Let the Dead Lie (7 page)

That
was the plain truth. If Parthiv was on the docks to pick up hashish, he'd never
risk a conversation with a European boy. It would have just elicited more
attention. Emmanuel moved on.

'What
did you do after you picked up the package?'

'Took
it back to the car and hid it in the glove box.'

'Then
what?'

'It's
like I said. I took Amal to find a woman.'

'Where
was Giriraj?'

'At
the car.'

'No
he wasn't,' Emmanuel pointed out. 'He was in the alley with the two of you.'

Parthiv
pulled on an earlobe. 'I said to stay and keep guard. Plenty crooks on the
docks.'

'Did
you tell him to keep a lookout for you?'

'No.
I told him to keep eyes out for police. Police take your stuff, you can't steal
it back; it's gone and gone.'

Emmanuel
slipped the knife into his jacket pocket. Giriraj's strength and speed were
impressive. He hadn't heard him lurking in the alley; wouldn't have looked
behind him if the brothers hadn't tipped him off with a look over his shoulder.

Why
was Giriraj in the alley instead of at the car, and how did he get the
scratches Emmanuel had seen on his arm last night?

Best
to concentrate on one thing at a time and take small steps along a path that he
would abandon come sunrise tomorrow.

'The
notebook,' he said to Amal, who was pressed against the wall. 'Let's get it.'

The
boy peeled himself away and they turned to the exit. Maataa stood in the
doorway, an unlit clove cigarette in one hand and a box of matches in the
other. Emmanuel nodded to her. She'd witnessed the whole scene with Parthiv, he
was sure. Seen it and done nothing.

He
let her make the first move. He was sure that if Maataa came at him with a
knife, she'd find a major artery and the courtyard would be spray-painted a
nice shade of 'blood from a reclassified white man'.

Maataa
lit her cigarette and threw the matches onto the floor. She walked over to a
corn oil can that contained a fruiting aubergine and pulled a bamboo stick
loose from the soil. Another puff of her cigarette and she swished the stick
through the air to test its soundness.

'Giriraj!'
she called. 'Giriraj!'

Amal
pressed to the wall again and slid down to a crouching position, smaller
targets being harder to hit. Parthiv searched, in vain, for a magical way to
break through the walls and escape.

With
a rustle of sari silk from the partition, Giriraj appeared in the courtyard. A
tap on the floor with the bamboo stick told him where to stand.

'Down,'
Maataa said.

Parthiv
and Giriraj kneeled side by side with blank faces. Maataa laid the bamboo stick
lightly on Parthiv's shoulder and then on Giriraj's shoulder, as if knighting
them into a secret society.

The
bamboo gained height and whistled through the air before smacking against
Parthiv's and Giriraj's shoulders and legs. And then all over. Emmanuel inched
forwards then thought better of it. Not his fight. Both men absorbed the blows,
their bodies like stiff toy soldiers arranged on the battle line.

Emmanuel
crouched next to Amal and whispered, 'What's going on?'

'They
are being punished.'

'I
can see that. What for?'

"The
package. They were not supposed to pick it up.'

'Did
the package belong to someone else?'

'No,
but Mr Khan, he controls the amount of packages coming into Durban. He does not
like others to bring in more packages than him.'

'Who's
Mr Khan?' Emmanuel asked. The whack of the bamboo cane hitting flesh was
distracting. Parthiv had accused him of being a spy for Khan moments before.

'A
Muslim,' Amal whispered. 'He is in business.'

'What
business?' Emmanuel asked, but he already knew. It would be a legitimate
enterprise - a dress shop or garage - backed up by prostitution, hashish
smuggling and anything else that made money.

'Taxis
and restaurants and ah . . . many other things.'

'Is
your mother in the same business?'

'No.
Sometimes she lends money, and when the people don't pay, then Parthiv and
Giriraj collect it. That is all. Mr Khan is big. My mother is small.'

Clearly
Parthiv wanted more of Durban's criminal action and his mother was not happy
about that. Maataa stopped and flicked ash from her clove cigarette. She
pointed the bamboo stick towards Emmanuel and Amal. They stood up.

'You
will tell Mr Khan they have been disciplined, yes?'

'I'll
tell him,' Emmanuel said. Another lie, but there seemed to be no other answer.

'Go,'
Maataa ordered.

Emmanuel
and Amal were out of the courtyard in less than five seconds. Emmanuel had the
keys in the ignition of the Buick in under a minute.

The
sun was down but a trace of heat lingered. A breeze tousled the trees, lifted
hems and stirred up the exhaust fumes from cars cruising the slow lane of West
Street. Lines of smartly dressed couples snaked down the pavement and waited
for the Empire Cinema's late Friday night movie session to open. Suits, ties,
ironed dresses and gloves, the occasional corsage pinned to a tulle ruffle. The
nine o'clock double feature was 'dress formal':
Where the North Begins
followed by
Tarzan's Desert
Mystery.

In
the afternoon, Emmanuel had had a haircut and shave followed by a shoeshine at
the corner stand. He'd bought coffee, milk and bread for the week. None of
these routine domestic tasks had taken his mind off Jolly Marks's notebook.

He
drove past the Central Post Office. The trunk of a Natal mahogany, known as
'dead man's tree', was plastered with white funeral notices edged in black.
Jolly Marks would have an announcement posted there soon.

At
the Point, he parked the Buick a block down from the bus stop. The place he was
looking for didn't advertise.

The
lights from a moored passenger liner,
Pacific Pearl,
twinkled like a miniature city at
the harbour mouth.

He
came to within sight of the crime scene. Scraps of orange and white paper
streamers lifted into the air and curled against lamp poles. Jolly had probably
worked a ten- to-fifteen-minute radius from the freight line. Emmanuel would do
the same, and look out for takeaway cafes with pies and boerewors rolls on the
menu. Jolly's notebook was in his pocket.

A
police car crawled from the harbour terminal and stopped so the officer could
shine a flashlight between two storage sheds. The plan, to walk the Point
openly, wasn't so much a plan as an invitation to trouble. If the police in the
cruiser spotted him twice they'd stop and ask where he was headed. Basic
procedure.

That
he was an ex-detective pursuing a lead in his own personal homicide
investigation would not get him out of trouble with the uniforms if they nabbed
him. The thought of explaining to the police that investigating the murder was
more than an intellectual challenge, that it was a desire to restore order and
help the dead on their way, almost made him smile. Surely they'd understand?
And all of this coupled with an arrogance that he himself acknowledged. Since
this particular murder of this particular boy had found
him,
he was certain that he could put it right.

Emmanuel
walked quickly towards Browns Road. One circuit and he'd be gone. It was too
hazardous otherwise. He turned left and glimpsed a familiar figure also moving
fast. Dim light from the streetlamps bounced off the high sheen of Giriraj's
bald head. Interesting, Giriraj back at the Point so soon after the beating
this morning.