Long Lies the Shadow (6 page)

Viv cannot suppress a flutter of pleasure at the sound of Nick’s voice on her answer machine. Retief’s measured tone announces that he needs to talk to her, and would she please call him at his office. He recites the number and then repeats it slowly, considerately, as if he imagines her writing it down. It is already late afternoon. The sky has sedimented purple beyond the horizon and a stiff wind heralds a cold night. Viv puts her files on the dining table, as she will have no other use for it tonight. The girls have gone to Jonnie. As always, somewhat reluctantly and under mock protest. Abbie has more reason to resist the fortnightly visits. Jonnie is not Abbie’s father but in truth, he is the only father she has known. Viv is grateful that her elder daughter does not wholly object. She knows Abbie goes more for Kayleigh’s sake than her own. But however sullenly they traipse off, Viv knows Jonnie will indulge them, and they will return with presents of new clothes, new shoes, and new music.

She doubts Retief will still be there, but he answers on the second ring. “Retief.” Abruptly.

He asks if she can come in; he will be working late. His voice has thawed.

Viv is hesitant. She detests police stations, though it is years since she was last inside one.

Then he says, “Actually, there’s a good Indian restaurant up in Vredehoek.” Perhaps they can talk over dinner. That is, if she is hungry. Suddenly, he sounds unsure of himself, as if he has assumed too much.

Viv stares at the files on the table. She had planned to use the weekend to catch up with two days of case reports, and the endless laundry her teenage daughters appear to generate, but she feels a strange excitement at the thought of seeing Nick Retief again. “I’m starving,” she replies.

The sun has fully set by the time she has showered and changed. The car flies along a relatively empty de Waal drive which ribbons through the city. To her right, the lights end in geometric structured shapes, where the harbour buttresses the black sea that merges uninterrupted with the night. To her left, the edge of lights undulate as they meet the uninhabitable ridges of the mountain. The slopes are lit by night, and it looms above her, its shadowy form darker than the blackness of the sky. She swings off the highway into the flat stretch of the city centre, turns left up one of the long main streets and makes her way to Retief’s police station.

The Bedouin
is set high up on the steep slopes of the suburb. The owner greets Nick by name and leads them to a cubicle at the window. Cape Town glimmers brightly below. Each chair is draped with silk and the tables dimly lit with lanterns of coloured glass. He explains the Indian terms to her, tells her what he thinks tastes good. She realises he is unaware of her own intimacy with these dishes, having cooked for Jonnie during the long years of her marriage. How little about her he knows. But she doesn’t tell him. She does not want to talk about her life, her past. Too much pain, long-suppressed.

They spend time ordering. Nick’s businesslike tone is gone and he seems at ease.

“What was it that you wanted to talk to me about?” asks Viv, as the waiter disappears with their order. She hopes her nervousness does not show.

“I haven’t been able to get hold of Miss McMann. And there’s a few things I need to find out about that may help clear up a few details.”

“What sort of details do you need to know?” Viv does not allow him time to reply. “And what sort of things do you need to know about Gin? You want me to tell you about my friend and I don’t know why; what if it’s things she might not want me to tell you about? Things she might not want you to know. And why do you need to know them?”

Nick does not interrupt her. When he seems certain she has finished, he answers. “I need to know about her past, about people she has been involved with, about anyone that may have a reason to want to harm her or Simon Gold.”

“Harm Gin?” Viv’s voice rises.

“Yes,” Nick says patiently, “or Simon Gold.”

“I didn’t know him. I never even met him.” She is horribly aware of the lie. Guilt settles on her chest. Already she feels the weight of lying to Nick. Nothing, she thinks, nothing in our present can be untainted by our past.

“But you knew that Miss McMann – Gin – was involved with him? You went to university together.” Nick sounds surprised.

“At the same time, not together. I didn’t meet Gin till after university, till after…” Viv stops.

Nick waits again. When she swallows and does not continue, he asks, “Till after what, Vivienne?”

“Nick,” says Viv stiffly, “this is hard for me.”

The waiter arrives with their food and busies himself with spreading the various dishes around the table, talking all the while, explaining to Viv which dish is which. She inclines her head politely at him, but stays silent. Nick is watching her across the table, and is silent also. When the waiter has left, she sits staring sullenly at the food. She feels like her daughters, sulky and reluctant to talk when upset.

He leans across to her. “I’m sorry, Vivienne,” he says, “I know this must be difficult for you. But I promise you, I’m really trying to help Gin, to find out what really happened that day. And why.”

“You really don’t think it was an accident, do you?” asks Viv, relenting somewhat.

He fills her glass with Colombard. “No, I don’t. And the insurance people don’t think so either. They’re not going to pay out till they know what happened.”

“Will that affect Simon’s estate?”

“It’ll affect his estate, yes, but only in terms of resolving this one insurance payout. From what I’ve been told, this particular life insurance policy is a large amount.”

“Is his family pushing you also?”

“No, not at all. Doctor Gold was a wealthy man, by all accounts. He left his wife and children very well provided for.”

Viv is quiet, thinking about Gin and her pregnancy. She has not mentioned this to anyone and doubts that Retief can know.

“His family are also wealthy,” continues Nick. “They own Kornfeld and Gold jewellers.”

“I know, Nick.” Again Viv realises he has no idea of her own past, of her own involvement with Gabe. “Gin’s family is the Kornfeld part,” she says, “Her maternal grandfather.”

“Ah, yes, I remember her saying their grandfathers were in business together. Friends. Is that how she met Doctor Gold – Simon – then?”

“They met for the first time when Gin was at university, and Simon was doing his medical internship in the same town. Although their families were always close. Gin was very close to Simon’s cousin Hannah when they were growing up. But I never knew Hannah either.” She stops and takes a draught of her wine.

Hannah
, the name sits oddly on her tongue.
Hannah
, the unknown.
Hannah
, the name that had haunted Gabe’s dreams.

Nick ladles rice onto her plate, hands her copper dishes of spicy offerings.

“That’s all I really know about Simon,” she says. She sees again
Simon’s serious eyes, looking at her. She feels like his biblical namesake, denying knowledge. Yet it was true, she convinces herself, I hardly knew him. Just that one meeting, two, three even, didn’t mean she had been any closer to the man. “And I can’t possibly tell you who might want to hurt him. Or Gin, for that matter. It seems absurd to me. Maybe Simon’s family can help you more. Have you spoken to them?”

“
Ja
,” he nods, refilling her glass. “They had no idea Miss – Gin – and he were in Cape Town together until after the accident. They didn’t seem very happy about the fact, though.”

“Of course not,” snorts Viv before she can stop herself.

He looks at her, curious. “Why do you say that?”

“I just mean, well, you know, they were the reason Simon split up with Gin. You know, he was Jewish, she wasn’t. It’s difficult, not the done thing. You know how it is.”

“
Ja
, my mom had the same problem, being English and marrying into an Afrikaans family.” His voice is soft with memory.

Viv has her own experience of trying to fit in, to belong to a culture other than one’s own. Jonnie’s family had never quite accepted her, and she had been at once hurt and astonished at their rejection of her. Somehow, stupidly, she had assumed only the white people in this country were racist. His mother had tried to make Viv into a good Indian wife, taught her how to make curries, how to wear a sari, and had urged her to convert to Islam. Viv had resisted everything but the cooking. It is a measure of her progress since the divorce, she thinks wryly to herself, that she can sit and eat the food before her without bitterness.

They eat, and for a while they speak of other things. He seems almost relieved when she laughs at something he has said. Over coffee, he returns to Gin’s case. “Tell me more about Simon and Gin.”

“Well, he ended it quite suddenly when her course finished at university. I always thought there was more to it than the whole Jewish
thing. Anyhow, he left, took a job in Jo’burg.” Viv feels relaxed now and speaks more freely. “I didn’t know Gin then, as I told you, but she was devastated. She left also, came to Cape Town.”

“How come they got back together here after all this time?”

“Her dad died and she came home for his funeral. As you know, their families are connected… he phoned her I think and arranged to see her. I thought she told you this?”

“She did, but sometimes someone else sees things differently.”

“You mean, like his wife?” asks Viv.

He looks at her intently, “Why do you think I was talking about her?”

“It’s just that you keep wanting to know about Simon and Gin and who would be upset at them. I suppose the only person I can think of would be his wife.” She pauses. “You said the driver was a woman.” Viv’s eyes widen. “Oh my goodness, do you think Simon’s wife found out about them and came after him and rammed their car deliberately?”

Nick is smiling at her.

“What?” she asks. “Why are you smiling?”

“
Ja
,” he says, “No, you’re absolutely right.”

“Well?”

He is obviously amused. “Yes, Vivienne, the thought had occurred to me it might be the wife.”

“Have you questioned her?”

He is more sober now. “I have. And it can’t be her.”

“Why not?”

“Well, two reasons. Firstly, the woman that was seen following them was Cape Coloured, or Malay, not white.”

“Following them?” interrupts Viv.

“Someone remembered Simon and Gin having coffee outside a café in Seapoint. Said he noticed them because they looked so much in love.” He takes a sip of coffee. “Anyhow, the same chap said
he noticed a woman sitting in a white Mercedes looking at them also. Said he didn’t think anything of it, I mean, they were a striking couple and so obviously wrapped up in each other, that people noticed them. But he says he then saw Simon and Gin leave in their car. The Mercedes pulled out after them, almost deliberately. Hurriedly. It pulled out quite sharply ahead of another car as if trying to follow them. At least, that’s what it looked like.” Nick stops, spoons more sugar into his cup.

Viv is thoughtful. “You said there were two reasons.”

“Hey?”

“You said there were two reasons it couldn’t be Simon’s wife. What could have stopped her hiring someone, the woman in the Mercedes even… to follow him if she suspected Simon was having an affair?”

He grins at her. “You’ve a suspicious mind, Vivienne. You should come and work for us.”

She smiles weakly at him. “I’m a social worker, Nick. I also see the human condition, the frailties, the cruelties, the worst of people, what they are capable of.” Viv does not mention her own experience of tragedy and betrayal.

He looks at her for a moment before replying. “The other reason it couldn’t be Mrs Gold is that she totally and utterly lacked motive.”

“But what do you mean? Her husband was having an affair, with a woman he had once lived with… isn’t that motive enough to want to kill him?” Viv laughs, somewhat harshly. Then her voice rises again, and she looks at Nick in alarm, “Or Gin, for that matter. God, Nick.”

“It wasn’t Mrs Gold,” he says slowly, deliberately, “we’ve practically eliminated her from the investigation. You see, before Doctor Gold… before Simon even phoned Gin or came to Cape Town, the marriage was over.”

Viv puts her cup down hard. It clatters on the saucer. “What?”

“Yes,” says Nick, “they were getting divorced.”

Simon’s wife, Retief tells Viv, had sued for divorce some months before his death. “It was her decision. She had an affair with one of her partners in her law firm. They were due to be married once the divorce went through. It’s by all accounts a successful firm, a very lucrative business. She has no need for money,” he continues.

Viv is insistent. “People have killed for less. Perhaps she wanted it all, perhaps Simon was causing trouble, contesting the divorce. Perhaps, despite her own infidelity, she was furious at his. You know, the scorned woman…”

Her voice trails off seeing Nick’s placid gaze. It had all been progressing quite amicably, Nick tells her. In truth, even to Viv, it sounds wild, implausible. She can scarcely believe anyone would want to hurt Gin, let alone possibly kill her. They finish their coffee in silence.

Nick is paying for the meal when Viv suddenly grabs his arm, startling both him and the restaurateur. “It’s a good thing then, that Gin’s gone back to England.”

He looks at her briefly, thanks the manager, turns back to her. “Come,” he says calmly, taking her arm, “I’ll drive you home.”

The night is quiet, and she notices it is later than she thought. He will bring her car out to her tomorrow, he promises. Viv thinks perhaps he has had as much wine as she, but she does not argue. She feels tired, and it is pleasurable to sit back for once and let someone else drive. The lights of the city sweep by. Neither of them speaks. The night’s conversation has made her feel sad, bringing back moments in her life best left buried.

“Are you okay?” Nick’s voice sounds through the darkness of the car.

They are almost home. “I’m fine,” she says, but she feels as if she could cry.

He turns into her road, slides the car easily alongside the kerb. They sit quietly for a moment, both contemplating the empty street, dimly lit. Somewhere a neighbour shouts for his dog. A light in the next house flicks on, then off again. Viv looks blankly at the red wooden gate. It is pulling at its hinges. The sea air has done its damage, she thinks, and it will soon need painting. The blocks of cement leading to her front door are under siege from the tough kikuyu grass. But the house looks good; its walls gleam softly in the light of the streetlamps. Inside, she remembers, will still be the mess she left, the girls’ clothes and schoolbooks scattered in the haste of their departure. Viv’s own files lay strewn across the table. But the lounge will be warm and welcoming. She had drawn the curtains before she had left, and the warmth will not have slipped through the tall French doors. And the grate is freshly packed with pine cones gathered from the side of the mountain. She likes her home, Viv realises, suddenly aware of her life through outside eyes. She had gathered it together through pain, and loss, and heartache, and made it hers. And more than anything, she longs to be inside it now.

“I’m sorry about all the questions,” he says gently.

“Well, now you know everything I know, everything I ever knew about Gin. And Simon Gold for that matter.” Her voice is angry. She is feeling used.

“I’ll bring your car back to you tomorrow,” he says. She is about to tell him not to bother when he adds, “I have a dog. I take her for a run on Muizenberg beach on the weekends when I can. Would you like to come with me?”

She shifts in her seat to look at him. He is leaning back against the window, turned towards her, his hands playing with the car keys. “Nick…” She thinks she ought to tell him it is best perhaps if she does not see him again, but stops. It is not his fault the evening’s talk has brought back unhappy memories. And she had enjoyed his company.

“Of course, you’d have to drive me home tomorrow. If that’s all right,” he adds.

As earlier that evening, the uncertainty in his voice touches her. Suddenly her mood lifts. She can think of nothing more pleasant than walking along the beach the following morning. “That’d be nice, yes,” she says. “What’s her name?”

“Who?” he asks.

“Your wife,” she says, and then, seeing his look, laughs. “Your dog. Unless, of course, you do have a wife.”

He laughs also. “Manyanga.”

“Manyanga,” repeats Viv. The name folds itself around her lips. “What does it mean?”

“It’s Swahili,” he says, smiling. “It means beautiful girl.” His eyes are on her, intent.

“And is she?” she asks, for something to say.

His smile, his look, unnerves her.

“Yes,” he answers. “You’ll like her,” he adds, “she’s loyal, trusting. Faithful.”

“Good qualities in a dog.”

“Good qualities in a companion. You see, no wife.” Then, suddenly serious, he adds, “Vivienne, I am sorry about making you talk about things from your past that may have been uncomfortable for you. I know that it’s your story too.”

Viv is too surprised to speak.

“And that,” he continues, almost inaudibly, “I’d really like to know more about.”

She digests this.

“Of course,” he says, and she can hear the smile return to his voice, “I could always interrogate your neighbours about you.”

She laughs again, and his smile broadens, and then he gets out of the car, opens the car door for her, and walks her up the cement path to the entrance of her house. For a long moment, she looks at him looking at her. He lifts his hand to touch her cheek. In that gesture, momentarily, beneath the half-light of the street, he has a look so like Gabe it takes her breath. Viv’s mouth goes dry, and she turns from him, fumbling for her keys, half-blind with tears.

He is immediately formal. “Thank you for a very pleasant evening, Vivienne. I’ll see you tomorrow, about nine.”

Viv pushes the heavy door open, steps inside the hall and switches on the light. Its brightness is blinding after the tepid streetlight. She turns to look out after him.

But Nick Retief has already disappeared into the darkness.