Let the Dead Lie

by Malla Nunn

  ‘They’re not my men, they’re friends.’

  ‘Friends with transportation are extremely useful, Emmanuel.’ Her tone was brisk. ‘And the Zulu will come in handy. You’d be surprised how many Europeans are still scared of them.’

  ‘You think it’s a set-up?’

  ‘Or Khan has found God and the good fairies on the same day. Take your pick.’

  Emmanuel pocketed the address. ‘Okay. I’ll go in on foot and see what the situation is.’

  Lana gave an impatient sigh. ‘Drive there in the truck and park a few doors away. If Brother Jonah is hiding, three people at the door will scare him away. You’ll have to go in alone. Your friends will wait fifteen minutes then come looking. Do you still have the Walther?’

  ‘Yes,’ Emmanuel said, taken aback by the speed of her suggestions.

  ‘Good. You might need it.’ Lana dug into her white leather handbag and removed a tattered telephone book with faded gold letters on the front. ‘This will also be useful. It’s Khan’s.’

  ‘You stole it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You stole it right now?’ Emmanuel said, feeling like Khan’s parrot.

  ‘He shouldn’t have left that mess on top of his desk.’ Lana gave Emmanuel a look that demanded, ‘Do you have a problem with that?’

  ‘Why did you take it?’ Emmanuel heard that stranger’s voice again. This time suspicious and bemused.

  ‘A favour for a friend,’ she said and smiled.

  Did she mean him or van Niekerk? With the clock winding down it barely mattered. The phone book was his. Besides, if Lana and Khan had been intimate, it was now over. The theft of the book made it clear that she was firmly in van Niekerk’s camp.

  ‘Thanks,’ Emmanuel said and put the book into his pocket. There was a part of him, not too deeply hidden, that delighted in her criminal ways.

  ‘Should van Niekerk send in the troops?’ Lana asked and fished a set of jangling car keys out of her bag.

  ‘Not yet,’ Emmanuel said. ‘We’ll go straight to the storehouse and try to find Brother Jonah. An hour or two and we’ll head back to the major’s.’

  ‘Watch your back,’ Lana said, then hurried off in the direction of Point Road. She’d parked a few streets away and come to Khan’s office on foot, like a thief.

  Emmanuel put on his hat and a mental flash of his ex-wife appeared: shy and pretty, sitting on a London bus and wrapped up against the freezing winter. The war was over but life was still grim. His physical wounds were healed. Angela, sheltered and innocent, seemed proof that softness could still exist in a hard world. She was his opposite and Emmanuel had married her because of it. Hoping for… what? A new man to emerge: happy and content with life?

  Lana vanished around a corner, hips swinging, heels clicking. It was no wonder his marriage to Angela failed. He’d asked too much of her. His buried childhood, the war, police work and an attraction to women with experience of life’s dark places … he couldn’t change who he was. There was no cure for the past. Whether or not he got out of this, he resolved to write to Angela and wish her well.

  Emmanuel moved back to the passenger side of the truck and leaned into the open window.

  ‘A meeting has been arranged?’ Zweigman pushed the keys back into the ignition and rested his hands on the wheel, ready to start the trip.

  ‘I’ve been given an address,’ Emmanuel said. ‘It could turn out to be nothing.’

  ‘Or something?’ Shabalala said. His whole life he had tracked and hunted around Jacob’s Rest. He knew about trails and ambushes.

  ‘Brother Jonah might be at this address. I have to take the risk.’

  ‘I will drive,’ Zweigman said and turned the key. The engine spluttered then settled into a rhythmic chug. Shabalala opened the door and motioned to Emmanuel.

  ‘Okay.’ He gave up the fight and squashed into the Bedford. He needed backup. He’d been alone too long. ‘Go down Timeball Road. Take the next left.’

  Emmanuel kept low but stole a glance at Khan’s office a half block ahead. An Indian woman and two young men approached the front stairs and talked to Khan’s guard, who flicked a spent cigarette into the gutter and disappeared inside.

  ‘What are they doing here?’ Emmanuel wondered aloud.

  Maataa, Parthiv and Amal were dressed for a formal occasion. Both the boys wore suits and Maataa’s purple sari glittered with gold and silver thread.

  The door opened and Khan appeared on the top step. He smiled and shook hands with Maataa then reached over and slapped Parthiv’s shoulder like a jovial uncle. Amal stuffed his hands into his pockets to avoid physical contact and the unlikely quartet filed into the brick building. It was not an impromptu meeting. Khan had been expecting them. The Duttas’ loyal strongman, Giriraj, was nowhere in sight.

  ‘Is everything well, Sergeant?’ Shabalala asked.

  ‘Yes.’ Emmanuel concentrated on locating the next turn. He glimpsed port cranes and harbour tugs between wide brick warehouses and shipping agents. A tight bunch of Afrikaner rail workers took a smoke break on a corner.

  The urban landscape became a blur. His mind was back in Khan’s windowless waiting room and on the old woman with the henna-stained hands. He suspected the Dutta boys’ names had come from the murder scene directly to Khan. And now the Duttas had been invited to his office. To declare war or to initiate peace?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Zweigman turned into Signal Road and slowed the Bedford down. The truck crawled past the offices of the harbourmaster, a two-storey Victorian building with a dash of Gothic, and continued towards the address Khan had provided.

  ‘There it is.’ Shabalala pointed to a utilitarian wood-and- iron warehouse with double-fronted doors barred with a heavy piece of wood. ‘You will not be able to get in that way, Sergeant Cooper. Maybe there is an entrance by the side.’

  Zweigman parked the truck in front of a row of trim workers’ cottages detailed with lace ironwork on the verandas. An old black man and woman, stooped with age, hauled buckets of wood into one of the cottages for the evening fire.

  Emmanuel checked the time. Ten minutes past one. He had to be back by twenty-five past, or Zweigman and Shabalala would pile out of the car and follow him into the storehouse.

  ‘Fifteen minutes.’ Zweigman withdrew a fob watch from the medical kit. ‘Your time has begun, Detective.’

  Emmanuel took off without a goodbye, an old superstition from the war, when saying the words out loud was tempting the gods to grant your wish. He moved to the storehouse where a wide driveway, built for truck access, led to a side door. A tortoiseshell cat slept in a spot of sun that hit a steel ramp leading to a loading bay. Emmanuel tried the handle to the loading dock doors … no movement. He circled around to the backyard. A brick outhouse crumbled amid knee-high weeds and the rusted remains of a wood-burning stove leaned against the brick wall in defeat. A paint-flecked rear door was also locked.

  He returned to the side dock and knocked four times. The cat awoke and sprang with agile grace from the platform and into flowering weeds. He hammered again, louder.

  ‘Hold on there. Give me a minute.’

  Separate metal locks turned with rusty clicks. Emmanuel checked the Walther on the chance that Brother Jonah’s easy manner was a ruse.

  The door opened. Emmanuel stepped back and almost lost his balance. Brother Jonah was completely naked but for a small white towel wrapped around his waist. His Jesus hair was tied back in a ponytail and beads of sweat covered his wiry frame. If fat was a sign of sloth, the street preacher was clear of that sin. He was lean muscle wrapped in skin.

  ‘Sister Bergis’s friend.’ The street preacher made the connection. ‘The one who refused to share his name.’

  ‘It’s Brother Emmanuel.’ Emmanuel held out his hand and tried to maintain a neutral expression. A knife, a gun, a shambok or a metal chain, those things were on the list of possible hazards. A near-naked man with a ponytail was not. ‘I’ve come seeking answe
rs to some questions that are bothering me. Can you spare a few minutes of your time?’

  ‘I offer guidance where and when I am able.’ Brother Jonah gave Emmanuel’s hand a quick squeeze and retreated into the storehouse. ‘So long as you understand that man’s time clock doesn’t mean anything in here. Nature is in charge. She’s the one who rides shotgun on all our earthly journeys and I am her servant.’

  Emmanuel nodded even though he had no idea what Brother Jonah was talking about. A row of grimy glass-brick windows positioned just under the roofline admitted a minimum of light into the interior of the wood-and-iron building. Pigeons roosted on three wide beams that ran across the width of the ceiling. Steel shelves, mostly empty, took up uneven lengths of floor space. Wooden crates stamped with the stag and crown emblem of an imported whisky brand were packed on a middle shelf. One of the trucks that rolled out of the Point freight yard with stolen goods had unloaded here in this warehouse.

  Emmanuel checked the shadows for movement and detected nothing. An aurora of hard white shone like an industrial sun in the far corner.

  ‘My workplace is down there.’ Brother Jonah closed the door and Emmanuel followed him towards the light. The evidence did not back up Khan’s comment about the preacher being scared off: nakedness and vulnerability went hand in hand. When people sensed danger they clothed themselves and they armed themselves. Failing that, they hid. Stand and fight or run and hide were the simple rules that governed human response to a threatening situation. Brother Jonah had answered the door naked but for a towel; a very small towel. He appeared not to have a worry in the world.

  The light grew brighter and Emmanuel palmed the Walther. The unofficial motto of the special air services, ‘Bullshit baffles brains’, came to mind. A naked preacher rambling about mother nature in the middle of an abandoned storehouse was the perfect distraction. The real danger was hidden in the unlit corners.

  ‘Another day or so,’ Brother Jonah said, ‘and my work will finally be done.’

  Emmanuel let the evangelist get three steps ahead of him. ‘What work is it that you do?’ he said. ‘I thought you were a preacher.’

  ‘Salvation is my major occupation.’ Brother Jonah wiped sweat from his neck and dried his fingers on the towel. ‘But I pick up odd jobs here and there to feed the body.’

  The major muscles of his back and arms moved beneath the skin. It was a body that didn’t take much feeding.

  ‘What’s this job?’ Emmanuel asked, stopping short of the circular white glow that hit the concrete floor. His eyes adjusted to the contrast between darkness and the manufactured light of a huge overhead lamp positioned a foot or so above head height. Smaller lamps with bare bulbs shone directly into a glass box resting on a laminated tabletop. A pile of ripped newspaper and grass was heaped inside the glass container. Heat radiated from the lit circle.

  ‘Helping nature,’ Brother Jonah said and entered into the lamp glow. ‘Come take a look.’

  Emmanuel edged closer but held back till he was certain there was no movement on the outer edges of the circle. He mentally fixed the position of the back door and slipped the Walther back into its hip holster.

  ‘See.’ Brother Jonah pointed into the pile of grass and ripped newspaper. Three pale blue eggs lay in a hollow scooped into the middle of the man-made nest. ‘Had them under heat for twenty hours already. They’ll be ready to hatch soon.’

  ‘You’re incubating eggs.’ Emmanuel removed his hat and fanned his face. The heat lamps raised the temperature but not high enough to warrant removing every stitch of clothing. That decision was a personal one, made, he suspected, because the preacher simply liked being naked.

  ‘Who are you working for?’ he asked. He had to make a spoonful of sense out of Brother Jonah’s incubator before turning the interview back to Jolly Marks and the Russian couple.

  ‘Mr Khan. He’s crazy about exotic parrots and birds. Likes to rear them by hand.’ Brother Jonah thumped the muscles of his chest and arms with tight fists and sucked in deep breaths. ‘You should get that jacket and shirt off, Brother Emmanuel. Get the heat into you. It opens up the lungs.’

  ‘I’m fine. So, you work for Mr Khan.’

  ‘Now and then.’ Brother Jonah began a series of deep knee squats. ‘A monkey could do this job but Mr Khan likes to have white men working for him and he pays for the privilege.’

  ‘I’m sure he does.’ White staff was the ultimate symbol of power for a non-white man. Proof that money could turn the world on its head and make it spin anticlockwise.

  ‘Sister Bergis looks down on me, I know.’ Brother Jonah moved on to knee lifts. ‘But I’m not on the teat of a rich missionary society. My work is funded out of my own pocket.’

  ‘Khan pays that much for egg incubation?’ Emmanuel let a trace of disbelief colour the question. Selling stolen whisky was a good business with a regular customer base. That was probably how the preacher earned his keep.

  Brother Jonah stopped the exercise routine and placed both hands on his hips. ‘You shouldn’t listen to Sister Bergis,’ he said. ‘Lonely women have powerful imaginations. They fill their time with stories. That comes from an empty womb.’

  The preacher stared beyond the circle of light to something on the far wall. Emmanuel turned, anticipating the swing of a club or a fist, and saw a full-length mirror propped against the wall. Brother Jonah admired his reflection in the looking glass: he was clearly a man who believed he was formed in God’s own image.

  ‘Yeah, Sister Bergis has some crazy theories about you,’ Emmanuel said, facing the preacher with a smile. ‘She thinks you were a soldier. A fighter. I told her you were a man of peace. That you probably sat the war out in a conscientious objector cell.’

  ‘I fought in the Pacific.’ The veins on the preacher’s forehead stood out in anger. ‘Hand to hand with the Japs. Europe was a cakewalk compared to what we did out on those islands. And that was just the half of it.’

  ‘The Pacific. That was hard fighting.’

  ‘And for what?’ Brother Jonah stripped the towel loose and dried the sweat from his legs and chest. ‘The Russians have half of Europe under Godless sway and we handed Japan back to the Japanese. The world’s more dangerous than ever, Brother Emmanuel. I expect that’s what’s brought you to me. The pitiful state of things.’

  He certainly hadn’t come for the naked preacher show that was being lived out in three inglorious dimensions within arm’s length. ‘I’m here to talk about the murder of Jolly Marks. Why do you think he was killed?’

  ‘The will of God.’ Brother Jonah resecured his towel. ‘We have to accept it, even when we don’t understand it.’

  ‘You were in the freight yards that night,’ Emmanuel said. ‘I thought you could give me a more down-to-earth perspective on what happened. Maybe tell me what you were doing there.’

  Brother Jonah stilled. ‘That information is given out on a need-to-know basis and I determine that you do not need to know a thing. Get my drift?’

  ‘I can place you in the yards on the night Jolly Marks was killed.’ Emmanuel continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted. ‘You followed a pretty blonde girl from the passenger wharf. What more do I need to know? You’re not a man of God; you’re a night crawler. Did Jolly know that?’

  ‘I’m a soldier in the Lord’s army,’ Brother Jonah said quietly and adjusted a heat lamp to shine a more direct light. ‘My guess is that you’re an undercover policeman. Am I correct? Nothing wrong with that job, but you’re not equipped or trained to handle this kind of situation, son.’

  ‘How hard can it be if you’re involved?’ Emmanuel said. The ‘son’ tag riled him. There was a fifteen-year age difference at most between them. A couple of thousand miles separated the European and Pacific theatres of war. Brothers in arms maybe but even that was a stretch. Besides, one unstable father was enough to last two lifetimes.

  ‘See, that’s your ignorance talking,’ Brother Jonah said. ‘The personnel for every mission are h
and-picked to ensure victory. I was chosen and you were not.’

  ‘Chosen to murder children and old ladies?’ Emmanuel laid on the contempt. ‘That’s some mission you were hand-picked for. The angels must be pleased with the three new souls you sent up.’

  ‘Your wires are crossed. This mission was recon. Forward scout, locate and identify. No casualties reported.’

  ‘You were there but no one got hurt on your watch.’ Emmanuel translated the military speak into plain English. ‘Jolly had his throat slit. That qualifies as serious hurt even by Pacific war standards.’

  ‘Same place, same time, different universe,’ Brother Jonah said. ‘Here’s a heads up from me: if you want to find that boy’s killer, look for a sick individual with an eye for children. A devil in disguise.’

  A pigeon flew off a beam in the roof.

  ‘I’m looking at him,’ Emmanuel said.

  ‘Jesus Christ.’ Brother Jonah the preacher took a back seat to Jonah the battle-weary soldier. ‘I took an oath before God and man and the whole Pacific Ocean. No more blood. Not one drop to be spilled by my hand so long as I live. Amen. Hallelujah. I did go forth and I did sin no more.’

  That sounded mighty convincing but Emmanuel needed facts, not biblical quotes. ‘You were in the freight yard that night?’

  ‘Nothing illegal about walking from the passenger terminal to Point Road.’

  ‘Was Jolly Marks there?’

  ‘Caught a glimpse of him, sure.’

  ‘You didn’t speak?’

  Brother Jonah shrugged. ‘No. He was working. I was working.’

  Emmanuel loosened his tie. The lamps magnified the tropical winter heat twofold and his mouth was fast becoming an arid hollow. The pressure in his head was beginning to build. He’d need to drink a gallon of water the moment he left the storehouse.

  ‘Did you see anyone else that night?’ he asked.