by Malla Nunn
Emmanuel followed King into the house. The main living area contained soft, wide-backed sofas and animal skin rugs. Paintings of the English countryside teamed with family photographs on the whitewashed walls; Mrs. Ellis kept it all in impeccable order. Tribal masks, shields, and assagai spears added just enough of a primitive edge to place the room in South Africa instead of Surrey.
“Look at this.” King pulled open a drawer in the office and took out a stack of yellowed envelopes. There was writing on each envelope, faint but still visible. “Read them and tell me what you make of them.”
“‘Full moon fertility. Sprinkle across mouth of kraal after midnight,’” Emmanuel read aloud.
“Keep going.” King was obviously delighted by his find.
“‘Spring rain creator. Dig into topmost field first day after seeding.’” Emmanuel flicked through the rest in quick order. All the labels had a mystical element to them. “They’re black magic potions of some kind. The natives swear by them.”
“Not just natives. We found these when we cleared the house. They belonged to old man Pretorius, the captain’s father.”
White Police Captain Dabbles in Black Magic: the English papers would have a field day.
“When I found these I asked my driver Matthew about Pretorius the Elder.” King threw the envelopes in the drawer and started back toward the veranda. “He was widowed early and lived out here alone with his son. The other Boers thought he was insane and apparently steered clear of him. He believed the whole Boer ‘white tribe in Africa’ story without reservation.”
“Lots of people do,” Emmanuel said. Two-thirds of the present government, in fact.
“True, but how many of those people partner their son with a black companion so they can learn the ways of the natives? How many make their sons undertake the training of a Zulu amabutho between the ages of fourteen and eighteen, and endure the pain that goes with it?”
“Pretorius did that?”
“He and Shabalala would apparently run barefooted from one end of the farm to the other five or six times without stopping, without drinking. Matthew says they were quite a sight. It brought tears to the eyes of those who remembered the old days. The sound of Zulu warriors, the impi, thundering across the veldt.” King sat down in his chair with a nostalgic sigh.
The expanse of sky and gentle hills, once native homeland, was now part of King’s fiefdom. What was it about the British and their love of nations they’d conquered in battle?
“Constable Shabalala was his companion?”
“Yes. Shabalala’s father was a Zulu. He trained them.”
“Why did the captain’s father do it?” Emmanuel asked. Most whites were happy to claim higher status as a birthright.
“This is the crackpot element.” King obviously relished talking about the eccentricities of the Boers. “Old man Pretorius thought that white men should be able to prove themselves equal to or better than the natives in all things. He brought his son up to be a white induna, a chief, in every sense of the word.”
Mrs. Ellis carried in a tea tray and placed it on the table between them. Her movements were sparse and economical, the body language of someone born into the service of others. She handed King his tea. Why the high-toned Englishman talked as if the days of the white chiefs were over was beyond Emmanuel.
Mrs. Ellis, the perfect servant, vanished indoors.
“You know, Captain Pretorius could name every plant and tree on the veldt,” King continued. “He spoke all the dialects, knew all the customs. Unlike the Dutchmen around here, he didn’t need some paper shuffler in Pretoria to legislate his superior status.”
“You knew him well?” Emmanuel asked. It was obvious the aristocratic Englishman believed that Captain Pretorius occupied the same “born to rule” category as himself. The rest of humanity, including police detectives, were mere servants.
“I got to know him a little while we were negotiating the sale and much better once he started building.” King paused to select a cake from the tray. “As I said, he was actually very complex and intelligent, for a Boer.”
“Building?” Emmanuel put his tea down. This was the reason he’d been given the note. He was sure of it.
“Nothing grand. Just a little stone hut on the allotment he kept for himself.”
“He has a house out here?”
“More of a shack than a house,” King said, and bit into his cake. He took his time chewing. “It looks like something out of the kaffir location, but he seemed to like it.”
“Did he spend a lot of time here?” No one, not Shabalala or the Pretorius brothers, had mentioned a secondary residence of any kind.
“Not that I know of. He came out a few times during hunting season and then at odd times after that. It all seemed a bit random, but it was his land and his shack.”
Captain Pretorius appeared to be a man of quiet habit and routine. Fishing on Wednesday, coach of the rugby team on Thursday, church every Sunday, and yet the word “random” kept coming up in connection with him.
“Where is the shack?” The weight of the car keys and the piece of paper with King’s name scribbled on it suddenly became heavy against his thigh. Afternoon teatime was over.
“Ten or so miles back toward the main road. There’s a giant witgatboom tree right at the turnoff. You passed it on your way in.”
The witgatboom tree was a good signpost, with its branches flung out to support a wide flat top. It was a quintessentially African sight.
“I’ll need to go out there,” Emmanuel said.
“It’s not my place to give or deny permission. I have no say over that piece of land, so feel free to do as you wish.”
Emmanuel stopped at the top of the veranda stairs. “I thought you bought this farm from Captain Pretorius.”
“Most of it,” King corrected. “He kept a small parcel. That’s what his sons couldn’t understand. The sale wasn’t about money. Their father just wanted a piece of his old life back.”
Emmanuel felt in his bones that the Pretorius brothers had no idea about the shack or their father’s plans to resume his life as a white induna.
“I’ll head straight back to the station after looking over the place,” Emmanuel said. “Thank you for your help, Mr. King, and for the tea.”
“Pleasure,” King said as a red two-door sports car with rounded haunches and curved silver headlights pulled into the gravel driveway and stopped inches from the Packard’s back bumper. The driver’s door swung open and a man in his twenties eased out of the scooped leather seat. Emmanuel caught the flash of his perfect white teeth.
“Winston…” Elliot King called out a greeting to the handsome boy making for the stairs. “I wasn’t expecting you till tomorrow. Meet Detective Sergeant Emmanuel Cooper. He was just on his way out.”
“An officer of the law.” Winston smiled and shook hands. “Have you finally been able to bring charges against my uncle, Detective Sergeant?”
The King men laughed; the law was a servant to whom they did not have to answer.
The sleek sports car and the beachside tan irritated Emmanuel beyond reason, as did the simple elephant-hair bracelet worn by Winston to authenticate his “African-ness.”
“Routine questioning,” Emmanuel said.
“What happened?”
“Captain Pretorius.” King went back to his seat and sat down. “He was murdered Wednesday night. Shot twice.”
“Jesus…” Winston leaned against the railing. “Are you a suspect?”
“Of course not.” King took a sip of tea. “I provided the detective with some background information. As a favor to the investigation.”
Emmanuel edged toward the top stair. Stuck between King and his linen-clad nephew was the last place he wanted to be. The secret hut beckoned to him.
“What made you think my uncle knew anything about Captain Pretorius?” Winston asked.
The boy was half the size of the Pretorius boys, but he shared with them an uncomplica
ted sense of entitlement. Emmanuel took the first stair.
“Routine questioning.” He took the second and third stair, then turned to Winston. “Do you know anything about the murder?”
“Me?”
“Yes. You.”
“How would I? I just found out about it now.”
“Of course.” Emmanuel paused to enjoy Winston’s moment of discomfort. “Thanks again for your help, Mr. King.”
He walked past Winston’s Jaguar to the Packard, which looked wide and lumbering next to its expensive English cousin. No maps or discarded drink cans on the passenger seat. All Winston King needed for his travels was a fast car, a fat wallet and a smile. Emmanuel’s dislike rose again and he pushed it aside.
He eased the Packard into first gear and piloted it out of the circular drive. Winston disappeared into the house and his uncle poured himself another cup of tea.
Elliot King carefully selected a piece of cake and watched the detective drive away. He rang the silver bell.
“Mr. King?” The housekeeper stepped out onto the veranda.
“Bring Davida here,” he said. “I want to speak to her.”
A fence made of tall sticks lashed together with twine and strips of bark stood at the end of the red clay road. The construction was identical to those encircling the native kraals that nestled into the landscape like giant mushrooms.
Emmanuel got out of the car and checked the perimeter. The entrance, a small opening half the size of an average man, was located in the back, away from the road. Casual visitors were obviously not encouraged. He crouched down and entered the compound like a supplicant and there, directly in front of him, was a stone rondavel, a round hut, with a thatched roof and a pale blue door.
“Lair of the white induna,” Emmanuel said, and took in his surroundings. The entrance to the stone hut was deliberately aligned with the hole in the fence so that all visitors came and went under the watchful eye of the headman. Even here, miles away from the town, security and surveillance were taken into account.
A river, close by, filled the air with the hum and gurgle of water moving over rock. Emmanuel felt a deep satisfaction. The shed in Jacob’s Rest was a front. A place to display the things acceptable to friends and family. This kraal, lying under a clear spring sky, was where the captain let himself out to play.
Emmanuel crossed the compound to a pile of stones heaped against the fence. What did King say? “When he started building…” That would explain the blistered hands and the sinewy muscles noted during the examination of the body. Pretorius had put the hut up himself: stone by stone.
Emmanuel pushed the pale blue door and it swung inward. He squinted into the dim interior. There were two windows, each with its curtains drawn. He left the door open to get more light. Cowhide rugs crackled underfoot as he pulled the curtains open and looked around. As male bolt-holes went, it was embarrassing. Everything was in order: the bed made, dishes washed and resting on the sideboard, the small table wiped clean. Aunt Milly would be happy to spend an afternoon here.
“Come on,” Emmanuel said. There had to be something. A man didn’t build a secret hut, then use it to practice housekeeping skills.
Nothing in the room stood out as aberrant or unusual, but then it never did where the captain was concerned. Everything appeared normal until you got close enough to press your nose against the dirty window. The vicious beating handed out to Donny under the cover of night, the relentless surveillance of the town disguised as daily exercise, the building of a hut no one in his family knew about. There was a reason this modest stone rondavel was a secret.
Emmanuel stripped the bed and checked the pillow, mattress and sheets, which were made of fine cotton weave. Nice. For a woman? Or did the captain have sensitive skin? Next came the chest of drawers, then the small cupboard holding cutlery and crockery. He looked over, under, on top of and behind every item until he arrived back at the front door empty-handed.
He crouched low in the doorway. The room stared back at him with its scrubbed and innocent face. He’d missed something. But what? Everything had been checked, except the ceiling and the floor.
How many bizarre hiding places had the platoon come across during their sweep of villages in France and Germany? Cupboards with fake backs. Trapdoors cut into ceilings. Even a hollow staircase designed to hold a whole family. The captain, with his fondness for facades, would have the good stuff hidden.
Emmanuel grabbed the edge of the cowhide and pulled it toward him.
The opening, a small square with a wooden top, was craftily hidden. A woven loop of rope, finger-sized, was the only indication that the surface of the compacted earth floor had been violated. Emmanuel shuffled forward on his knees and tugged at the rope. The trapdoor swung open easily, its hinges oiled in anticipation of frequent use. He reached in, expecting the usual bundle of frayed pornographic magazines. The National Party crackdown on immoral publications had slowed the trade but not stopped it. His hand touched on soft leather, a strap of some sort. He pulled it up toward him and felt the weight at its end.
“My God…”
It was Donny Rooke’s camera, with his name proudly stamped into the hard leather casing in gold letters: he’d even included the J, his middle initial. Emmanuel flicked up the clips and examined the beautiful instrument. What had Donny said? The camera was expensive and the captain had stolen it from him—and the pictures of the du Toit girls with it.
“Even a broken clock is right twice a day,” Emmanuel muttered, and shut the case. He reached into the hole and fished out a thick brown paper envelope. If Donny’s story held, the “art” pictures of his wives would be inside. Did the captain have a taste for underage flesh? He flipped the envelope over and something cast a shadow from the doorway.
Emmanuel turned in time to see the hard line of a knobkierie moving toward him. The Zulu club generated its own breeze as it arched downward and made contact with the side of his head.
Whack.
The sound exploded in his eardrums like a mortar round. He fell forward and tasted dirt and blood in his mouth. There was a bright fizz of sheer white pain behind his eyelids and the club fell a second time. He heard his own labored breath and smelled ammonia. A blue shadow flickered and then the distant sound of a mechanical rattle.
7
You lazy bastard. How long are you going to lie there, humping the floor?” It was the sergeant major from basic training, his voice thick with the coal and filth of the Edinburgh slum he’d crawled out of. Emmanuel felt the sergeant major’s breath on his neck.
“Call yourself a soldier? All you’re fit for is fucking German whores. Is that why you joined up? You hopeless piece of African shit. Get up now or I’ll shoot you myself. Get to your feet or get the fuck out of my army.”
“Detective?”
Emmanuel shook his head. The dark blue shadow hung over him.
“You going to let that Kraut piss all over you? What did I teach you? If you have to go, take one out with you.”
“You okay?”
Emmanuel pushed himself off the ground, wheeled full circle, and jumped on the source of the voice. He felt neck muscles tense under his fingers, heard the slam of the body as it hit the ground; then he was straddling the flailing mass, gaining supremacy. There was the quiet hiss of air leaving lungs.
“De-tec-tive…” The sound drained away to nothing.
Emmanuel shook his head. Detective. He’d heard that title recently. The memory of a police ID card fought its way past the hot shower of pain snaking down from his scalp to his jaw. He eased his grip and felt the body beneath him, small and surrendering: a boy soldier called to defend the fatherland against hopeless odds.
“Go home,” Emmanuel said, and released his grip. His hands were stiffened into the shape of animal talons. “Ghet du zuruck nach ihre mutter. Go home to your mother.”
A relentless boom, boom, boom pounded the side of his skull with grim military precision. Piss and blood, the classic smell of
the battleground, clouded the air.
“Detective. Please.”
He focused beyond his hands and recognized Davida, the shy brown mouse, lying under him, a red mark slashed across her throat.
“You can speak,” he said.
“Yes.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Where do you think we are?” She lay still, afraid of startling him.
Emmanuel glanced around. Through the haze, shapes began to appear. A table, a chair, a bed stripped of its linen. The boom, boom, boom continued loud as a kettledrum. It was impossible to think.
“Where is that smell coming from?” he demanded. “The room is so clean.”
“The smell’s from you, Detective.” There was a slight tremor in her voice, which was barely accented, as if she’d learned English from someone who demanded correct pronunciation and usage. “It’s on your clothes.”
The jacket and shirt, crisp and clean a few hours ago, were crusted in dried blood and urine. Emmanuel jumped up, hands feeling frantically at the crotch of his pants. The material was crumpled but dry.
“It’s mainly here.” She rose unsteadily to her feet. “Where my head was.”
They looked at the dark pool, still damp and reeking. Emmanuel felt for his crotch again. Dry. He pulled off his jacket and sniffed at the material like a dog. Urinal odors rose up in an ammonia cloud. Someone—some fucking inbred country Dutchman—took a piss on him.
“Goddamn it.” He threw the jacket from him in disgust. “What is it about this place? A man can’t wear a suit two days in a row.”
The jacket landed at the edge of the captain’s homebuilt safe, and slithered inside. Images, each crisper than the last, flashed through his head until they made a seamless run of film. The camera, the envelope, the blue shadow, then the club crashing down against his skull.
Emmanuel dropped to his knees and scrambled toward the hiding place. The dirt floor threw up puffs of dust and sand as he frantically searched for Donny Rooke’s camera and the brown paper envelope.
“Fuck.” He widened his radius, hoping something had been knocked under the chair or the bed when he fell forward. His hands patted the surface like a drunk in a minefield and came back with nothing but the dirt under his fingernails.