Just a Dead Man (9 page)

He nodded, and held out his hand. Our handshake lasted a little longer than perhaps would have qualified as merely formal: his grip dry, warm and strong. I watched the car pull off, out of the gate and along the road, feeling slightly confused. There was something about Adam Pillay that made me feel safe: I would trust him with a lot, I thought to myself. But he was still the man responsible for holding Daniel in the cells.

W
ITH NO ELECTRICITY
, I
WAS
contemplating the rival delights of takeaway pizza – too much cardboard base and too little mozzarella – or a tired lettuce for my supper when the power surged back, sending household electronic devices into a frenzy. The fridge gurgled back to life; the burglar alarm beeped and the washing machine, halfway through a cycle when the power failed, began its watery hum. And a little later the phone, useless without the electricity that ran its various gizmos, began to ring.

“Mrs Marsh? This is Paul Ndzoyiya. How are you?”

“Fine. What can I do for you, Mr Ndzoyiya?”

“I think I would like to talk to you again. Perhaps on Saturday morning?”

“Of course. Though it will have to be early. I've got to go to Durban to fetch my son from the airport. Where would you like to meet?”

“Uh … I think it is best if I come to your house, if that is okay with you. It would be better if we are not seen together, I think.”

That seemed peculiar. “You're welcome to come here, Mr Ndzoyiya. But what do you mean?”

“Mrs Marsh, someone has killed my father. A friend of yours is in prison and you say he is innocent. If we have things to say to each other, I think it better that we do so
away from watching eyes. I will come at half past eight on Saturday.” And with that, he rang off.

Well. That was distinctly odd. But at least he felt he had something to say. Apart from remembering the mysterious bakkie I might have seen going down the road but not coming back and that might have been outside the court when Dan was appearing, my detecting was unimpressive. I couldn't really think of much else I should be doing. Even if I were to follow the old railway track, which the bakkie might or might not have taken, it would be unlikely to yield me any clues … and that's assuming I knew what to look for. This afternoon's rain would have seen to that, if nothing else had.

 

I was up early on Saturday, and took Grumpy for a quick walk. I chose the old railway line, partly because, being stony, it would be drier underfoot, and partly in case there was something to be seen. But it was devoid of anything significant – in fact, pretty devoid of anything at all. There were birds, and the occasional rustling in the bushes at the sides of the road, but we saw nothing and nobody. I hurried Grumpy along as we had to be home before Paul Ndzoyiya came.

I had just finished my breakfast when he rang the bell. He was dressed informally, in jeans and trainers that made him look younger. But he was tense, a rigidity in the planes of his face. We went through to the studio again, and sat down facing each other.

“Mrs Marsh, something happened on Thursday that worried me and made me want to talk to you again.” He paused. “I got home early from work, just before that storm began.” He explained to me where his house was: an area that, in the bad old days, had been the preserve of working-class whites and was now mixed, though
the inhabitants were predominantly lower-middle-class blacks – or that, at least, would be the description offered up by statisticians and those who had to quantify everything. People took pride in their surroundings, and there was remarkably little crime. It was a suburb that could probably be hailed as one of the successes of the new South Africa.

“Well, I put my car in the garage and closed the door. I don't always, but because of the rain … anyway, no one could see I was home. I went into the house, and the electricity went off, so there were no lights. I was in my living room, and I heard a noise at the back of the house. A kind of scratching sound. It was hard to hear, because of the rain. But I went to look, and as I came up to the back door – it has a frosted glass panel, one of those strengthened ones with wires running through the glass, so someone outside could see me coming to the door – I saw a figure run away and over the fence into the road at the back. Not clearly enough to see who it was. Just a shape.

“I opened the door, and saw that someone had been trying to force the lock off with a chisel or a screwdriver, something like that. At first I thought it was just a burglar, or a young tsotsi taking a chance with an empty house and heavy rain so no one would be around in the road. But then I saw a scrap of paper lying on the step. It was a note of my address.”

He stopped and looked at me. “So it was not just a child. It was someone deliberately trying to get into that specific house. Where I live, and where my father had been staying at the time of his murder.”

I swallowed. His story was making me nervous. “Have you told the police?”

“No. Not yet. I phoned you, because I thought I
should tell you, but I thought maybe I was concerned over nothing. After all, there was no proof that the paper had been dropped by the person at the door.” Not half, I thought.

He went on. “But then, yesterday evening, I had a phone call. I will go to the police: in fact, I'm going to go after this and talk to Inspector Pillay or his sergeant. I've made an appointment. When I picked up the phone, there was nothing for a moment. And then a man's voice, speaking English. He said, ‘Be careful. What happened to your father could happen to you. The police have got the right man'.”

Paul Ndzoyiya was quiet. So was I. This was surreal. I once went to a so-called murder evening, where we were all supposed to detect who “killed” one of our number. It was wildly over the top, fuelled with numerous bottles of red wine, and punctuated by melodramatic statements, just like the one Paul Ndzoyiya had reported. Was he kidding me? Surely no one was going to say something like that? Not in the real world.

I wasn't sure how to respond. “Uhm, did you recognise the voice? Was it an African? You say he spoke English. Good English?”

“Oh yes, perfectly good. But it was an African. And not a young voice either.”

“I really think you should tell Inspector Pillay, Mr Ndzoyiya. I mean, that was a threat.”

He looked at me politely, but I could tell he thought I was stating the obvious. “Of course it was. But … I just wondered if …” And he stopped again.

I looked at him, trying to look encouraging, alert, sympathetic – whatever would make him go on.

“Does the name Thabo Mchunu mean anything to you?”

It didn't. Not a thing. It was one of those names I might have heard anywhere, but it rang no bells. “No, sorry. Who is he?”

“He's based in Pretoria, I think. He's a senior civil servant, and has something to do with National Heritage and Monuments, things like that.”

Then I had a thought. The person Daniel had spoken to, whose name he hadn't known and had been with Rhoda Josephs, had heritage connections. Could it be the same person? If so, he was the man who had put Daniel into contact with Phineas Ndzoyiya. It wasn't much to go on, but I told Paul Ndzoyiya what Daniel had told me and asked Paul why he mentioned this Thabo Mchunu.

“He and my father had a quarrel – oh, some months ago. It was over how to remember the past. My father said it should be done accessibly, in ways kids will be exposed to at school. School setworks, historical outings, worksheets, things like that – basically, what he told Mr Moyo. This Mchunu insisted that proper memorials should be built, and what money was available should be spent on statues and so on. He said the white people had put things like that up. Now bigger and better ones should be put in their places.

“My father believed people wouldn't notice them, or care much after the opening, the fanfare and the speeches. Then they would walk past without seeing. Just as you do with that great statue of Queen Victoria in the middle of town. How often does anyone look at it? How many young people here know why it's there, or what it represents? Even if they are told, it goes in one ear and out the other. It's boring for them. If there is to be money, my father said it should be spent on practical things.”

“Where did they meet? Your father and this Mchunu?”

“In Durban. Mchunu was there for some History
teachers' conference my father was attending. He comes from down here originally, I believe. And later he went down to our home village in Pondoland when there was a meeting about issues of concern to the community. Not just memorials. Roads, development, mining, things like that. There are a lot of problems in that area. He and my father argued there as well. That was after the conference, I think sometime in January.”

I watched Paul Ndzoyiya. He
looked
like an honest man, whatever an honest man looks like. In fact, he looked like a worried man, and puzzled. But it still seemed bizarre to me that an argument over what was the best way to remember the past would lead to
murder
. I told Paul – he asked me to call him Paul – that I couldn't see it as a motive.

Paul shifted in his chair, recrossing his legs. His trainers looked well worn, unbranded and comfortable. “I would agree, except that I have been sorting out my father's things, looking at his laptop, which he left at my house.” He was silent.

Finally I said: “And?”

“And I found correspondence. From Thabo Mchunu. Some of what he had written was very unpleasant. Rude. Threatening, even.”

“But why?”

He sighed. “You have to understand, Laura. In Pondoland, in the rural area where we come from, my father's family has influence and respect. If they, and particularly my father, were to oppose whatever schemes this Mchunu had, it might be hard for him to force them through. And from the correspondence, I got the impression that it would matter to Mchunu financially if his plans were shelved. He has many interests in that part of the world, including in mining. It seems to be important
for him to be a big man there. I don't know why.”

“But … but even though your father is dead, if the family opposes Mchunu's plans, surely the result will be the same? So to
kill
for it wouldn't make sense?”

“I'm not sure anyone else in the family would have the energy, or even care enough, to oppose things as vigorously as my father. And money talks. It is a poor area. If people are offered incentives, they will agree. My father felt a statue was a stupid way to remember brave men, a way that would only benefit a few people who are already wealthy. Once memorials are built, those who got the contracts and so on will go away, and then what are the locals left with? Nothing. A lump of bronze that will probably be stolen for its scrap value? That was not what my father wanted. And he was a man who was listened to. He was known to be honest and hardworking, an inspiring teacher. A good man. And, from the correspondence, I got the feeling my father was worried that this Mchunu was not being honest about his true intentions – the memorial was only a part of what he was involved in. It's just a feeling. My father and I never talked about it while he was alive. But if Mchunu was angry with my father, why would he have given his name to Mr Moyo?”

“Well, we don't know that it
was
him. And if it was, perhaps he thought that putting a spotlight on the
Mendi
would help his plans. But, Paul, I really do think you have to go to the police with this … Maybe whoever tried to break in was after your father's laptop. For your own safety too. If what you think is true, then you might be in danger.”

He looked hard at me. “So might you, Laura, if people know that you are trying to get Daniel Moyo off this charge. Should you succeed, the police would have to look further. And that could put the real killers at risk. This
was why I wanted to talk to you, to warn you.”

We looked blankly at each other. I began to feel as if I was in a movie. Danger? This was ridiculous. If you live in South Africa, you are sure to find yourself in some kind of danger from time to time. Crime is an issue; some areas are unsafe. Travelling is risky; rules of the road are honoured in the breach. Cash thieves target shopping malls and autobanks. I suppose you might even be struck by lightning or killed by a hippo. I have never been one to barricade myself in and worry: I go about my life and try to be sensible. But to be the actual, designated target of a murderer? Surely not.

“Are you going to tell the cops about this Thabo Mchunu?”

“Yes. But if he is a senior civil servant and well connected, he may be untouchable. But I have to tell them.”

“Had the police not looked at your father's computer?”

He looked thoughtfully at me, and said they had come to his house, looked through the things his father had left there, and gone to his Durban home as well. But whether they had looked at the computer or not, he didn't know. Obviously they hadn't taken it away. I felt angry. Daniel was sitting in jail and Paul Ndzoyiya was being threatened – and what precisely were the cops doing? But when I said as much to Paul, he simply shrugged. The police had a suspect and, overworked and unmotivated, they weren't going to do much more.

“But I hope they will take some notice of what I tell them,” he said.

L
ATER, AS
I
DROVE DOWN
the freeway towards Durban and the airport, I kept looking in my rear-view mirror, trying to see if I was being followed. Of course I felt stupid doing it, but I was beginning to wonder if I had stirred up some kind of hornet's nest. Though I couldn't quite see how. I
was
being followed, inevitably. There was a lot of traffic, and first I had a taxi on my back bumper, then an old red bakkie, and finally a black BMW, though he soon snarled past me in a flash of darkened glass.

I tried telling myself not to be ridiculous and to keep my mind on the traffic, Mike's return and the beauty of the day. The rain during the week had freshened the landscape, postponing the onset of autumn's sepia dryness, and there were enough high clouds to break the unrelieved blue of the sky and make interesting shapes. Maybe they presaged another storm later, but for now, they were welcome. Where the road ran through open country, cloud shadows raced across the grass, darkening the ground in crazy patterns. The aloes that stood sentry on the embankments were just beginning to spike, still green though with a promise of the flames of winter that would flank the black tarmac.

At the airport, I stood where I could see the plane taxiing in. It was close to the arrivals area: no need for a
bus. Mike was one of the first off, and I watched him make his way towards the building, seeing him as a stranger would. He was growing fast, much taller than me now and probably taller than Rory. A slight youth, with a floppy thatch of brown hair, like mine, and a serious face, a backpack dangling from one shoulder. His features were still unformed, in that state of uncertainty that could turn him at one moment into a godlike young man, at the next into a sullen Caliban with graceless movements, half human, half animal. But today the man predominated.

I felt a familiar pang of guilt. Had I ruined his life and that of his brother by divorcing their father? Oh no, you didn't, I told myself. Living in a home where the two adults are in a perpetual state of armed neutrality at best and open warfare at worst was far more damaging than living with me, muddling along on my own, but at least happy doing it. And, compared with some of their peers, it seemed to me that Rory and Mike were pretty normal young people, at least by the standards of the adolescent male.

Driving home, I listened to Mike's report on his holiday, half aware of a subtext that was saying however much he had enjoyed seeing his brother and however glorious a city Cape Town was, he didn't want to go to university there. Nor did he want a gap year to think about his options. I wondered if that was what Simon was pushing for now that he's realised Michael didn't want to be in Cape Town. But all the while, I was looking to see if anything behind me could be in any way suspicious.

There was nothing. I tried to give my full attention to my son, who now wanted to know all about the murder and Daniel's position. I was careful: whatever happened, Mike mustn't be involved or put at any kind of risk. I said we were hopeful Dan would get bail: the evidence
against him was all circumstantial and, maybe, the police were beginning to think that he had nothing to do with the murder after all – that it had been no more than a terrible coincidence that Phineas Ndzoyiya and Daniel had arranged to meet. Mike wanted to know everything; where the body had been found; what it had looked like. Not squeamish, my son.

“Maybe you should get yourself hypnotised, Ma. Then you would be able to visualise that bakkie better.”

I glared at him, but even as he spoke, something struck me. There had been words on the bakkie I had seen outside the court, and they had been alliterative. P P or F F, or something like that. But nothing more came back to me, even though Mike came up with all kinds of ridiculous suggestions.

After lunch, when we were back at home and Michael was staving off the pangs of hunger with his favourite snack of bread and marmalade, telling me firmly that marmalade, just like peanut butter, constituted one of his five daily servings of fruit and vegetables, the wind picked up. Somewhere in the house, a door banged and I nearly jumped out of my skin.

Mike looked at me, as if noticing me for the first time since his return. “Ma – what's up? You seem kind of on edge?”

I gave myself a moment's grace to think about my answer by telling him, for the millionth time in our long association, to take his crumb-covered knife out of the marmalade jar. Unsurprisingly he took no notice, just waited for a response to his question.

I gave him an expurgated version of what Paul Ndzoyiya had told me, not mentioning his warning. But Michael soon realised what I was leaving out. Of course he was concerned, but also curiously excited. Adolescence
is boring, a long vista of waiting for something to happen, and so, if there is the prospect of an event, it is to be welcomed. And, of course, the young are notoriously immortal. It is the only thing that makes me feel older than my children: I am vulnerable, and trebly so because of their very existence.