I approached the inspector, trying to steer as far away from Dhlomo as I could and speaking softly so that the sergeant wouldn’t hear what I had to say. Not that it was a secret, but I didn’t want to have to deal with him. Antagonism seemed to waft off him in waves: to be honest, he frightened me.
“Inspector, I’ve remembered something about Monday afternoon, before Daniel came. I don’t know if it’s significant, or anything.”
“Good morning, Mrs Marsh. I’m afraid I can’t talk right now – the magistrate is coming, and we have to go straight after this hearing. But I’ll call on you later today, if I may.” And with that, the magistrate swept in, and the formal proceedings began.
It was all over before I had even got my bearings. Robin got up and stated he was representing Mr Daniel Moyo: Hannah Bhengu, who I had been introduced to just outside the court, identified herself as the prosecutor. She was older than I had expected, probably in her early forties. It was arranged that Daniel would appear in the Regional Court a week from today for a bail hearing, even though Ms Bhengu said the police would be opposing bail. And that was that. Robin went to Daniel and spoke to him, and then Daniel was led away. Verne, Chantal and I looked at each other. Verne shrugged.
“At least he doesn’t have to wait too long for the bail hearing. Laura … you talked to Paul Ndzoyiya yesterday after we’d gone. Does he have any ideas?”
I told Verne what Mr Ndzoyiya had said, and that I was more and more convinced that the Mendi connection was a red herring. What I didn’t say was what had been worrying me the last couple of days. Why had the body been found at the top of my road? If Phineas Ndzoyiya had been killed somewhere else, why dump him there? Was someone trying to frame Daniel? And if they were, then presumably they knew that Daniel knew me, and was planning to visit me. Surely I couldn’t suspect Verne or Chantal, so someone else must have known? I needed to speak to Dan again.
I looked around for Robin and, muttering my apologies to Verne, went over to him.
“Rob, any chance I can go back and speak to Dan again. I need to ask him a question?”
He looked irritated, but he arranged it nevertheless, and I was back again in the little room with its plastic chairs. The walls were institutional two-tone: an ugly shiny dark green below dingy cream. There were marks on one, brownish smears I didn’t want to look at or think about, but that kept drawing my eyes as I waited for Dan. There was a small, barred window on the opposite wall, and by way of a distraction, I went to look out – onto a view of a dusty space, probably once a garden but now used as a car park. The cars were a strange mixture: huge, shiny 4x4s with tinted windows and vanity plates cheek by jowl with beat-up old Toyotas and Opels, scraped and dented and one with a non-matching door. The car was old and red but the driver’s door was a matt grey colour.
I looked at the two nearest cars. One was a big black Pajero with some kind of stupid slogan instead of a number. My view of personalised plates is that they are moronic in inverse ratio to the size of the owner’s penis. A flaw had emerged in that thesis when the boys told me Ms Tits had one. Simon had got it for her for her thirtieth birthday, and it said “SONIA 30”. Like she would be 30 forever – though maybe he could solve all his future present-buying problems with a yearly update. In my day he had not been an inspired present giver.
The car alongside it was a white twin cab, with some kind of logo on the side. And what I had half-remembered from Monday suddenly sharpened. But at that moment the door to the room opened, and Daniel was brought in.
“Laura … Hey, don’t worry about me. This could be worse. At least I’m being held on my own in the police cells. And it looks as if I’m going to stay there until the bail hearing anyway.”
“Dan, listen. Who, apart from Mr Ndzoyiya, did you talk to about the Mendi? Before you came down, when you made contact with Mr Ndzoyiya, who else knew anything about your ideas? Who put you onto him? And who knew that you would be visiting me when you were down here from Joburg? Apart from Verne and Chantal, I mean.”
Dan looked at me, questioning.
“I reckon you were framed. Someone dumped the body there when they knew you were going to be at my house. It was pure chance you found it, but I have a feeling that if you hadn’t, it would have been found while you were there and you would have been involved somehow. Your finding it was a bonus.”
“That sounds a bit paranoid. Why me? I hadn’t even met Phineas Ndzoyiya. And I don’t suppose anyone knew I was coming to see you.”
“I don’t know. But who did you talk to?”
Dan sank down into one of the awful chairs, put his elbows on the table and his head in his hands. I noticed a fine tremor: he was doing his best, but the whole situation seemed to be taking its toll. “I talked to a whole bunch of people at some heritage exhibition opening in Joburg one evening. There was a civil-servant type … He gave me Phineas Ndzoyiya’s name, said he was a great fund of stories about the Mendi. Then he talked about plans for a memorial in Pondoland somewhere, on the coast, near where many of those serving in the labour battalion came from. He was saying they were raising money to put up a statue or something. Develop some kind of park.”
Dan pushed the chair back and looked up at me. His glasses had slipped, and he looked very young, very vulnerable. “I’ve also talked to some of the other artists I’ve been working with, told them about my ideas. Some of them knew I was coming down. And when I spoke to Phineas Ndzoyiya, I said I would be staying with Verne, and that I would be visiting other friends as well. I may have mentioned your name – Ndzoyiya was a teacher, so I may have said you were a teacher.”
That wasn’t much help. Phineas Ndzoyiya hadn’t murdered himself to frame Daniel.
“Can’t you remember the civil servant’s name? I mean, if he gave you the contact, he must have known Phineas.”
Dan took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He looked tired. “Hang on. There were two people. One was Rhoda Josephs. She works in the Premier’s office down here, I think. I’ve known her for a long time. She seems to be in Johannesburg a lot, and is a regular at exhibitions and has some heritage connections – you’ve probably met her too. She didn’t give me Phineas’s name, but she was with the guy who did … I think I’ve probably seen them together before. But maybe they just know each other. I don’t know him.”
He looked up at me. “He’s a smooth guy – big, well dressed. I think he might be something in government, but I don’t know what. I suppose Rhoda would know. She knew I was coming down. I bumped into her at the gallery in Joburg the week before I left. Told her I was going to come down to KZN to do some research. She asked if it was for the exhibition I had talked about it, and I said it was. I said I was going to see Phineas. She did ask if I was staying with friends, and I told her I was. She knows Chantal from somewhere. I think I said I would come to see you as well.”
Daniel looked at me. “I haven’t given it any thought really. It was just a chat. She said that if she could help with anything when I was here, I should call her – she was just in Joburg for a couple of days. But, Laura, I can’t imagine Rhoda was involved in any way. I mean, why should she be? It was nothing to do with her, not in any way.”
To be honest, I couldn’t really see any connection either. But at least it was something. At that moment the guard came back and told me I had to go. Despite his impatience, I asked Dan to look out of the window, at the twin cab I had seen. But when I looked again, it had gone. There was nothing more to say. I gave Dan a kiss, which earned me a glare from the man holding the door, and I left, again trying not to take in too much of my surroundings.
14
AFTER LUNCH PHILIPPA AND I went for our walk. She waited at her gate with the dog from hell, a hysterical Jack Russell, imaginatively called Jack. He launched himself in his usual fashion at Grumpy who, in his usual fashion, took no notice. When Jack becomes more than usually unbearable, Grumpy will sometimes pin him to the ground with a paw. Philippa’s theory is that this has caus
ed brain damage, but to be frank, I think it’s congenital.
However, the two tolerate each other on a walk, and as they charged along the path, Philippa asked to be filled in on the gossip surrounding the murder. She had met Daniel when he had stayed with me, and agreed that he seemed an unlikely murderer, but of course she wasn’t involved other than as a neighbour who wanted the whole, juicy story. It was depressing to talk about something that mattered to me to someone who thought it as no more than a bit of local drama, even though she expressed concern.
However, I did ask if she had been at home on Monday afternoon, and whether she had seen or heard anything out of the ordinary. As it would be for most of us, the effort of casting her mind back to remember what she had been doing three days ago was difficult.
“Monday. Well, I went out just after lunch to fetch the lawnmower – it was being repaired. And, believe it or not, it worked for just one day when I got it back. Typical! Then I sorted out the linen cupboard. I’ve been meaning to do it for ages, but you know how it is in term time – no, hang on. That was Tuesday. Monday I did fetch the lawnmower, and then I was doing some weeding round the back. So I wouldn’t have seen anything on the other side of the house.”
I tried not to groan. Mind you, I had only just remembered stuff from Monday myself and if I had been hoping for corroboration from Phil, it was not to be. I filled her in on my doings, and she was horrified. “You can’t seriously be getting involved! That’s what the police are for. Really, Laura. That’s ridiculous.”
“Look, Phil, Dan’s a friend. I think he was set up somehow. And I’m sure this wretched Sergeant Dhlomo is xenophobic, and just targeting Dan because he’s from Zim – and because he happened to be there. Anyway, think about Monday. Try to see if you can remember anything. Anything you saw, or heard.”
“I was in the kitchen, and I did see Dan go down the road with Grumpy. I hadn’t seen him for a while: didn’t know he was back. And then I heard him shouting for you. I was actually going to come up and see if everything was okay, but the phone rang. The next thing I knew, the cops were here.”
And I was going to have to be satisfied with that. We took one of our favourite paths through the trees. The going was soft, and the shade of the tall gums made it pleasantly cool. I rubbed a tough, silvery leaf between my fingers and inhaled the clean eucalyptus scent. At one point we spotted a small buck, probably a duiker, or even a bushbuck. It stood, apparently unperturbed, and eyed us as we watched. The dogs were behind us, and when they came round the corner in the track, the buck turned away and vanished, its grey-brown coat blending perfectly with the shadows of the trunks and leaves. Jack picked up the scent and hared off, barking madly. Grumpy made a half-hearted attempt to follow, but soon gave up and came trotting back, a stick in his mouth. Maybe he thought that was what they had been chasing.
As we headed back, the wind began to pick up, rustling the dry, leathery foliage. We turned onto the old railway line where the going was stony but level. We had exhausted the topic of the murder, and talk turned to other things. I felt the strain of the past few days beginning to ebb as we walked along, Grumpy regularly whacking my thigh with a stick he wanted thrown. He didn’t always bring back the one I sent on its way: such niceties pass him by. Jack charged about: a rodent on Speed.
But the sense of normality lasted only until I was back in the house. And then all my anxieties returned, redoubled. With a shudder I remembered Inspector Pillay had said he was coming round again, and, on cue, the bell rang.
I let him in, noticing heavy, dark clouds piling up above where the low hills that would eventually become the jagged peaks of the Drakensberg bulged into the skyline. The sun had gone, obscured by the coming storm. We went through to the studio and he looked around, homing in on the apple painting, which was still on the sofa, and on the mango one on the easel. It was coming along well, I thought, even though it had been difficult to focus on it.
“I really like those,” he said. “Are you doing them for an exhibition, or are they a commission?”
“They’re for an exhibition, coming up in July. If I ever finish them. All this has got in the way of painting. And next week schools go back, so I’ll be at work. And my son will be home again.”
He nodded and, as I had sat down, he did the same, flexing his knee with a grimace.
“Have you hurt yourself?”
“Gave it a wrench running on uneven ground yesterday. It’s a bit painful, but not too bad, I hope. I don’t want it to upset my Comrades training schedule.”
So he was a runner: one of those crazy souls who pound the road between Durban and Pietermaritzburg each year. Rory has spoken about doing it, but I have my doubts that the human body is meant to withstand that kind of treatment, and have done my best to dissuade him. But Adam Pillay was obviously a keen runner. I asked if it was his first time, only to be told it was his twelfth. He had his green number for 10 races completed, and a clutch of seven silver medals.
But back to business.
“Inspector, I wanted to tell you that I’ve remembered something about Monday afternoon. It suddenly struck me when we were walking up the road with Mr Ndzoyiya the other day. I was in here, painting, on Monday, when a bakkie came along, very slowly, as if the driver was looking for something. I sort of half noticed. I was busy, but there’s not a huge amount of traffic here, and he seemed to be crawling along. I remember him going up, but not coming back. It must have been just before Dan came. Maybe that’s why I didn’t see it coming down.”
Pillay made as if to say something, but I went on.
“I know it’s not much. I wasn’t even sure if it was worth mentioning. But then when I was waiting to see Dan this morning in the cell or whatever it is at the court, I looked out the window. It looks onto a parking lot, and there was a car there, a white twin cab thing, and … this may sound silly, or totally unhelpful … there was something about it that struck me. It had a logo on the side, and the colours made me think of the one on Monday. It was a design in black and gold, with some bright blue on it somewhere. But I only saw it just as Dan came in, so I didn’t really have a proper look. And then, when I asked Dan to look, it had gone. It was just after his appearance. I suppose it could have been someone who was in the court.” I had only just thought of that, and I didn’t much like the idea.
“Did it have words? Writing?”
“Well, maybe. But I can’t remember that – there may have been something. I just don’t know. I can’t say exactly what the logo was either. It was the colours, and the shape – a sort of long double helix, like DNA – that struck me. I’m not saying it was the same truck, or even the same design. Just that it seemed to trigger something in my mind. I’m sorry. That sounds incredibly stupid. But it was the same colours. I’m sure of that.”
“It’s not stupid at all, Mrs Marsh. You obviously have a visual memory, for images rather than words. It’s interesting how witnesses vary in what they remember.” He paused, obviously thinking about what to say. “I want you to think about the logo. Not now. Just let it be there, in your mind, and see what comes up. You say you didn’t see the car come back down the road here. Of course, you might have missed it, but where else could it have gone?”
I explained about the old railway line, and how the track where Phineas Ndzoyiya’s body had been found branched off it. I wouldn’t want to drive along it, but in a 4x4, or a bakkie, it would be perfectly possible.
As we were talking, the sky was getting darker, and suddenly there was an almost pinkish flash of lightning, a jagged split across the livid clouds that seared into the room, followed almost immediately by a huge crash of thunder and the sound of rain. The lights flickered but didn’t go out. I almost jumped out of my chair. I make no secret of the fact that I hate thunder: I always have. My first inclination is to crawl under the duvet and pull it over my head. I don’t mind far-off rumbling so much, but I hate the deafening, crashing peals that come hard on the heels of the flash. They make m
e feel very small: an insignificant creature at the mercy of random elements.
Adam Pillay looked at me. “All right? You don’t like thunder.” It was a statement, not a question.
“I’m fine. Just gave me a fright. Would you like some coffee? You can’t leave in this – you’ll get soaked, even going to the car.” The rain was now pouring down, hiding everything beyond the streaming window glass in a grey curtain of water. “Let me put the kettle on while we still have power.”
He nodded, and limped after me into the kitchen. The sound of the rain created a certain intimacy even though we had to raise our voices to make ourselves heard over the drumming on the roof. I had just poured the coffee when there was another crash that seemed to shake the whole house, and this time the lights did go out.
I jumped again, spilling some of my coffee, and we headed back into the studio where at least it was light enough to see each other. A yellow mud river was cascading down the path and under the gate, out into the road. Oh God, the garden, and particularly the bloody swimming pool, would be in a horrible mess when this was over. At least the roof was sound: I had insisted in the divorce settlement that Simon had had to make sure of that.
“Now, that bakkie. What colour was it?”
“White. And with a canopy. With the design on it.”
“Do you think it was the same vehicle you saw at court this morning?”
I tried to think. “No … well, maybe. I mean, I don’t know. I suppose it could have been, but either way, the one made me think of the other, if you see what I mean. I don’t really pay much attention to cars and makes, I’m afraid. The logo or whatever it was looked the same. I’m sorry, I can’t be more exact than that. I know it’s all nebulous.”
Inspector Pillay nodded, and then went back to asking me about the old railway line. Where did it lead to and, if you drove along it, where would you come out? I explained as best I could. I could tell he was thinking that, after this storm, it would be pretty impassable if he wanted to go there and look for clues.
Just a Dead Man Page 7