Let the Dead Lie

by Malla Nunn

  ‘Shadows,’ Brother Jonah said, then smiled at a sudden memory. ‘Oh yeah, and a bald Indian man tuning a white whore’s motor in an alleyway. Sounded like he found her starter button and pressed it real good.’

  Giriraj and the prostitute.

  ‘No one else?’

  ‘Nope.’ The preacher fiddled with his ponytail, twisting his lanky hair around bony fingers.

  ‘So my witness was wrong,’ Emmanuel said. ‘There wasn’t a blonde girl and an older man in the yard that night.’

  ‘Not that I remember.’

  ‘You didn’t follow them from the passenger quay?’

  ‘I did not.’ Brother Jonah adjusted the lamps again, careful not to make eye contact. His face and arms were beaded with sweat despite the recent wipe down. Everything he’d said about Jolly Marks had the ring of truth, but he’d lied about shadowing Natalya and Nicolai from the passenger quay. Nicolai was the ‘Ivan’ talked about at Larsen’s scrap metal yard.

  ‘Who hired you to follow the Ivans?’ Emmanuel said. ‘Was it Khan? The police?’

  The preacher hesitated, thrown by the use of the slang word for a Russian, then said, by rote, ‘That’s classified.’

  Emmanuel tried to establish a clearer picture of events. Brother Jonah believed he was God’s soldier, hand-picked for a specific duty. He admitted being in the rail yard and even to seeing Jolly Marks but believed ‘the mission’ was pure reconnaissance. Maybe Jonah was the one blindsided by all the spook bullshit.

  ‘Here’s something I think you really do need to know,’ Emmanuel said. ‘Jolly Marks talked to the Russians that night. He helped them get to a house on the Bluff. Someone killed him to try to get that information.’

  ‘Crap. A night crawler messed with that boy.’

  ‘No. He was killed to get to the Ivans.’

  ‘Forward scout, locate and identify.’ Brother Jonah jabbed a finger in Emmanuel’s direction. ‘That’s all.’

  ‘That was just the first part of the plan,’ Emmanuel said gently. He knew what it was like to be a soldier and to march through night and day, from one fight to another, on the orders of commanders who controlled the big picture and told you nothing. ‘The real aim was to capture the Russians and exchange them. Jolly was a civilian casualty.’

  Jonah’s wiry body tensed and a flicker of doubt crossed his face.

  ‘Tell me who’s in command of this mission and together we can sort this mess out,’ Emmanuel said.

  A metal shelf rattled in the dark and the tortoiseshell cat from the steps streaked into the circle of light and crashed against a table leg. The glass egg container skated across the laminate but hit the raised metal edge of the tabletop and held steady. Pigeons flew up towards the pitch of the ceiling.

  ‘I must have left that door open.’ Brother Jonah grabbed the cat by the scruff of the neck and held it aloft. ‘How many times do I have to tell you to stay out, miss?’

  Emmanuel stepped back from the cat’s claws and the incubator lights cut out. The storehouse plunged into darkness. Two torch beams swung between the shelves and threw discs of light onto the walls. Fast, running footsteps clacked across the concrete floor. Emmanuel dropped to his knees and crawled in the direction of the back door. His head hit a steel shelf. He moved to the left and reoriented himself.

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ Brother Jonah shouted. ‘Who is that?’

  A high-powered beam located the preacher’s face and he held a hand up to shield his eyes. The cat flexed its back and broke free. A spill of light from the torch gave a candle’s worth of illumination. Emmanuel glimpsed the outline of the back exit and moved towards it. A second beam split the dark and shone on the door handle.

  He was trapped.

  ‘Still locked,’ a male voice called. ‘He’s in here somewhere.’

  Emmanuel turned sixty degrees. Brother Jonah’s reflection bounced off the full-length mirror resting against the wall. His impulse was to rush but the rusted discipline of the battlefield held the reins steady. He crawled to the mirror and levered it forwards so there was enough space to squeeze in behind. He pressed his body behind the glass and rested the weight back. Escape was impossible. Invisibility was the second-best option.

  ‘Mr Khan is going to hear about this!’ Brother Jonah railed. ‘You are going to be in a shitstorm of trouble. Mark my words.’

  ‘Where is he?’ a cool voice said. ‘Where’s Cooper?’

  ‘Who the hell is Cooper?’ The preacher’s voice crackled with ill humour. ‘And get that light out of my face. I can’t see a damn thing.’

  Emmanuel stayed still and tried to figure out what was happening on the other side of the mirror. There were two men with high-powered torches. Not Fletcher or Robinson of the local police. One well-modulated voice: educated South African. The other, local but far less polished.

  ‘Cooper.’ Anger heated the cool voice. ‘The man you were talking to. Where is he?’

  Emmanuel’s heart thundered. He placed the voice. It belonged to the tradesman from the police station. He was sure of it.

  ‘I can’t think with that light in my eyes. Can’t see a thing, brother. Dip that from my face and we can talk.’

  The beam of the flash angled downwards and Emmanuel squashed within the edges of the mirror. A shuffle of feet was followed by a grunt of recognition from the preacher.

  ‘Oh,’ Brother Jonah said, ‘it’s you. That’s perfect timing. We need to talk about the Ivans.’

  ‘Did Cooper mention them?’

  ‘Yeah … and a lot more.’ Brother Jonah’s voice hardened. ‘Seems you lied to me, brother. You said no blood. You broke that promise.’

  Steel smacked flesh and the preacher’s body crashed into the mirror. The glass shattered and the back of the mirror hit Emmanuel’s face hard. Hot clusters of pain exploded along the ridge of his nose. He pressed his mouth shut to hold in a gasp. Brother Jonah’s slack arm dropped into view at the side of the mirror.

  Do not break cover, the Scottish sergeant major whispered. It’s the tradesman. He’s the one who’s been following you for the last couple of days … He’s after the Russians. He fucked up twice already, once at the house on the Bluff and then at Hélène’s. If he finds you now, he and his friend will make you piss blood till you tell them where the Ivans are.

  ‘Back to the side entrance,’ the tradesman said. ‘We’ll work our way towards this end of the building and check every crack and shelf on the way. We’ll flush him out.’

  ‘And this one?’ the second man said.

  ‘Leave Brother Jonah. He’ll be right in a little while. The boss will give me no end of uphill if I kill him. He’s still annoyed about the others.’

  The others. Emmanuel pressed his body flat to the wall. Jolly Marks, Mrs Patterson and her maid were collateral damage. They were not human beings to the tradesman but impediments to the success of the mission. The tradesman’s certainty that the same man had killed all three victims came from the fact that he had killed them himself. The mission to capture the Russians was a fox hunt and Emmanuel was the hound, released from police custody by the tradesman to run the prey to ground. The deal struck in the interrogation room, to find Jolly’s killer or face the gallows, was a fantasy. The tradesman would kill him as soon as he had the Russians. Like the three murder victims, he was expendable. Even during war, the concept of collateral damage and ‘acceptable losses’ was obscene. He clenched his hands into fists and anger pulsed through him.

  Cool down, laddie, the sergeant major said. Use your head. It’s dark out there. They have torches and guns. Get out and get away. Fuck them up later. It’s called a tactical retreat.

  Footsteps receded across the concrete towards the side entrance. The flashlights dimmed and left behind a molasses-coloured void.

  Now, the sergeant major breathed. Edge out and head for the back door quick smart.

  Emmanuel pushed the mirror forwards and a broken shard fell from the its cracked surface. Another piece s
hattered into a dozen refracting needles and a torch beam searched the perimeter of the floor.

  ‘The mirror is falling to pieces,’ the tradesman said. ‘Move out.’

  Emmanuel eased sideways, careful to avoid the glass scattered across the floor. Images of Brother Jonah crumpled on the ground were captured and distorted multiple times, as if in a circus fun house. He made for the wall and traced his fingertips along the wooden slats. Beams of white swept right to left in a block pattern, searching the shadows. Emmanuel moved faster and found the raised metal handle of a deadbolt.

  He sucked in a breath and his lungs cooled. The sequence of events was simple. Open the bolt, open the door and run. Three quick steps. The torch beams swept closer. Emmanuel twisted the deadlock. There was a hard click similar to the hammer of a gun hitting the chamber. He pushed at the door and winter sunshine flooded into the storehouse.

  ‘There!’

  Emmanuel sprinted into the weeds and scrambled to the abandoned wood stove. He prayed Zweigman and Shabalala were late. Two civilians against two armed men was no contest.

  He approached the rusted metal stove at a run, found a foothold on the front burner and hoisted his weight onto the top. The legs of the ancient cooker gave way with a metal sigh and the top listed like a ship plunging to the lower depths. Outstretched arms couldn’t prevent him from falling forwards into a bed of kaffirweed.

  He lifted his head and saw a narrow space behind the outhouse and a mound of red bricks tipped against the back fence. He crawled towards the narrow passage and edged into it with an inch to spare at either side. Amid the bruised greenery and the building debris he crouched in the classic soldier’s pose: waiting on the cusp of danger.

  ‘Where the fuck is he?’ the tradesman said. A flash of translucent white skin and the sleeve of a midnight blue suit jacket sped across the narrow space behind the outhouse.

  ‘Next yard?’ the other voice said.

  ‘Could be. Check over the top. I’ll comb this area. He’s here somewhere.’

  Emmanuel crouched lower. The tight hiding space was a perfect short-term solution. Long-term, it was the equivalent of being a tin duck in a shooting gallery. Five minutes into a grid search and they would find him. He held his breath, listened and heard nothing. He waited.

  The throaty chug of an engine and the crunch of wheels on the side drive broke the tense silence in the untidy yard. A long blast of a horn was followed by the slam of a door.

  ‘Hello, is anyone home?’ Zweigman’s voice called out. ‘Is this the Empire storehouse? I have a pick-up.’

  ‘Shit.’ The tradesman’s voice was hard. ‘We have to move out. Circle back in five.’

  ‘One look at this gun and he’ll clear off quick smart,’ the tradesman’s partner said.

  Zweigman had survived the war, but not in uniform. He was a healer not a fighter.

  ‘Keep it holstered,’ the tradesman said. The collapsed stove groaned under a new weight. ‘No more civilian casualties. We’ll double back later and take this place apart.’

  The second man grunted and the adjoining fence creaked. Heavy feet thumped to the ground from a height. The search team had gone into the adjoining yard.

  Go, go, the sergeant major ordered. I’ll fall back now that reinforcements have arrived.

  Emmanuel scrambled towards the mouth of the narrow passage and looked out: sky, weeds and rusted metal but no men in suits. The tradesman and his sidekick were in the next yard behind the fence.

  ‘Hello?’ Zweigman’s voice came closer. ‘Hello. I have a pick-up.’

  Emmanuel cleared the corner of the outhouse and cut across the choked ground. Zweigman saw him coming. Emmanuel signalled for quiet and the doctor withdrew to the passenger side of the Bedford, pulled open the door and slid into the front. Shabalala was behind the wheel. Emmanuel jumped through the door Zweigman had left open and the Bedford rolled down the drive.

  Shabalala took a left onto Signal Road. An Indian vegetable seller with two baskets suspended from a bamboo pole balanced across her ropey shoulders laboured along the sidewalk. ‘Brinjal. Potato. Onion.’ Her plaintive call filled the air. ‘Fresh brinjal.’ The storehouse faded to a smudge of mud brown behind them, indistinguishable from the other industrial buildings that fronted the road.

  ‘Your nose is bleeding.’ Zweigman pulled a cloth handkerchief from his pocket and gave it to Emmanuel. ‘It’s clean.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You found Brother Jonah?’

  ‘Yeah, but two other men found me before I had a chance to finish questioning him.’

  ‘The man who gave you the address, this Mr Khan,’ Shabalala said. ‘He is the one who sent them.’

  ‘Has to have been.’ Emmanuel glanced out of the window.

  ‘I was in the storehouse long enough to figure out that Brother Jonah isn’t the killer.’

  ‘Bad news,’ Shabalala said. ‘You are still up to your neck in cowshit, Detective Sergeant.’

  ‘Just to my armpits,’ Emmanuel said. ‘I know who killed those people; I just don’t know his name. Or where to find him.’

  ‘This is progress?’ Zweigman said with a laugh.

  Emmanuel took out the book Lana had liberated for him and held it up. ‘Khan has the name of the man I’m looking for. The number is probably in this phone book.’

  ‘But how will you know which name is the correct one?’

  ‘I won’t. Khan is going to tell me.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  A whistle blew a long, sharp note and Shabalala eased the truck to a stop in front of a row of two-storey terraces with deep verandas overlooking tended squares of green garden. A black man watering a fruiting cumquat tree immediately turned, went back into the house and closed the door.

  Shouts and the pounding of running feet came from the pavement. Emmanuel peered at the side mirror. Three black men in hard-worn clothes most likely picked at random from a mission charity basket flew across the street and disappeared into an alleyway. Another shrill whistle cut the air. Emmanuel scrambled out of the truck. He didn’t want the others caught in a net intended for him. Zweigman and Shabalala joined him on the pavement.

  A lanky black man in gumboots and blue overalls ran by, wild-eyed and sweating. The snarl of police dogs followed him.

  ‘Black Maria,’ Shabalala said and pointed to the street corner. A caged police van, painted grey and not black as the name suggested, lumbered into view. Native men and women of all shapes and sizes scattered before it, like marbles spilling from a schoolboy’s pocket.

  ‘A passbook raid,’ Shabalala said without emotion. This was the job of the police. To round up all the natives without the proper passes and ship them back to the native locations. A black man without proper permission to be in the city was naked in the wind; a thing to be swept up and thrown out into the countryside.

  ‘Hell of a raid.’ Emmanuel pointed to four policemen with Alsatian dogs straining against leather leashes. A squad of foot policemen blotted out the wall of the building behind them in a solid box of olive drab uniforms.

  ‘What is happening?’ Zweigman pressed back against the truck, pale and trembling. ‘Where are the police taking these people?’

  Emmanuel sensed the depths of the doctor’s fear and explained what was happening.

  ‘I have heard but never seen.’ Zweigman rubbed his forehead while he recovered from the old fear that had so clearly overtaken him.

  A police whistle blew a piercing note. The uniforms broke rank and ran like a khaki tide into the main streets and the alleyways. The non-whites who did not run stayed still. The dog squad moved towards the Bedford and the Alsatians raked the sidewalk with their wet snouts, their mouths open, their canine teeth visible. An item of white cotton clothing hung from the pocket of the lead handler’s trousers.

  ‘You should get into the truck, Detective,’ Zweigman said. ‘It is better not to be seen.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ Emmanuel said and turned to Shabalala.
‘You stick close.’

  ‘Yebo.’ The native constable understood that out of uniform and without official police papers he was just another black man forced to account for himself in a white world.

  A scrawny Indian man crouched in a doorway like a praying mantis. Even though Indians and mixed-race people didn’t need passes to be in urban areas, the labourer kept his head bowed and his hands held up in a gesture of supplication. An Alsatian wheeled in the direction of the figure in the doorway and the handler loosened the lead. The dog leapt forward and snuffled at the Indian’s clothes and hair, eager to establish a trace scent.

  ‘Got something, boy?’ The dog squad policeman urged his canine partner on. ‘Got something?’

  The Alsatian fell back, disappointed. The labourer remained glued in place.

  ‘Go into the truck, Sergeant,’ Shabalala said. ‘I will be fine here with the doctor.’

  ‘Not until I figure out what’s going on.’ This action was more than a raid to net illegal black workers.

  Emmanuel pulled his van Niekerk-issued detective branch ID from his pocket and moved towards the line of police dogs. He zeroed in on a red-faced boy who was struggling to keep his dog under control. The fresh recruits responded better to rank and title. Cynicism was still a few years off.

  ‘Constable.’ He flashed the ID. ‘What’s going on? You’ve got the whole Point in uproar.’

  ‘Where have you been, Detective Sergeant?’ The uniform smiled and tussled with the dog lead. ‘We got him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Indian who killed Jolly Marks.’ The constable was dragged away by canine force and his words were cut by the whimper of the excited dogs. ‘He ran but we’ll find him.’

  The Alsatians set off at a lope. Pedestrians scattered from the pavement and the way lay clear for the police hounds. The labourer in the doorway had not moved. Emmanuel had not moved either. The constable’s cheerful promise was a heart stopper. Zweigman and Shabalala came over to him.

  ‘They are not looking for you, Detective Sergeant,’ Shabalala said. ‘They are looking, I think, for an Indian man.’