Just a Dead Man

by Margaret von Klemperer

  This was getting nasty. I opened my mouth to try to say something, but Inspector Pillay got to his feet, holding up a hand. “Hang on, Sergeant. I don’t think Mrs Marsh sees this as a game at all. But of course we can’t release Mr Moyo, Mrs Marsh. He has to account for his behaviour, and so far he hasn’t. I don’t want to see tempers become heated here. This is an unpleasant case, and we are doing all we can to solve it. You are obliged under the law to pass on any information you have to us, and I am sure you are doing that. But if you were to take things into your own hands and try to investigate yourself, I hope you see that you will not only put yourself at risk. You will also be interfering with an official police investigation.”

  “And that is a criminal offence,” muttered Dhlomo under his breath. If Pillay heard, he gave no sign. Maybe he thought it just as well if I absorbed that warning.

  I drew a breath. “Look, I’m not criticising. Really. But I’m worried about my friend. And, well, if there’s someone out there who did kill Mr Ndzoyiya, and is now threatening his son, who has spoken to me, then I’m worried about that too. Surely you can see that? And, just so that you know, Sergeant, I do not consider the ‘amenities’ as you call them mine. That may be your interpretation, but it is simply not true.”

  We looked daggers at each other across the studio. The inspector intervened, asking me again whether anything suspicious had happened. I said no. Apart from Sergeant Dhlomo doing his Sir Galahad impersonation, life had been going along in a pretty predictable manner.

  As I walked with them out to their car, Inspector Pillay turned to me. “Many happy returns for tomorrow, Mrs Marsh,” he said with a smile. Sergeant Dhlomo was far enough ahead to legitimately pretend he hadn’t heard.

  “Thanks. But … how on earth did you know?”

  “Sherlock Holmes, Mrs Marsh. Elementary. You told me that the combination of your back gate padlock was your birthday. I remembered.” He looked pleased with himself, his attractive face, which could be sombre in repose, lit up. “You take care now.”

  But despite the easing of tensions, when they left, my hands were shaking. I was both angry and afraid. And I was still no closer to knowing who had killed Phineas Ndzoyiya, or even why.

  20

  NEXT MORNING, I WAS TOUCHED to be woken by Mike with a cup of tea. Saturday is my favourite lie-in day, in theory at least, though it doesn’t often happen. Mike is a reasonable hockey player, and was a second-team regular, with occasional promotions to the firsts. I didn’t always go to watch, though as Simon was not around, I tried to make it to the home matches at least. The match today was an away game, so, pleading the urgency of my much-delayed exhibition work, I asked to be let off the hook. And it was my birthday, after all.

  Along with the tea came presents. Rory had sent a DVD up from Cape Town to add to the classic film collection I was trying to build up. The Third Man: the atmospheric look of black-and-white Vienna and the subtleties of a damaged society struggling with the aftermath of war in an atmosphere of cutting corners and shady morality fascinate me. And, if the truth be known, I could perve at the young Trevor Howard by the hour. Mike had found a beautiful copper-wire-and-bead bangle, in my favourite blue and green colours. It was a gift that had obviously been given some thought, and even though it came disguised in a hideous coffee mug emblazoned with a bad print of the Mona Lisa, I loved it.

  Mike perched on the side of my bed and grinned, revelling in my pleasure. Last year, both boys had forgotten, and although my parents’ arrival with their offerings had reminded Mike, who had rushed off in a panic to phone Rory, I had felt like King Lear, abandoned by my children. This year, probably with a bit of grandparental prodding behind the scenes, things were better. Rory, astonishingly for a university student on a Saturday morning, phoned while I was still drinking my tea, and my parents’ call followed hot on his heels. They said they would come round during the morning and take me out for coffee – we were due to have lunch with them the next day. Philippa and Vanessa both called during breakfast, and by the time I dropped Mike off at school, I was feeling very loved. Even Inspector Pillay had remembered.

  Mum and Dad swept me off to a local garden centre with a nice line in cream scones and a range of fine coffee. They – of course – asked about Dan’s case. I had no wish to worry them, so merely explained that as far as I knew, although Dan hadn’t got bail this time round, the police were also looking into other angles. I told them I had remembered a bit more about the bakkie I had half seen on the day of the murder, and that I had passed the information on to the police. I didn’t say I had googled “funeral parlour Pietermaritzburg” and scoured the Yellow Pages looking for Flash Funerals, who were conspicuous by their absence. Or had phoned Directory Enquiries to see whether they had any phone numbers listed, but as I wasn’t entirely sure where they were based, that hadn’t got me much further either.

  After our coffee, Dad went off to pay, while Mum kept me in conversation. I knew they were up to something, so I played along. And when we went out to the car, sure enough, there was my present: a pair of beautiful little lime trees, in matching terra cotta pots, with blue ribbons around the rims. One of the trees even had two tiny green limes. The cheerful lady from the till was there, and a couple of men who were lining up to lift the pots into Dad’s bakkie. They all wished me a happy birthday. I had wondered why Dad had come to fetch me in the truck, where the three of us had to squash together into the front seat.

  When we got home, Thando, my Saturday-morning gardener, was waiting to help unload, a big grin stretching from ear to ear. He was obviously in on the plot as well. We positioned the pots on either side of the French door, just outside the studio. I waited until Mum and Dad had gone before I took the ribbons off, and then I stood back and admired them. They really did look lovely, and I was already planning the Thai curries and other delights I could concoct with the limes. Perhaps not this year – two tiny fruit wouldn’t take matters culinary very far – but in the future. I stroked their glossy leaves, and urged them to flourish and be happy: I’m a believer in talking to my plants. Even if they don’t listen, it makes me feel like a gardener, and it’s much more fun than digging and weeding.

  I was feeling better than I had the night before. My family loved me; my friends had remembered me and, in a mighty bout of overconfidence, I was sure Paul Ndzoyiya and I would be able to find his father’s killer and see Dan safely out of jail. I put Sergeant Dhlomo and his scathing remarks out of my mind and decided, right then and there, to phone Thabo Mchunu.

  I dug in my handbag to find the number Rhoda Josephs had given me. I knew it was in there somewhere, but I had disinterred endless till slips, a disgusting lipstick that had lost its top and was covered in a mysterious patina of fluff, hair and a disintegrating peppermint, a favourite ballpoint that I was convinced had gone forever and, best of all, three five-rand coins, before I found it. It seemed to have had an encounter with the lipstick. I smoothed out the paper, transferred Mr Mchunu’s number onto my own phone, and made the call.

  It went straight to voicemail. Never mind, I would leave a message. And so I did: the usual “You don’t know me but my name is Laura Marsh and I am a friend of Daniel Moyo” kind of thing, and then asked him to call me as I believed he had put Dan in touch with the murdered man. It wasn’t very adequate, but it gave me a sense that I was at least doing something.

  I headed into my studio, not bothering with lunch. I was still full of coffee and scones. The apple and mango paintings were now side by side, on two easels. They were all but finished, though I did a few tiny finishing touches to the mango one, and then signed and dated both. I had decided that, for my final piece, I would do another still life, arranging a group of objects on a table just inside the studio window, and then painting it from outside, making the still life small, framed by the window and a corner of the wall, where sunlight would touch the creeper, its leaves picking up the colours of autumn. I had still to decide what to place on the table: I neede
d something that would suggest the interior of a life. Perhaps an open book, a glass, maybe even a hairbrush or something personal and domestic. I tried various ideas, absorbed in what I was doing.

  I was standing outside the window, leaning in and moving objects around on the table – a jam jar with paint brushes, a sketchpad with a rough sketch on it – when the phone rang. I came in through the French door and took the receiver off the wall, only to hear a dialling tone. But the ringing was still going on, and looking round, I saw my cellphone on the table. I grabbed it and said hello, but there was nothing. Either I was too late, or it was a wrong number. The display merely showed “private number”.

  My concentration had now been broken, so I left what I was doing and started to prepare a canvas. I wanted this final painting for the exhibition to be bigger than the others, but I had everything I needed, and I enjoy the practicalities. I had music on and was feeling relaxed and cheerful when the phone rang again. This time, it was the wall phone.

  “Laura? It’s Dave Mason.” Dave Mason was Mike’s hockey coach. Oh God.

  “What’s happened? What’s wrong?”

  “Don’t worry. It’s really okay. Just that Mike has had a bit of a bash on the chin, and we think he needs a couple of stitches. I’m getting him into the car, and I’ll bring him into town. Can we meet you at MediClinic in, say, 40 minutes?”

  “Dave – just how bad is it? Can I speak to Mike?”

  “Of course – hang on.”

  He put Mike on the phone. He sounded pretty much his usual self, though a bit muffled through whatever he was holding to his chin. He said his jaw was fine, but he thought he might have chipped a tooth. “Their centre forward’s a bloody thug. He missed the ball, and collected me full on the chin. He got penalised, and we scored, but what a loser!” It didn’t sound too bad. I said I would phone the doctor, and meet them at Casualty.

  It is at moments like these when I hate being a single parent. Although in this instance it didn’t sound as if I needed to panic, some company would have been good. I phoned our GP’s after-hours cellphone and got hold of his newest partner, Dr Samantha Naidoo, who was on duty this weekend.

  She sounded calmer than I, the worried mother, felt was appropriate, but agreed to meet us at Casualty. She lived nearby and it would only take her a couple of minutes to get there, so I should phone her when Mike arrived. My next job was to find Mike’s medical-aid card. Simon had both boys on his medical aid – part of the divorce settlement – but it meant that they had separate cards. They were supposed to live in a wallet in my desk, or at least, Mike’s was. These days, Rory had his in Cape Town. Mercifully, the card was where it should be. There had been occasions in the past when there had been something of a hunt for it.

  I now had time to kill: there wasn’t much point rushing off to hospital to cool my heels while Dave and Mike made their way back to town. I phoned my parents and told them what had happened. My mother was ready to meet me at hospital, but it hardly seemed necessary. My father sounded as relaxed as Dr Naidoo. I promised to phone as soon as we had finished and was just getting ready to go when my cellphone rang again. I snatched it up: maybe it was Mike. Instead there was silence; a silence that seemed to grow. A loud silence, if such a thing is possible. And then a soft click. Who had phoned? And why the silence? I had said my name: from force of habit, I always do. Surely a wrong number would have said sorry? A gossamer of fear brushed the back of my neck. Once again, the only information was “Private number”.

  21

  I WAS STANDING ANXIOUSLY outside Casualty when Dave drove in. Heat radiated up from the asphalt: autumn had scarcely touched the parking lot. Even the low-maintenance succulents in a bed outside the double swing doors looked wilted and dusty. I could feel a drop of sweat squirming down between my breasts, leaving a trail of itch in its wake.

  Dave shepherded Mike towards me. He was holding a bloodstained towel to his chin, there were blood spatters on his white T-shirt and his hockey socks were crumpled round his ankles. Dave was carrying his sports bag and hockey stick. Suddenly Mike, who only a week ago had looked like a young man, was a vulnerable child again, his face streaked with blood and sweat. I phoned the doctor and told her we were at Casualty as I walked up to my son, aware of a look of faint alarm in his face. Surely I wasn’t going to hug him and make a scene here, in front of his hockey coach and other people?

  I didn’t. I restrained myself, gave his hand a squeeze and thanked Dave. Then we headed in. A bored-looking nurse met us, and took Mike off to a cubicle while I dealt with the paperwork. God forbid that anyone should set foot in a hospital if they can’t pay. I produced the medical-aid card and filled in all the forms. By the time that was done, Samantha Naidoo had appeared, and we went into the cubicle where the nurse had removed the bloody towel and was cleaning the cut.

  “Hello, Michael. Let’s have a look.” The doctor bent over him, her perfectly formed coffee-coloured breasts directly in his eyeline, and only just inside her low-cut shirt. Mike perked up immediately. As the nurse wiped his chin, I wondered if she was removing blood or drool.

  “It’s not too bad – a couple of stitches will fix that.” Dr Naidoo asked him to move his jaw, and nodded. Mike was transfixed by her boobs, male hormones obviously undamaged in the fracas. She seemed aware of his interest but remained entirely unfazed by it, chatting cheerfully to him as she administered local anaesthetic and put in three neat stitches. The nurse stepped forward to dress the wound and give Mike an anti-tetanus shot.

  “He’ll be fine. Probably a bit sore tonight, but nothing a couple of Panado won’t sort out.” She turned to Mike. “It may leave you with a sexy little scar, but that’s all.” She smiled at us, and was gone.

  Mike slid off the bed and I picked up his gear. “Hey, Ma, that doctor’s cool!” he said as we headed out to the car. “I didn’t feel a thing.”

  “Not surprising, chum. She anaesthetised you.” In more ways than one, I added under my breath. “Come on, Harrison Ford, with your sexy scar. Let’s get you home. You won’t feel quite so good when the anaesthetic wears off.”

  “Sorry to mess up your birthday,” he apologised. When a teenager sheds that famed self-absorption for a moment, especially when he could legitimately be thinking about himself, it is particularly touching. Now, in the privacy of the car, I gave him a little hug.

  “No problem, my love. Just don’t scare your ancient mother like that too often.”

  Mike spent the rest of the day sprawled in front of the television. Normally on match days, he would meet up with some of his friends and they would do whatever it is that teenage boys do. I prefer not to think too hard about what that is. But, although he said he didn’t feel too bad, he was obviously going to milk the damage for the rest of the day and enjoy being waited on. Fair enough.

  I was making him a cup of tea with a big slice of the chocolate cake my mother had made for my birthday and delivered when we collected the lime trees and which he felt he might be able to squeeze past his bruised jaw when my cellphone rang again. The two silent calls of the morning had slipped my mind in the more recent drama, but the prickles of fear returned as I flipped the phone open. “Private number.” I pressed the button.

  “Hello? Laura Marsh here.”

  “Mrs Marsh? This is Thabo Mchunu. You called me.” The voice was deep, slow and barely accented.

  Mouthing to Mike that I would be back in a moment, I walked out into the garden.

  “Thanks so much for getting back to me. As I mentioned in my message, I’m a friend of Daniel Moyo, and I’m very concerned about him. I believe you’re the person who gave him Mr Phineas Ndzoyiya’s contact details.”

  “I am, yes.”

  “Well, I wondered if …” How should I phrase this? “I wondered if you could tell me … whether either Daniel or Mr Ndzoyiya ever said anything to you, anything about their discussions? And what do you know about Mr Ndzoyiya’s ideas for remembering the victims of the Mendi? I believe you an
d he had a disagreement about it.”

  “I don’t think I can help you, Mrs Marsh. I know Mr Moyo wanted to do some kind of painting about the Mendi. And I told him Mr Ndzoyiya had a wealth of stories, passed down from his grandfather. I gave him a telephone number. But that was all. I am not privy to any discussions they may have had.”

  “But … you and Mr Ndzoyiya had talked about a memorial down in Pondoland. I wondered whether that could have had any bearing …” My voice tailed off. I was floundering. The silence grew, reminding me uncomfortably of the morning’s peculiar calls.

  “I can’t see that any discussions I may or may not have had with Mr Ndzoyiya could be relevant to his contact with Mr Moyo. And certainly not to Mr Ndzoyiya’s murder – I presume that is what you are trying to investigate. I would suggest, Mrs Marsh, that you leave that to the police. They are the professionals. My relationship, if I ever really had one, with Mr Ndzoyiya is none of your business. I cannot imagine why you would think it is. Private meddling is not helpful. I would advise you to be careful. Interfering in matters that do not concern you could be dangerous. As you say in your idiom: if you do, it’s your funeral.”

  Before I could stop myself, I said: “My Flash Funeral, you mean?”

  There was what seemed to be a long, long silence. “Goodbye, Mrs Marsh.” And that was that.

  I closed my phone, and stood for a moment, horrified by what I had done. At the start of the conversation Mchunu had sounded calm, not exactly hostile, but somehow formidable. And I had said the stupidest thing I could have. I regretted my call to him, furiously. He hadn’t told me a thing, and I had showed my hand, letting him know I had heard about his quarrel with Phineas Ndzoyiya, which presumably I could only have been told about by Paul.