Just a Dead Man (20 page)

Adam's phone rang, and he spoke softly to someone. I perched myself on the old garden seat, which had been a cast-off from Simon's parents. I was fond of it, liking the splintery surface of faded, chipped paint. It was warm from the sun, but still I felt cold.

Adam ended his call and came to join me, seating himself at the other end of the bench. For a moment, neither of us spoke. It should have been peaceful: Ness and the sergeant were out of sight; the sun was warm. But the tension was palpable.

F
INALLY
A
DAM BROKE THE
silence. “Come on, Laura. Let's get you inside. Thembinkosi will let the forensic team in. And I'm sure he has able assistance from Ms Govender.” I could hear a smile in his voice as he placed a hand under my left arm and steered me back to the studio. “Now. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea?”

“No, thanks. I'm fine, really. But … what's going on? Do you know who killed Paul? And aren't they kind of admitting something by leaving that card there? It could hardly have been dropped there by accident.”

He sat down opposite me. “Oh no. No accident. It's a deliberate taunt. But then they obviously know that we know about them. I had already asked Paul Ndzoyiya if he had heard of them, you know. He said he hadn't, but that he would ask around.”

The immediate lessening of my guilt was an almost physical sensation. I was not the only one who could have put Paul at risk. “He didn't say anything to me when I asked him. He just said the same; that he would ask people down at the coast.”

“I asked him not to say anything to you, and told him
not
to ask around, and I hope he didn't. I warned him to be careful, and I said I thought both you and he were potentially at risk. If he spoke to anyone, he didn't
contact us to tell us.”

“But then … how did the killer know that he knew about Flash Funerals?”

Adam shrugged. “I'm not sure. Maybe he did phone someone down in Pondoland. We're checking his cellphone and landline records to see if we can find anything. Maybe he told his sister – and you said she was there when you spoke to him. She could have told someone. I haven't met her, so I hadn't warned her. We're trying to make contact with her. She seems to have gone back to Mthatha, but we'll need her to formally identify the body.

“I think the killers have overplayed their hand, though. That card, whether it's genuine or not, is a deliberate taunt. They're saying that even if we know who they are, they're untouchable – and they're not.”

For a moment, there was silence. Then Adam leaned forward. “Laura, tell me what you know about Martin Shongwe.”

In that instant the name meant nothing. Following the second murder, I had almost forgotten my concerns about how anyone would have known when Daniel would be visiting me. “I don't know much, really. He's a master's student or something at the university. I've known him – only vaguely, mind you – for a couple of years or so. He's quite aggressive: he was a student activist. Keen on seeing more black lecturers, saying the students need role models. He's right, of course. But I did a semester's teaching last year – filling in for someone who was on leave and supervising afternoon pracs after I finished at school. There was a certain amount of tension – some people felt the job should have been given to a black postgrad, and I think Martin had something to do with all that. Not that he ever spoke directly to me about it. And, anyway, there
wasn't anyone prepared to take the work on for what it was paying, him included.”

Adam nodded. He seemed to be about to say something, when my cellphone rang. It was in my pocket, and I got it out with difficulty, reaching across my body with my left hand. But I was too late: the call had already switched over to voicemail, and no message was left. The number was unfamiliar, and I shrugged and kept the phone on my lap. If they tried again, I would at least have it at hand.

“Why are you asking about Martin Shongwe? You think he's mixed up in this?”

“Maybe. We've spoken to him, and we'll talk to him again. But apart from possibly knowing where Mr Moyo was going on the day Phineas Ndzoyiya was killed, there's nothing to link him to any of this. And he denies telling anyone. I just have a kind of hunch …” His voice slowed, and he turned to look at me. “But none of this is anything to do with you, Laura. Please remember that.”

“Your sergeant doesn't seem to agree. I thought he was going to arrest me last night.”

“He was angry – not specifically with you, I assure you. So was I. So
am
I. A good man was brutally killed. But it's not your fault.” I must have looked sceptical, or miserable, because he added: “Really.” He reached out and laid his hand gently on my left one. His touch was warm.

“You're cold. Let me get you something to drink.” At that moment, Ness came in. Her sharp eyes missed nothing, but all she said was: “Your forensic people are here. I've let them in.” Adam nodded and went out to meet the other policemen while Ness and I stayed in the studio.

The police hung around for quite a while, sifting through the earth, broken shards and crushed tree outside the studio and photographing the mess, the marks on the wall and the impressions in the flower bed. And then they
were gone. Ness stayed with me until Mike came home, and in all that time she said not a word about Adam Pillay. Maybe my obviously fragile state had persuaded her to treat me gently. For whatever reason, I was grateful. I didn't need to be teased that morning, and anyway, I was aware that my feelings towards the Inspector were not quite those of a witness towards a cop, or, for that matter, towards someone who could be a subject for Vanessa's light-hearted teasing. He inspired confidence and made me long to trust him. I needed someone to trust in my life, but to balance that I also did not need any further complications. And I had no reason to think Adam had any interest in me. He was just a nice guy: treating people decently was what he did. My world appeared extraordinarily bleak on that chilly Saturday.

Mike and Vanessa nobly cleared up the mess of the shattered pot, throwing away the broken pieces of terra cotta, and putting the earth and the mangled tree on the compost heap. The surviving tree looked vulnerable and lonely, standing there to the left of the door. Mike said we should get another one, to restore the pair. But I felt differently. One had gone: that was how it should stay.

M
AYBE
I'
M REMEMBERING
with the benefit of hindsight, but over the next few days the weather seemed suddenly to turn cold. It was not the glorious freshness of early winter typical of these subtropical regions: it was a bleaker cold that retained the damp of summer as a seeping chill, permeating everywhere. Did I feel it at the time? I'm not sure. But looking back, it is what I recall.

However, life had to carry on. On Monday morning, with the murder of Paul Ndzoyiya the page-three lead in the paper, I headed gloomily to school. I knew Mrs Golightly would have seen the story, which made a lot of the fact that the dead man's father had been murdered a few weeks before. Although the police said they were following up leads, and that an arrest was expected soon, it was obvious the reporter was treating that with a healthy dose of scepticism. Daniel's release was also mentioned, in such a way that it made the police look as if they had just rounded up some poor innocent simply because he was there, or alternatively, as if they had released a murderer who had gone off and promptly killed again. You could read it either way. I couldn't help feeling there was more than a grain of truth in the former implication, but still … things might be more complicated than the reporter allowed.

Sure enough, Mrs G was lurking inside the door when I got out of my car. I had given up the sling, though it was in my basket in case I needed it. But the bandage was large and impressive on its own. It had made driving an interesting experience, but I had got to school without mishap.

“Good gracious, Laura. What
has
happened to you? You do seem to be having an adventurous life at the moment.”

Little do you know, my dear, little do you know, I thought to myself. But aloud, all I said was: “Stupid gardening accident. But it's not as bad as it looks.” Mercifully she didn't ask me to expand. I wasn't quite sure what I would have said – an attack by a knife-wielding greenfly? She merely said she was glad my “friend” had been released from jail, and exonerated, and how terrible it was that there had now been a second murder. Her eyes lingered on my bandage.

I agreed, and admitted I had met the second victim when he had come to see where his father's body had been discovered. In as neutral a tone as I could muster, I went on to say that it was a dreadful thing, and how much it had distressed me. She nodded, suggested I must take it easy, and that if I needed any time off, I should come and talk to her. It all sounded kind and caring, but I wasn't taken in for a moment. She was still eyeing me as a potential liability to the good name of the school, and I had better watch it. I wondered whether she thought I had hurt my hand murdering Paul. After all, Sergeant Dhlomo had had the same idea.

After I left Mrs G standing in the entrance, I saw Carol Odendaal looking at me from the far end of the corridor, and turned and headed to the art room as fast as I could. She wouldn't follow me there: two flights of stairs should be two too many for her arthritis.

 

I saw no one and heard nothing from the police for the next few days, and made no effort to contact them or anyone else connected with the case. On Friday, I kept my appointment with the doctor to have the stitches in my hand removed, and although there was an ugly red and itchy scar, it seemed to have healed. I was told I was lucky that no tendons had been nicked, or I could have lost movement in the digit. Nothing like the medical profession to dwell on worst-case scenarios. But my thumb was as opposable as it had ever been, although it felt tight and uncomfortable. That, I was assured, would be only temporary.

After I got home, Stephen's mother called to say that the boys were keen to go to a party at a classmate's house, next door to theirs. So would it be all right if Mike stayed over with them afterwards? I trusted her: Stephen and Mike have been friends for years, and I have often discussed how to handle that strange species, the adolescent male, with Stephen's parents. So I said it would be fine, and settled down to an afternoon and evening alone.

It was at around four that my doorbell rang. I went to the entryphone, and was surprised, and not terribly pleased, when Busi Dhlamini announced herself, and asked if she could have a quick word with me. I was hoping my involvement with murder and the police, or at least most of them, was now at an end. But I buzzed her in, and met her at the front door.

She drove through the gate in a smart red BMW, car of choice for the upwardly mobile. Having met her brother, I was a little surprised: material possessions had not seemed to matter to him. She turned the car neatly, and left it facing towards the gate before climbing out and greeting me with a friendly smile.

I invited her in, and offered her a cup of tea, which she
refused. We sat down in the studio, facing each other, and I said how terribly sorry I had been to hear of her brother's death. I waited for her to start her “quick word”, but after an awkward pause she made a few inconsequential remarks, then stumbled into silence.

I was beginning to feel uncomfortable, and finally took the bull by the horns, asking her straight out what I could do for her.

She didn't meet my eye. “Ah, yes. Well, Mrs Marsh, actually, I was wondering …” Silence again.

“Yes?” I said as encouragingly as I could manage. Her eyes wandered around the room. There was an air of desperation about her, as if she was waiting for something. I began to feel less embarrassed and more uneasy, almost afraid.

Eventually, she glanced at me, then looked down and began: “You know that friend of yours, the one who was arrested for my father's murder and then let go?”

“Yes. Daniel Moyo.”

“Yes, Daniel Moyo. Well, I wondered if …” She stopped, as though she didn't know what it was that she wondered. What on earth was the woman up to? Then her phone pinged, telling her that a message had come in. She whipped it out of her fake Louis Vuitton bag as if it was a lifeline, looked at it, and got to her feet.

“I am so sorry, Mrs Marsh. I have to go. An urgent message, you know. Perhaps another time?” With that, she headed briskly towards the front door, and I was obliged to follow, picking up the little handheld remote control that lay on the hall table so I could open the gate.

I followed her out of the door, and began to say a polite and relieved goodbye, pressing the button on the remote as I did, when I sensed movement beside me. The front door slammed shut, waking Grumpy who had been asleep
in the hall, and making him bark. I spun round, and found myself staring straight at a tall, heavily built man. And at the gun he was pointing at my face.

I know nothing about guns. All I knew was that it
was
a gun – and that was all that mattered. It was small and black and looked like a toy in his large, manicured hand. But I was certain it was nothing of the sort. The man facing me didn't do toys. His face was familiar: I had seen him before, talking to Rhoda Josephs in the court on the day Dan had appeared. And as soon as he said: “Don't scream or do anything stupid, Mrs Marsh. Get into the car. Quickly,” I knew his voice too. This was Thabo Mchunu.

T
HE CLICHÉS ABOUT FEAR
turning your legs to jelly had always seemed pretty silly to me. But faced with Thabo Mchunu's gun, I was paralysed. If I took a step in any direction, or moved at all, I would fall over. I tried to say something, but my voice had dropped an octave and was no longer within my control. All I could manage was a croak. No words. No movement. It was if I had shut down. There may be a fear reflex in some creatures that pumps them full of adrenaline and makes them flee, but I was the proverbial rabbit in the headlights, turned to stone by the white light of pure terror. Until Thabo Mchunu jabbed his wicked little black dispenser of death hard into the side of my neck.

“You heard me, bitch. Into the car.”

Grumpy's barking, muffled behind the front door, was frantic now as I stumbled towards that smart little red BM. Busi Dhlamini, her eyes averted, held the door open while her companion shoved me inside, ripping the remote control roughly from my hand and scraping the beaded metal keyring across the fresh scar as he did it. He opened the gate, which I had inadvertently closed when my hand tightened at the sight of the gun, and tossed the remote into the flower bed by the door. He then climbed into the front passenger seat but stayed turned towards me, the
gun pointing at my head, as Busi slammed her door shut and pulled off out of the gate. Mchunu said something softly to her in isiZulu, presumably instructions, but not something that, in my present state, I could follow. She only nodded.

There was a lot of Friday-afternoon traffic, and progress through the town was slow. Mchunu had lowered the gun out of the eyeline of other motorists, holding it between the front seats, but it was still pointing straight at my stomach as I sat behind Busi. She was looking as rigid as I felt as he continued to tell her where to go, but he never took his eyes off me for more than a few seconds.

Slowly, my frozen brain began to return to life. Strangely, it helped that Mchunu had reopened the cut on my right hand when he grabbed the remote, and bloodstains were again marking my shirt. Not much, but enough to bring me back to an awareness of myself and where I was. It was no comfort. I was being kidnapped, and by a man who presumably had two murders to his name already.

A taxi, emblazoned with the word “Tweeter” in huge sparkling letters along its side, cut sharply in front of the car. We were now in what, in the bad old days, had been the black end of town and the traffic was frenetic with weekend shoppers and people on their way home from work. There was a bang as Tweeter clipped the side of an ancient Toyota Corolla ahead of us. Busi braked hard, throwing me forward against her seat. And in that movement, I felt something in the pocket of my jeans jab into my hip. Hidden by my loose-fitting shirt was my cellphone.

For a moment I didn't register what it meant. Then I realised it was switched on, and if it rang, I would lose it: my only potential lifeline to the outside world. Although
Mchunu still held the gun pointing in my direction, he was now looking at the rush-hour drama unfolding in front of us as the driver of the Corolla and the conductor of the taxi indulged in a bout of angry shouting. Both were out of their vehicles, blaming each other, arms waving. Several of the taxi passengers were getting in on the act, yelling and gesticulating at both the protagonists.

Just keep at it, I thought, slipping the phone from my pocket and holding it tightly under my shirt. I've had it for ages, and knew how to turn it to silent mode without looking. And then a thought struck me. Adam was the first name on my list of contacts, topping the alphabet. If I could ring him, and leave the phone on, maybe he would hear me talking, hear the noises around us. And maybe he could help.

With Mchunu and Busi both looking forward, intent on the ruckus ahead of us, I risked a quick glance to make sure I was ringing Adam's number. Any sound the phone made should be masked by the hooting and shouting. Mchunu was angry, swearing at Busi and telling her to manoeuvre round the impasse, but the road was blocked and there was nothing she could do. I pressed the dial button, sending a silent prayer to whatever gods there are that Adam would answer. Holding the phone under my shirt, I pointed it towards the front seats.

“Where are you taking me? What are you doing? Are you going to kill me? What have I done to you? All I wanted to do was help my friend, Daniel? Take me home … please!” My voice quavered. Had Adam picked up my call, and could he hear anything? I had no way of knowing.

“Shut up – stupid, interfering bitch.” Mchunu swung back towards me, the gun pointing at my head again. His eyes in his meaty face looked bloodshot, feral, at odds with the charcoal wool jacket and immaculate, open-necked
white shirt. I noticed a tremor in the hand that held the gun. This man was afraid, and that only increased my own fear. A frightened man is a doubly dangerous man.

“Why have you taken me, Mr Mchunu? Where are we going? Busi – were you involved in your brother's killing? Why?” I couldn't think of anything else to say, but I had to try to keep talking, get some kind of response from them, and let Adam know who I was with. There was no way I could tell him where we were. If I suddenly shouted out the street name, my captors would figure out what I was trying to do, and that could only lead to disaster. But was Adam even hearing me?

“Shut the fuck up!” Mchunu lowered his hand, between the front seats, the gun again pointing at my stomach. If he fired, the bullet might well hit my cellphone though I had no expectations that it could save me. At that moment, Busi caught a glimpse of a gap in the traffic and pulled out, into it, accelerating away with a squeal of expensive rubber. We were on the move again.

“Where are we going?” I asked again. I didn't think anyone was hearing me on my phone, but suddenly, I wanted to know, for myself.

Perhaps it was because the car was moving again, but suddenly Mchunu seemed calmer. The hand holding the gun had relaxed a little, the barrel lowered towards the floor. I had no doubt he could fire it in seconds, but at least it was no longer pointing directly at me.

By now, the last of the afternoon light was fading. Cars had their headlights on; streetlamps cast pools of blue-whiteness over the road around us. As far as I could see, we were heading for the national road, which meant we could aim south towards Durban and the coast or north towards the Midlands and, eventually, Johannesburg. Occasionally, Mchunu gave angry instructions to Busi,
who had not spoken since we had left the house. When we reached the interchange, he directed her south, down the N3.

I felt terrified, nauseous, and for some reason, overwhelmingly tired. I could no longer think of anything to say. Surreptitiously, I ended the call on my phone, and when Mchunu was turned briefly to look ahead, attempted to redial. Maybe no one answered; maybe it had gone to voicemail, but it was the only action I could take to save myself.

Forcing myself to concentrate, I asked Mchunu if he was taking me to Durban, and what he was going to do with me. At first he ignored me, but then he swung round, the gun pointed once more at my face.

“You have been a nuisance to me, Mrs Marsh. Perhaps I need to teach you a lesson.”

“Why? What have I done? Mr Ndzoyiya's body was found near my house, but that wasn't my fault.”

“You interfered. It was …
convenient
… for me that your little Zimbabwean friend was arrested and charged. He was going to be in the neighbourhood, and he had been in contact with Ndzoyiya. What more could we ask for? We would have found a way to let the cops know he was there, of course, but it was even better – a real bonus – that it was he who actually
found
the body. More than I had hoped for. Once the cops knew there was a hint of a connection between Moyo and Ndzoyiya, they would jump at it as a motive. And Moyo had got himself into some trouble in Joburg – it was perfect. The police wouldn't have even bothered to investigate anyone else, and even if Moyo had been found not guilty, it would have all been too late for any other proper investigation. No evidence, no nothing. But then you came along, with your clever, clever recollection of Flash Funerals. You made a mistake there,
Mrs Marsh, a big mistake. I don't like people getting in my way – and I don't like silly white women threatening me.”

“I didn't threaten you!” But I remembered my stupid phone call, and my big mouth. If I hadn't mentioned Flash Funerals, I wouldn't be in this mess now. Still, I had to keep talking. “What had Mr Ndzoyiya done to you? I can't believe you killed him … had him killed … because you disagreed over memorials to victims of a war fought nearly a hundred years ago.”

He gave a harsh laugh. “No, Mrs Marsh. Oh no! But he was getting in my way. There's more at stake in Pondoland than some statue. There's money to be made, real money.” He said no more, turning his attention to Busi and telling her sharply to speed up. She had been driving in the slow lane, and Mchunu suddenly swung the gun round to point it at
her
face. She gave a soft moan, and pulled nervously to the right. For a moment I wondered again what her involvement in all this was – she seemed almost as terrified as I was. Did Mchunu have some kind of hold over her?

We continued on down the freeway for probably half an hour: I lost track of time. I had ended my call again – there seemed no point in keeping the phone on when no one was talking and I could think of nothing more to say. I noticed Mchunu looking in the wing mirror, watching the lights behind us. Cars passed us, and we passed others, though Busi seemed to be a nervous driver, and even after Mchunu growled at her again, telling her to speed up, she made little effort to do so. As we approached the off-ramp that would lead to the old road down through the Tala Valley towards the rural area of Umbumbulu and eventually to the South Coast, he told her gruffly to take it. My heart sank. At least on the freeway our journey had some semblance of normality and there were other cars
around us. But once on the empty back roads, anything could happen, and there would be no one there to see it. This was a death sentence.

As we swung off to the left, up the incline of the off-ramp, I caught the reflection of headlights coming up fast behind us. Suddenly the car seemed filled with brightness. Mchunu spun round, but not to look at me with those burning eyes. This time he stared into the dazzle behind, and I risked a glance round for a second. There were vehicles behind us, and as I looked, blue flashing lamps appeared above bright headlights, in a glittering kaleidoscope. I looked back into the car, momentarily blinded. Busi was swerving and braking, probably as unsighted by the light as I was. Mchunu turned back, the gun to her head, shouting at her.

The car swerved again and bucked, the nose tilting sharply down as it ran off the tarred slip road onto grass, gathering speed. Suddenly, we slammed, passenger side first, into something hard and unyielding, the impact filling the air with a horrible grating sound and the hiss of an inflating airbag. Unbalanced, I slid off the seat, landing hard in the footwell, and then we were stationary. The engine was still running and there was a confused cacophony of shouts, and a sudden, deafening siren.

I was out of the car. I still do not know if I opened the door, or if it flew open on impact, but I remember rolling out onto a surface that felt cold and hard, though there was grass under my palms. The ground's chill penetrated the knees of my jeans, and for a second I caught the bitter scent of some plant that had been crushed by our passage. But it was quickly overwhelmed by a smell of petrol, metal, exhaust fumes. Out of the car, I was desperate to put as much distance as I could between myself and that black, evil-eyed gun. I was afraid that if I stood, Mchunu
would see me. I began to crawl away, until the sound of a gunshot, a terrible, high-pitched scream, and then another shot rose above the general mayhem. I froze, sobbing. I could feel urine running down my legs inside my jeans. In that moment I knew sheer panic, much worse than when Thabo Mchunu had appeared by my side outside my front door. There was no reasoning it away, no making decisions.

Face down, I lay on the damp ground, only vaguely aware of confusion, noise and bright lights. Eventually, after an hour, or a minute, I heard a voice shouting, “She's here, over here!” and a hand came down on my shoulder, a torch shining into my face.

“Mrs Marsh … Laura! Are you okay? You're safe now.” The voice was Thembinkosi Dhlomo's. Never in my life have I been so grateful to see someone, even my old nemesis. “I'm okay,” I whispered, but my legs didn't seem to agree. I grabbed his arm to try to lever myself upright.

“Take it easy. Are you hurt?”

“No. No, I'm fine. But … the shot. Who was shot?”

A couple of gunshots and a car crash had not changed things so much that the sergeant was about to start answering my questions. He helped me to my feet, and led me towards a fence. He presumably thought I could lean on that rather than on him. But before we even reached the fence, Adam had quickly made his way over the grass, at first just a dark shape against the brightly lit scene of the crumpled BMW and the two police cars that had been following it.

He nodded to the sergeant and said something I couldn't catch. Dhlomo moved away, towards the crash as Adam held me steadily, his dark, shadowed eyes searching my face.

“Okay, Laura, sit down.” He led me to a boulder and I
subsided onto it, suddenly all too aware of my wet jeans. “Now. Are you all right? He didn't do anything to you? You're safe now.” He crouched down in front of me, his hands on mine. He took my right hand and turned it over, looking at the blood.

“It's nothing. He just knocked the scar.” I suddenly remembered my phone. It must have fallen from my hand when the car hit the barrier. “My phone. It's in the car. I must call Mike.” I got to my feet and started back the way I had come.

“No, Laura, don't go there.” His voice had a sense of urgency about it, and I turned to look at him. “What happened? Who was shot?” He put his hand on my arm again and called across to the sergeant. “Is Laura's phone there? Try on the floor at the back.”