Just a Dead Man (6 page)

W
EDNESDAY WAS A DIFFICULT
day. News of Dan's arrest was out. He hadn't appeared in court, so he hadn't yet been named in the papers, but word had got around all the same. My mother was on the phone before breakfast, convinced her daughter and beloved grandsons had been harbouring a homicidal maniac. I said, over and over, that it was all a mistake, and I was sure Daniel would soon be released and the real murderer caught. But she wasn't listening and my assurances were sounding unconvincing, even to me.

Don't get me wrong: I'm very fond of my mother, and at least 80 per cent of the time she's a rational, sensible person. But if something unhinges her, it does a remarkably successful job. Eventually, I spoke to my father. He was more reasonable, but he too was concerned and I didn't want to raise the subject of bail. That was going to have to wait, at least until Robin had some idea of what we might be looking at.

I couldn't work. I prepared a canvas for the mango painting, but I knew I was in the wrong frame of mind. If I started now, it would be a disaster. I tried to think of another subject so that, when I felt like working again, I would be ready to complete the
Interiors
stuff. But nothing came – apart from a vision of a prison cell. Of course, I
had never actually seen one, apart from Nelson Mandela's on Robben Island, which I had found curiously unreal. A cell was obviously no place for anyone to spend 27 days, let alone 27 years, but it had reminded me of a visit to Dachau when I had been a student and gone to Munich. The horror, the evil, is reduced to the banal by being clean and tidy and turned into, if not a tourist attraction exactly, at least a place of pilgrimage. Reality cannot be replicated. Once the moment is over, it is over for good. Fine idea for an artist to have, I thought.

I was contemplating all this when the bell rang, announcing a visit from Vanessa Govender, the instigator of
Interiors.
She had bumped into Chantal, and had been told about Dan, and so had come hotfooting round to me. I like Vanessa – she's a close friend in many ways, but she's also a major league gossip with a malicious streak that can be funny but also uncomfortable at times.

She launched in straight away. “God, Laura! Are you all right? Has Dan really been arrested for murder? What happened? Who's the guy he killed?”

“Hang on, hang on. He hasn't killed anyone. It's a mistake. The cops have some circumstantial evidence, but that's all. I hope we'll get him a bail hearing next week, and then he'll be out. I'm sure we can get it sorted.”

“You going to play detective? Just you be careful, that's all. And do you know …
really
know … that he's innocent? I mean, I know the two of you have been friends for years, but …” Vanessa left the sentence unfinished. And once again, I felt doubt creep up on me. Of course I didn't
know
Dan was innocent. But I was bloody sure he was, nonetheless.

Vanessa went on talking. At one stage, she asked me who the investigating officer was, and I told her about Inspector Pillay and Sergeant Dhlomo.

“Adam Pillay? I know him. He lives a couple of houses down the road from me. He's an okay kind of guy. Terribly sad: his wife died in childbirth around 10 years ago. Imagine that, in this day and age! And the baby died too. Ridiculous. Anyway, he lives alone, and his mother, who's a friend of my ma, is always trying to set him up with women. It's like Vikram Seth's
A Suitable Boy
in reverse! But surely he wouldn't arrest Daniel without
some
evidence?”

I tried to explain about Sergeant Dhlomo, and Vanessa immediately went off on another tangent, this time about xenophobia and how certain elements in the cops were always trying to pin everything onto immigrants and refugees. I have no idea what she was basing her view on, but it seemed to me it would fit with Dhlomo's attitude. Or maybe he was just a tough cop and Dan had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. I sighed.

“Darling, is this getting to you?”

“Well, a bit, I suppose. After all, the body turned up on my favourite dog walk and now they've arrested one of my friends. But other than that, I'm fine.”

“No, you're not. Just look at you. Your hair needs washing; no earrings or rings; no make-up; ratty clothes. You're a sight.”

“Nonsense, Ness. I was just going to start painting when you came in.”

“No, you weren't. Come on, pull yourself together. If Dan's innocent, it'll all be sorted quickly. If not – well, then you've had an escape. Come on, get changed, and we'll go out for coffee.”

Sometimes, with Vanessa, the path of least resistance is the only route to travel: it's how I had got caught up in painting for her exhibition. And, anyway, the thought of a decent cup of coffee was tempting. She hustled me off to
change, and as I pulled off my ancient jeans and shapeless T-shirt, I looked in the mirror. She was right: I
did
look a mess. I'm not one for make-up, though I usually manage a bit round the eyes. Now I looked pale and, worst of all, old. I swear I could see wrinkles growing and spreading as I watched, like something from a horror flick. And damn her, Ness was right. I
always
wear earrings. I have a huge collection, and I love the feel of them, and the way they give a different dimension to my face. So I rummaged in my drawer and found a pair of chunky amber ones, set in silver. They were big and heavy, and might draw attention away from my hair, which was indeed looking awful. I pulled it all back, away from my face and put in a wooden slide. There. I looked, if not great, at least a bit less like a bag lady. With stone-coloured cargo pants and a yellow shirt, I could pass as human.

And I have to admit I felt a lot better after the coffee. Vanessa picked over the Daniel story, and was obviously angling for an invitation to come and see Robin with me, but when it wasn't forthcoming, she started to tell me about her relationship with Ben, the sculptor. It sounded like a liaison made in hell, but Ness, putting on the full drama queen act, was very funny about it all. I could see an elderly couple at the table behind her shamelessly listening, all pretence at a conversation of their own abandoned. This was better than their afternoon soap opera. Ness gave me a hug on parting, and insisted I call her after I had seen Robin: she wanted to be kept fully up to date. Maybe she would even waylay Inspector Pillay and see what she could find out. I groaned inside.

Robin's office is in the centre of town, in an area that is still okay, but certainly not smart. The receptionist told me he had gone to court but would be back any minute, so I sat down in an ancient cane chair that creaked
when I moved. The table in front of me held a copy of today's newspaper and a nasty collection of waiting-room magazines. There was a three-year-old
Farmer's Weekly
, a six-month-old
Men's Health
and a copy of
Femina
so ancient and dog-eared that it was impossible to see a date on the cover. None of them appealed, so I sat back and watched the people come and go. A very good-looking young man, file in hand, was energetically flirting with the receptionist. She tossed her head and made a couple of dismissive remarks, but I could tell she was definitely interested. I was pretty certain he knew it too. Confident body language and a practised smoothness. Their by-play was absorbing: I almost forgot why I was there. But then Robin came in, looking untidy and harassed.

“Hi, Laura. Sorry I've kept you waiting. Come on through. Sandile, have you been to the Master's Office yet? Well, for God's sake, get a move on!”

Shaking his head as he held his office door open for me, he muttered about the problems of having good-looking articled clerks. “Thinks he's God's gift to women. Trouble is, some of them think he's right.”

Robin's office was filled with tottering heaps of files. A couple of
Spy
legal prints hung crooked on the wall, making me itch to straighten them, while in the corner what might once have been a decent solid Victorian whatnot held a dusty display of Zulu beer pots. They were good ones, not the sort sold to tourists around the entrance to the Zululand game reserves or at beach resorts, but works of art in their own right, combining the traditions of the form with clever detailing in incised and raised patterns. He saw me looking.

“I know, I know, they need to be dusted. But there are some real beauties there, aren't there? I did a case – a land dispute – for one of the potting families up Msinga way.
They were short of cash, and so I told them not to worry. But they brought me these pots. I thought of taking them home, but I spend much more time in the office than I do there, so I decided to leave them here. I find them soothing to look at when I'm pondering a problem. It's something about the shape.”

I looked at him with affection. He really was a great guy.

He shuffled some papers on his desk, and began to talk about Daniel. He told me where to be the next morning, and when, and explained that it would be a purely formal remand. Daniel wouldn't say anything, and the matter would be referred to the Regional Court for a bail hearing. Robin had spoken to the prosecutor, a Ms Bhengu who, he said, was very reasonable and competent. “That's a plus, but it looks as if the cops will want to oppose bail. He's a foreigner, and that's always a problem. Still, we'll see what we can do.”

I asked if I could see Daniel, and he said he would try to take me down to the cells to talk to him tomorrow morning. I then began to explain that I wanted to talk to the murdered man's son, the one who had identified the body. “He must know something. I mean, did his father have enemies? Apart from seeing Daniel, had he come up from Durban for anything else?” I stopped. Robin was looking at me with an expression of alarm.

“Laura, the man was murdered. Keep out of it. This is not a place to play amateur detective! The police are investigating, and so am I. We'll look at all this, don't worry. But don't get involved. Anyway, you could be a witness.”

“What? What was I a witness to? It was my dog that found the body, but that's all.”

He shook his head at me, but nevertheless handed over
a phone number for Paul Ndzoyiya, the dead man's son. Inspector Pillay had told him Ndzoyiya wanted to see the place where his father's body had been found, so if he came to look, maybe I could speak to him. “But for God's sake, be sensible,” he said firmly.

We agreed to ask Daniel who had put him onto Phineas Ndzoyiya in the first place, and see whether there could be any leads there. “But the murder could have been for all kinds of reasons, nothing to do with Dan at all. If the police are confident they have solved it with Dan's arrest, they are going to have to come up with some kind of substantive evidence,” said Robin. “And I don't see how they can.”

I headed home, the cheerfulness induced by Vanessa's gossip and the coffee long since dissipated. I knew Robin was right: this was no cosy, Miss Marple-style murder with room for amateur involvement. We live in a country where life is worth less than the cost of a cellphone and racial, tribal and gender hatreds run cold and deep under a skimpy veil of tattered rainbow and sunshine. I am a coward at heart, anxious to avoid confrontation at all costs – except of course with Simon – but I simply had to try to do something to help Daniel. And I couldn't believe he was involved in this.

I phoned Verne, catching him in his office at university. I told him what Robin had said, and when and where the hearing would be and he promised to be there. I then told him that I wanted to speak to Paul Ndzoyiya and see if he had any idea of who might have had a motive to kill his father.

“But, Laura, it could have been a simple robbery. And the cops will be doing all that.”

“He wasn't robbed. At least, I don't think he was. And why was he dumped near my house? Or killed there? The
cops haven't said which it was yet – or, at any rate, not to me.” I had forgotten to ask Robin if he knew. Stupid. “Look, Verne. I'm going to phone this Paul. Apparently he wants to see the place where his father's body was found. Could I ask you … would you come up here and meet him with me? I don't want to be a wimp, but I don't want to be stupid either.”

There was a long pause. “Well, I suppose I could try. Obviously I want to make sure Dan gets off this rubbish charge. But I'm not sure how clever it is to get involved.”

“But we
are
involved. He's our friend: he was staying with you; he was walking my dog when he found the body. And surely we both know he couldn't have killed anyone!”

“I know, I know. But if the cops haven't got evidence, they won't get a conviction. Still, I don't want poor old Dan to sit in jail while they lose dockets and fiddle around. Okay. If you get him, and he wants to see the spot, I'll come.” He wasn't exactly enthusiastic, but it was a start.

R
OBIN HAD TOLD ME
P
AUL
Ndzoyiya was some kind of deputy manager at a plastics factory in the industrial area. I tried to work out when he would have a lunch break, and phoned him. No use waiting too long, or I might never do it.

He answered quickly, a deep, slow voice, sounding older than I had expected. I explained who I was, said how sorry I was about his father's death and that I believed he was anxious to see the place where the body had been found. It was no use pretending I was being altruistic. No one was going to believe that, and the police had probably told him about me anyway. So I admitted Daniel was my friend, said I was concerned about him, and that I simply did not believe he was a killer.

Ndzoyiya listened, saying little, and on a crackly line that threatened to break up several times, it was hard to gauge his emotions. But finally he said he would like to come to my house at half past four and I could then show him where the body had been. When I gave him directions, he gave no indication he knew the area at all.

I rang Verne again. Gloomily, he agreed to be there, and would ask Chantal to join us. So now there was nothing to do but wait.

I went back into my studio, and decided to see if I
could make a start on the mango painting. I leaned the apple one on the sofa where I could see it and clipped the new photograph to the corner of my easel. To my surprise, I slowly became utterly absorbed. Creative urges and moments of inspiration are all very well, but I have discovered over the years that the real issue is making a start. Once you are on the way … well, you are on the way. I may be one of the world's great procrastinators, but at least I know it, and sometimes try to do something about it.

I had expected the colours to be difficult: the mango skin ought be reasonably straightforward, but the flesh and the backdrop were quite similar, and needed to be contrasted by showing textures, the fruit glistening wet but with a hint of fibre, while the cloth would be matt, receding into the distance. And the skin tones for Daniel's hand and wrist were not going to be simple either. I have seldom painted black people, having no wish to get entangled in debates about the representation of “the other”. I don't have the energy for a discussion that seems to generate more heat than light, and anyway, I'm not quite sure what I think about it all. I reckoned, however, that painting one black left hand shouldn't land me in philosophical hot water.

I was engrossed, relishing the technical problems and the fact that they took my mind off other things. At least here I was in charge: the work would stand or fall by my efforts. No one else was involved or could take the blame if things went wrong. I was startled by the doorbell, the events of Monday flooding back.

It was Verne and Chantal. I thanked them for coming, wondering if I was being silly calling for reinforcements just because an unknown man was coming to see me. Still, I reassured myself, he
was
the son of a murder victim, and
he might well be antagonistic. I was the friend of the man accused of the killing.

True to character, Chantal was forthright, asking me straight out why I was getting involved.

“I'm worried about Dan. I think the cops have convinced themselves he's guilty because he's a foreigner and he was there, and I don't get the feeling they're doing much more investigating. Someone has to do something.”

“Sure, but what on earth can you hope to find out? You're not a detective. You're a …” Chantal paused. “You're a middle-aged white teacher and artist.”

“So? Does that matter?” I decided to ignore the middle-aged bit. She was probably all of five years younger than me but starting the hare of when middle age begins would get us nowhere. She had raised a more pertinent issue: was my whiteness some kind of problem to her?

“Well, quite honestly, I think it does make a difference. Don't you think you're going to antagonise the cops?”

Verne, who had been prowling round the studio, spoke for the first time. “Leave it, Chantal. We've discussed this and agreed that Dan needs help. Laura and this Robin guy, you and me. We'll work together on this one. It's pointless for us to argue about it.”

I looked helplessly at them. If what we were trying to do was going to founder on the rocks of race, poor old Dan would probably rot in jail. “Look, if you really believe I'm going to make it worse, I'll back off. But I think you're being ridiculous.”

Chantal looked at me. She is a solid woman, barrel-shaped and plain but with a certain vitality. Those who know her better than I do say she is kind, and does a fantastic job with the abused women she helps. “Well, I'm sorry if I've upset you,” she said, “but I deal with the police all the time, and they often resent outsiders. And in a case
like this, with a black victim and a black refugee accused, a white amateur barging in … I don't know that it'll help. But I'm sure you think you're doing the right thing.”

And at this inauspicious moment, the bell rang again. Mr Ndzoyiya.

He was a stocky, youngish man, probably in his early thirties. He looked at the three of us when I let him in and introduced Verne and Chantal. Verne, who had been very quiet up until now, looked over to me and with a slight nod, stepped forward.

“Mr Ndzoyiya, we're very sorry for your loss. It must have been a great shock. But we all know Mr Moyo well, and we simply cannot believe he had anything to do with your father's death. So if we can do something to help him, and at the same time bring your father's killer to justice, we would like to.”

Ndzoyiya listened, and looked round the room. His voice was very deep, with a slight hesitancy, and while his English was excellent, it was old fashioned and had he been older, I would have said he was mission-school educated. Maybe his schoolteacher father had influenced him.

“Thank you. Of course my father's passing has come as a terrible shock, to the whole family. But from what he told me about Mr Moyo when he came up from Durban and from what he said he would be doing in Pietermaritzburg, I must admit I was surprised when the police arrested this man. He had made contact with my father over the telephone, from Johannesburg, and my father told me he was interested in my great-grandfather's stories. These are tales we have all grown up with. My father said Mr Moyo was polite and respectful, and wanted to find a way to remember those brave men. I can think of no reason why he would want to kill.”

He looked up at us. While he had been speaking, he had been looking down at the floor. “This is hard for me, for all the family. Of course, we want to see my father's killer brought to justice. But I would never want to see an innocent man punished.”

We shuffled our feet, and I felt more than a little embarrassed. I asked Mr Ndzoyiya if he would like to walk to the spot where his father had been found, and he nodded. We headed out of the garden gate, Grumpy deeply indignant that we were setting off on his favourite walk without him. We made our way slowly up the hill, past the six houses, three on each side, that line the cul-de-sac. I caught a glimpse of Philippa as we passed her house. She was standing at her kitchen window, watching us.

Mr Ndzoyiya and Verne led the way, talking quietly, while Chantal and I followed like two ill-assorted Chinese wives, four steps behind the men. We didn't say much, but as I was running the events of Monday afternoon over in my mind, the elusive memory that had been lurking just out of reach suddenly became clear, and with such force that I gave a little gasp.

“What's wrong?” Chantal looked at me curiously. “You okay?”

“Yes, fine. I just remembered something, that's all. Not important.” We went on to the turning circle at the top of the road, and where the tar ended, took the path that led into the plantations, overgrown now in early autumn, the long grass on the verges studded with blackjacks, their dark, barbed seeds waiting like sharp sunbursts to snag on unwary arms and legs. Tattered plastic bags hung on the brambles, and a couple of broken polystyrene boxes that had once held burgers lay scattered on the ground, but once we had gone 50 metres, the litter diminished and the path opened out. Litterers can seldom be bothered
to go far off the beaten track. As the trees, mostly gums and wattles, began, the path divided, and we followed the right-hand, slightly steeper route, bare red earth showing through fallen leaves. There had been little rain since the day of the murder, and it was dry underfoot. As we followed the curve, we saw remnants of blue-and-white police tape. Why hadn't they cleared up after themselves? I had a horrible moment when I thought there might still be blood on the grass, but the short, heavy shower that had fallen just after the body had been removed had washed that away. I showed Mr Ndzoyiya the place, the grass still flattened where the body had lain and the police had tramped around it.

He stood, looking down, while Verne, Chantal and I stood in a rather awkward row on the other side of the path. My mind was racing. I would need to speak to the police about what I had just remembered. Once I was sure it was a real memory.