Just a Dead Man (14 page)

We walked on together in silence. Absentmindedly, I took the stick Grumpy was prodding against my thigh and threw it for him. I'm not much of a thrower, and he brought it back with a canine sigh. He isn't the most energetic of dogs, but he would have liked a better effort than that. Adam held out his hand, and took the stick from me, slobber and all. He pulled his arm back and sent it spinning off into the distance with a neat flick of his wrist. Grumpy lolloped off enthusiastically.

“Nice throw.”

“Used to play some cricket, long ago. Now I just run, leave ball games to younger people.” He stopped, turned and looked at me. “And Flash Funerals … Laura, just take it from me that we are investigating them, who they are, and where their vehicles were on the day of the killing. But I'm not telling you any more about that.”

Grumpy brought a stick back, possibly even the original one. Adam threw it a couple more times, and we continued to talk, though not about the Ndzoyiya case. He asked me about Mike and Rory, and about my divorce. It's not a subject I'm comfortable with. Fifteen years of my life wasted because of a ridiculous decision made when I was too young. And my self-confidence knocked for a
loop into the bargain. But Adam's questions were gentle, and non-judgemental. I found myself telling him things about the Simon years that I have seldom told anyone.

He began to talk about the death of his wife and child. Overworked and inexperienced doctors, and a litany of small mistakes that added up to catastrophe. “Afterwards, I threw myself into my work. It seemed to be the only thing left for me. And I suppose it got me through what was a terrible time. I still miss Merushka, of course. But I sometimes think, who knows? Would we have continued to be happy? She didn't much like me being a policeman: long, unpredictable hours, danger and poor pay. With a child, what would have happened?” He shrugged. “We can never know. And ‘what if' is not helpful. In the end we have to get on with the hand we've been dealt.”

I stopped to look at him, that neat, dapper policeman. At that moment I could have told him anything, however personal, however intimate. I opened my mouth to say something but before I could speak we heard voices coming up the track towards us, and two mountain bikers came round the corner. They were taking it easy, chatting as they rode, and greeted us incuriously as they passed. The moment was over.

We carried on down, coming to the place where Phineas Ndzoyiya's body had lain, though we made no mention of it. As I bent to clip on Grumpy's lead for the walk back down the road to the house, I realised that Adam Pillay now had a mountain – or a hill at any rate – to climb between himself and his car.

“Look, you've walked all this way with me. I'll give you a lift back to where you parked. You can't jog back all that way again, even if you are training for the Comrades!”

He laughed. “Thank you. I think I'll take you up on that.”

We let ourselves in at the gate, and had a glass of ginger beer before heading off. Not for the first time, as we drove around the town to where, on the far side of the plantations, he had left his car, it struck me that although as the crow might have flown, it was not far from me, that side of the city was a foreign world. Apartheid's long shadow still lay over the country. Suburbs might have opened up but, human nature being what it is, we still seem to stay in our safe little pockets of familiarity. Or our ghettoes, depending on how you choose to look at it.

As Adam climbed out of my car, his own keys in his hand, he turned to me again. “Be careful, Laura. Anything – anything at all – that doesn't seem right to you, or that worries you, phone me. Any time. Day or night. You have my cell number, so use it. And think about what I said: maybe go stay with someone for a while. Just until we get this cleared up. And no walking in the plantations on your own.” Again, he touched me lightly, putting his hand over mine where it lay on the steering wheel.

B
Y THE TIME
I
GOT HOME
, Mike and a couple of his friends were lurking hopefully in the kitchen. They claimed to be too poor to see a movie
and
buy a burger, so was there any chance I could feed them? I sighed, but at least it would keep my mind off my afternoon, and so I set to work to produce a big dish of pasta with mince and tomatoes. Not haute cuisine, but it went down well. Stephen was there again, with his father's car, and I was impressed that he didn't have a beer with the other two. I looked questioningly at him and he grinned.

“I'll have a beer before the movie, but I promise that's all. My dad gets kinda worked up about this drink-driving stuff.” I opened my mouth to comment, and he put up a hand and went on: “He's probably right, I know. Don't worry, Mrs M. We'll get home fine. It's cool.”

I watched them go, heart in mouth as usual. Still, they weren't going far. My strictures about Mike being driven by Stephen after dark seemed to have gone by the board, but even I could see they weren't based on any kind of logic. I had worried about whether or not to give Mike a curfew, but in a few months he would be out on his own, and it seemed silly to confine him only to have him kick over the traces later. He knew that if he was going to be significantly late, he had to phone. And generally, he was
pretty good about it. Better than Rory had been, in fact.

Once the boys had gone, the house seemed empty, its comfortable familiarity lessened, as if something was lurking in the shadows. Any sudden sound set my nerves jangling, calling up memories of Paul Ndzoyiya telling me about the scratching noises on his back door. Although it was the last thing I wanted to do, I began to wonder whether Mike and I should indeed move in with my parents until the mystery had been solved. But I didn't think I could face it, and I knew Mike, however much he loved his grandparents, would not be keen. I decided to give it a few days, and just be very careful, and insist that Mike was as well. I would have to tell him about the possible threat, and make sure that he was with me or friends all the time. I sighed, checked again that all the doors were locked, and went off to make a cup of coffee. I took it with me to my computer, and got down to some research, telling myself that satisfying my private curiosity would harm no one. I typed “Pondoland mining titanium” (about which I had only the vaguest idea, knowing that titanium was some kind of hard metal, but not much more) into Google's search box and waited to see what came up.

The answer was a lot. There were numerous websites, some too technical for me, with their talk of “heavy mineral sands”, but there were others that offered plenty of information accessible to the uninitiated. I began to realise that the issue of mining on the Wild Coast was a very hot potato and had been so for some time, with Australian mining companies and their Black Economic Empowerment partners trying to muscle in on what could be a profitable enterprise – for them at any rate. There were stories about a smelter to be built, with the spin-off of jobs; new roads being constructed, promising easier transport and access to bigger centres and all kinds
of other “advantages” for the people who lived in the area.

Only once did I find a mention of Thabo Mchunu – on a list of people who attended a community meeting a year before. What I did come across, however, were suggestions that locals were being railroaded into agreeing to something that could leave them with debt rather than profit; tales of wheeling and dealing over shares that were supposed to go to local communities; the huge, fenced-off highway that would facilitate trucks moving at speed up and down the coast would, in reality, split communities in half as effectively as a Berlin Wall; Environmental Impact Studies that predicted dire pollution in an area where clean water was already very scarce.

Somewhere in the back of my mind was a memory that lawyers could access lists of company directors, if they had signed up to some website. I didn't want to bother Robin with this, but my brother Alec, who dealt all the time in the arcane worlds of corporate finance, might be able to help. So I phoned him in his plush Johannesburg home, and although he said they were having friends round to dinner, he took Thabo Mchunu's name down, and promised he would see if he could track him down in any mining or empowerment companies in the next couple of days.

The money to be made from mining seemed a more likely motive for murder than anything else I had come up with, but it was still all nebulous. Possibly, Phineas Ndzoyiya had opposed plans and irritated people, but I didn't have any proof. I sat at my computer, and played a mindless game of Solitaire while I thought. Suddenly the ring of the phone made me jump. I glanced at my watch: only nine o'clock, so hardly an odd time for a call. I was just on edge. But when I had answered it, I was profoundly depressed as well. It was Ms Tits, in full cry.

“Laura. Glad I've caught you in.” Like I'm always out on the town. “Now. As you know, Simon turns 45 in July, and we're going to have a party. His birthday is on the Wednesday, but we've decided on the weekend before.” Fine, I thought. I assume you're not inviting me, so what's the call about?

“Of course, Simon wants the boys here, and says he'll arrange a flight for Mike. I know it's Rory's vac, but he was planning to stay in Cape Town anyway.” Oh, was he, I thought. But all I did was give a non-committal grunt to let her know I was still here.

“Only, when I spoke to Rory this morning, he said he wouldn't be. He said it was the opening of some exhibition of yours on the Friday evening, and he'd be with you. And he said Mike would be there too.”

I wanted to burst into tears. My gorgeous, wonderful Rory. Not only had he remembered the date of my exhibition; he wanted to be here for it. And would rather be here than at his father's birthday party. I was ecstatic.

“Look, Laura. Can't you change your exhibition to the following weekend, or something? I mean, we
could
move Simon's party, but the first date is going to suit us better.”

I took a deep breath. And then another. “Well, Sonia, I can't. I'm involved with other artists, and that's the weekend the exhibition opens. Can't be changed, I'm afraid.”

“Really. Are you sure? I mean, it's not as if you're a proper artist. It's just a hobby. Perhaps the boys could have a look at your pictures later?”

I didn't scream. I didn't slam down the phone. I just said, as calmly as I could, “No can do, I'm afraid.” But my cool was thawing fast, and then I heard myself say, with a distinct rise in pitch, “And by the way, Sonia, you wouldn't recognise a proper artist if one jumped up and
poked you in the eye with a palette knife.” By this point, my voice was shaky. “If Simon wants his sons to come to his birthday party, he'll just have to accommodate them if they've made other plans. I have put no pressure on Rory and Mike to come to my exhibition. I'm touched that Rory has remembered when it is, and even more touched that he wants to be there. I'm going to take it as a sign of the good relationship I have with my children: a relationship their father has done his best to undermine over the last five years.

“I'm sure they would like to be at his party, but they are young adults, and quite old enough to sort out their own priorities. I will put no pressure on them to make their decision, one way or the other. If you and Simon have any sense, you'll do the same. And if it means changing the date of your July bikini wax or something, well then, you'll just have to do it. And now, I really must go. I want to scream, and you'll be able to hear me, phone or no phone.”

But I didn't scream. I burst into tears and I howled. I wanted my children with me so that I could tell them how much I loved them, and they weren't there. And all the strain of the last few weeks rose to the surface of my soul, and poured out in my tears. I walked through to the kitchen and cried and cried. Grumpy, with the curious understanding dogs have and that makes them such endearing companions, knew this was a significant moment, and that he was needed. He stood by my side, making little doggy sounds and leaning against my leg until I reached a hand down to fondle his soft ears. He turned his head, and licked the salty wetness from my fingers.

I slid down onto the floor and hugged him. We sat there together for a while, and slowly my shuddering breath began to return to normal. He reached his warm,
rough tongue across to my wet cheek, and eventually I felt able to kiss his nose, and lever myself upright again. I was a fool to let Sonia get to me, and God knew how she would report the conversation to Simon, but it was too late to worry about that. I went to the bathroom and washed my face, removing the tears, snot and dog saliva. I looked pretty ravaged, but at least I was no longer a gibbering wreck.

I had said some stupid things to Sonia. I have nothing but regrets over my marriage to Simon. It had been a horrible mistake from start to finish. He's not a bad man, but he is insensitive, and a bully by nature. And I dislike Sonia. Not for having married my ex-husband: she's welcome to him. But I find her a stupid, ungenerous woman. Maybe if she had children of her own, she would have been better, but she and Simon have none, whether by design or not, I have no idea. She treats Rory and Mike as if they were an alien species. But there is no point fighting with her. Obviously, Simon and I have to be able to communicate in a civil fashion over our children. And I have no wish to add to the problems our divorce must have caused by behaving badly and antagonising their father. So, all in all, despite enjoying my rant at Sonia while I was ranting, I regretted it now.

It was not a happy evening, the miserable Saturday night of the lonely single mother writ large. I couldn't settle to anything. My eyes were sore and burning: I can't remember when I had last cried like that. I indulged in an oversized bout of self-pity and eventually I headed off to bed: if Mike came back early, I certainly didn't want him to see his mother looking like the poster woman for misery.

I dragged Grumpy's basket into my bedroom. This is something I very seldom do as he is not the most
salubrious of night-time companions, being prone to farting and licking. But I was uneasy and lonely and had now convinced myself that, should I survive the attentions of some homicidal maniac who was out there on my case, I was doomed to a miserable life. My children would be gone and no one would care what was happening to me. I'm not proud to admit it, but I was wallowing in gloom.

I lay there, waiting for the sound of the door and Mike's return. Sure enough, the boys came in, unharmed and in time. Mike tapped on my door and said he was home. Not that there was much doubt: there was noisy coffee- and sandwich-making going on in the kitchen, and I had to get out of bed anyway to let a restless Grumpy pad off to join in. Eventually the noise died down and I heard Stephen drive off. But I slept badly. Although I slept more than I may have realised, it was sleep punctuated by bizarre dreams. I would wake from one, hot and uncomfortable. I would stick my feet out into the cooler margins of the bed, and finally doze again, only for the dream to resume in a slightly different form. The same people would appear: an angry Mrs Golightly; Dan, silent and withdrawn; Sonia, half undressed and, in one particularly horrific moment, with a palette knife sticking out of her eye; and always, lurking in the background, a burly black man whose features were hidden but who was wearing an Armani suit, standing close to a frowning Adam Pillay.

When Sunday morning dawned, I was feeling hag-ridden. My eyes still looked puffy, but less alarming than they had last night. I forced myself out of bed and into the kitchen, where I made a jug of fruit smoothie, something of a Sunday-morning ritual. I poured myself a glass, and put the rest in the fridge for Mike, no early riser on Sundays. I noticed that the boys had carefully wrapped and put the chicken carcass back in the fridge, having first removed
all traces of meat. With a sigh, I took it out – I had been thinking along the lines of toasted chicken sandwiches for Sunday supper, but it would have to be back to the drawing board for that one.

I took my smoothie through to the studio, and settled down to give myself a severe talking to. I was behaving like an idiot, and it was time I pulled myself together. The sun was shining, I was sitting in a warm patch on the old sofa, and slowly the world began to look less threatening. It looked even better after Vanessa phoned.

“Hey – you're sounding down. I'm on my way and I'm going to take you off for a big, fat brunch – coffee, cake, full English. The works. I want to hear all about the great detective, and anyway, we need to finalise a couple of things for the exhibition. I want to see those paintings, girl.”

I made some weak protestations about leaving Mike if I went out, and told Ness she could have coffee here, but she was having none of it.

“Come on! You haven't got any Black Forest cherry cake there, have you? That's what I need. And for heaven's sake, Laura, Mike is 17 years old. I'll bet he's still asleep. Leave him a note. I'm not listening to any feebleness now. I'm on my way.”

She hung up, and I have to admit I felt better. I got dressed, pulling on my best jeans as I remembered Vanessa's strictures about the way I had looked last time. I scribbled a note to Mike, telling him there was a smoothie in the fridge and that I had gone out for breakfast with Ness and would be back later. I did add that he should phone me if he was going out as I wanted to know what he was up to, but I didn't really expect him to take it seriously.

I was waiting for Ness when the phone rang again. My nervousness resurfaced, but it was Simon, sounding
uncharacteristically muted. Though not so muted that he didn't cut me off firmly when I decided, without enthusiasm, to apologise. Simon needs to be in control of any conversation. It has never been any use to try to head him off at the pass.

“I believe you and Sonia had words yesterday, Laura.” Well, that was one way of putting it, I suppose. “I'm sorry. It's a pity the discussion became heated. I just want to say that, as the boys want to be at your exhibition, we'll move the party to the following weekend. After all my birthday is on the Wednesday, so whichever weekend we celebrate makes very little difference. And I would like to have them here. I'll give them the airfare to come down: Rory has said he'll probably stay on in Cape Town afterwards, if that's okay with you.”