by Malla Nunn
“We’ll see,” Emmanuel said. Predicting the colonel’s mood was an inexact science he’d never mastered. “Shabalala and I will be back soon.”
He turned to Margaret, who hovered in the background. “Can you get our German friend more tea and keep him out of trouble till we get back?”
“Tea will be easy,” she said. “But after this morning, I can’t make any promises about avoiding trouble.”
“A promise would be useless in any case,” Zweigman said. “Detective Sergeant Cooper and trouble are best friends. They travel, eat and sleep together.”
“I thought as much.” Daglish smiled and the ghost of the bright young girl she must once have been—determined to rid the world of plague and pestilence—momentarily stirred to life.
Emmanuel and Shabalala started walking to the car.
“Detective Cooper.” The town doctor caught up and spoke in a whisper. “There’s a spare room at the back of the house. Dr. Zweigman is most welcome to use it.”
“We’re here on police business. The department will pay for a room at the hotel where I’m staying.”
“Yes, about that . . .” Daglish stopped dead, forcing Emmanuel to stop, too. “The hotel doesn’t take natives or certain types of Europeans.”
That took a second to translate. “No Jews,” he said.
“That’s right,” she replied.
Emmanuel rubbed the back of his neck, thinking. The right to discriminate was enshrined in law and perfectly legal but he took the small, domestic tyranny of South African life as a personal insult. A distinguished surgeon denied a hotel room, a Zulu detective stuck at the rank of constable till death—it was all self-defeating bullshit.
“Offer Zweigman the room,” he said. “Tell him that Shabalala and I will be away for the night and you’d rather he spent the evening with a friend instead of strangers. Don’t mention the hotel.”
“Of course not,” Daglish mumbled, and then added in the typically nervous way of the English when confronted with an embarrassing situation, “I’m so sorry about this.”
“Not your fault.” Emmanuel moved off before Margaret Daglish started in on how most folk in Roselet were good country people, kindhearted and hospitable. Every South African was perfectly reasonable within the boundaries of their own families and their own race group. It was the point of crossover that killed them.
“Grab the crowbar, Shabalala,” Emmanuel said when the Chevrolet boot was open. They could shop for supplies later. He needed to burn energy. Now.
“Let’s do some damage.”
The lock snapped under the force of the crowbar and the last drawer opened. Listed in alphabetical order with dates penciled along the top right corner of each file, Roselet’s criminal history was neatly cataloged. Emmanuel threw the crowbar aside. It clanked on the concrete floor.
“Check for the names Reed, Matebula and Paulus. Then see if Gabriel and Amahle have their own files,” he said. “I’ll call the colonel while you search.”
“Yes, Sergeant.” Shabalala was uneasy. Breaking-and-entering was against the law, even for the police.
“Relax.” Emmanuel picked up the telephone and dialed the operator. “Bagley’s not going to lodge a complaint. Believe me. If he does, I’ll toss him into a departmental hearing that will end his career.”
Shabalala began flipping through the files. “You have no wish for a peaceful life, Sergeant,” he said. “Maybe a wife and some sons and daughters will make you more cautious . . .”
Emmanuel smiled. “I’ll take the heat for this little break-and-enter, Shabalala. Your family is safe.”
The telephone in Durban was picked up. “What news, Cooper?” The connection was clear, the colonel’s Dutch accent clipped and precise.
Emmanuel said, “Another dead body, sir.”
“Black or white?”
“A black man, killed in a similar way to the girl.” He didn’t mention the mutilation of the corpse. The colonel wasn’t interested in native rituals and customs, and they’d take too long to explain anyway.
“Any Europeans on the list of suspects?”
“Gabriel Reed. Youngest son of a rich farmer. Biggest farm in the valley. He was at the crime scene and had regular contact with the girl.”
“Don’t be coy, Cooper,” van Niekerk said. “If he was fucking her, then say so.”
“They were physically close but she was a virgin at the time of death. Zweigman’s examination confirmed it.”
“Cause of death?” Van Niekerk was assimilating the facts and calculating what professional gain he might achieve from the investigation. A European killer added profile to a native murder. The press would swarm the court and the newspapers would splash photos of the accused killer under headlines like “White boy slays black lover.” Detectives and their superior officers fought each other for that kind of attention.
“Cause of death still unknown,” Emmanuel said.
“What does the old Jew recommend?”
“A full autopsy and a toxicology test. He also wants to accompany the body.”
The colonel paused again, weighing up effort expended against personal gain, then said, “The collection of a native girl so far out in the country is unusual, but I’ll make an exception. A van will collect the girl’s body and the doctor tomorrow morning.”
“Thank you,” Emmanuel said. “Zweigman will be pleased.”
“If this boy is guilty, then detain him. But do it quietly, Cooper. No press. No celebratory drinks with the local constable.” Van Niekerk was already planning ahead. “Tell the family that the kid is helping the police investigation, nothing more. Keep the charges under wraps.”
“For how long, sir?”
“Till we’re ready to announce the arrest.”
To a roomful of police brass and to the Dutch and English press, was Emmanuel’s guess. Van Niekerk never let an opportunity pass. He was always reaching, ready to grab the golden ring that would bring him closer to the position of police commissioner.
“Will do, Colonel.”
The line went dead and Emmanuel turned to Shabalala, who still looked uneasy with the role of lawbreaker. “What did you find?”
“One file only for the boy.” Shabalala placed a brown folder onto Bagley’s desk. GABRIEL was printed on the top in black ink. No surname. “For the rest there is nothing.”
“Find the station occurrence book and check the entries for Saturday morning. See if Amahle is listed as a missing person.” Emmanuel was sure Amahle’s disappearance had never been recorded, but a log that confirmed that fact would prove Bagley was a liar. He opened the folder and took out a single page with one entry.
“Edmund Crisp. Principal. King’s Row College. That must be the school that Gabriel runs away from.”
Emmanuel rang through to King’s Row and eventually got Edmund Crisp on the line after talking his way past a suspicious receptionist. Calls from the police were clearly not welcome.
“Yes, Gabriel Reed is a student here,” Crisp said. “He’s on a special excursion at the moment. Camping in the hills as part of our outdoor education program. The participating boys are due back in four days’ time.”
Emmanuel admired the cunning mix of fact and fiction in the headmaster’s story. The best lies always included an element of truth. Gabriel really was camping out in the hills. “I’ll call back, then,” he said, and hung up. There’d be an auditorium or a science lab at King’s Row College with the Reed family name etched onto a brass plaque.
Shabalala slid a hardcover ledger across the desk. “The station occurrence book. It was hidden behind the files in the first drawer. Look and see.”
A break-and-enter at Dawson’s and the theft of some cows from Dovecote Farm were written in black pen. Then Amahle’s name, misspelled Amahlay, dashed off in faint blue ink on the last line.
“Added afterwards,” Shabalala noted. “The station commander is a liar.”
“And a bad one.” The childish subterfuge was rid
iculous. It showed complete contempt for the investigative skills of detectives from the Durban branch. “Still regret breaking into the files, Constable?”
A shrug accompanied the reply. “Sometimes it is necessary to steal honey from the bees.”
“Or from Sampie Paulus’s kitchen.” Emmanuel pushed the file and the occurrence book to the very center of Bagley’s desk. He left the cabinet drawers yawning on broken rails. Petty stuff but a clear sign to the town constable that he had fooled no one.
Emmanuel picked up the crowbar and tucked it under his arm. “Let’s find the kid,” he said.
13
THE DYING SUN spread gold light on the hills and illuminated the clusters of white arum lilies growing along the riverbank. Birds flitted through the grass and the wind carried the smell of dirt and wildflowers.
Emmanuel sank to his haunches, aching. Every muscle and tendon in his legs hurt. Two hours of uphill climbs and downhill scrambles, one hundred and twenty minutes of cross-country running and hurdling property fences, and not a glimpse of Gabriel.
“Please, tell me we’re close,” Emmanuel said when Shabalala knelt down at the river’s edge and scooped water into cupped hands.
“Just ahead.” The Zulu detective slurped mouthfuls of water and splashed the remainder onto his face and neck. He pointed across the broad field to a forested rise. A slash of red lit the horizon, softening the outline of rocks and branches. “Up there. On the hill.”
“How do you figure that?”
“The boy moved fast from one place to the next, hiding his trail, but he stayed a long time here at the river. Resting.” Shabalala stood and stretched. “The day is almost finished and he must find shelter.”
“A wooded hill is better than a field.” Basic combat strategy. Never stay on the beachhead; run for the dunes and take cover. Always seek the high ground and force the enemy to fight an uphill battle.
“We must do the same, Sergeant.”
“Thought so.” Emmanuel hoisted up from the sandy bank a compact kit bag containing essential supplies. It took effort. The kit was packed light but fatigue made it heavy.
“Half an hour. Then we will rest for the night.”
Half an hour for you, Emmanuel thought. Forty-five minutes for mere mortals. He crossed the river, jumping from one rock to the next, and reached the opposite bank with dry shoes. An overgrown path twisted through the arum lilies.
“Hear that?” Emmanuel slowed. The rhythmic thumping sound was not his frantic heartbeat.
“I hear it.” Shabalala fought a tangle of bulrushes to get to the summit, crouched low and peered across the field. “Runners,” he said.
Emmanuel scrambled up to the vantage point. Across the green veldt, a group of muscled Zulu men ran three abreast in tight military formation. They held steel spears and cowhide shields and were heading to the river. The red sky and failing light made identification impossible. “They’ll be on us in a minute,” he said. “Let’s take cover till we know who they are.”
“Off the path.” Shabalala indicated a thick stand of lilies with willowy stems. “Here.”
They crept low and fast to the protection of the blind. A narrow gap gave a limited view. The sound of pounding feet and hissed breath drew closer. Grasshoppers and three tiny birds sheltering in the reeds took off from the path. Stones rolled down the decline and bounced into the air.
“Sheshisa!” a voice commanded. “Hurry.”
The runners ascended, now in single file, cowhide shields held over their heads, spear tips aimed at the ground. Emmanuel could see the first three were Mandla’s men, dripping sweat and reeking of body odor. The fourth, with salt-and-pepper hair, struggled to keep up.
The path fell silent again. Emmanuel crouched low and rested. Shabalala did the same. The rest of the Zulu impi was yet to reach the river.
“Hamba,” growled the voice, now recognizably Mandla’s. “Go.”
Three boys with skinny limbs and smooth faces negotiated the way with stumbling enthusiasm, child soldiers eager for battle but unprepared for the weight of shields and spears. Mandla came last, sleek-skinned and confident.
The impi rested by the river’s edge and drank from cupped hands. Mandla splashed his face and chest, then looked up to the sunset. He took one gulp of water from the river and retrieved his spear. “Enough,” he said. “We have far to go.”
The impi regrouped and set off at uniform pace, the oldest member trailing the pack by a body length. Emmanuel stood slowly and watched the squad run off in the direction of Roselet. A dot of electric light winked on the horizon, inconsequential in the gathering darkness.
“What’s drawing him to town in the last hours of the day?” he asked.
“There is no way to know.” Shabalala was resigned. “And I cannot track Mandla and his men till the morning.”
“One thing at a time.” Emmanuel lifted the pack again and felt its weight. “We’re here to find Gabriel, the one person we know for sure was at the crime scene. Mandla can wait.”
“Yebo,” Shabalala said. “To the mountain.”
They set off into the lengthening shadows, the sky above them now bloodred and charcoal gray. The day closed down. Emmanuel ran now not to find shelter but to escape the sadness that crept into him at nightfall when the dead came to warm their hands at his fire.
“Sergeant!” The voice was urgent, the hands on his shoulders broad and strong. “Sergeant Cooper!”
Emmanuel sat upright, fighting for breath. The night air was cold. A flashlight lay on the ground, shining on the pile of leaves he’d scraped together to make a primitive mattress.
“Sergeant,” Shabalala said. “Are you unwell?”
“I’m fine,” Emmanuel lied. “Really.”
He wiped a hand across his cheeks, praying the moisture he felt was sweat rather than tears. Grown men crying out in their sleep, torn by dreams that were not dreams at all but memories of real events, were a daily occurrence at the rehabilitation hospital. They took turns, the injured veterans, in waking each other from the night terrors and repeating the wisdom of the doctors and the nurses and the shrinks; memory fades, the heart and mind heal, life goes on.
“Sorry to wake you,” Emmanuel said. His eyes were dry, thank Christ, but he was embarrassed by his display of weakness. “Did I wake up the birds as well?”
“No.” Shabalala kept the flashlight low so their faces remained unseen. “You said a few words, none of them in English or in Zulu.”
That left French or German, bastardized phrases of which he’d picked up marching toward Germany. The dream itself was a black space with flickering images and muffled sounds. Remembering details of the dream was key.
“I need to stretch my legs. Try to grab some sleep if you can, Constable.” Emmanuel kicked the blanket aside and moved to a stand of trees haloed by moonlight. Repairing the breach in his walls had to be done in private.
“The torch,” Shabalala called.
“I’m not going far.” Emmanuel slipped between the tree trunks, desperate to escape the intimacy of the situation. He encouraged Shabalala to speak his mind, to ask questions, but not now and not of him. An insomniac ex-soldier might understand the hornets’ nest that was his mind, but not a married Zulu man with a loving wife, a home and three healthy children. The kind of stable family man his own mother believed Emmanuel would grow into.
Loose stones shifted under his feet and he arched backward and landed hard on the ground. Lying there, winded, he glimpsed distant stars winking through the tree branches.
“Sergeant?” Shabalala’s voice cut through the night.
“Relax, Constable. No broken bones.” Emmanuel spoke through a wave of pain flooding each vertebra and drumming against his skull. “I’ll call if I need help.”
A lengthy pause preceded the reply. “If that is what you say.” Zulu code for: Bullshit. You say one thing but I know the opposite is true. Something in you is definitely broken. But the color barrier stopped Shabalala fr
om asking more questions and from offering help. Emmanuel was grateful. The glare of the flashlight was the last thing he wanted.
He lay still and accepted the pain, didn’t try to fight it. Just like old times. The pressure against his skull built to a deafening roar and the roar found a voice.
“Christ, that old man really fucked with you, didn’t he, soldier? Went straight for the jugular with that story about your ma and the wee ghost children. Brutal stuff.” The internal snarl belonged to the Scottish sergeant major from basic training, one of the old breed who fought through the wet mud of Flanders Fields and the dusty sands of Palestine and believed soldiering was a calling, a profession, a blessing. His job was to weed out the unworthy and the weak.
“What took you so long?” Emmanuel slipped into the voiceless conversation. Fighting the presence of the Scotsman was useless. God knows he’d tried and failed numerous times. The sergeant major was garrisoned in a dark recess of Emmanuel’s mind and unassailable without morphine.
“I’ve been thinking about the case,” the sergeant major said. “Messing with the town constable—not a smart move on your part, soldier.”
Emmanuel sat up, felt the breeze touch his face and dry the sweat. “You crawled out of your hole to tell me I’ve been a bad boy?”
“No, a stupid one. Granted, the old Jew and the Zulu are hiding something from you, but that was no reason to make a fresh enemy,” the sergeant major grunted. “You’ve stretched yourself too thin, Cooper. Keeping tabs on Mandla and the town constable plus finding the boy. Herr Hitler made the same mistake, fighting on three fronts.”
The comment about Zweigman and Shabalala disturbed Emmanuel. “I opened the station filing cabinet to look for evidence,” he said. “It had nothing to do with Zweigman or Shabalala.”
“You crowbarred that fucker because you were scared, boyo.”
Emmanuel stood up quickly and brushed the leaves off his back. “Scared of what, exactly?”
“The two of them huddled like thieves, whispering secrets in the garden.”
