Just a Dead Man (18 page)

T
HE NEXT DAY WAS BEAUTIFUL
. Mike had no hockey but some nefarious teenage activity had been planned, and he was going to be out for most of the day. I spent the morning busying myself with the housework and felt, if not fulfilled by what I had done, at least rewarded by virtue. Phil had family commitments, so I decided to take Grumpy for a walk on my own. I couldn't imagine there was any risk, though I did feel guilty as I walked up the lane.

However there was nothing in the plantations to disturb my equilibrium. The only sounds were bird calls – no sinister rustlings. Even the deep shade was friendly, offering momentary respite from the warmth of the sun. As we rounded a corner, stepping out of the trees and into open grassland, I saw a patch of late St Joseph's lilies, their creamy white bells streaked with soft green. Trying to avoid the blackjacks, I slid down the short bank and picked half a dozen. The scent was overpowering, almost vulgar, and I'm not even sure that I like having them in the house. The perfume, with its hint of incipient decay, suggests death, but that afternoon they looked so lovely that I decided a vase in the hall would be fine.

I clambered back up the bank, and Grumpy and I went on our way, the lilies in my hand. I didn't bother to put
him back on the lead as we walked down the lane. There was no traffic, no pedestrians, and no sign of other dogs. There was a pervasive sense of peace.

We came through the gate into the garden, happy to be basking in the late sun and with a sense of wellbeing I had been denied over the past few weeks. But as I reached the step to the studio French window, fumbling in my jeans' pocket for the key, my foot crunched on something, and I looked down. It was a shard of terra cotta. Scattered over the grass and across the step were the shattered remains of the pot that had held one of my birthday lime trees. The tree itself had been smashed and broken into short lengths, and the wreckage – leaves already beginning to lose their gloss – lay in the earth that had been flung out when the pot was overturned.

It had been done with brutality. A heavy mallet with a pitted wooden head lay in the middle of the carnage, a final insult from whoever had done the damage. They hadn't even bothered to take it with them. For a moment I just stood there, uncomprehending. The second tree was still in its pot on the far side of the door. The one that had been broken had been the stronger of the pair, and as I turned to look around me, I squashed something under my shoe. It was one of the two tiny limes. I had wondered whether I should pick them off, give the tree another year to mature before I allowed it to set fruit. But the little green globes had looked so hopeful, so filled with promise, that I had left them. Now there was no decision to be made.

It was that minute fruit that shook me out of my catatonic state. I was wildly angry. I swore, using the foulest language I knew. And then I burst into tears. My home had been violated; something I loved had been desecrated. I felt no fear. It didn't cross my mind that it could have been me, not a tree, lying broken on the grass.

I bent down to pick up the lime, and what remained of the tree. It had obviously been hacked off first just above the soil, and then the stem cut into bits and discarded, while the pot had been smashed and the earth tossed around. A sharp splinter of terra cotta sliced a long, deep cut into the ball of my thumb.

Someone had done this in the hour or so while I was out with Grumpy. And to do it, they had got into the garden. Had I locked the gate when I went out? I thought so, but was I certain? Had I opened the combination when I came in? I must have done, or surely I would have noticed. Had someone come in from the front? They could have broken the gate, or even scaled the wall. It was Saturday afternoon, and the road was quiet. I ran round the house, the dog at my heels, but there was no sign of anything out of the ordinary.

Back at the studio door, I stepped over the mess of pot, earth and leaves and let myself in, my hand firm on Grumpy's collar. If there was anyone in there, I wanted the dog with me. But the house remained undisturbed, everything exactly as I had left it. Shaking, I put my hand into my pocket and pulled out my phone.

Adam Pillay's cellphone went straight to voicemail. For a second I wanted to cry and cut the connection, but I left a message asking him to contact me as soon as possible. I had no doubt that I sounded panicked. I then tried his number at the police station. After an eternity, a bored female voice answered and told me Inspector Pillay was out at a crime scene. I asked her to tell him to please phone Laura Marsh as soon as possible, but I didn't say why. I couldn't explain to some stranger what was going on.

In desperation, I phoned the number I had been given for Sergeant Dhlomo: voicemail again. Where the hell were they, and what were they doing? As I placed my
phone on the table, I noticed a smear of blood across the front. I looked down at my hand: it was bleeding freely, and there were huge dark stains on my T-shirt and down the side of my jeans where the cut had brushed against them. I went into the bathroom and washed, scrubbing my hands to remove all traces of soil and blood and trying to clean the wound. I felt like Macbeth, though I was the victim rather than the villain. I was despoiled, dirtied by what had happened, and it wasn't something I could easily wash away. My thumb continued to pour blood; the cut was deeper than I had thought and ran down into my hand. I found a dressing and plaster and awkwardly, as it was my right thumb, I covered the wound. At least I wouldn't continue leaving a bloody trail around the house.

And then I wondered what to do next. The police were out of reach, but surely I should do
something.
I leaned on the edge of the basin, my legs suddenly weak. Then, into the black silence that was filling my head, I heard Mike's voice shouting goodbye to someone, and the sound of his key in the front door. Overwhelmed with relief that I was no longer alone, I went to him.

Mike looked at the apparition I must have presented in horror. “God, Ma! What's happened?”

Silently I led him through the studio and showed him the remains of the lime tree. It took him a moment to absorb what he was seeing, but he remained calm.

“What happened? Who did it?”

“I don't know. I was out with Grumpy, and when we came back …” I gestured at the mess. “Someone must have got in somehow and done this. There wasn't anyone here, but they left that mallet thing.” I was close to tears.

Mike looked at me, with all a teenager's horror at the thought of an adult who is about to lose control. “Ma … it's a
tree.
It's someone trying to scare you. Whoever it was
obviously didn't want to do anything to you. They're just making some kind of silly statement.”

“
Silly!
Look what they've done, Michael! They've smashed up my tree!”

“Ma! Calm down! It could've been you. Have you called Inspector Pillay?”

“No … I mean, yes. I tried, but he's not there. I've left a message.”

“And the other fellow – that miserable sergeant?”

“Same thing.” I sat down on the sofa. “Make me a cup of tea, would you, Mike?”

Grateful to escape what was beginning to look perilously like a scene, he headed purposefully off to the kitchen, calling over his shoulder as he went. “Try him again, Ma, and then phone Vanessa. Get her to come over.” Both were good ideas. I needed someone to tell me what to do, and Ness would love that. Adam's phone was still on voicemail, but Ness answered hers, and when she heard what had happened, although I don't think she thought the destruction of a potted tree was quite as much of an event as I did, she promised she would be over in 10 minutes.

When she arrived and had been filled in, she and Mike set off to try to work out where the intruder could have got onto the property. They found scuffmarks on the front wall, which – as I couldn't say whether they had been there forever or were brand new – they decided showed where someone had climbed over. They also convinced themselves that the earth in the flower bed on the inside of the wall showed footprints, or at least had been disturbed. It probably had, but whether by intruders, a mole or Grumpy was beyond my powers of detection. I left them to their hunt. My heart was no longer in the detective business. I felt thoroughly miserable.

Ness decided it was now her duty to cheer me up, but for once, she didn't do much of a job of it. Eventually, in desperation, she grabbed my phone and tried Adam Pillay again, with no more success than I had had. She left him a message, telling him firmly there had been an incident at my house, and he'd better get himself there as soon as possible. She then phoned to order pizza, and went off to fetch it, instructing Mike and me to lock ourselves in, and not to open the door unless it was her or the police. I didn't need telling, though Mike seemed to feel that a whole lot of overreaction was going on.

A glass or two of red wine and a bacon-and-avo pizza later, I was beginning to feel slightly more human, although my hand was throbbing and stiff, and becoming intrusively painful. I was even prepared to emerge from my cocoon of silence and talk about the afternoon's violation. Ness was lying back on the sofa, her shapely feet on the table among a collection of plates, glasses, the wine bottle and a fruit bowl, while Mike sprawled on the floor, a permitted Saturday bottle of beer in his hand. At that moment, the doorbell rang, heralding the arrival of Inspector Pillay and Sergeant Dhlomo.

Daylight had faded, but despite the cool air that wafted in through the door, the two men brought with them the smell of hot male bodies. As they came into the light, I could see both looked grim. Their faces shone with sweat, and there was a brown mark on the knee of Sergeant Dhlomo's chinos. He was usually a snappy dresser, but now he looked grubby – and more than usually angry.

They took in the scene of food, drink and apparent relaxation. Inspector Pillay nodded at Vanessa. Nervously I asked if I could get them anything: a drink, tea or coffee.

“No thank you, Mrs Marsh.” Adam was formal. “You left a message for me. I believe something happened?”

“Yes.” I cleared my throat. Something else had obviously happened to make the two look the way they did. The vandalisation of my tree sounded deeply trivial, not an event to worry two weary cops with late on a Saturday evening. But I launched into my story nevertheless. As I was talking, Mike got to his feet and went to switch on the outside light. The mess looked less alarming under the electric glow. It could almost have been the start of some kind of landscaping project, except for the wilted lilies, lying forgotten beside the step and sending their choking scent through the open window. But I felt both men stiffen beside me as we looked.

“The mallet.” It was Sergeant Dhlomo who spoke. “Was that there when you came in? Have you touched it?”

“Yes, I'm sure I did. I mean … that's what whoever did this must have used to smash the pot. It was just lying there on the pile of earth. I suppose I picked it up.”

“Bag it, Thembinkosi.” Adam spoke softly beside me. “We'll test it anyway.” The sergeant went back to the police car, and returned with a black plastic bag. Using the edge of the bag to pick the mallet up by the tip of the handle, he placed it carefully inside and brought it into the studio, laying it down by his feet.

“Were you alone here today?” Sergeant Dhlomo turned to me, and there was a look of real menace on his face. I took a step backwards, and Ness stirred on the sofa where she was still sitting.

“Yes, I was. After Mike went out this morning, I mean.”

“What did you do?”

I didn't know where this was going, but I didn't much like it. Adam stood motionless, but I could feel him watching me carefully. “I did things around the house, and then, after lunch, I took the dog out. I told you … It was when I came back, around half past three or four, that
I found this … this mess. So I tried to phone you, both of you.”

“And apart from taking the dog for a walk, you didn't leave the house at all today?”

“No. I've just told you. What
is
this?”

“Is that your mallet?”

“No. I've never seen it before today. Anyway, why would I smash up my own things? What are you trying to say, Sergeant?”

“What's that on your clothes?” He pointed at me, and I looked down, confused. I hadn't changed since this afternoon, and Sergeant Dhlomo was indicating the dark stains on the side of my olive-green T-shirt and on the thigh of my jeans where my hand had bled. I probably looked about as dishevelled and unsavoury as the cops.

“I cut my hand on a piece of the pot out there.” I held my thumb out towards him, showing him the clumsy dressing. Quite a lot more blood had seeped through: in fact, it was still bleeding, a red trickle creeping stickily along my wrist and probably adding to the stains on my clothes. I would have to do something about it.

The sergeant looked as if he was about to say something more, but Adam stepped forward. “Sit down, Mrs Marsh.” He waited until I had moved next to Vanessa and Michael. Mike, who had resumed his place on the floor, slid back, closer to my knees.

“When you tried to phone us this afternoon, we were at a crime scene. A murder. The victim was Mr Paul Ndzoyiya, who you know: the son of the man whose body was found at the end of your road here.”

I looked at him in horror. For a long, long time I was speechless. Paul Ndzoyiya, who had been here earlier in the week to tell me what he had found out at his father's funeral. And now he was dead.

“Oh my God! What happened?”

“Someone broke into his house, through the back door, and assaulted him, hitting him over the head. He put up quite a struggle, it would seem. The house was in a mess, but nothing seems to have been stolen.” It was the sergeant who spoke.

Adam took over the questioning again. “When did you last see Mr Ndzoyiya, Mrs Marsh?”