Just a Dead Man (10 page)

W
EDNESDAY, THE DAY BEFORE
Daniel's bail hearing, was one of those days when it would have been better not to have got up at all. I woke at around four in the morning with a pounding migraine, something I have suffered from all my adult life, though less often now than in my married days. But it's always a toss-up. When the pain starts, is it going to be bearable, or is it going to develop into the full-blown thing, leaving me unable to function? This felt bad, so I crawled out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom to find my medication. It works, but leaves me in a zombie-like trance for hours, which is not an ideal state for a teacher committed to inspiring creativity in the unwilling.

But the alternative was not an option. I took one of the prescription wafers, gagging on its fake minty taste. I then staggered back to bed to wait out the jagged shards of pain until they dulled to mere memory. I lay there, thinking over the last week or so. Detection, it came to me, was no Theseus-like following of a thread until you were out of the labyrinth and into clarity, the Minotaur slain behind you. It was more like thrashing about with no clear direction at all. Was Rhoda Josephs involved? And who was this Thabo Mchunu? How could I find out? Even if I knew how to get hold of him, I could hardly phone him up out
of the blue and ask him where he was at the time of the murder. For a start, I had no idea when the murder had taken place. And, if he was the guy behind the threats to Paul, making my interest in the matter clear wasn't going to be the wisest move. I might as well accept it: I was no Sherlock Holmes; not even Nancy Drew.

Finally I fell asleep, only to dream of a shipwreck, people floundering in icy water, screaming for my help as I watched from some remote spot. But when I looked at them, helpless to do anything, they were people I knew: Paul Ndzoyiya, Daniel, Adam Pillay, and most horribly, Rory and Mike. It was one of those nightmares that would linger with me all day. Of course, the image came from the
Mendi
connection; the helplessness from what I was trying to do for Daniel. But was I putting other people at risk?

It was a bad morning. Mike was recalcitrant – I had forgotten to buy cornflakes and he was forced to eat muesli. I wasn't stupid enough to point out that it was better for him, but he moaned his way through a huge bowl anyway. Then I dropped a mug of coffee, and by the time I had cleaned up the mess, we were hardly speaking and almost late. I dropped Mike at the school gates, and just made it to work before the bell rang.

Wednesday was the day I had the class I liked the least. It wasn't only that it was short of girls who had a flair for art: that doesn't matter. You can have fun with an untalented group as long as they join in and give things a go. But this lot were straight dull. I caught one of the dullest sending text messages on a forbidden cellphone. So, of course, I had to confiscate it, and send her off to see the headmistress. If looks could kill, I would have been deader than Phineas Ndzoyiya.

After break, I bumped into the headmistress herself.
“Ah, Laura. I was just coming to look for you. Could you come into my office for a moment?”

An order, not a request. I trudged along in her wake: she is a large, powerful woman, good at her job, but not a personality one warms to easily. She always makes me feel messy and inadequate, easy on a day like today. Mrs Golightly is her name, known by the girls as Bigfoot. I had once suggested in the staffroom that maybe Holly would have been a more likely nickname and was met with a look of blank incomprehension. If the staff had never heard of
Breakfast at Tiffany's
, it was, I suppose, unsurprising if the girls hadn't either.

We discussed the cellphone offender. Shan was a regular culprit, and a source of trouble. But I got the feeling I was being told that if I had managed to capture her imagination, she wouldn't have been using her phone. Yeah, right. But Shan and her misdeeds were not what Mrs Golightly really wanted to see me about.

“Now, Laura. This murder in your road. I gather you were there when the body was found. I'm so sorry. That must have been most distressing. And you know the man who has been arrested. Is that correct?”

Someone had been talking. Dan's first court appearance had merited a couple of lines in the paper, and since school had gone back, I'd kept my mouth pretty firmly shut on the subject, even among my friends. But Mrs G's spies were obviously out.

“Yes. Daniel Moyo is a friend of mine. He was walking my dog when they found the body. But … I'm pretty sure he'll get bail tomorrow. The only evidence against him is circumstantial. And I believe the police are following other leads.” That was stretching the facts a bit, but if not the truth, it was what I would have liked to be the truth. So maybe that made it better.

“I see. And tomorrow, you have asked to come in late. You and Caroline have arranged to combine the art class for the Grade 10s tomorrow morning?”

“Yes. We do that pretty regularly, working on special projects with a bigger group. I would like to attend Daniel's bail hearing. It should be over in time for me to be at the class, and then Caroline and I will teach together. And if I'm a few minutes late, she can start the class off.” My fingers, out of her line of sight, were crossed. I could well be late. Courts run on their own sweet timetable, and blow the general public. I wondered if Mrs Golightly knew that. I doubted if her well-regulated life had included many court appearances, but it didn't do to underestimate her. However, she let it go.

“That will not be a problem. But I must admit to a concern. Even if Mr Moyo is bailed, he is still a murder accused. And you say he is a friend of yours. Laura, I'm sure you understand that one of my main concerns is for the good name of this school. And I think you would agree that we have a
very
good name in our community. That is not something I would like to see tarnished … by even the faintest association with a crime.

“I am sure you believe in Mr Moyo's innocence. I have no knowledge of this particular matter, but I would say I have never had any reason to doubt your judgement. So I am sure that this word in your ear will ensure that no breath of scandal gets into the newspaper. We wouldn't want any headlines about ‘Art teacher at top school mixed up in murder', would we?”

Oh God, no. Of course we wouldn't. I tried to explain, in case there was an innuendo here that Dan and I were having some kind of rip-roaring affair, that I had met him when he was a student and that he was closer to my sons in age than to me. Though, when I thought about
it, maybe that wasn't the best approach. “Sex-starved art teacher preying on younger men” wouldn't be the kind of headline we would like either, and Mrs G might well be thinking I was protesting too much. She gave no sign that she was looking at me as a depraved corrupter of youth, but I got the message that she was keeping a firm eye on the matter. And should things not go the way she would like them to, I would be just as much on the carpet as Shan. And probably easier to get rid of.

I left her study feeling distinctly queasy. My headache had gone –  my physical headache at any rate. But that wasn't the only one I had right now.

On my way home, I stopped at the supermarket. I had to stock up. Not only were we out of cornflakes, but little did Mike know that the marmalade was running low too. If we ran out of that, he might even hotfoot it back to Ms Tits. And I needed to get something for supper, though cooking was the last thing I felt like.

I came out of the shop, pushing my trolley. The parking area was crowded, and it was only when I had the boot open and half my shopping in that I noticed something about my car. It seemed to be on a slope, which was odd as the ground around me was flat – and so was the left rear tyre. I said “Oh, fuck it!” loudly enough to make the suburban matron getting out of the next car give me a look of horror as she tottered off. This really was the last straw on a gruesome day. The camel's back was broken: if I wasn't careful, tears would be the next stage in my humiliation.

In theory, I
do
know how to change a wheel. In practice, I have never managed to undo the wheel nuts, even when I've found the jack and all the other twiddly bits and made a start. But there didn't seem to be much of an alternative. No Sir Galahad was waiting in the wings to come and
help me: not even the elderly car guard who was usually hovering around. So I unloaded the shopping back into the trolley, and tried to wrestle the spare wheel out of its cave under the boot. Part of the problem was that the tears
had
come and I couldn't actually see the spare. Tears of anger maybe, but there was a good dose of unmitigated self-pity in there as well. My life seemed to be unravelling, right there, in a supermarket car park. How sad was that?

“Mrs Marsh. I'll give you a hand with that.”

I spun round, about to embrace my saviour. Only it was Sergeant Dhlomo. “Sergeant … That's very kind of you. But don't worry. I'll manage.” I had the wheel spanner in my hand, and promptly dropped it at his feet. He bent down to pick it up, but didn't hand it back. His face was as unsmiling as ever, but he moved purposefully towards the boot, ignoring me. After a couple of inarticulate mumblings, I stood back.

“Is your spare blown up?”

“Yes. Yes, it is.” Thank heaven, it was. I had done it before going down to Durban to fetch Mike. The sergeant grunted, and got on with the job on hand. As I watched him, a cold little thought struck me.
Why
was my tyre flat? I couldn't remember when I had last had a puncture. I'm not a great off-roader and, potholes or not, punctures don't seem to happen very often. Paul Ndzoyiya's talk of threats came to mind. Had someone followed me to the car park and slashed my tyre? I looked nervously around, but all I saw was ordinary people going about their ordinary supermarket business.

“Er … can you see what happened to it? I mean, to the tyre. Why it's gone flat? Has something cut it? Or …”

The sergeant had got the wheel off, and turned it round in his large hands. “There. You've picked up a nail.” And sure enough, flat against the dusty black of the rubber was
the shiny head of a large nail. “That's what did it.” So there was no need for my imagination to fly into overdrive. It was merely a perfect example of Sod's Law in action. You're having a bad day, so whatever else can go wrong will.

“Did you think it might be something else? Someone out to get you perhaps?” Was it my imagination, or was there a note of derision in the sergeant's voice?

“No – of course not.” I didn't want to mention Paul Ndzoyiya. But the sergeant gave me a look that suggested he knew exactly what was on my mind. He laid the wheel down, and set about putting the spare on. The whole operation, which, if I had been able to do it at all, would have taken me most of the rest of the afternoon, was completed in around 10 minutes.

He wiped the palms of his hands together with a dry sound, and dusted them off on the seat of his pants. He then lifted the bags out of my shopping trolley and arranged them neatly in the boot, carefully placed so they wouldn't fall. He straightened his back, and looked at me.

“Thank you so much. I'm very grateful for your help, Sergeant. I was having a really bad day, and this was the cherry on top. You've saved me!” That sounded moronic. No need to get carried away. I tried to pull myself together. “I suppose I'll see you at the bail hearing tomorrow, Sergeant. Do you think Dan– Mr Moyo … will be given bail?”

He shrugged, but didn't appear quite as unfriendly as usual. He even flashed me a smile, showing the kind of teeth that could make him a fortune in a toothpaste ad if he ever got sick of being a cop. “We'll have to see. I expect that lawyer you've found for him will be working on it. Goodbye, Mrs Marsh. Drive carefully. Watch out for nails!” And, with that, he walked over to a Peugeot diagonally across the car park from me, and was gone.

I
PRESENTED MYSELF AT
the Regional Court early next morning. Though hardly welcoming, it was less repulsive than the courtrooms we had been in the week before. Between Dan, Verne and myself, we had agreed we could probably scrape up R10 000, if necessary. But Robin was downbeat.

“It's a serious charge, Laura, but the worst thing is that Daniel's a foreigner, and doesn't own any property here. We've got our work cut out for us, persuading the magistrate that he's not a flight risk. To be perfectly honest, I'm not hopeful.”

“But what about the lack of evidence? And these stories about rows over how to commemorate the
Mendi
that Ndzoyiya had with this Thabo Mchunu guy?” I had told Robin what Paul Ndzoyiya had told me, and about the attempted break-in and the threat.

“Look, Paul went to the police, and told them. I'm sure they're investigating. I spoke to Hannah Bhengu yesterday afternoon, and she said that, although the cops are looking at other angles, she's still going to oppose bail. Don't worry. We'll do our best, and even if it's refused, we can appeal and try again. Maybe the investigation will have progressed by then.”

I know from watching endless legal shows on television that lawyers are not supposed to ask their clients too
much about whether they're guilty or not, but I'm not a lawyer and it mattered to me. I asked Robin if he believed that Dan was innocent.

“Yes, I do – probably. But that's not really the point at this stage. It's about evidence and flight risks. Hang in there, Laura. I've told Dan I'm afraid we're not going to win this time round, but I spoke to Paul Ndzoyiya yesterday, and we'll work on it.” He gave me an avuncular pat on the shoulder.

I looked round the court, and spotted Verne, but not Chantal. I went over, and reported what Robin had said. He nodded, and then touched me on the arm. “Don't look round now, Laura.” I immediately began to look – I mean, who doesn't when someone says that? “I said
don't!
But over there, by the door, is Rhoda Josephs. The woman Dan said was with the guy who gave him Phineas Ndzoyiya's name. I met her last year when we were both on a Heritage and Art committee.”

I pretended to continue to talk to Verne for a moment until I thought it would be safe to turn round. Sure enough, near the door was a woman with a sallow complexion and the kind of straight hair that has been beaten into submission to hide its natural curl. She was wearing a smart black suit with an ochre-coloured shirt underneath, and looked formidable, though not entirely unfriendly. I had seen her around in the past, at exhibitions, but didn't know her. She was taking a seat on the far end of our bench. “Introduce us,” I muttered to Verne.

He shrugged, and slid along the greasy, mud-brown bench until he was next to her.

“Rhoda, hi. I'm Verne Petersen. Remember? We met at a couple of committee meetings last year.”

She turned to him, wearing a pleasant smile. “Of course. How nice to see you again. Pity it's such a sad
occasion, hey? I couldn't believe it when I heard Dan had been arrested. And for killing Phineas Ndzoyiya! It doesn't make sense. I should have been in Durban today, but Dan needs his friends.” She was talking to Verne, but eyeing me.

“This is Laura Marsh, a friend of Dan's from way back. He was at her house when he found the body. Laura, this is Rhoda Josephs.”

I put out my hand, and she shook it. Her firm grip was cold, despite it being a warm day. And I was quite sure she knew exactly who I was, long before Verne had even uttered a word.

“I believe you introduced Dan to the person who put him in contact with Mr Ndzoyiya.” I could see no harm in being upfront about something like that. If she knew who I was, why not reciprocate?

“Yes, I did. Thabo Mchunu. He's a civil servant, based in Pretoria, and had met Mr Ndzoyiya over discussions about the best way to commemorate the victims of the SS
Mendi
disaster.” She drew in a breath. “It is a huge and often dismissed episode in the annals of South African military history; maybe even a war crime.” Her face took on an expression of grief, as if the ship had sunk last week. She was talking to me as if I was the sole audience member at a public meeting. “I have worked closely with Thabo on redressing the balance of our heritage sites and memorials. He told me about this Mr Ndzoyiya and his views on the matter, views we take seriously, even though we don't necessarily agree with them. I thought, when Daniel told me about his ideas, that it would be good if he and Mr Ndzoyiya could talk, so I asked Mr Mchunu to put them in touch when I saw Daniel that day. But I had no idea what would come of it.” She shook her head, the helmet-hair unmoving.

I nodded. “Yes, Dan was excited about the exhibition when he came to see me. I can't believe this has happened. I just hope he'll get bail –  the evidence is purely circumstantial.” I watched her as I spoke, but her smooth face betrayed nothing other than a look of concern. “Maybe I could speak to Mr Mchunu? I really want to do everything I can to help Dan. Perhaps if Mr Mchunu would talk to me, or to Dan's lawyer, we might be able to clarify things.” I made a silent mental apology to Robin for involving him in this. “I mean, Dan hadn't even met Mr Ndzoyiya when he was killed, so surely there must have been something else? Perhaps Mr Mchunu knows more about who Mr Ndzoyiya's enemies could have been.”

Rhoda Josephs nodded smoothly. In fact, from her hair to her suit to her expression, she was one of the smoothest people I had ever encountered, presenting the kind of carapace to the outside world onto which no mud or barbs would ever stick. But before she could respond, there was a shout of “All rise”, and everyone shuffled to their feet as the Regional Magistrate entered.

Once again, it seemed to me the court was ignoring its own potential for theatre. What was of enormous importance to the accused and his friends (and maybe his enemies) seemed mundane to those taking part. Robin was no actor who had missed his calling: he had a light, reedy voice, at odds with his teddy-bearish figure. But he was eloquent enough in calling for Mr Moyo, a hardworking man and an artist of enormous promise, to be released. The magistrate, however, didn't look impressed. He asked Robin about Daniel's home, and Robin had to say that he was renting a flat in downtown Johannesburg, but that if he was to remain in Pietermaritzburg while proceedings in this case were wrapped up, he would be staying with Verne, another well-respected artist and
university lecturer. That didn't seem to impress the magistrate much either.

He said he would be concerned that Mr Moyo might well be a flight risk. Robin countered by saying that Dan had permission as a political refugee to be in South Africa, and would therefore be very unlikely to go elsewhere – certainly not back to Zimbabwe. From there, they moved on to the evidence, with Robin claiming that it was all circumstantial and effectively a load of rubbish (actually, he didn't put it quite like that, but that was the gist) while Hannah Bhengu stated that the police were concerned that Mr Moyo had lied about having had previous contact with the victim and had been involved in some violent protests in Johannesburg. It was a depressing business, and the magistrate finally said “Bail denied” and remanded Dan once again. Robin immediately gave notice of his intention to appeal. No one else in the courtroom seemed much bothered one way or the other, and we all stood up and shambled out again.

I caught up with Robin. “Now what?”

“We're appealing. It'll probably mean another two or three weeks in jail for Dan, I'm afraid. But Paul Ndzoyiya has given me some leads – and, more importantly, he's given them to the police. I reckon we should be able to get somewhere. At least far enough for there to be no good reason to keep Dan in custody.” I got the feeling Robin wasn't telling me everything, but I was anxious to catch up with Rhoda Josephs before she managed to slip away. I contrived to give Dan a quick hug, and tell him we were working on it all, and then I looked around the thinning crowd.

Rhoda Josephs showed no sign of leaving. She was standing in the foyer, looking carefully at everyone. I saw Inspector Pillay and Sergeant Dhlomo, and the latter even
gave me, if not exactly a smile, then certainly a slightly less morose look as I tried to convey from across the room my continuing gratitude for his help in changing the wheel. I also saw Paul Ndzoyiya, heading for the doors as inconspicuously as he could. I wouldn't go up and speak to him there: I had his phone number, and while I wanted to talk to him again, I would respect his fears and do it somewhere where we wouldn't be seen.

I walked towards Rhoda, and was about to join her when a burly black man in a very smart suit murmured something in her ear before giving her a pat her on the arm and moving on. I'm no fashionista, but that fabric and that cut had not come from Woolworths or any other mall store. That suit had been made strictly for the body inside it, and it looked mighty expensive. Still, whoever he was, he was already on his way out.

“Ms Josephs … Sorry, I'm sure you're rushing off somewhere, but you were going to give me a contact number for Thabo Mchunu. Could I get that before we all go?”

Rhoda Josephs glanced over towards the door where the well-dressed man was just in view, backlit against the sun, and then turned to me with her smooth smile. “Of course, though I can't think how he could help. He simply gave Daniel a phone number. It's disappointing that Daniel hasn't got bail, but I'm sure the police will get to the bottom of all this. And you – I gather you're also trying to help?”

“Well, not really.” I had no wish to tell this woman anything about my thoughts or what I was doing. “But Dan's lawyer is a friend of mine, and if I have any ideas, or hear anything, I'll pass it along to him.”

“That's a good idea.” She pulled out a state-of-the-art cellphone that could probably do all kinds of things I had
never imagined, and thumbed her way into it, coming up with a number that I carefully wrote down on a piece of paper. I could just as easily have put it onto my own phone, but something about Rhoda Josephs made me want to appear as a bumbling Luddite. It wasn't that I was trying to hide anything: it was just that such perfection – in her clothes, her smile and gadgetry – irritated me. And, to be honest, I knew it was also beyond me. I mean, I clean up quite well, but at best it's the cleaned-up art teacher look, not the glossy look of someone who knows how to get to the top without you noticing she's stuck a dagger in your back. Or the fact that she's just bludgeoned your head in. I had my doubts about Ms Josephs, though I didn't really think she was a killer.

However, we parted with mutual expressions of devastation at the outcome of the bail hearing, and, even though out of the corner of my eye I could see Inspector Pillay heading my way, I made my excuses and left. After all, I had told Mrs Golightly I would be back at school in time to take my class and, with a bit of luck and all the traffic lights going my way, I might even do it. Her office window overlooked the staff parking and, while she didn't obsess about our comings and goings, I had a nasty feeling that this morning a beady eye would be kept on what time I made my appearance.