched the people come and go. A very good-looking young man, file in hand, was energetically flirting with the receptionist. She tossed her head and made a couple of dismissive remarks, but I could tell she was definitely interested. I was pretty certain he knew it too. Confident body language and a practised smoothness. Their by-play was absorbing: I almost forgot why I was there. But then Robin came in, looking untidy and harassed.

  “Hi, Laura. Sorry I’ve kept you waiting. Come on through. Sandile, have you been to the Master’s Office yet? Well, for God’s sake, get a move on!”

  Shaking his head as he held his office door open for me, he muttered about the problems of having good-looking articled clerks. “Thinks he’s God’s gift to women. Trouble is, some of them think he’s right.”

  Robin’s office was filled with tottering heaps of files. A couple of Spy legal prints hung crooked on the wall, making me itch to straighten them, while in the corner what might once have been a decent solid Victorian whatnot held a dusty display of Zulu beer pots. They were good ones, not the sort sold to tourists around the entrance to the Zululand game reserves or at beach resorts, but works of art in their own right, combining the traditions of the form with clever detailing in incised and raised patterns. He saw me looking.

  “I know, I know, they need to be dusted. But there are some real beauties there, aren’t there? I did a case – a land dispute – for one of the potting families up Msinga way. They were short of cash, and so I told them not to worry. But they brought me these pots. I thought of taking them home, but I spend much more time in the office than I do there, so I decided to leave them here. I find them soothing to look at when I’m pondering a problem. It’s something about the shape.”

  I looked at him with affection. He really was a great guy.

  He shuffled some papers on his desk, and began to talk about Daniel. He told me where to be the next morning, and when, and explained that it would be a purely formal remand. Daniel wouldn’t say anything, and the matter would be referred to the Regional Court for a bail hearing. Robin had spoken to the prosecutor, a Ms Bhengu who, he said, was very reasonable and competent. “That’s a plus, but it looks as if the cops will want to oppose bail. He’s a foreigner, and that’s always a problem. Still, we’ll see what we can do.”

  I asked if I could see Daniel, and he said he would try to take me down to the cells to talk to him tomorrow morning. I then began to explain that I wanted to talk to the murdered man’s son, the one who had identified the body. “He must know something. I mean, did his father have enemies? Apart from seeing Daniel, had he come up from Durban for anything else?” I stopped. Robin was looking at me with an expression of alarm.

  “Laura, the man was murdered. Keep out of it. This is not a place to play amateur detective! The police are investigating, and so am I. We’ll look at all this, don’t worry. But don’t get involved. Anyway, you could be a witness.”

  “What? What was I a witness to? It was my dog that found the body, but that’s all.”

  He shook his head at me, but nevertheless handed over a phone number for Paul Ndzoyiya, the dead man’s son. Inspector Pillay had told him Ndzoyiya wanted to see the place where his father’s body had been found, so if he came to look, maybe I could speak to him. “But for God’s sake, be sensible,” he said firmly.

  We agreed to ask Daniel who had put him onto Phineas Ndzoyiya in the first place, and see whether there could be any leads there. “But the murder could have been for all kinds of reasons, nothing to do with Dan at all. If the police are confident they have solved it with Dan’s arrest, they are going to have to come up with some kind of substantive evidence,” said Robin. “And I don’t see how they can.”

  I headed home, the cheerfulness induced by Vanessa’s gossip and the coffee long since dissipated. I knew Robin was right: this was no cosy, Miss Marple-style murder with room for amateur involvement. We live in a country where life is worth less than the cost of a cellphone and racial, tribal and gender hatreds run cold and deep under a skimpy veil of tattered rainbow and sunshine. I am a coward at heart, anxious to avoid confrontation at all costs – except of course with Simon – but I simply had to try to do something to help Daniel. And I couldn’t believe he was involved in this.

  I phoned Verne, catching him in his office at university. I told him what Robin had said, and when and where the hearing would be and he promised to be there. I then told him that I wanted to speak to Paul Ndzoyiya and see if he had any idea of who might have had a motive to kill his father.

  “But, Laura, it could have been a simple robbery. And the cops will be doing all that.”

  “He wasn’t robbed. At least, I don’t think he was. And why was he dumped near my house? Or killed there? The cops haven’t said which it was yet – or, at any rate, not to me.” I had forgotten to ask Robin if he knew. Stupid. “Look, Verne. I’m going to phone this Paul. Apparently he wants to see the place where his father’s body was found. Could I ask you … would you come up here and meet him with me? I don’t want to be a wimp, but I don’t want to be stupid either.”

  There was a long pause. “Well, I suppose I could try. Obviously I want to make sure Dan gets off this rubbi
sh charge. But I’m not sure how clever it is to get involved.”

  “But we are involved. He’s our friend: he was staying with you; he was walking my dog when he found the body. And surely we both know he couldn’t have killed anyone!”

  “I know, I know. But if the cops haven’t got evidence, they won’t get a conviction. Still, I don’t want poor old Dan to sit in jail while they lose dockets and fiddle around. Okay. If you get him, and he wants to see the spot, I’ll come.” He wasn’t exactly enthusiastic, but it was a start.

  11

  ROBIN HAD TOLD ME PAUL Ndzoyiya was some kind of deputy manager at a plastics factory in the industrial area. I tried to work out when he would have a lunch break, and phoned him. No use waiting too long, or I might never do it.

  He answered quickly, a deep, slow voice, sounding older than I had expected. I explained who I was, said how sorry I was about his father’s death and that I believed he was anxious to see the place where the body had been found. It was no use pretending I was being altruistic. No one was going to believe that, and the police had probably told him about me anyway. So I admitted Daniel was my friend, said I was concerned about him, and that I simply did not believe he was a killer.

  Ndzoyiya listened, saying little, and on a crackly line that threatened to break up several times, it was hard to gauge his emotions. But finally he said he would like to come to my house at half past four and I could then show him where the body had been. When I gave him directions, he gave no indication he knew the area at all.

  I rang Verne again. Gloomily, he agreed to be there, and would ask Chantal to join us. So now there was nothing to do but wait.