by Malla Nunn
31.
Emmanuel, Shabalala, Julie and Zweigman trekked the moonlit veldt and came to the edge of the river. Behind them, lost in the great stretch of aloe and thorn trees, stood the Lion’s Kill homestead, home to two corpses inside and Crow, lying broken at the bottom of the braai pit. Zweigman and Julie had seen Alice safe to the native reserve and doubled back to Lions Kill armed with a slingshot and cunning. They’d risked their lives so that he and Shabalala might defeat the enemy. And they had.
Shabalala hesitated then said, “We cannot carry the blood of the dead and wounded with us. We must wash before going back to the world of ordinary things.”
They had all brushed up against death to varying degrees. He and Shabalala had killed with a knife and a gun. Zweigman had bloodied his hands examining Mason and Leonard to confirm their departed status and Julie had driven Crow into the braai pit under a hail of stones.
“We can do that,” Emmanuel said.
He felt certain that Shabalala recognised the dangerous pleasure he’d taken in killing Mason and thought it possible that the Zulu detective had taken equal satisfaction in killing Lenny. The killer in both of them had to be washed off and left behind. They undressed together, stripped down to cotton undershorts and, in Julie’s case, a threadbare vest and knickers. The water ran silver around Emmanuel’s ankles and swirled to his thighs and chest the deeper he walked. He dived. The current rinsed the stain of Mason’s blood from his hands. Mason wanted the river. Now he was part of it. Emmanuel broke the surface and gulped warm air. Shabalala and Zweigman bathed either side of him, the water beading on their skin.
“Look,” Julie whispered.
Two lionesses walked along the bank with the grace of wild-born things. They crouched and lapped at the water, the river’s silver surface reflecting in their eyes. Thirst extinguished, they turned and disappeared into the bushland.
“No lions on Lion’s Kill, you said.” Emmanuel gave Shabalala a look. Legend had it that Shangaan hunters could track a drop of rain in a thunderstorm.
“There aren’t any lions,” Julie said. “There haven’t been any since before I was born.”
*
Emmanuel undressed in the candlelight and climbed into bed. Davida turned like a flower seeking the sun and kissed him on the mouth, drawing him closer. He tasted mint on her tongue and spread his palms flat against her back. They fit together, skin to skin and heart to heart.
“You smell of dirt and rain,” she said.
“I washed in a river,” he said, though washing and actually getting clean were two separate things.
“Why?” She tangled her fingers through his hair and shook loose grains of sand. “Did you get dirty?”
“Yes,” he said. He couldn’t explain. To truly understand, Davida would have had to be there, standing on the moonlit riverbank with Shabalala, Zweigman and Julie.
Bed springs creaked and Emmanuel smiled against the warmth of Davida’s neck. He was washed clean in the river and reborn in her arms. This perfect state would not last; could not. He knew it. The present darkness that Mason talked of had the country in a grip that would not let it go. Now had to be enough.
He smoothed Davida’s hair against the pillow. He loved the contrast of dark and light created by her cinnamon skin against the cream sheets. Moonbeams glanced the white candles on the bedside table, the yellow flowers in the vase on the windowsill and the bronze of Davida’s mouth. So many colours together, he thought, and every one of them beautiful.
EPILOGUE
TWO DAYS LATER
Emmanuel smoothed the newspaper flat, careful not to disturb Rebekah who slept pressed to his chest. He skimmed the headline, ‘Four Bodies Found on Northern Transvaal Farm,’ and read the article.
… The Pretoria police yesterday unearthed the remains of four unidentified women buried on an isolated farm outside of Rust de Winter. Acting on a tip-off from a neighbour, the police raided the property and made the grim discovery. Two men with long criminal histories, Leonard Hammond and Danny Crow, were killed during the raid. A senior policeman, Lieutenant Walter Mason, was shot at close range and died at the scene. The Police Commissioner praised the brave actions of the Pretoria Detectives Branch and the constables who helped search the grounds.
Once again the South African police force has proved its worth. A brave man, Lieutenant Walter Mason, was lost during the operation but good ultimately defeated evil. Let us take time over the Christmas break to remember those who work so tirelessly to keep our country safe.
A black and white photograph of two Pretoria detectives accompanied the write-up. In the photo, the detectives leaned on shovels with their shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows. Sweat patches under their armpits proved that South Africa’s policemen were determined to restore order after the chaos.
Emmanuel remembered it differently. In reality it was Shabalala who’d located the shallow graves. Shabalala had insisted that the shovels be put aside and the bodies uncovered by hand so as to show respect for the victims. In the end, the truth mattered little. The local police got the glory while he and Shabalala walked away from three dead white men with no public explanation necessary. No charges would be laid. No internal police investigation would ever reveal the poison inside the police force’s own ranks.
Thanks to Colonel van Niekerk.
“I’ll fix it,” the Dutch Colonel said when Emmanuel took the precaution of calling his boss to report Mason’s death. “The last thing the Commissioner needs is a dirty detective thrown onto his doorstep before Christmas. I’ll call him. Explain that the lieutenant he praised in the newspapers a few days ago was part of criminal gang that kidnapped and murdered women.”
The pleasure in van Niekerk’s voice was sharp: the thrill of gaining the upper hand an unexpected Christmas present. The Police Commissioner now owed him a debt. A substantial one. And the Pretoria detective branch would not forget who threw them the biggest case of their careers.
Emmanuel touched Rebekah’s head, felt her silky hair and fragile bones. He remembered Lion’s Kill … He closed his eyes and he was back in the grim yard where the noon sun beat down and the windmill creaked. Black sedans and blue police vans choked the driveway. A mortuary van idled at the front door. Four mortuary attendants carried out the bloated bodies of Mason and Lenny on stretchers. Flies fed on the dried blood of their wounds.
Shabalala stood in the shade of a grapefruit tree with a human skull cupped in his palms. “Four,” he said when Emmanuel joined him in the orchard. “Their bones are scattered all around. The graves were shallow and the animals dug them up.”
That could have been Davida … the thought hit Emmanuel hard, took the breath from his lungs. Those bones could belong to my woman, my wife. Or my little girl, fifteen years on.
“Are you all right?” a voice came from far and near at the same time.
The soft exhalation of Rebekah’s breath tickled Emmanuel’s neck. He opened his eyes. Davida stood an arm’s-length away, alive and radiant in the morning sunlight. His girls were safe and Lion’s Kill was just another place to forget.
Davida’s gaze flicked to the newspaper. “You were there,” she said.
“Yes. I was.”
He’d decided to tell Davida the truth and to keep lies for the outside world. This situation, however, called for some omissions. The identity of the man who’d grabbed her at Fatty’s club and how close she’d come to the horrors of Lion’s Kill, he would keep a secret.
“Those poor women.” Davida read the story over Emmanuel’s shoulder. “You did a good thing. You stopped those men from hurting more people.”
“That’s what I have to remember,” Emmanuel said. “The good.”
He focused on all the things that went right.
There was Alice, rescued and then restored by Zweigman’s skilled hands. Tough, unbreakable Alice. The girl had more guts than any soldier Emmanuel had ever known. Dropping her back into her old life felt wrong: a waste of potential and a
missed opportunity.
“She would make a wonderful nurse,” Zweigman said when Alice woke early to help mix a solution of milk and honey for the Singleton children’s infected eyes.
Emmanuel and Shabalala agreed.
So, Zweigman made plans. He arranged for Alice to stay at Clearwater until her wounds healed and she was ready to re-enter the world. He left her with a promise. “If you wish to finish your schooling, my wife and I will help you. We will give you whatever shelter you need.”
It seemed to Emmanuel that the German doctor was recreating the family he’d lost in the war. A year ago, Emmanuel would have found such a need strange, even weak. Now, sitting outdoors with his daughter’s warmth nestled against his body and Davida close by, he understood.
He understood completely the joy on Shabalala’s face when Aaron walked free of the juvenile prison on the Police Commissioner’s personal order. Father and son had approached each other slowly, warily. Shabalala broke first. He took his son into his arms and held tight. Aaron tensed then relaxed into his father’s embrace, their years apart forgotten, their differences forgiven.
“What are you thinking about?” Davida smiled to see Emmanuel smile. She sat down next to him.
He leaned over and kissed her. “You,” he said.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Love to the following: Mark, Elijah, Sisana and my extended family. I tip my hat to Terence King for historical corrections. All inventions and mistakes are my own. Heartfelt thanks to my fabulous agents Sophie Hamley of the Cameron Creswell Agency and Catherine Drayton of Inkwell Management. To Rod Morrison and the talented team at Xoum, my deepest gratitude for giving Emmanuel Cooper a good home.
Malla Nunn was born in Swaziland, South Africa, and currently lives in Sydney. She is a filmmaker with three award-winning films to her credit and the author of the Edgar shortlisted crime novels, A Beautiful Place to Die, Let the Dead Lie and Silent Valley.
INTERNATIONAL PRAISE FOR MALLA NUNN
“Stellar … Smooth prose and a deft plot make this novel a welcome addition to crime fiction set in South Africa.”
—Publishers Weekly, starred review
“Nunn teases out a complex tale of sexual depravity and family members prepared to protect even the worst of secrets in beautifully layered prose, but what makes A Beautiful Place to Die a debut to savor is the interplay between the cusp of social change and how then-socially accepted
values seem monstrous to the modern reader.”
—The Baltimore Sun
“Consistently engaging, with revelations right up until the very end.”
—Booklist
“With Malla Nunn’s debut, A Beautiful Place to Die, you can add apartheid-era South Africa to your global mystery passport.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“This skillfully constructed and involving debut—intended as the first in the Detective Emmanuel Cooper series—reveals the terrible toll of apartheid and belongs in all mystery collections.”
—Library Journal
“Exceptionally cinematic.”
—Mostlyfiction.com
“Nunn deftly moves between the sordid and the honorable; Cooper operates in a world of pornography, race-baiting, religious fanaticism and torture, yet there’s nobility in his attempt to understand what governs race relations in South Africa and to solve the murder of a repulsive but powerful member of the community. To do that, he must bridge divisions that whites in particular have a vigorous interest in maintaining. Nunn’s dexterous debut works well on many levels.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Crime writers understand how place exposes character, but the best, like Nunn, explore the idea that place is also fate. Nunn sets her characters brilliantly within a complex psychological portrayal of a particular place and time.”
—Graeme Blundell, The Australian
“Nunn excels at the swift evocation of people and place … Not a word is wasted … Breath-catching … Unforgettable and a talent to watch.”
—The Sydney Morning Herald (Critics’ Choice Best Books of 2008)
“A terrific debut! Page-turning, clever and multi-layered in its portrayal
of the people and landscape of Apartheid South Africa. I loved it.”
—Minette Walters
“Nunn deftly balances suspense and deduction as she offers a revealing glimpse
into South African society under the segregation laws promulgated by the ruling National Party.”
—Publishers Weekly, starred review
“Casual and institutional racism form a fascinating backdrop for the action,
giving readers a feel for how apartheid actually looked and felt to those
on both sides of the color line.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“The plotting is complex and suspenseful and every scene conveys the sinister feel
of South Africa’s apartheid culture.”
—Mostly Fiction Book Reviews
“Fascinating.”
—Marilyn’s Mystery Reads
“This is an outstanding series and gives a nuanced look at the various
avenues racial prejudice can travel down.”
—MTMB’s Mystery Book Blog
“Riveting … A most promising series.”
—Book Illuminations
“A compellingly exciting read … This is a novel with a big conscience.”
—Petrona Book Reviews
“Compelling … a worthy tale, a great detective story and a side of
the apartheid as it began.”
—Hit the Road Jacq blog review
“A gritty detective novel that will entrance.”
—Booksie’s Blog
“One reads [Let the Dead Lie] feeling moral outrage and genuine excitement,
which makes it an unusually intense experience.”
—Daily Telegraph
“Nunn has a brilliant ability to deliver a picture of a society at war with itself … You’ll find the pages turning themselves.”
—Thebookbag.co.uk
“Gripping and thoughtful … Nunn brilliantly combines character
and fair play clues.”
—Publishers Weekly, starred review
“Historical hindsight may make readers a bit more self-congratulatory about
recognizing the evils of apartheid, but it won’t help them see around the curves Nunn has plotted or rise above her insight into the enduring dilemmas of her
separate-and-unequal world.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“A disturbing book with a morally compelling hero.”
—Booklist
“An engrossing and compelling read … saturated with the feel of 1950s South
Africa.”
—Mike Nicol, author of the Revenge trilogy
“Well written, with a strong place and time, and believable characters,
kudos to Emily Bestler Books/Washington Square Press for bringing this
series to American mystery fans.”
—Barbara Ford, Goodreads
“Nunn writes beautifully, with evocative, almost cinematic, descriptions of the
landscape and of Cooper’s tumultuous past.”
—Shelfawareness.com (starred review)
“The suspense is irresistible, and the mystery sustains itself well. This is a
wonderfully effective addition to Nunn’s already masterful series of novels.
—Historical Novel Society
Published by Xoum in 2014
Xoum Publishing
PO Box Q324, QVB Post Office,
NSW 1230, Australia
www.xoum.com.au
ISBN 978-1-922057-86-0 (digital)
ISBN 978-1-922057-87-7 (print)
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright below, no part of this publication shall be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photo
copying, recording or otherwise), without the prior permission of both the copyright holder and the publisher.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Text copyright © Malla Nunn 2014
Cover and internal design and typesetting copyright © Xoum Publishing 2014
Cataloguing-in-publication data is available from the National Library of Australia
Cover design by Xou Creative, www.xou.com.au
Word count 77,000
For you, the reader
PROLOGUE
JOHANNESBURG, DECEMBER 1953
Friday night. A dirt lane on the outskirts of Yeoville, where cars came out of the city then disappeared in the direction of the four-way intersection that led to the suburbs. The girl paced out the number of steps between the mouth of the alley and the vacant lot at the far end. Some men liked to lay her down in an open field. Most preferred to position her against the wall of the dark lane itself. After the urgency left them, they got into their cars and drove back to the flat sprawl of Johannesburg suburbs; nice places, with names like Sandton, Bedfordview and Edenvale. The girl liked to feel the money in her hands for a moment before she took it to the darkest part of the alley, pulled out the loose brick she knew was there, and shoved the bills behind it.
Between men, she stood halfway down the alley—in the shadows, but easy to see if one knew where to look. Squeezed between high brick walls and strewn with crushed kaffir weeds, the lane was ideal for clients with ten minutes to spare between knocking off work and heading home.
The sweep of car headlights lit the walls of the lane at intermittent intervals. The moonlight was faint and partially blocked by the roofline of the adjacent building. She didn’t mind the gloom. It softened the hard line of her jaw and smoothed the acne scars on her right cheek. She liked the darkness. In the dark she was perfect.
