Just a Dead Man (17 page)

“You don't give up, do you? All I can say is that we're getting there, but there are political implications. You can make of that what you like, but … and here, Laura, I am dead serious … be careful. There are people out there who are more dangerous than you may realise, and who consider themselves ‘protected' in some way. If anything else,
anything,
happens to worry you, contact me, or Sergeant Dhlomo if I'm not available, immediately. Will you promise that? And stay out of trouble.”

I nodded. His presence was reassuring. While we sat over our tea and coffee, I felt perfectly safe, as if all the talk of threats, coffins and the dangers of politically connected people were insignificant. Our conversation turned to matters much less sinister: from running, to art, to our different experiences of the town we both lived in and had grown up in. But when he signalled the waitress for the bill, and waved away my offer to pay for my share, I felt lost. We would go our separate ways, and in the world I was going to step out into, I would be vulnerable once again. And just as much in the dark about what was happening as I had been before.

A
COUPLE OF DAYS LATER
the phone rang – right in the middle of the morning mayhem. Coffee in one hand, I grabbed it, cursing under my breath.

“Hello?”

“Mrs Marsh? It's Paul Ndzoyiya here. I am back from my father's funeral, and I would like to talk to you. Can I come and see you this afternoon, after work? My sister is with me.”

For a moment I contemplated saying no. Adam's strictures on non-interference had been pointed, but maybe hearing what Paul Ndzoyiya had to say wouldn't be interfering, just keeping up. And Paul had asked to see me, not the other way round. So with that bit of sophistry, I agreed. I made myself feel slightly better by asking if he was going to see the police, and he told me he had seen them the day before, telling both Adam and his sergeant about what he had heard on his visit to the coast. So I wasn't going to be getting any information before they did.

When Paul rang the doorbell late that afternoon, I told Mike to keep a low profile – promising to fill him in once Paul had left. He came in, looking tired. The lines that ran from his nose to his mouth seemed more deeply carved than before. His sister was tall, taller than he was, and looked both smart and stern. Her name was Busi Dhlamini,
and I gathered she was some kind of businesswoman, based in Mthatha. But she was unforthcoming on the reason for her visit. I made us all a cup of tea, and we went through to the studio. Paul and Busi glanced incuriously at my final still life. I was pleased with it; the distance gained by the viewer and artist looking inside through the window was counteracted by the intimacy of the objects I had finally chosen for the painting. But brother and sister had other matters on their minds.

Feeling like a character from a Cold War novel, I asked Paul if he was sure he hadn't been followed. He seemed unsurprised. “No, I don't think so. I was checking, but it was just normal afternoon traffic. Nothing else.” He had brought his car into the garden, and unless someone stopped and peered in through the gate, it would be invisible from the road.

He began to tell me about his visit to Pondoland. Inevitably, as his father's eldest son, he had been busy with arrangements for the funeral and helping his mother who now had to decide whether to stay in Durban or return to the coast. But he had managed to find the time to talk to two of his uncles, his father's younger brothers, and to a couple of the village elders. He had asked them whether the community was still divided over the
Mendi
memorial.

“They said, in fact, that there is little division. For most people, the idea of a visible memorial, which they think could attract tourists and bring in work, is something they would support. One of the elders was actually critical of my father. Of course, he put it politely … It was a funeral and it wouldn't do to say my father had been wrong, or had caused a rift. But he said that if there was money available, it must be spent on something visible, something to give the community pride. Other memorials have been erected, after all.”

Paul Ndzoyiya sighed and took a sip of his tea. “The next day, I walked with my uncle to the place on the coast where the statue is to be erected. He told me, privately, that he had agreed with my father; this would be a waste of money, and if it brought work at all, or even tourists, the benefits would be minimal. Maybe a few labourers employed to create the park, and perhaps to maintain it. But not much more than that. It seems unlikely that the sculptor will be from Pondoland: those sorts of contracts go to artists from Gauteng, Joburg or other big cities. People – white people mostly – go to the Pondoland coast to fish and have holidays but few of them are foreigners. And even if some do come, they wouldn't need tour guides to show them a statue. If they know about the
Mendi
, they would look at the statue. Those who know nothing probably wouldn't care. No one is going to drive all that way just to see a memorial.

“It's not that my uncle and I, or my father, don't want the victims of the
Mendi
to be remembered. Of course we do; we are descendants of one of the survivors. But my father had strong views on how it should be done and he was dubious about the people driving the project. This Thabo Mchunu: I asked my uncle about him. My father and uncle had meetings with him and both thought he was too smooth, too full of talk about helping the community. He was unwilling to say exactly how the money would be spent, and who would benefit from the contracts that could follow.”

Paul continued, sounding defeated. He had passed the emails in which Phineas Ndzoyiya and Mchunu had expressed their disagreements on to Inspector Pillay. They were all polite, at least on his father's side: Paul said his father would never be anything other than polite to anyone, a man of the old school. But his uncle told him
that when Mchunu came to the village, he and Phineas Ndzoyiya had clashed publicly at a community meeting.

“Mchunu was plausible, telling people that they would all benefit, and inferring that my father's views were those of a small man, an old-fashioned teacher who had no concept of modern ways of doing things. Memorials must be big and bold, not small and educational. He belittled my father, showed no respect for his views. But my uncle says my father stood up to him, and although most people believed what Mchunu was saying, a few of the older people in the village agreed with my father, even if they did not do so publicly. There were concerns that Mchunu and his cronies would pocket the money, and once some kind of memorial had been put up, they would vanish with the profits.”

Paul Ndzoyiya had made little eye contact with me while he was speaking, but now he looked up. “Maybe Mchunu felt my father would be able to gather more support for his views; maybe he saw my father as a threat; maybe he just doesn't like people going against him. I don't know. I have no proof he was involved in the killing, but I cannot think who else may have done it. My father was a teacher; he had no enemies – certainly none who would wish him harm. But I doubt that Mchunu would have done it himself. He's a big man, a senior civil servant, always surrounded by acolytes. If he wanted my father out of the way, he would get someone else to do it. And I still don't understand why the body would have been dumped here, virtually on your doorstep.”

Unsure of whether I was doing the right thing, I mentioned Martin Shongwe. His name didn't seem to mean anything to Paul. I then asked about titanium mining, and immediately sensed a reaction from Busi. I turned, but she looked calm, remote even. However, it was she rather than her brother who answered my question.

“It is a hot topic on the coast, as it has been for some years. There are always rumours. People arguing about what damage it will do, what profits it will bring, the building of a new toll road along the coast. Why do you ask about it?”

I told her that it had come up in a discussion of the area, and I wondered if her father had had an opinion about it. There would be far more money involved in mining deals than in a heritage site, and perhaps, if her father had opposed it, he could have made many powerful people very angry indeed.

Busi was watching me closely as she replied: “Mining could bring benefits for the community. It is easy only to be concerned with the landscape, or the beauties of the Wild Coast; to be critical. But if it brings jobs, it would have our support.” She made no mention of her father's views, and obviously had no intention of saying anything more. She seemed to be a strong person, stronger than her brother, and when he made as if to join in the conversation, she cut him off.

Then, with an uneasy memory of the coffin brochures, I told them about remembering the name of Flash Funerals and the bakkie I had seen going down the road before Dan found the body. I asked if the name, or the logo – which I redrew on a piece of paper – meant anything to them. Paul looked at it carefully but Busi gave it little more than a glance.

Paul looked up: “Maybe. I can't say. I'm not sure, but I don't think so.”

“It doesn't seem to be local, not from here. Maybe it's a Pondoland undertaker? Could you have seen it when you were home?”

Paul shook his head. “Perhaps. There are so many funeral parlours springing up, all over. Aids has meant
that the industry has become big business. Busi, have you seen it before?” She shook her head vigorously, but said nothing. Paul promised he would make some enquiries.

“Well … maybe we should leave it to the police. I don't want to put you at any kind of risk. You've already had an attempted break-in. It's not worth looking for trouble. I've told the police about Flash Funerals, and they're supposed to be checking.”

Paul nodded. Soon after, they got up to leave. Paul shook my hand and said he was grateful for my help. As he left, he reiterated that he was determined to see someone brought to justice for his father's murder. I nodded, unaware that I would never see him again.

As soon as the door shut behind them, Mike emerged from his room, and I outlined what Paul and Busi had said. He seemed to be enjoying the idea of detection, and was now convinced that Thabo Mchunu was the killer. In Mike's view there was no reason not to arrest and charge him straight away.

“He didn't like what this Phineas Ndzoyiya was doing. He obviously thought he would, like, put the boot into his plans to make money out of this statue thing or, more likely, the mining, and so he smashed his head in.”

“But why on earth do it here? Or at least dump the body here.”

“Pure coincidence. It's a convenient place to dump a body – easy road access, quiet. Only dog-walkers, mountain bikers and joggers go along there. It was bad luck for you and Dan that he found the corpse. That's all.” Mike sat back in his chair, convinced that he had found the answer. I shrugged. I didn't want to engage him in discussion: I was already feeling guilty that I had told him anything. Adam had told me to butt out, so maybe we should heed his words.

I
HONESTLY MEANT TO PHONE
Adam and tell him about Paul and Busi's visit and that I had mentioned Flash Funerals to them, but Paul said he had already been to the police so it didn't seem that urgent, and for the next couple of days I was really busy. I had lessons to prepare, a painting to finish and get to the framers, a household to run and a son to look after. Neither Adam nor his sergeant contacted me, and as all seemed to be quiet, with no more sinister deliveries and no sign of anyone following me, I let it slide.

I was teaching on Thursday morning, so couldn't get to court to hear the charges against Dan formally withdrawn. Robin phoned afterwards, and told me Dan was free, and had gone home with Verne. Then, during my lunch break, Dan called, and I promised I would pop round to Verne and Chantal's on my way home.

As I drove in, he met me at the front door and hugged me. He smelled of soap and shampoo and clean clothes. Obviously he had wanted to get the prison stink, literal or metaphorical, off himself. He looked well enough, but despite the hug, there was a distance between us that had never been there before. Both Verne and Chantal were at work, and we settled in their untidy, cheerful kitchen and Dan switched on the kettle. I asked how the court
appearance had gone, and he explained that it had been very short and the paperwork had been dealt with quickly.

He thanked me for finding Robin, and for all my help, but for some reason he seemed reluctant to talk about Phineas Ndzoyiya or anything to do with the case. Curious, I asked whether Adam had been in court, and he said no. Only Sergeant Dhlomo, who had said the police were dropping the charges and that their investigation was continuing.

When I asked Dan what his plans were, he shrugged. He wanted to get back to Johannesburg as soon as he could. He had shelved his ideas for the exhibition on colonialism: he needed money fairly urgently and would have to look for some kind of paid job. He was friendly enough, but I got the feeling that all he wanted was to put Pietermaritzburg and Phineas Ndzoyiya's murder behind him and go and lose himself somewhere else. He showed little interest in what I had found out, or where I believed the police investigation was going. While I searched for something to say that would restore our easy familiarity, he stood silently in the kitchen, sliding his long fingers through a puddle that had dripped from the kettle. He drew an abstract design in the water, seemingly absorbed in what he was doing. Conversation flagged. As we were drinking our coffee, Chantal came in, and I could see that Dan was also treating her with reserve.

Saddened, I got up to leave. Dan kissed me goodbye, and promised to come and see me before he left, but it was Chantal who walked out to the car with me.

“He seems … different. I can't really explain, but it's as if he wants to forget the whole thing. And us, because we're a part of it,” I said.

She nodded. “Not surprising. Oh, he's grateful to us all, and to the lawyer. But gratitude is not a comfortable
emotion to live with, you know. It can make you feel inferior, and tied in some way to the other person whether you want to be or not. Dan feels he owes us money – we don't know yet how much, I suppose, but lawyers don't work for nothing.”

I jumped in to defend Robin, explaining that he had assured me he would charge only for his actual expenses: he believed Dan had been victimised because he was a Zimbabwean and he saw the case as a public-interest one. The costs wouldn't be much.

“Not for you, perhaps. Or even for me and Verne. But Dan lives hand to mouth. He doesn't have a job, and he has to try to earn a living through his art. And he's going to feel that he has to pay us back, as well as sending money home. His family depends on him, you know. So he wants to get away and see what he can do to get some cash. And maybe he feels that even though we tried to help him, perhaps, in our minds, we wondered about his involvement. You asked him about why he parked his car out on the road that day.”

There's something about Chantal that rubs me up the wrong way. Quite apart from being one of those efficient people whose life is always under control and who, as a result, I find intimidating, she manages to make me feel guilty, as though I'm a privileged whitey who doesn't understand. But she had put her finger on something. Having to be grateful
does
make you uncomfortable. I would be very sad if it meant that Dan no longer saw me as a friend, or felt I hadn't trusted him. Yet another conundrum to try to work out. I muttered something to Chantal and climbed into my car, suddenly conscious that it might be seen as too smart, too new and, well,
privileged.
Why did life have to be so complicated?

Mike, bless him, was delighted to hear that Dan was
off the hook, and seemed to think it was all over. “Come on, Ma. Cheer up. The cops'll nab this Mchunu guy, or whoever the murderer is, and that'll be that. Dan's in the clear, and we can relax.”

“Oh no we can't! With Dan out, the real murderer will be feeling vulnerable, and we
have
to be careful. Maybe even more careful. You still have to be on your guard. Really, Mike. Once they've arrested the killer, then it's different. But not yet.” I was feeling shaky, and the thought of Mike swanning around as if it was all over made it worse. He looked at me as if I was living in some alternative universe, one of my own making.

“Ma! You're getting paranoid. Just relax. Sure, I'll be careful, but it's over. Calm down.”

I mumbled something about just because you're paranoid, it doesn't mean they're
not
after you, but I could see Mike thought I had finally lost the plot. At the start of this whole thing I had been determined to get Daniel out of jail, but now that he was free I still felt very uneasy. And I wasn't sure why. Something was not right.

But even if my telepathic sensors were working overtime, there wasn't much to show for it over the next few days. I had no contact with Adam Pillay or Paul Ndzoyiya, and although I would have been happy to see the former, I began to accept that maybe life
was
returning to what passed for normal.

Autumn is my favourite time of year, and the weather was beautiful. The humidity of the summer months has gone; the nights are crisp and comfortable. Sleep comes easier, and while you need a jersey in the early morning and late afternoon, by midday it is warm and sunny. It is an energising time, and, remembering my promises not to walk alone in the plantations while Phineas Ndzoyiya's killer remained unknown and free, I bullied Philippa into
regular afternoon exercise. She had lost interest in our local murder: she knew Dan only vaguely and now that he had been released, seemed to think the story had fallen into that bottomless pit of crimes unsolved and insoluble, too depressing to talk about and sufficiently remote from us not to be a source of concern.

The only reminder I had of the case was on Friday afternoon. I drove out of the school gates behind a shiny silver Peugeot. A girl I hadn't recognised had got into it, and the woman who was driving, presumably her mother, set off in the same direction that I was planning to go. I followed her into the supermarket parking area, then walked behind her to the entrance of the shop where she turned to face me. She was smartly dressed in a black skirt and jacket with a white blouse.

“Hello, Mrs Marsh.”

I had one of those awful moments, familiar to teachers the world over. Was this a parent of one of the kids I taught? Her face rang a faint bell in the back of my mind, but I couldn't place her, and the child in her car hadn't looked like one of my pupils. I put on a smile: polite, friendly, interested and a dead giveaway that I hadn't a clue who she was.

“It's Hannah Bhengu. I was the prosecutor in the case against Daniel Moyo. We were introduced by Robin Watson. At the court. Remember? And I've seen you at school. Gabrielle – my daughter – will be in your class next year, and she's looking forward to it. She seems to have a talent for art.”

Of course. The prosecutor. The name Gabrielle Bhengu was familiar from a colleague who taught art to the junior girls. She had mentioned that Gabrielle showed more than a little promise.

“Ms Bhengu, sorry. I didn't recognise you for a moment:
out of context, you know.”

She smiled. Not for one moment did I think she was taken in, but she had impeccable manners.

“You must be pleased for your friend, Mr Moyo.”

“Yes, I am. I saw him yesterday. I think it has been an awful experience for him, but he's keen to put it behind him and get on with his life.”

“The police told us that they wanted to drop the charges. I was glad: it seemed to me that all the evidence was circumstantial. But the case is still open. I hope they make an arrest soon. We don't want killers out on the streets.” She smiled at me and picked up a red plastic basket before heading off towards the vegetables.