Just a Dead Man (16 page)

R
OBIN CALLED ON
M
ONDAY
morning, having just been told by Hannah Bhengu that the police would not oppose bail for Dan on Thursday. He was delighted.

“So they're dropping the charges?”

“They haven't said so, though they probably will. Unless they charge him with obstructing the course of justice. But it looks to me as if they've worked out that he wasn't involved.” Robin went on: “Hannah said the police are following other leads. If it comes down to what's happening in Pondoland, there could be some pretty nasty people involved. That coastal area is a hot potato. I don't know how much you know about it, but there are ecologists, multinationals, BEE companies, all squabbling over it. People are looking for ways to get a toe into mining the titanium, and making a fast buck. And if it goes ahead, there will be road-building contracts up for grabs as well. I don't know if the murder has anything to do with all of that, but it seems a more likely motive. For God's sake, watch your back, Laura … The cops, if they have finally convinced themselves Dan's not a killer, are likely to stir up some kind of hornets' nest, and you may have made yourself unpopular. And, Laura, don't say anything until Thursday. Hannah says it's not official yet. She just told me as a professional courtesy.”

I thanked Robin profusely and, heart in mouth, raised the subject of paying him, and bail for Daniel if the charges weren't dropped. Lawyers' fees seem to be so far off the scale of normal people's lives that I felt slightly nauseous. Verne and Chantal had agreed to join me in trying to stump up for bail, so would probably be prepared to take a share of what was owed to Robin, and Dan presumably had
some
money, but I had visions of all of us reduced to penury. Still, Robin couldn't be expected to work for nothing.

“Don't worry, Laura. I'll keep it to my expenses – it really will be minimal. I feel strongly about people being victimised just because they're foreigners, and there has to be an element of that here. Dan was a bit of a fool, but I reckon he seemed like a convenient person to arrest. ‘Round up the usual suspects'.” What a nice man, I thought to myself.

So maybe, at last, my life might get back to normal. Dan would be released, the cops would presumably arrest the real killer and we could all return to trundling along in our usual way. Which goes to prove that I am ludicrously naïve. I didn't tell Robin that I had been doing a bit of investigating into the Wild Coast mining angle and that Alec had phoned me and reported on his search. He, like everyone else, told me I shouldn't be interfering in the case, but as the cops would have access to the information he had found, he supposed he might as well tell me. But I mustn't do anything, etc etc. I had agreed and said I was just curious.

Anyway, there was little to tell. Thabo Mchunu was director of a whole slew of companies, some of which didn't seem to do much, although there were two construction companies, one of which I remembered from some of the mining stuff on the Internet. It did seem that, for a civil
servant, he had many fingers in many pies, but Alec told me nothing that shrieked “murderer”. It seemed that all I could now do was to contact Paul Ndzoyiya and find out what he had heard down in Pondoland.

But I went off to teach in a cheerful mood. It was a good day. The sun was shining and the air was deliciously fresh. We were attempting a still life, using grapefruit, apples and naartjies: winter fruit. The girls were attentive, and their attempts to capture the differences in skin appearance were really not bad.

At break, I headed towards the staffroom, pleased with the world. One of the secretaries caught me as I passed her office. Someone had delivered a package for me, and it was in my pigeonhole, she said. I thanked her, and detoured along the gloomy back corridor, which smelt of disinfectant, stale hockey kit and the other things that make up the indefinable, agonising smell of school. Even for those who were, and are, happy in their schooldays, the smell of it catches the throat with a sensation of guilt and loneliness. I sometimes wonder why I became a teacher when the smell can depress me in an instant.

I took a brown manila envelope from my pigeonhole, a substantial dark wooden frame with my name neatly printed, school-style, on a sticker below it. On the package, my name was written by hand in blue ballpoint. Just Laura Marsh, nothing else, and nothing on the reverse. I stood for a moment, weighing the envelope in my hand. It gave slightly to my fingers, but was not bulky. Whatever was inside felt like paper of some kind.

There was nothing overtly sinister about the package, but I was reluctant to open it. The chilly passage felt icy, and a shiver ran down my back, raising goose bumps on my skin. Someone walking over my grave. It was a relief when I heard my name being called, and I turned to see a
couple of colleagues waiting to go down the corridor that led to the staffroom and coffee. I slipped the envelope into my basket and went off to join the friendly grumbling that passes for conversation over the morning break. But my mind was elsewhere, and the basket at my feet seemed to give off a radioactive heat. I was relieved when the bell rang. I now had a free period.

The staffroom emptied: Mrs Golightly didn't stand for dawdling, either by the girls or those of us who she insisted were their role models. There were a couple of other teachers left, but I went over to the table that ran under the window and sat with my back to them, muttering something about having some papers to check. I pulled the envelope out of my basket, reassuring myself that it was a perfectly innocent delivery.

The envelope lay on the scarred wooden surface in front of me. I slid my thumb under the flap and pulled out a thin pile of what seemed to be brochures. For a moment, I didn't understand. Dog-eared and well used, the images on them were of coffins. I could hear my breath unsteady in my ears, and I was sure my colleagues would hear it too. I fumbled through the pamphlets. Coffins, from cardboard with rope handles to horrible shiny wood, with pleated silk linings, a glazed panel in the lid and opulent brass- or silver-coloured handles. But nowhere was there anything to show who could have possibly put them in the envelope, written my name on the front and dropped it off at school. At school, of all places.

Shakily, I stuffed the whole lot back in my basket and blundered out of the door, heading for the secretaries' office. Carol Odendaal, a venerable old soul who had been at the school for many years and was, to put it charitably, a little slow on the uptake, was on duty.

“Carol, were you here when someone dropped this
envelope off for me? Only … They've forgotten to put their name on the stuff inside, and I don't know who it's from. Did you see them?”

“Oh, hello Laura. How are you, my dear?”

Bloody terrible! I wanted to scream, but all I could manage was, “I'm fine.” Carol seemed to be in a trance, waiting for me to ask how she was, so I did. And she told me. It was her arthritis this time. Eventually we managed to chew through that, and I asked my question again.

“An envelope? For you? No, I don't think there's anything here. Just a minute, let me look.”

If I ever get to heaven, it will be because of my patience with Carol that morning. My voice stayed steady – at least relatively. I mean, someone out there was threatening me with death – or that was what it felt like, at any rate – and here she was, rooting around on the floor and babbling on about her arthritis.

“No, dear, nothing for you.”

“No, Carol. Someone dropped an envelope off for me. Today. Here it is. It's got my name on it, see? Did you see who brought it?”

Carol peered short-sightedly at the envelope as if she had never seen such a thing before.

“Someone dropped that off here for you? Oh yes, so they did. But you've got it now, dear.”

“Did you see the person who dropped it off, Carol? Did they give it to you?”

“To me? Oh yes.” She paused, the effort of casting her mind back all of half an hour obviously taking its toll. “It was a man.”

Right. That was helpful. It ruled out half the population of the planet. “Okay … what did he look like? And did he come in a car, or on a bike, or what?”

“Oh, goodness, I don't know, dear. He came in the front
door and walked up to the office window. And then he went away again. I didn't see any car or anything. Maybe he walked. The security guard at the gate – I think it's Alpheus this morning – might have seen him. He was a black man.”

Now we were getting warm. “Old, young, tall, short? What did he look like, Carol?”

She looked blanker than ever, if that is possible. “Oh, ordinary. He was a black man, dear.” And in Carol's book, it seemed, that meant he looked like every other black man, from Nelson Mandela, to Barack Obama, to Julius Malema, to Tiger Woods. I began to realise that there was nothing to be gained in prolonging the agony. I thanked her, and left as quickly as I could.

It was almost time for my next class. Carol's meanderings had taken up almost all of my free period. I went out of the door and into the garden, thumbing my phone open and going to my contacts list where Adam Pillay's name was at the top, first under “A”. My hands felt cold, and I was trembling. God, I hoped he was going to answer.

“Pillay.”

“Adam, it's Laura. Laura Marsh.” I could hear my voice shaking.

His soft voice sharpened. “What's happened? Are you all right?”

“Yes. Yes, I'm fine. Only … someone has sent me something …” My voice trailed away, partly from fear, but partly as I began to see that an envelope of coffin brochures wasn't really that dramatic. It could be a joke, or a mistake. I was in full over-reaction mode and beginning to realise it.

“Laura? Calm down. Tell me what it is.”

I took a deep breath, and told Adam my story. It sounded feeble, but his reaction was gratifying. He
sounded concerned and immediately asked what time I finished teaching. I told him I would be able to leave at half past two.

“And do you have to fetch Michael?”

“No, he's getting a lift today. He won't be home until around five.”

“Right. When you finish, go straight to Mugg & Bean in the Mall. I'll meet you there. Don't go anywhere else first. And Laura … relax.” With that, he ended the call.

My next class was not a success. The props were the same, and the girls seemed keen enough, but if ever I needed to be reminded that the success of teaching is dependent on the teacher's state of mind, it was that day. Visions of coffins slid through my imagination in an unmanageable stream, and not even the memory of Adam's steady and reassuring voice was any help. Somehow I got through the class, and the girls left, muttering. They probably thought I was menopausal.

The rest of the working day was a blur. As soon as I could, I cimbed into my car, drove straight to the shopping mall and headed for Mugg & Bean. I avoided looking around. If I was being followed, I didn't want to know. And if people I knew were hailing me for a chat, I was anxious not to see them. I needed the comfort of Adam Pillay, of him telling me that it was all right.

He was already there, and led me straight to a table at the back, away from sinister, prying eyes, real or imaginary – and, where, in the half-empty Monday-afternoon state of such places, we were unlikely to be overheard.

I passed the envelope across the table, apologising for dragging him out. Now that I was safely in a public place, and with a policeman, I was beginning to feel that perhaps I had been silly. What was so frightening about a pile of pamphlets?

Adam flicked through the pile, and checked the envelope to see whether there was anything else in there. Then he looked up at me.

“Well, it looks as if someone is trying to frighten you … and they seem to have succeeded. And you have no idea who dropped this off for you?”

I told him about my idiotic and fruitless conversation with Carol. There didn't seem to be much chance that we would be able to track down the person who had made the delivery, and when I tentatively asked whether it would be possible to lift fingerprints, he shook his head.

“No. The envelope is too rough for anything useful, and I doubt that the brochures would be much better. They're not new. But I'll keep them anyway.”

“Do you think they'll do anything else? I mean, is this just to frighten me, or is it some kind of warning?” I needed to be reassured, to be told it was all over and that there was nothing to worry about.

Adam poured his tea. I noticed he drank it black and weak, with one spoon of sugar – a detail, I realised, I hadn't taken much notice of at our first meeting. I had opted for coffee, feeling the need for the buzz it might give me.

“Hard to know. My feeling is that it's just a stupid joke, but it's presumably from someone involved with the case. And when we release Mr Moyo on Thursday – the charges are to be dropped, by the way – someone may well be angry. Though I hardly think they would risk anything more than a few rather feeble scare tactics. But, Laura, I can't emphasise strongly enough that you
have
to be careful. Can you really not go and stay with someone, just for a couple of weeks? We're making progress with the case, but inevitably, it's slow.” He looked down into his cup. “I don't want to be worrying about you all the time.”

“No. Adam, I'm going to stay at home. Mike and I are
both being careful. Can't you tell me anything about what you're doing? Do you have a suspect? I mean, if you know it wasn't Dan, who do you think it was? Robin said something about the Ndzoyiyas' home area being a possible place for titanium mining, just like you did. Have you found out any more about that?”

I rather expected Adam to look irritated, maybe even to speak sharply, though that didn't seem to be his way of doing things. Still, I knew I was pushing my luck. But the only thing I could see on his face was a grin, bitten back quickly.