Just a Dead Man (8 page)

A
FTER LUNCH
P
HILIPPA AND
I went for our walk. She waited at her gate with the dog from hell, a hysterical Jack Russell, imaginatively called Jack. He launched himself in his usual fashion at Grumpy who, in
his
usual fashion, took no notice. When Jack becomes more than usually unbearable, Grumpy will sometimes pin him to the ground with a paw. Philippa's theory is that this has caused brain damage, but to be frank, I think it's congenital.

However, the two tolerate each other on a walk, and as they charged along the path, Philippa asked to be filled in on the gossip surrounding the murder. She had met Daniel when he had stayed with me, and agreed that he seemed an unlikely murderer, but of course she wasn't involved other than as a neighbour who wanted the whole, juicy story. It was depressing to talk about something that mattered to me to someone who thought it as no more than a bit of local drama, even though she expressed concern.

However, I did ask if she had been at home on Monday afternoon, and whether she had seen or heard anything out of the ordinary. As it would be for most of us, the effort of casting her mind back to remember what she had been doing three days ago was difficult.

“Monday. Well, I went out just after lunch to fetch the lawnmower – it was being repaired. And, believe it or not,
it worked for just one day when I got it back. Typical! Then I sorted out the linen cupboard. I've been meaning to do it for ages, but you know how it is in term time – no, hang on. That was Tuesday. Monday I did fetch the lawnmower, and then I was doing some weeding round the back. So I wouldn't have seen anything on the other side of the house.”

I tried not to groan. Mind you, I had only just remembered stuff from Monday myself and if I had been hoping for corroboration from Phil, it was not to be. I filled her in on my doings, and she was horrified. “You can't seriously be getting involved! That's what the police are for. Really, Laura. That's ridiculous.”

“Look, Phil, Dan's a friend. I think he was set up somehow. And I'm sure this wretched Sergeant Dhlomo is xenophobic, and just targeting Dan because he's from Zim – and because he happened to be there. Anyway, think about Monday. Try to see if you can remember anything. Anything you saw, or heard.”

“I was in the kitchen, and I did see Dan go down the road with Grumpy. I hadn't seen him for a while: didn't know he was back. And then I heard him shouting for you. I was actually going to come up and see if everything was okay, but the phone rang. The next thing I knew, the cops were here.”

And I was going to have to be satisfied with that. We took one of our favourite paths through the trees. The going was soft, and the shade of the tall gums made it pleasantly cool. I rubbed a tough, silvery leaf between my fingers and inhaled the clean eucalyptus scent. At one point we spotted a small buck, probably a duiker, or even a bushbuck. It stood, apparently unperturbed, and eyed us as we watched. The dogs were behind us, and when they came round the corner in the track, the buck turned
away and vanished, its grey-brown coat blending perfectly with the shadows of the trunks and leaves. Jack picked up the scent and hared off, barking madly. Grumpy made a half-hearted attempt to follow, but soon gave up and came trotting back, a stick in his mouth. Maybe he thought that was what they had been chasing.

As we headed back, the wind began to pick up, rustling the dry, leathery foliage. We turned onto the old railway line where the going was stony but level. We had exhausted the topic of the murder, and talk turned to other things. I felt the strain of the past few days beginning to ebb as we walked along, Grumpy regularly whacking my thigh with a stick he wanted thrown. He didn't always bring back the one I sent on its way: such niceties pass him by. Jack charged about: a rodent on Speed.

But the sense of normality lasted only until I was back in the house. And then all my anxieties returned, redoubled. With a shudder I remembered Inspector Pillay had said he was coming round again, and, on cue, the bell rang.

I let him in, noticing heavy, dark clouds piling up above where the low hills that would eventually become the jagged peaks of the Drakensberg bulged into the skyline. The sun had gone, obscured by the coming storm. We went through to the studio and he looked around, homing in on the apple painting, which was still on the sofa, and on the mango one on the easel. It was coming along well, I thought, even though it had been difficult to focus on it.

“I really like those,” he said. “Are you doing them for an exhibition, or are they a commission?”

“They're for an exhibition, coming up in July. If I ever finish them. All this has got in the way of painting. And next week schools go back, so I'll be at work. And my son will be home again.”

He nodded and, as I had sat down, he did the same, flexing his knee with a grimace.

“Have you hurt yourself?”

“Gave it a wrench running on uneven ground yesterday. It's a bit painful, but not too bad, I hope. I don't want it to upset my Comrades training schedule.”

So he was a runner: one of those crazy souls who pound the road between Durban and Pietermaritzburg each year. Rory has spoken about doing it, but I have my doubts that the human body is meant to withstand that kind of treatment, and have done my best to dissuade him. But Adam Pillay was obviously a keen runner. I asked if it was his first time, only to be told it was his twelfth. He had his green number for 10 races completed, and a clutch of seven silver medals.

But back to business.

“Inspector, I wanted to tell you that I've remembered something about Monday afternoon. It suddenly struck me when we were walking up the road with Mr Ndzoyiya the other day. I was in here, painting, on Monday, when a bakkie came along, very slowly, as if the driver was looking for something. I sort of half noticed. I was busy, but there's not a huge amount of traffic here, and he seemed to be crawling along. I remember him going up, but not coming back. It must have been just before Dan came. Maybe that's why I didn't see it coming down.”

Pillay made as if to say something, but I went on.

“I know it's not much. I wasn't even sure if it was worth mentioning. But then when I was waiting to see Dan this morning in the cell or whatever it is at the court, I looked out the window. It looks onto a parking lot, and there was a car there, a white twin cab thing, and … this may sound silly, or totally unhelpful … there was something about it that struck me. It had a logo on the side, and the colours
made me think of the one on Monday. It was a design in black and gold, with some bright blue on it somewhere. But I only saw it just as Dan came in, so I didn't really have a proper look. And then, when I asked Dan to look, it had gone. It was just after his appearance. I suppose it could have been someone who was in the court.” I had only just thought of that, and I didn't much like the idea.

“Did it have words? Writing?”

“Well, maybe. But I can't remember that – there may have been something. I just don't know. I can't say exactly what the logo was either. It was the colours, and the shape – a sort of long double helix, like DNA – that struck me. I'm not saying it was the same truck, or even the same design. Just that it seemed to trigger something in my mind. I'm sorry. That sounds incredibly stupid. But it was the same colours. I'm sure of that.”

“It's not stupid at all, Mrs Marsh. You obviously have a visual memory, for images rather than words. It's interesting how witnesses vary in what they remember.” He paused, obviously thinking about what to say. “I want you to think about the logo. Not now. Just let it be there, in your mind, and see what comes up. You say you didn't see the car come back down the road here. Of course, you might have missed it, but where else could it have gone?”

I explained about the old railway line, and how the track where Phineas Ndzoyiya's body had been found branched off it. I wouldn't want to drive along it, but in a 4x4, or a bakkie, it would be perfectly possible.

As we were talking, the sky was getting darker, and suddenly there was an almost pinkish flash of lightning, a jagged split across the livid clouds that seared into the room, followed almost immediately by a huge crash of thunder and the sound of rain. The lights flickered but didn't go out. I almost jumped out of my chair. I make
no secret of the fact that I hate thunder: I always have. My first inclination is to crawl under the duvet and pull it over my head. I don't mind far-off rumbling so much, but I hate the deafening, crashing peals that come hard on the heels of the flash. They make me feel very small: an insignificant creature at the mercy of random elements.

Adam Pillay looked at me. “All right? You don't like thunder.” It was a statement, not a question.

“I'm fine. Just gave me a fright. Would you like some coffee? You can't leave in this – you'll get soaked, even going to the car.” The rain was now pouring down, hiding everything beyond the streaming window glass in a grey curtain of water. “Let me put the kettle on while we still have power.”

He nodded, and limped after me into the kitchen. The sound of the rain created a certain intimacy even though we had to raise our voices to make ourselves heard over the drumming on the roof. I had just poured the coffee when there was another crash that seemed to shake the whole house, and this time the lights did go out.

I jumped again, spilling some of my coffee, and we headed back into the studio where at least it was light enough to see each other. A yellow mud river was cascading down the path and under the gate, out into the road. Oh God, the garden, and particularly the bloody swimming pool, would be in a horrible mess when this was over. At least the roof was sound: I had insisted in the divorce settlement that Simon had had to make sure of that.

“Now, that bakkie. What colour was it?”

“White. And with a canopy. With the design on it.”

“Do you think it was the same vehicle you saw at court this morning?”

I tried to think. “No … well, maybe. I mean, I don't
know. I suppose it could have been, but either way, the one made me think of the other, if you see what I mean. I don't really pay much attention to cars and makes, I'm afraid. The logo or whatever it was looked the same. I'm sorry, I can't be more exact than that. I know it's all nebulous.”

Inspector Pillay nodded, and then went back to asking me about the old railway line. Where did it lead to and, if you drove along it, where would you come out? I explained as best I could. I could tell he was thinking that, after this storm, it would be pretty impassable if he wanted to go there and look for clues.

“Inspector, the body was dumped there. Do you know where Mr Ndzoyiya was killed?” There was no reason for him to tell me, but I felt it was worth asking. In the shelter of the house, while the storm crashed around us, I didn't feel as if this was a police interrogation. It was more like a conversation, perhaps even between friends.

“No, we don't. Not yet. We're trying to track his movements on Monday.” I looked questioningly at him, but he didn't say any more.

“Look. I don't want to offend you, or anything. But I do get the feeling that Sergeant Dhlomo is, uhm, picking on Daniel. Maybe because he's Zimbabwean, maybe for some other reason. But there doesn't seem to be any real evidence. I've known Dan for years. He's one of the gentlest people on earth. I simply don't believe he could kill someone.”

There was a long pause. Inspector Pillay sipped his coffee and looked at the mango painting, where Daniel's hand, long-fingered and with a backward sloping thumb, was holding the fruit. Was he considering if it could be the hand of a killer? I didn't know.

Eventually, Pillay sighed and put down his mug as I realised that, in the gloom of the kitchen, I had given him
one presented to Rory by a girlfriend that was adorned with a pair of large red lips and the words “LOVER BOY”. Maybe not the best choice I could have made.

“He's a good policeman, Mrs Marsh. Very thorough. And an honest cop.” Pillay looked sharply at me. I had never suggested that his sergeant was a crook; merely not very nice. But he obviously thought it was a point to be made.

“But you know as well as I do that there are many things in this country that are not perfect, not as we might like them to be. One is the attitude to foreigners – sometimes even to locals who are different. Perhaps Sergeant Dhlomo
does
have something of a chip on his shoulder about foreigners. Perhaps even about white people. But he does his job well, and will go far in the police service. Probably further than I will.”

He smiled at me then, and I thought again what a nice face he had. His front teeth were slightly crooked, but he was fine-featured, with sharply defined cheekbones that emphasised the shadows under his dark eyes. It would be an interesting face to paint: it made me want to try my hand at portraiture, which was something I had hardly done since my student days.

“But I'll bear your concerns in mind, Mrs Marsh. Mr Moyo
did
lie to us, you know. And he had been in contact with Mr Ndzoyiya. About the
Mendi
, which he denied knowledge of when we showed him the photograph. I do understand that he may have been nervous: being a refugee is not easy, I know that. But it was a silly thing to do. And he
is
known to the police in Johannesburg.”

“So you are looking for other suspects?” I felt I had to keep pushing. “And surely, the
Mendi can't
seriously be a motive? Not to kill someone. It's all so long ago.”

“We are keeping open minds. Don't worry. And now,
the rain is easing up. I must go and get on with detecting.” He smiled again, slightly mocking. “And thank you for the coffee. The thunder seems to be over – you will be all right now?”

“Of course.” I walked out to the car with him. He was not all that much taller than me, a small, neat man. “Look after that knee.”