“He seems … different. I can’t really explain, but it’s as if he wants to forget the whole thing. And us, because we’re a part of it,” I said.
She nodded. “Not surprising. Oh, he’s grateful to us all, and to the lawyer. But gratitude is not a comfortable emotion to live with, you know. It can make you feel inferior, and tied in some way to the other person whether you want to be or not. Dan feels he owes us money – we don’t know yet how much, I suppose, but lawyers don’t work for nothing.”
I jumped in to defend Robin, explaining that he had assured me he would charge only for his actual expenses: he believed Dan had been victimised because he was a Zimbabwean and he saw the case as a public-interest one. The costs wouldn’t be much.
“Not for you, perhaps. Or even for me and Verne. But Dan lives hand to mouth. He doesn’t have a job, and he has to try to earn a living through his art. And he’s going to feel that he has to pay us back, as well as sending money home. His family depends on him, you know. So he wants to get away and see what he can do to get some cash. And maybe he feels that even though we tried to help him, perhaps, in our minds, we wondered about his involvement. You asked him about why he parked his car out on the road that day.”
There’s something about Chantal that rubs me up the wrong way. Quite apart from being one of those efficient people whose life is always under control and who, as a result, I find intimidating, she manages to make me feel guilty, as though I’m a privileged whitey who doesn’t understand. But she had put her finger on something. Having to be grateful does make you uncomfortable. I would be very sad if it meant that Dan no longer saw me as a friend, or felt I hadn’t trusted him. Yet another conundrum to try to work out. I muttered something to Chantal and climbed into my car, suddenly conscious that it might be seen as too smart, too new and, well, privileged. Why did life have to be so complicated?
Mike, bless him, was delighted to hear that Dan was off the hook, and seemed to think it was all over. “Come on, Ma. Cheer up. The cops’ll nab this Mchunu guy, or whoever the murderer is, and that’ll be that. Dan’s in the clear, and we can relax.”
“Oh no we can’t! With Dan out, the real murderer will be feeling vulnerable, and we have to be careful. Maybe even more careful. You still have to be on your guard. Really, Mike. Once they’ve arrested the killer, then it’s different. But not yet.” I was feeling shaky, and the thought of Mike swanning around as if it was all over made it worse. He looked at me as if I was living in some alternative universe, one of my own making.
“Ma! You’re getting paranoid. Just relax. Sure, I’ll be careful, but it’s over. Calm down.”
I mumbled something about just because you’re paranoid, it doesn’t mean they’re not after you, but I could see Mike thought I had finally lost the plot. At the start of this whole thing I had been determined to get Daniel out of jail, but now that he was free I still felt very uneasy. And I wasn’t sure why. Something was not right.
But even if my telepathic sensors were working overtime, there wasn’t much to show for it over the next few days. I had no contact with Adam Pillay or Paul Ndzoyiya, and although I would have been happy to see the former, I began to accept that maybe life was returning to what passed for normal.
Autumn is my favourite time of year, and the weather was beautiful. The humidity of the summer months has gone; the nights are crisp and comfortable. Sleep comes easier, and while you need a jersey in the early morning and late afternoon, by midday it is warm and sunny. It is an energising time, and, remembering my promises not to walk alone in the plantations while Phineas Ndzoyiya’s killer remained unknown and free, I bullied Philippa into regular afternoon exercise. She had lost interest in our local murder: she knew Dan only vaguely and now that he had been released, seemed to think the story had fallen into that bottomless pit of crimes unsolved and insoluble, too depressing to talk about and sufficiently remote from us not to be a source of concern.
The only reminder I had of the case was on Friday afternoon. I drove out of the school gates behind a shiny silver Peugeot. A girl I hadn’t recognised had got into it, and the woman who was driving, presumably her mother, set off in the same direction that I was planning to go. I followed her into the supermarket parking area, then walked behind her to the entrance of the shop where she turned to face me. She was smartly dressed in a black skirt and jacket with a white blouse.
“Hello, Mrs Marsh.”
I had one of those awful moments, familiar to teachers the world over. Was this a parent of one of the kids I taught? Her face rang a faint bell in the back of my mind, but I couldn’t place her, and the child in her car hadn’t looked like one of my pupils. I put on a smile: polite, friendly, interested and a dead giveaway that I hadn’t a clue who she was.
“It’s Hannah Bhengu. I was the prosecutor in the case against Daniel Moyo. We were introduced by Robin Watson. At the court. Remember? And I’ve seen you at school. Gabrielle – my daughter – will be in your class next year, and she’s looking forward to it. She seems to have a talent for art.”
Of course. The prosecutor. The name Gabrielle Bhengu was familiar from a colleague who taught art to the junior girls. She had mentioned that Gabrielle showed more than a little promise.
“Ms Bhengu, sorry. I didn’t recognise you for a moment: out of context, you know.”
She smiled. Not for one moment did I think she was taken in, but she had impeccable manners.
“You must be pleased for your friend, Mr Moyo.”
“Yes, I am. I saw him yesterday. I think it has been an awful experience for him, but he’s keen to put it behind him and get on with his life.”
“The police told us that they wanted to drop the charges. I was glad: it seemed to me that all the evidence was circumstantial. But the case is still open. I hope they make an arrest soon. We don’t want killers out on the streets.” She smiled at me and picked up a red plastic basket before heading off towards the vegetables.
30
THE NEXT DAY WAS BEAUTIFUL. Mike had no hockey but some nefarious teenage activity had been planned, and he was going to be out for most of the day. I spent the morning busying myself with the housework and felt, if not fulfilled by what I had done, at least rewarded by virtue. Phil had family commitments, so I decided to take Grumpy for a walk on my own. I couldn’t imagine there was any risk, though I did feel guilty as I walked up the lane.
However there was nothing in the plantations to disturb my equilibrium. The only sounds were bird calls – no sinister rustlings. Even the deep shade was friendly, offering momentary respite from the warmth of the sun. As we rounded a corner, stepping out of the trees and into open grassland, I saw a patch of late St Joseph’s lilies, their creamy white bells streaked with soft green. Trying to avoid the blackjacks, I slid down the short bank and picked half a dozen. The scent was overpowering, almost vulgar, and I’m not even sure that I like having them in the house. The perfume, with its hint of incipient decay, suggests death, but that afternoon they looked so lovely that I decided a vase in the hall would be fine.
I clambered back up the bank, and Grumpy and I went on our way, the lilies in my hand. I didn’t bother to put him back on the lead as we walked down the lane. There was no traffic, no pedestrians, and no sign of other dogs. There was a pervasive sense of peace.
We came through the gate into the garden, happy to be basking in the late sun and with a sense of wellbeing I had been denied over the past few weeks. But as I reached the step to the studio French window, fumbling in my jeans’ pocket for the key, my foot crunched on something, and I looked down. It was a shard of terra cotta. Scattered over the grass and across the step were the shattered remains of the pot that had held one of my birthday lime trees. The tree itself had been smashed and broken into short lengths, and the wreckage – leaves already beginning to lose their gloss – lay in the earth that had been flung out when the pot was overturned.
It had been done with brutality. A heavy mallet with a pitted wooden
head lay in the middle of the carnage, a final insult from whoever had done the damage. They hadn’t even bothered to take it with them. For a moment I just stood there, uncomprehending. The second tree was still in its pot on the far side of the door. The one that had been broken had been the stronger of the pair, and as I turned to look around me, I squashed something under my shoe. It was one of the two tiny limes. I had wondered whether I should pick them off, give the tree another year to mature before I allowed it to set fruit. But the little green globes had looked so hopeful, so filled with promise, that I had left them. Now there was no decision to be made.
It was that minute fruit that shook me out of my catatonic state. I was wildly angry. I swore, using the foulest language I knew. And then I burst into tears. My home had been violated; something I loved had been desecrated. I felt no fear. It didn’t cross my mind that it could have been me, not a tree, lying broken on the grass.
I bent down to pick up the lime, and what remained of the tree. It had obviously been hacked off first just above the soil, and then the stem cut into bits and discarded, while the pot had been smashed and the earth tossed around. A sharp splinter of terra cotta sliced a long, deep cut into the ball of my thumb.
Someone had done this in the hour or so while I was out with Grumpy. And to do it, they had got into the garden. Had I locked the gate when I went out? I thought so, but was I certain? Had I opened the combination when I came in? I must have done, or surely I would have noticed. Had someone come in from the front? They could have broken the gate, or even scaled the wall. It was Saturday afternoon, and the road was quiet. I ran round the house, the dog at my heels, but there was no sign of anything out of the ordinary.
Back at the studio door, I stepped over the mess of pot, earth and leaves and let myself in, my hand firm on Grumpy’s collar. If there was anyone in there, I wanted the dog with me. But the house remained undisturbed, everything exactly as I had left it. Shaking, I put my hand into my pocket and pulled out my phone.
Adam Pillay’s cellphone went straight to voicemail. For a second I wanted to cry and cut the connection, but I left a message asking him to contact me as soon as possible. I had no doubt that I sounded panicked. I then tried his number at the police station. After an eternity, a bored female voice answered and told me Inspector Pillay was out at a crime scene. I asked her to tell him to please phone Laura Marsh as soon as possible, but I didn’t say why. I couldn’t explain to some stranger what was going on.
In desperation, I phoned the number I had been given for Sergeant Dhlomo: voicemail again. Where the hell were they, and what were they doing? As I placed my phone on the table, I noticed a smear of blood across the front. I looked down at my hand: it was bleeding freely, and there were huge dark stains on my T-shirt and down the side of my jeans where the cut had brushed against them. I went into the bathroom and washed, scrubbing my hands to remove all traces of soil and blood and trying to clean the wound. I felt like Macbeth, though I was the victim rather than the villain. I was despoiled, dirtied by what had happened, and it wasn’t something I could easily wash away. My thumb continued to pour blood; the cut was deeper than I had thought and ran down into my hand. I found a dressing and plaster and awkwardly, as it was my right thumb, I covered the wound. At least I wouldn’t continue leaving a bloody trail around the house.
And then I wondered what to do next. The police were out of reach, but surely I should do something. I leaned on the edge of the basin, my legs suddenly weak. Then, into the black silence that was filling my head, I heard Mike’s voice shouting goodbye to someone, and the sound of his key in the front door. Overwhelmed with relief that I was no longer alone, I went to him.
Mike looked at the apparition I must have presented in horror. “God, Ma! What’s happened?”
Silently I led him through the studio and showed him the remains of the lime tree. It took him a moment to absorb what he was seeing, but he remained calm.
“What happened? Who did it?”
“I don’t know. I was out with Grumpy, and when we came back …” I gestured at the mess. “Someone must have got in somehow and done this. There wasn’t anyone here, but they left that mallet thing.” I was close to tears.
Mike looked at me, with all a teenager’s horror at the thought of an adult who is about to lose control. “Ma … it’s a tree. It’s someone trying to scare you. Whoever it was obviously didn’t want to do anything to you. They’re just making some kind of silly statement.”
“Silly! Look what they’ve done, Michael! They’ve smashed up my tree!”
“Ma! Calm down! It could’ve been you. Have you called Inspector Pillay?”
“No … I mean, yes. I tried, but he’s not there. I’ve left a message.”
“And the other fellow – that miserable sergeant?”
“Same thing.” I sat down on the sofa. “Make me a cup of tea, would you, Mike?”
Grateful to escape what was beginning to look perilously like a scene, he headed purposefully off to the kitchen, calling over his shoulder as he went. “Try him again, Ma, and then phone Vanessa. Get her to come over.” Both were good ideas. I needed someone to tell me what to do, and Ness would love that. Adam’s phone was still on voicemail, but Ness answered hers, and when she heard what had happened, although I don’t think she thought the destruction of a potted tree was quite as much of an event as I did, she promised she would be over in 10 minutes.
When she arrived and had been filled in, she and Mike set off to try to work out where the intruder could have got onto the property. They found scuffmarks on the front wall, which – as I couldn’t say whether they had been there forever or were brand new – they decided showed where someone had climbed over. They also convinced themselves that the earth in the flower bed on the inside of the wall showed footprints, or at least had been disturbed. It probably had, but whether by intruders, a mole or Grumpy was beyond my powers of detection. I left them to their hunt. My heart was no longer in the detective business. I felt thoroughly miserable.
Ness decided it was now her duty to cheer me up, but for once, she didn’t do much of a job of it. Eventually, in desperation, she grabbed my phone and tried Adam Pillay again, with no more success than I had had. She left him a message, telling him firmly there had been an incident at my house, and he’d better get himself there as soon as possible. She then phoned to order pizza, and went off to fetch it, instructing Mike and me to lock ourselves in, and not to open the door unless it was her or the police. I didn’t need telling, though Mike seemed to feel that a whole lot of overreaction was going on.
A glass or two of red wine and a bacon-and-avo pizza later, I was beginning to feel slightly more human, although my hand was throbbing and stiff, and becoming intrusively painful. I was even prepared to emerge from my cocoon of silence and talk about the afternoon’s violation. Ness was lying back on the sofa, her shapely feet on the table among a collection of plates, glasses, the wine bottle and a fruit bowl, while Mike sprawled on the floor, a permitted Saturday bottle of beer in his hand. At that moment, the doorbell rang, heralding the arrival of Inspector Pillay and Sergeant Dhlomo.
Daylight had faded, but despite the cool air that wafted in through the door, the two men brought with them the smell of hot male bodies. As they came into the light, I could see both looked grim. Their faces shone with sweat, and there was a brown mark on the knee of Sergeant Dhlomo’s chinos. He was usually a snappy dresser, but now he looked grubby – and more than usually angry.
They took in the scene of food, drink and apparent relaxation. Inspector Pillay nodded at Vanessa. Nervously I asked if I could get them anything: a drink, tea or coffee.
“No thank you, Mrs Marsh.” Adam was formal. “You left a message for me. I believe something happened?”
“Yes.” I cleared my throat. Something else had obviously happened to make the two look the way they did. The vandalisation of my tree sounded deeply trivial, not an event to worry two weary cops with late on a Saturd
ay evening. But I launched into my story nevertheless. As I was talking, Mike got to his feet and went to switch on the outside light. The mess looked less alarming under the electric glow. It could almost have been the start of some kind of landscaping project, except for the wilted lilies, lying forgotten beside the step and sending their choking scent through the open window. But I felt both men stiffen beside me as we looked.
“The mallet.” It was Sergeant Dhlomo who spoke. “Was that there when you came in? Have you touched it?”
“Yes, I’m sure I did. I mean … that’s what whoever did this must have used to smash the pot. It was just lying there on the pile of earth. I suppose I picked it up.”
“Bag it, Thembinkosi.” Adam spoke softly beside me. “We’ll test it anyway.” The sergeant went back to the police car, and returned with a black plastic bag. Using the edge of the bag to pick the mallet up by the tip of the handle, he placed it carefully inside and brought it into the studio, laying it down by his feet.
“Were you alone here today?” Sergeant Dhlomo turned to me, and there was a look of real menace on his face. I took a step backwards, and Ness stirred on the sofa where she was still sitting.
“Yes, I was. After Mike went out this morning, I mean.”
“What did you do?”
I didn’t know where this was going, but I didn’t much like it. Adam stood motionless, but I could feel him watching me carefully. “I did things around the house, and then, after lunch, I took the dog out. I told you … It was when I came back, around half past three or four, that I found this … this mess. So I tried to phone you, both of you.”
“And apart from taking the dog for a walk, you didn’t leave the house at all today?”
“No. I’ve just told you. What is this?”
“Is that your mallet?”
“No. I’ve never seen it before today. Anyway, why would I smash up my own things? What are you trying to say, Sergeant?”
Just a Dead Man Page 17