Let the Dead Lie

by Malla Nunn

  They shook hands and van Niekerk got into a car that was parked off to the side of the drive. The engine started up and the major pulled away without looking back.

  A company of Cape canaries bickered on a swaying telephone wire. Emmanuel sat down on the front stairs of La Mer. The blood on his palm was bright with moisture. The ice-cool major was sweating heavily on a mild winter’s day. Now that was a miracle.

  A single question kept Emmanuel on the stair. Why was he sitting in a pool of sunshine instead of a jail cell? There was no answer to that, yet. The Cape canaries took to the wing and arched across the blue sky.

  Forty-eight hours. He checked his watch. It was four forty-five. Time to get moving.

  The two-storey brick house had lost chunks of its Victorian facade to wind and weather and was now a classic slum mansion. A warren of cold-water flats occupied spaces originally set out for a prosperous family with need of a library and a music room. The long blast of a harbour tug horn sounded across the water.

  A shrunken man in an antiquated wheelchair was parked out on the pavement. Emmanuel rechecked the address and approached the invalid, who stared out at the railway lines and the distant ships in dock. A sign on the sagging fence read ‘Slegs Blankes’. Whites Only.

  ‘Does the Marks family live here?’ he asked.

  The man was thin as a string with unwashed hair that grew past his shoulders. No response. Not even a flicker of an eyelash.

  Emmanuel proceeded to the once grand entranceway, selected the first flat and knocked. The door opened and a barefoot girl stared up at him. He recognised her from a sketch in Jolly’s notebook. It was the child with the desperate eyes.

  ‘This the Marks place?’

  The girl nodded and ran inside the flat. Emmanuel followed her down a long shotgun corridor. Detritus and dirt crunched underfoot. Small alcoves that might originally have been hall closets ran off the sides and were now sleeping quarters. A baby in a cloth nappy played with a wooden spoon in the bare kitchen. Emmanuel kept going. The filth and the poverty did not disturb him. The sense of familiarity he encountered in hovels such as this one did. Slums in Durban and slums in Johannesburg were the same.

  He entered a sitting room where the runaway girl was bent over the side of a toy pram. A woman slept on a tatty couch, her body curled like a drunk’s on a park bench. Her snores competed with the squabbling of children who played hopscotch in the concrete yard outside the window.

  Emmanuel touched the woman on the shoulder. Her eyes flew open and she sat up with a jerk. An undipped nylon stocking fell around her ankle.

  ‘Who’re you?’

  ‘He’s come about Jolly,’ the little girl said and pushed the pram back and forth with motherly concern.

  ‘My name’s Emmanuel Cooper.’ He couldn’t use his old title. Without his official police ID, it was all make-believe. ‘I work for the police.’

  ‘Oh … you don’t look like a policeman.’

  The cream silk suit, cream shirt and pale mint-coloured tie that Hélène Gerard had laid out on the bed before he emerged from the bath were more suited to the high-roller marquee at the racetrack than to a police station. If Jolly’s mother had picked him as a dapper armed robber or a pimp Emmanuel wouldn’t have been surprised.

  ‘Besides, I already told the other two everything.’ Close-set brown eyes narrowed. ‘Jolly went out like usual and he didn’t come back. Miss Morgensen from the Zion Gospel Hall. .. she’s the one who went down to make sure it was him that the police found. I didn’t have the heart.’

  Or the energy. Emmanuel had counted six children so far: two indoors and four in the yard. The husband was most likely at sea, in jail or holding up a bar with his elbows. Emmanuel knew the score: a family diet of plain bread with lard for dinner and meat once a fortnight. Vegetables were exotic novelties. No matter how long Jolly’s mother slept she would always be too tired to face life.

  ‘The Zion Gospel Hall?’ he asked. It sounded like a holy-roller, speaking-in-tongues kind of place.

  ‘It’s just here in Southampton Street. The young ones get a blessing whenever we go.’

  Whenever we go … Emmanuel doubted the Marks family were regular churchgoers, but come Sunday morning he knew he’d be there. Churches were places where people confessed.

  ‘I’d like you to look at something.’ He perched on the edge of a wooden chair and pulled Jolly’s notebook from his pocket. ‘Do you recognise this?’

  ‘Course. It’s Jolly’s. He was always scribbling things. Got that from his dad. Artistic. Head in the clouds.’

  Jolly had cut the notebook free and dumped it. Maybe the children sketched in it were the reason. Emmanuel found the first portrait and held it up. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘It’s Sophie, the harbourmaster’s daughter.’

  ‘She was a friend of Jolly’s?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that. They played together sometimes.’

  ‘And she’s still around … not in any trouble that you know of?’

  ‘No. I saw her yesterday morning at the corner shop.’

  The barefoot girl tiptoed away from the pram and craned over Emmanuel’s shoulder while he worked through the portraits and collected names and addresses. All the children were local to the Point area and not particularly close to Jolly. None appeared to be in any trouble.

  ‘That’s me,’ the girl said when they came to the last sketch. ‘That’s me.’

  ‘Jolly was a good artist. It looks just like you,’ Emmanuel said and flicked through to the end of the notebook. Forty-eight hours was not long enough to interview every child individually. If Jolly’s murder was connected to the mass exploitation of children, he might as well give up now. The bare-breasted mermaid winked from the page and Emmanuel covered the picture with his hand, conscious of the girl’s young age.

  ‘And that’s the Flying Dutchman’s mermaid,’ Jolly’s little sister said. ‘She lives on the land, not in the water.’

  Emmanuel turned to her. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Susannah. It has one S and two N’s.’

  ‘Who is the Flying Dutchman, Susannah?’

  ‘A man in a nice car.’

  The girl recrossed the room and peered into the toy pram. She gave a loud exhalation then rearranged a scrap of material in the carriage and pushed the pram back and forth. Emmanuel waited till she got her rhythm up.

  ‘Have you seen the mermaid before?’ he asked. The girl had an unhinged quality that was disturbing.

  ‘Ja. In the back window of the Flying Dutchman’s car when he came to pick up Jolly.’

  ‘Is the mermaid a picture or is she real like you and me?’

  ‘A picture, like Jolly drew. She was stuck up against the glass, looking out,’ Susannah said, humming snatches of ‘London Bridge is Falling Down’ to the doll in the pram.

  The mermaid was a sign, an advertisement of some kind for a business run by a man in a nice car. Not an ordinary tax-paying venture but one that probably took customers to places that weren’t listed in tourist guides.

  ‘Where did Jolly go with the Flying Dutchman?’ Emmanuel said.

  ‘I don’t know, but he brought back sweeties for us and American cigarettes for Ma.’

  Emmanuel looked at the boy’s mother, who had mustered enough energy to pull her undipped stocking up over her knee. A soccer ball hit the window and rolled back to a button-nosed boy in long shorts playing in the yard.

  ‘There’s six of them.’ She brushed tears away with the back of her hand. ‘The building is full of children coming and going … I can’t keep an eye on every one.’

  Not from the couch. And the complimentary cigarettes came in handy. Except that nothing in the world, especially the dockside world, was free. Jolly had paid for the candy and the smokes somehow.

  ‘Who is the Flying Dutchman?’ he asked the mother.

  ‘Don’t know.’ Her back stiffened. ‘We don’t mix with the coons or the riffraff.’

  ‘Except whe
n they have cigarettes.’ The pitiable mix of pride and poverty wore on his patience. Black or white, riffraff or missionary, what did it matter? A cigarette was a cigarette. Jolly had known that.

  ‘Well, I’ve never seen this Dutchman,’ she said. ‘Don’t know anything about him or his mermaid.’

  It was a lie and it wasn’t. The Dutchman was a sinister Father Christmas who passed through her life unseen and left chocolate and cigarettes to prove his existence.

  A filthy hand tugged at Emmanuel’s sleeve. The girl had abandoned her pram. Her feathery blonde hair was clumped with knots, her dark brown eyes were as Jolly had drawn them: older than the sun but lacking warmth.

  ‘Come look,’ Susannah said. ‘My baby’s sick.’

  Emmanuel followed her to the pram. This scenario was one his sister had enacted a dozen times in an afternoon. It seemed she loved her dolls most when they were sick and she could fix them. The world could be put right with a little medicine and a pat on the back.

  Susannah motioned him closer. He squatted next to the pram and peered in. A porcelain doll with creamy skin and startling blue eyes lay in a nest of rags.

  ‘What’s wrong with her?’ Emmanuel asked.

  ‘Someone cut her throat.’

  The sky was streaked pink when Emmanuel emerged from the dilapidated mansion. A long-necked ibis pecked at a mango pip discarded on the sidewalk. The wheelchair-bound man was still there; a silent witness to the fall of night across the harbour.

  Emmanuel peeled off in the direction of the Buick. He’d picked the car up from opposite his apartment, where he’d parked it a lifetime ago. Hélène had driven him from the chateau to the Dover, smiling every mile of the way. The ibis took flight and circled overhead. Two men in a hurry walked towards the stairs that led to Jolly’s home. It was Detective Constable Fletcher and Detective Head Constable Robinson. Emmanuel turned and showed them his back. The Buick was a quarter block away. He’d make a run for it if he had to.

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs and then faded. Emmanuel sprinted. Robinson and Fletcher would be back on the street the moment Jolly’s mother mentioned a visit from a lone police officer. ‘He was just here,’ she’d say. ‘Now, now.’

  Emmanuel unlocked the driver’s door and slid in. He started the engine, reversed back a foot and made an illegal U-turn. The side mirror reflected the image of the two detectives flying down the stairs of the decrepit mansion. They split and began a search of the street. Emmanuel shifted up to third and saw Fletcher sprint to close the distance between himself and the departing Buick.

  Jesse Owens in his prime couldn’t have run down an American eight-cylinder engine. The detective diminished to a black bump on the horizon. This will be the pattern, Emmanuel figured. Wherever I go, the police will follow. Five minutes with Jolly’s mother and they’d know about the mermaid illustration and to whom it belonged.

  He had to find the Flying Dutchman. The mystery man with the sharp car might have been the last person to see Jolly Marks alive.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Nestor was drowning a mix of chopped onion and potato in a whirlpool of vegetable oil. He glanced up as Emmanuel approached but kept working. The early Saturday evening crowd of sailors, sugar girls and dockworkers crowded in under the awning and fuelled up for the long party ahead. Legitimate Durban may shut down at 11.30 p.m. but Nestor’s Night Owl clients belonged to the world between midnight to dawn when illegal pool halls, all-hours liquor joints and adult-only cinema lounges operated under the paternal eyes of the police.

  ‘The Flying Dutchman,’ Emmanuel asked the Greek cook. ‘Is he around?’

  Nestor shovelled a glistening mountain of fried potato onto a chipped plate and handed it to a tarty brunette with purple bruises on her arms.

  ‘Haven’t seen him,’ Nestor said. ‘Maybe he’s not working today.’

  ‘He takes Saturdays off?’ That had to be a lie. It was seven twenty-five on the busiest night of the week.

  Nestor scratched an unshaven cheek. ‘Normally he is here looking for clients. Not tonight.’

  ‘Know where I can find him?’

  ‘No.’

  The cook loaded up a second plate and pushed it over the counter to a tall woman in a lace dress brightened with pink crochet flowers. Emmanuel pushed the order back across the counter before the customer could touch it and smiled. ‘Really?’ He kept his fingers lightly against the side of the plate and made sure Nestor got the message: I can do this all night.

  ‘Check the passenger quay,’ Nestor said. ‘That’s where he normally parks when there’s a liner in port.’

  ‘What am I looking for?’ If Nestor was wasting his time then he’d be back within an hour and they’d celebrate in true Greek fashion with the smashing of plates.

  ‘Tall man in a blue suit. Drives a white DeSoto convertible with silver chrome along the side and white wheel hubs. You can’t miss it.’

  Emmanuel picked the plate off the counter and handed it to the woman in the lace dress, who, at close quarters, had the muscled bulk of a longshoreman. Dark stubble bristled through her white powder and rouge. To Emmanuel, the beauty mark positioned over her top lip was a step too far.

  ‘Miss …’ He handed the food over and was rewarded with a wink and a smile.

  ‘Kind thanks, sailor.’ The strapping she-male dropped a curtsy and strutted over to a side table where a small white man in dirty work overalls waited.

  Port towns, Emmanuel thought. You can find anything if you know where to look.

  Emmanuel parked the Buick in a tight space on Quayside Road and headed to the passenger terminal on foot. The docked liner, Pacific Pearl, had drawn a mix of Indian families, Christian youth groups and courting couples to the quay. White cars dotted the kerb of the red-brick streetscape. Finding the Dutchman was going to be a challenge.

  A Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith limousine cruised along the wharf. Emmanuel checked both sides of the street for a white convertible with silver trim and for the police. The Durban boys couldn’t arrest him but they could break a couple of ribs. The Rolls pulled over to the sidewalk and stopped a few feet ahead. The engine still hummed.

  Emmanuel turned to see two dark-skinned men a few yards behind him. They seemed to have sprung out of the ground. In front of him, the back passenger door of the Rolls swung open and blocked the footpath. He glimpsed polished wood panels and cream leather.

  A rich honey and tobacco scent drifted out of the car’s interior. A British bulldog of a man in a chequered suit emerged from the front passenger seat and motioned for Emmanuel to lift his arms. Emmanuel complied. The man patted him down for weapons and then nodded to the Rolls. Please accept my gracious invitation, his manner indicated, or my friends will break your legs.

  ‘Get in,’ he said.

  Emmanuel slid into the limousine. The passenger door sealed with a click and the Silver Wraith rolled into traffic. Soft leather and plush carpet hushed the engine and the world outside. The red tip of a lit cigar cast the only light in the dim interior.

  The passenger compartment light switched on and Emmanuel blinked in the sudden glow. An Indian with dark skin, black hair and black eyes sat to his right. The man wore a grey linen suit. The material stretched tight across the powerful width of his shoulders and chest.

  ‘You’re supposed to work for me,’ the Indian said. ‘But I don’t know who the fuck you are.’

  ‘I’m Emmanuel Cooper.’ Emmanuel held his hand out politely. Parthiv was a pretend gangster; this man was the real thing. ‘You’re Mr Khan.’

  The man said nothing and ignored the offer of a handshake. He continued to examine Emmanuel. ‘You have a message for me, from the Duttas. What is it?’

  ‘Mrs Dutta wants you to know that Parthiv and Giriraj have been disciplined.’ Emmanuel decided this was no time to explain that he wasn’t involved with the Duttas or their business. Somehow, Khan seemed to already know what had happened in the backyard of Saris & All.

  ‘What does tha
t mean?’

  ‘A beating. With a stick.’

  Khan smiled but the black centre of his pupils remained dead. ‘I like that. The old ways are the best. Did Mrs Dutta know about her son’s hash dealing?’

  ‘She wasn’t happy. That’s all I know.’

  ‘Good. I don’t want to start trouble with the Dutta family but if I have to, then …’ Khan left the rest of the sentence hanging.

  The Rolls turned onto Marine Parade and cruised past Art Deco hotels and beachfront bars where colourful crowds spilled onto the pavement. A Zulu rickshaw boy in animal skins and a feathered headdress posed for pictures with two English women in tweed. The street bustled with people. That was a good sign. If he could be seen, he was safe.

  The Rolls took a sharp turn into a dark service lane and parked at the rear entrance of a closed warehouse. A sign on the steel reinforced door read ‘Cold Meat Storage’. No lights and no passing traffic. Emmanuel tensed. Being light skinned didn’t count for much in the back of a Rolls with an Indian gangster where no one could see you. Khan was on the second-rate non-white rung of the South African ladder, but he had a thug, a Roller and a complete lack of fear. The scent of blood and meat crept in from the alley.

  Khan leaned to within an inch of Emmanuel’s face and breathed out smoke. ‘Working for Parthiv Dutta and that mute is a mistake.’ His voice was ice. ‘It could get you killed.’

  ‘I don’t work for Parthiv or the Dutta family,’ Emmanuel said. He wanted to make that clear. ‘I work at the Victory Shipyards.’ It was better to throw out correct information right away. It might stop Khan from digging deeper later.

  ‘Ah … the Victory,’ Khan said. ‘The famous refuge for the old men of war. What theatre were you in? North Africa or the Mediterranean?’

  ‘Europe. The western front. France and then Germany.’

  ‘Tell me, do you miss the fighting?’

  ‘No,’ Emmanuel said. Not even the temptation to sit around a bar and rehash memories of the war had appealed to him.

  ‘That is my big regret.’ Khan crushed his cigar into the ashtray. ‘Not being able to join the Indian army. I was ruled morally unfit. In a war!’ Khan laughed. ‘I would have loved war, I think.’