by Mark Graham
Like a loyal servant of his country, Leistner reiterated the worsening conditions: eleven killings in the last fifteen days in the Cape Province alone, a funeral riot in Port Elizabeth this morning, Cape Town in flames, another black policeman stoned in Soweto, the Indian population in Durban shouting for additional police surveillance.
An unrestricted, nationwide state of emergency had been mentioned twice in the last month. Leistner suggested it again. “It’s a drastic measure, I’ll admit that, but frankly, I’m at a loss for alternatives.”
The prime minister frowned. Fingertips formed a steeple in front of pursed lips. “Drastic is a particularly accommodating adjective, Cecil. Twice in the last five years, and the results were hardly cause for celebration.”
“The localized version has proved ineffective, Minister. Too many loopholes, you know that.”
“Our opponents in the House will no doubt call it ‘running scared.’ It occurs to me that they might just have a point.”
At last, the prime minister agreed to reassign a number of commando units in the Johannesburg area and in the Cape Province to more troublesome locales. He would leave the reassignment to his minister of justice. As for a renewed state of emergency, the prime minister reluctantly agreed that a voice vote should be called for at the next cabinet meeting, Tuesday.
Minister Leistner poured tea for them both. Small steps, he told himself. Small steps.
****
The ocean brought out the kid in Nigel Mansell.
As he ambled toward the waterfront, Algoa Bay shimmered off to his left. The tide ran high, gentle breakers lapping at golden sand. A score of sailboats skimmed over the water. Thousands of meters of colorful canvas wafted in a cool breeze. The weekend embraced the city of Port Elizabeth despite the funeral demonstrations igniting a township eight kilometers away.
Mansell had spent the last ninety minutes at the railroad station. The night shift was in its final hour. He’d spent the time circulating a photograph of Ian Elgin’s dinner companion among station employees. The response was negative; therefore, Mansell thought, inconclusive. He left copies of the photo with the temporary command center. The crime scene was due for release later in the day, so Mansell spent another thirty minutes there reconstructing a dozen different vignettes that all ended with a man hanging in a clothes locker.
Now he stepped across the tracks onto the sandy fringe of South Africa’s third largest harbor. Opposite the railroad station lay Charl Malan Quay, a man-made, twenty-two-acre wharf jutting straight out into the bay.
Along the south face of the quay were four vessel berths, container and cargo cranes, train dockings, and warehousing. The backup area was a checkerboard of concrete, steel, and sand: ground storage for containers, truck stops and loading bays, low-lying warehouses and cramped offices.
Mansell walked across a truck runway, through the main gate, and past a block of storage sheds until he came to a cluster of office buildings dwarfed by the very size of the quay.
A white picket fence and a small plot of grass fronted a single-story building that looked more like a cottage than an office. A planter box full of Hilton daisies decorated the front of a small porch. Two blushing brides, in full bloom, dangled beneath the soffit. These partially obscured a sign that read, AFFILIATED UNION OF DOCKERS, STEVEDORES, AND RAIL WORKERS-UNITED DOCK WORKERS ASSOCIATION OF SOUTH AFRICA.
Through an opened door, Mansell heard the pugnacious voice of SB Major Hymie Wolfe, and he pulled up short. A deep breath escaped his lungs. Hoping to rid himself of the sudden bad taste, he lit a cigarette. When disappointment and fury were mastered, he knocked.
A flimsy screen door opened into a long, narrow office. A dozen wooden desks filled a single room. The plant scheme continued from outside. A bleeding heart on one desk, African violets and orange aloe on another, a miniature date palm on the floor, and a Norfolk Island pine nearly touching the ceiling.
Waist-high railings partitioned the office by rank. Hardwood floors were accented by cotton throw rugs. Except for Wolfe and a woman who stood behind a desk at the back of the room, the office was empty.
“Excuse me, I’m looking for Delaney Blackford, please.” “She’s occupied,” reprimanded the Security Branch officer.
“Ah. Then you must be Mrs. Blackford. Excuse Major Wolffe’s impropriety. I’m Chief Inspector Nigel Mansell, Criminal Investigation Bureau.”
The woman followed his progress as Mansell stepped past a swinging gate. His calculations stopped at the mere glimpse of her face. Her features were a confluence of extremes: wide oval eyes, dark and inquisitive, a small straight nose, full lips that displayed a fixed pout. Her hair flowed in thick, long waves the hue of a moonless midnight. The color of her skin reminded him of a wheat field after a hard rain. Mansell paused, momentarily transfixed. She wore faded jeans and a silk blouse like a page out of a fashion magazine.
“I have almost no use for a single policeman, Inspector,” she said. Her voice brushed him aside, and drew him near. Husky, direct, appealing. “Two are definitely intolerable. Forgive me.”
“My forgiveness you have,” answered Mansell. Her hands rested upon the knob of a walking stick. She was of average height, he thought, but the word could hardly be used to describe anything else about her. “However, as I’m certain the unflappable major has told you, we have a corpse in our basement. And you may have been the last person to see our corpse alive. At least, prior to his fateful excursion inside the train station. Ah, did you accompany Mr. Elgin into the train station, Mrs. Blackford?”
Delaney Blackford sidled from behind the desk. The limp was immediately apparent. Wolffe intervened, taking two steps toward Mansell. “When I have finished. Yes?” he said.
“Certainly an event worth waiting for.” Mansell straddled the back of a hardback chair and opened a notebook.
Wolfe paced, saying, “Do sit down, Mrs. Blackford.”
“I think better on my feet.” She perched on the front edge of her desk, a view of them both at her disposal.
“Yes. Where were we? Your position with the Affiliated Union. You were explaining.”
“I act as liaison between the union and the Harbour Association and the Chamber of Mines. I also act as chief legal counsel for the United Dock Workers.”
“And that would be since when?”
“Since this is all in my file anyway, Major, should I throw in a white lie here and there to spice things up?”
“When did you meet Ian Elgin?”
“The AU hired Ian to handle negotiations between our union and the Harbour Association in 1986. Board consultant was the official title.”
“Board consultant? Was that not a position that you had desired for yourself, Mrs. Blackford?”
“I can’t deny that. But it wasn’t expected.”
“Wasn’t it? I wonder. My information says that you were trying to line up support for the position. It must have been a disappointment.”
“So I strangled the bastard.”
“And aren’t you now in line for that very position?”
Delaney fashioned a grin. “Only if the union wants a qualified replacement, Major.”
“Yes, this begins to make some sense. And since you handled all the legal ramifications for the union, you and Mr. Elgin were thrown together from the start, were you not?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
Wolfe faced her, hands locked behind him. “And?”
“And?”
“And it worked. A relationship developed. Yes?”
She stared past Wolfe at Mansell. “Ian wasn’t an easy person to work with, but I can’t deny that we were effective.”
“Effective?” Wolffe stepped into her line of vision. “He was a married man. Was it successful? His marriage, I mean?”
Delaney crossed her legs. Her discomfort appeared as a vague thread among steel fibers. Mansell detected the slightest shudder. She covered it, saying, “My field is law, Major Wolfe, not psychoanalysis.”<
br />
“A guess then,” said Wolffe.
“Ian spent less than a week out of every month at home. If he was homesick, he never mentioned it.” On the surface, the reply was routinely delivered, with an almost calculated indifference, and it was this reservoir of self-control that fascinated the chief inspector.
“You dined the night before last at Dardano’s restaurant,” Wolfe continued. “You arrived in your own automobile. At what time was that, Mrs. Blackford?”
Delaney slid off the desk. She turned her back to them, filling a glass from a water pitcher. Her jeans revealed a narrow waist, slender hips. She said, “We’ve covered the restaurant scene, I believe, Major, and—”
“For the benefit of the inspector, then.”
Nigel Mansell admired Delaney’s walking stick as she moved toward him, favoring, as she did so, her right leg. The shaft was tooled zebrawood, the handle carved ivory in the shape of a horse’s head. Delaney stopped within an arm’s length of him.
“We met at the restaurant at eleven-fifteen Thursday night. The restaurant was my idea. I like to eat late. The meeting was Ian’s. He was due in Johannesburg on Monday. The FMU is not having much success in its contract talks with the Chamber, as you may know. There’s been talk of a strike.”
“It’s that serious?” asked Mansell curiously.
“Probably not.”
“And the dockers were involved?” Wolffe asked.
“Not really. Our own negotiations are near arbitration.” Delaney sought out the railing, leaning heavily against it. “No, this was a favor. And he didn’t seem particularly anxious to return to the big city.”
Why? wondered Mansell.
“And your meeting lasted until closing time. Two A. M. ,” Wolffe interjected. He was putting hat and gloves on.
Delaney showered Mansell with feigned guilt. “I must have been having a wonderful time.”
“For shame.”
“The meeting wasn’t altogether cordial according to your waitress and the maitre d’, was it, Mrs. Blackford?” Wolffe buttoned his overcoat. He glanced in Mansell’s direction. “But they left together, according to the valet. Elgin’s car remained in the parking lot overnight.”
“He was drinking.”
“Yes. Yes, you mentioned that,” mused Wolfe. And then, patting the girth around his waist, he announced, “I have finished with you for now, Mrs. Blackford. I must insist, however, that you remain available. I’m certain we will meet again.” Feigning amused satisfaction, he turned to Mansell. “Inspector, any time I can be of service. Good day.”
Wolffe returned to his staff car. It was parked in a small lot adjacent to the Affiliated office. He stuffed himself behind the wheel. He reached for the radio microphone, and the patch to Security Branch headquarters was instantaneous.
“Lieutenant Rhoodie. Right away.”
A minute passed before a high-pitched voice answered. “This is Rhoodie, sir. Sorry for the delay.”
“Perhaps it’s time we had a more personal chat with suspect number one, Lieutenant. Will you see to it, please?”
“Charges, sir?”
“For the moment, let’s call it further questioning, shall we?” Wolffe chuckled, a nasal wheeze more than a laugh. “And what develops, develops.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mansell arose. The air felt lighter. He would use Wolffe’s presence to his advantage. He gestured toward the copper teapot on the hot plate next to the date palm.
“I couldn’t help but notice,” he said. “May I be so bold?”
“Why don’t you pour two while you’re at it. Cream, no sugar.”
“A disgusting man, Wolfe,” he said over his shoulder. She appeared not to have heard. “I’d apologize except that might indicate responsibility. I’m afraid that Wolfe is his own creation.”
“I might give some credit to our fear-and-loathing system.” Delaney bent over the clustered bloom of a red lily, inhaling.
Mansell served. “The George lily. They’re one of my favorites,” he said, watching her face.
But Delaney didn’t reply, returning, instead, to her desk. She sat down for the first time. The response satisfied the chief inspector. “Do you normally work weekends?”
“Yes, sometimes.”
Mansell drew up a swivel chair, but he stood behind it, asking, “Had he been drinking heavily? Elgin?”
“Yes and no. Ian was a cowardly drunk, you see. He talked too much. He tried too hard.”
“You fought over dinner.”
“I wouldn’t call it fighting exactly. I’d been recommended for a promotion. Vice-president of the union’s legal department. A position with some punch to it. Ian’s board was dragging its feet on final approval. I wondered why.” She toyed with a strand of magnificent black hair. Mansell watched slender fingers entwine and then smooth. “Ian was an interesting man, Inspector. On the one hand, suave and totally disarming. On the other, well . . . Some people instantly despised him. A reaction he found amusing. He had a childlike disposition. But I put up with it. I could do that for a while. You see, I was as driven as he was, I suppose. Out in front of me I could envision a clear path to where I wanted to go. Ian Elgin was right in the middle of that path. Sometimes we butted heads.”
“We’re talking careerwise?”
“Of course.”
“You said ‘was driven.’ Past tense.”
“Things change. So do people. No further comment.” “And your involvement with Elgin went how far?”
A thin smile creased her face, eyes drifted. “Do you mean was I fucking with him, Inspector? Maybe with his mind, but not his body.”
Mansell found himself seated, his teacup empty. “Earlier you said Elgin wasn’t anxious to return to Johannesburg. Tell me why.”
“I don’t know.” Their eyes met, dueled, and Delaney broke away. “I didn’t ask, Inspector.”
Mansell watched her closely now across blank sheets of notepaper. “Okay. Where did you drop Elgin after dinner?”
“I dropped him at the railroad station,” she answered after a time. “I parked at the near front entrance.”
“You walked inside with him.”
“No. I offered to, but he said no. So I helped him out.” “That was it? He walked inside.”
“He hugged me, twice. I wasn’t thrilled with his condition. He knew that.” She sounded apologetic. “But he didn’t use the main entrance. There’s a door at the southwest corner of the building. I watched until he was inside. He seemed . . . sad, or maybe just tired. I don’t know. But that is the last I saw of Ian Elgin, Inspector.”
The chief inspector backed off. Set on the corner of Delaney’s desk was a jade plant, and Mansell touched one of its succulent leaves. “And you went home from there?”
“No,” she answered, watching him. “I came here.”
“At what, two-thirty in the morning? You came here to work?
That’s dedication. You received clearance at the front gate, then?” “It was two-forty. And no, I have my own gate key. I saw the
night watchman at three-thirty or so. His name’s Charlie Miles.” “I see.”
“Not good, huh?”
“Well, it would have been nice if you’d been snuggled up in a warm bed next to your husband.”
“Very cozy. Except there’s no husband to snuggle up to,” she replied. And then, instantly businesslike, added, “I wouldn’t have killed Ian Elgin, Chief Inspector of Homicide Mansell. He was still useful to me.”
“Then who would have, Mrs. Delaney Blackford, Chief Legal Counsel for the UDW? Who were Ian Elgin’s enemies?”
The answers were cloaked in vagueness. In Delaney’s words, Port Elizabeth acted as a sanctuary for Elgin. The union people liked the man, for obvious reasons. The mining faction avoided Port Elizabeth in favor of Jo’burg and Durban. The government faction ignored the port city in favor of Pretoria and Cape Town. She offered a few names. Some Mansell recognized, some he didn’t.
“I’m
curious about the board consultant’s job,” he said. “Wolfe indicated that you were a candidate. True?”
“I was certainly interested, yes. But I would hardly call myself a candidate. I didn’t have much of a chance, really.”
“Meaning?”
This was the one question Delaney had hoped to avoid. Too many complications. Still, she threw her head back, and said, “It was a matter of influence, really. When a particular person has the minister of justice writing letters of reference for him, a job in question is no longer a job in question. If you get my meaning.”
“I think I do. Yes.” A powerful recommendation, thought Mansell. A cigarette found its way from his pocket automatically. On his feet again, he leaned across the desk. “At two-forty Friday morning, after eating linguine and drinking wine with a beautiful woman, one of South Africa’s most powerful union officials drops in on King George Station. He enters the terminal through a side entrance. He’s not eager to return to his own bed here or to his own home in Johannesburg. He has no intention of meeting a train. He doesn’t go to the Men’s Club for a sauna. No. Instead, he struts into the black women’s bathroom, walks into the sleep room, and hangs his suit jacket as neat as can be over the back of a chair. He drinks a can of soda. He waits. Why? For whom?”
Delaney stared into her teacup silently. Mansell slapped the desk, reared up, and straddled his chair. “Now, the man likes your company. He likes to drink in your company. He’s made advances which you’ve rejected, but he still likes to drink in your company. He talks too much. He tries too hard. Why? To impress you? To hurt you? To secure your loyalty? I don’t know. But I do know I need help. Help me. Why would he do that? Why would he be hanging out at the train station at three o’clock in the morning?”
This time she met his gaze with derision and dismissal. He tried one last time.
“I’m trying to find out who killed the man, Delaney.”
“He liked making it with black women. Okay? He bragged about his inane conquests when he was drunk. To hurt me? To impress me? I don’t know, either. But I think he had one down at the train station, if that’s what you wanted to hear.”
