The Water Man's Daughter (28 page)

T
EN IN THE MORNING AND
M
IRA IS NOWHERE TO
be found. Zembe knows that Sipho will be pleased when he reads the report from her patrol: no sign of him for over a day and a half. A suspect on the run looks better than a man who volunteers to co-operate. He’ll have something to tell the community when they curse him for accusing their leader. He ran. What innocent man would run?

She sits still, waiting for the office to fill with the day’s reports. Every man who enters the door and is not Mira confirms Zembe’s fears further. Now all she needs is a piece of evidence that places Mira with Matthews. Some explanation for how the white man ended up in the township, how the tsotsis lured him out of his hotel. She thinks about the blonde bartender’s struggle with the loud drunk man at the bar. What if Mira used a girl to get Matthews out of the safety of the Central Sun?

Z
EMBE STOPS BY THE GAS STATION ON HER WAY TO
the water office. She has to update Dadoo, a moment she is dreading. But on her way she wants to explore one last angle. She pokes her head in, and the four men are sitting
in the exact same formation as at her last visit. The slurp of warm Coke through straws and the crunch of shells under Zembe’s heels are the only sounds.

“Sawubona, bhuti,” Zembe greets the ringleader.

“Ah yes, Ms. Afrika. Any luck finding our Diepkloof thief?”

“No, but I did hear that he had a nasty run-in with a set of tires.”

“Yes, I heard the same thing. He’s lucky to be walking around again.” The men all grin, pause in their sipping.

“Very lucky, I’m sure. I’m not here to check up on you, I want to cash in my favour.”

“I hope it is within my reach.”

“If I give you a date, can you find out all the comings and goings of taxis from the Central Sun after midnight?”

“Is it a weekend?”

“No, a Tuesday night.”

“Not a common time to travel on a weeknight. There might not be anything.” The man frowns, genuinely concerned that he might be forced to investigate and still not satisfy his debt to the police.

“A white man, North American, he would have been the passenger. He might have been with a black girl. They left the hotel late, we think they left late. Just check into it for me and we’ll consider the favour satisfied.”

“I will try.”

“I knew you would come through for me.”

“Wait until I find something. I cannot guarantee
anything until I speak to my drivers,” the man says to Zembe’s back as she leaves.

Z
EMBE PRAYS THE ENTIRE WAY TO
A
MANZI’S OFFICES
that Dadoo is away from his desk, at a treatment plant, on a site visit, anything that will allow her just to leave a message and be able to tell Sipho that the water men are getting the personal service they demand from the police force. She can leave the file containing the blood analysis with the pinched secretary and then start the long drive back home.

Except Dadoo is most certainly in his office. In fact, he’s in the atrium at the front when the elevator doors open. He turns with a look of surprise when he sees Zembe and smiles that quick, fake smile.

“Ms. Afrika. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“Mr. Dadoo. I was just stopping by to drop off our latest update on the investigation,” Zembe answers tightly.

“Excellent. We can talk in my office.”

Zembe knows that Dadoo already has the information she’s about to give him. He is gleeful precisely because the evidence points towards the community. Thankfully Dadoo doesn’t know about the strips of cloth in Mira’s garden.

Once in the office, she opens the file on Dadoo’s desk. She starts to take out the blood analysis and points to the third paragraph, where the paternity lab identifies the blood in Florence’s yard as a match to Matthews’s blood type in the coroner’s file.

Dadoo comes over, sits down in his chair, and interrupts Zembe after only the first sentence.

“Ms. Afrika, if I am to understand correctly, a bunch of thugs are responsible for this murder.”

“Well –”

“And one of the leaders of the
PCF
has gang affiliations. To the 28s? Are we surprised that they are somehow linked?” Dadoo snorts. “Not bloody likely. I knew they were behind it from the beginning.”

“The evidence is not conclusive yet,” Zembe says but feels defeated. Dadoo leans back and links his fat fingers together. He rocks in his office chair, smiling.

“But,” he begins, and pauses for effect. “Now that we are quite sure who is responsible, we can put this all to bed.”

Zembe hates Dadoo and his hands so carefully placed and his little smile, more genuine than anything he’s displayed before. Mira might be a killer, he certainly has the edge you need for that kind of business. But he is also the boy who held Nomsulwa while she wailed in his arms. And Dadoo is a monster, strangling the people Zembe swore to protect, excused from the role because of circumstance and the suit he wears. She resents him with every ounce of herself.

Dadoo stops rocking and moves closer, elbows resting on his desk.

“Our charge, I hear, is out of town.” Dadoo shifts gears.

“Yes. She’s been taken to tour the water project in Victoria.”

“Are you sure that was wise?”

“It kept her busy, which was what you requested.” Zembe covers her own annoyance at Claire’s trip, pretending to have orchestrated the entire thing. She can’t show any lack of control in front of Dadoo.

“Her flight is scheduled to depart in two days and I think we need to tell her about our latest development if we are going to make sure she’s on that plane.”

“You want me to solve the case by tomorrow?” Zembe scoffs.

“We know who it was. Tell her it’s done. We can tie up loose ends after.”

“The investigation is still very much underway. We don’t know how, or why …” She trails off. She’s not sure if she’s being thorough or if she is reluctant to close the case. The fallout is going to be devastating. She could tell Dadoo her real worry, that Claire is with Nomsulwa, and letting either know how close they are to arresting Mira is too dangerous, for Zembe and for the company.

“I’m sure you will think of a way to wrap it up nicely for her,” Dadoo says.

Zembe begins to protest again.

“I will call tomorrow.” Dadoo gives her no chance to interject further before standing up and holding out his hand. Zembe takes it lightly and then exits quickly.

Z
EMBE TAKES A PICTURE OF
M
IRA FROM THE FILE
. It’s an old photo, one she dug up when she first found the
blood in Mira’s yard. He looks the same though: slight frame, slight face, without his height you could think him no older than sixteen. There is none of the hardness in this picture that Zembe feels when she is with him. It is the kind of picture a mother would carry with her.

This time, she calls the hotel first to make sure Josef, the bartender, is working. The manager says that he doesn’t come in until the evening shift, but he can ask him to be at the hotel within the hour if it is urgent.

“It is,” Zembe assures him. And the manager is all too happy to assist, hoping, Zembe assumes, to end the investigation once and for all. She gathers the file together. Checks in with the few officers milling around the building, and then gets into her car and drives downtown.

Josef, unlike Misha, is confident and speaks with a British accent, or at least he fakes one very well. He is handsome, tall and broad, and his arms strain against the collared black shirt he wears with an easy pair of jeans. He carries himself like a man who has always known he is attractive. He has also likely always worn sharply pressed shirts, from his fancy private school to university. Zembe guesses University of Cape Town, with that accent.

Josef talks to Zembe in a conspiratorial manner about the goings-on in the hotel. He tells her about business deals in the back corners, he jokes about the drugs he sees patrons snort in the hotel bar bathroom. She listens, nodding, then prompts him to remember the night Matthews was at his bar and he begins a story.

“Those Americans get wasted, but that guy was a quiet drunk, like a shadow, ychoo. Then when the Indian guy started laying into him. That was bloody hilarious. I couldn’t laugh, mind you. But the American swaying and the Indian man yelling. It was a scene. I was glad to see him leave.”

“The American?” Zembe focuses in closer.

“No, the Indian.”

“Did you see the American with anyone else? A girl, perhaps?”

“You mean a girl, like a
girl?”
Josef smirks. “There are lots of those, slipping in and out on the weekend. Doorman starts to ignore the riff-raff when it gets late enough, especially on a weeknight. Even the really black girls are greeted at the door like guests, tough-looking girls, girls that would
never
get in otherwise.”

“And that night.” Zembe tried not to lose her patience.

“That night was slow. There was one girl. Could have been one of those types of girls. A little round.” Josef mimes squeezing a body in front of him. Zembe does her best to ignore it. “Cute, you know, because she was light-skinned. But not dressed the part.”

“Did she talk to the American?” Zembe gets excited. This was where he could have been lured outside.

“I don’t think so. But either way, I saw her at the bar after the American had left. That I remember.”

“Did she order a beer?”

“What? I don’t know what she was drinking. But she was looking at me, you know, like she knew what she wanted.
It was a weeknight, otherwise I might have taken her …” he trails off. “But whatever. A Tuesday isn’t going to be one of those nights. Girls like that happen all the time. Just last night, a hot Indian girl was asking me about scotch. As if she drank scotch. She was just trying to make conversation. Didn’t give a shit about scotch, but did about me. Bet she didn’t even drink.”

Zembe is thankful that her job is limited to the township. That she rarely has to indulge creeps like this one in fancy downtown offices. Because in these hotels, absolutely nothing has changed. She smiles an Apartheid-era smile and tries to pull Josef back to her line of questioning.

“What about …” Zembe pauses, lets Josef’s description slide. She focuses on what is important, fingers the picture of Mira, not sure if she wants to know the answer. “What about this man?” She slides the picture over to the bartender. Josef takes it, tips it back to get a better look.

“This guy? Looks like a kid.” He bites his lip. “Nah. Not that night, for sure. Don’t think I’ve seen him before. That said, who knows?” He hands the photo back. Zembe’s not sure if she’s more relieved or confused.

“Do you remember what time Mr. Matthews left the bar?”

“No. I mean, it was certainly before closing. I turned around and he was gone. No big deal, really, must have gotten tired of swimming in his own head and headed upstairs.”

“And no one else was left in the bar?”

“Look, there were people
there
. I mean, it’s a hotel bar at night, there are always the travellers, the businessmen
who can’t sleep alone, the women lonely and looking for a friend to pass the time with. But I didn’t see anyone suspicious. Certainly none of those
girls
, and no young guys looking to score or settle a score.” Josef smiles at his wordplay. Zembe sighs, closes the file, and stands.

“Thanks for your time.”

She exits the hotel. She can’t arrest a man when she has no evidence linking him to the victim. She has run out of ideas. There is nothing to prove Mira and Matthews met, nothing to suggest Mira started the night’s events in motion. The blood evidence just isn’t enough.

I
N HER CAR ON THE HIGHWAY
, N
OMSULWA IMAGINES
Claire in her hotel room waiting for the day to pass so she can escape back home. She is packing her clothing, shaking out desert dust, prepared to leave this all behind. She runs over yesterday’s events in her head, each time hoping that her imaginary self will step in, take Claire away from the meeting, freeze her, content and inspired, walking with Nomsulwa through Victoria at the end of their township tour. Make it up to her, as if that would be possible.