Just a Dead Man (3 page)

C
ONVERSATION WITH
D
ANIEL
didn't exactly flow as we headed back to the house. In fact, we walked in absolute silence. I wasn't sure how to react to him: it was all very well to be angry, but I hadn't put the body at the end of the road for him to find. And having found it, he could hardly – any more than I could – pretend it wasn't there. We were both going to have to deal with it. We went back through the garden gate, and I headed straight to the kitchen: I needed more tea. Or coffee. That might be even better. I put the kettle on and went to ask Dan if he wanted anything.

He was still in the garden, contemplating the stork made from recycled oil-drum metal that stands watch over my rockery. It has a permanently startled expression and a fragile leg where the varnish was thin and rust has attacked, and I am very fond of it. Now you can buy them, all looking identical, on any street corner, but when I got mine there weren't nearly so many about. Mostly they used to be sold by Zimbabweans who had made the long trek south in the hope of earning some kind of useable cash for their families back home.

“Dan, you want coffee? Or more tea?”

“No, thanks.” But when he turned to me, he was smiling. At least that was some relief.

When I had made myself a strong, real coffee, I took it out to the garden. Despite the heat my hands were cold, and I wrapped them round the mug. A sudden breeze scattered a few petals from the roses: time I did some deadheading. But thinking the word made me remember why we were here.

“Laura … the cops'll be here in a minute. Look, I think there might be –” But Dan never finished his sentence. Dhlomo and Pillay were at the gate. They had seen us in the garden, and obviously decided to come in that way rather than go round the corner and ring the bell at the front door.

I opened the padlock again and led the silent duo into the studio. Dan followed us, but whatever he had been going to say was gone. “Do you know who he is?” I asked.

“All in good time,” said Dhlomo, turning that menacing stare in my direction. Maybe he just looked like that all the time, but I was getting the feeling he had taken a dislike to both me and Dan. It was the latter he turned to next.

“You a Zimbabwean, Mr Moyo?”

“Yes.”

“Got ID?”

“Yes.”

He stared at Daniel for what seemed an eternity before Dan slipped his hand into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out an identity document. Dhlomo took a long, long look at it and compared the photograph carefully with the reality in front of him before he handed it back.

“Been here how long?”

“Six years.”

Dhlomo just looked at him. Then Pillay stepped forward, holding the plastic envelope Dhlomo had been showing him earlier as they bent over the body. Dhlomo reached out for it. Pillay seemed quite happy for his sergeant to be
in charge of questioning us, despite the difference in their ranks.

In the envelope was a photograph. Dhlomo turned it over, looking at the back.

“Do either of you know a Mr SS Mendi?”

I could feel Daniel stiffen beside me as I gave what must have been an obvious start. I carefully avoided looking at him.

“No,” said Daniel quietly.

“Do you mean the SS
Mendi
, the ship?” I heard myself say. Dhlomo glared at me, but out of the corner of my eye I could see Pillay, standing very still as he watched both me and Daniel.

“What ship?” asked Dhlomo.

“The
Mendi
was a troop carrier in the First World War that sank in the English Channel and drowned a whole lot of South African soldiers who were on their way to France.” I hesitated, and then ploughed tactlessly on. “I thought everyone knew about it. It's had a lot of publicity since 1994, with memorials, and cabinet ministers visiting the site to drop wreaths in the sea and so on. It was felt that because the soldiers were black, they hadn't been given due credit.”

Dhlomo was looking even angrier, if that was possible.

There was a long silence. The four of us stood like statues, but no one said anything. Then Pillay stepped forward.

“Mrs Marsh. Mr Moyo. You both reacted when Sergeant Dhlomo mentioned SS
Mendi
. May I ask why?”

I waited for Daniel to speak, but as the silence stretched out, it was obvious he had no intention of doing so. There wasn't much point denying we had both been startled by what Dhlomo had said.

“It was just that the name of the ship came up when we
– Mr Moyo and I – were talking earlier, before he took the dog out. So it was a bit of a shock, the coincidence. That's all.”

Pillay turned to Daniel: “Mr Moyo?”

“Yes. The
Mendi
was mentioned.”

“In what context?”

Daniel made no response. Come on, you stupid arse, I thought. It's hardly a crime to talk about a ship. But he seemed to have taken a vow of silence. Reluctantly, I went on.

“We were talking about ideas for exhibitions. Mr Moyo mentioned the role of indigenous troops in colonial wars, so the
Mendi
came up. Along with Isandhlwana and various other things.”

“I see,” said Pillay thoughtfully. Dhlomo gave another grunt. I didn't think they saw at all. Now we seemed to have a connection with the body at the end of the road, and they were determined to find out what it was. Well, that was going to be an uphill job. Daniel and my dog had stumbled across it, but that was all.

I held out my hand for the photograph and Dhlomo passed it to me. Through the plastic sleeve, I looked at a faded and dog-eared snapshot of an elderly African man, smiling and holding onto the handlebars of an old-fashioned black bicycle. I turned the envelope over: the only words on the back, in brownish ink, were SS
Mendi
. I passed it to Daniel who glanced at it without comment and handed it back to Dhlomo.

“It's not the man … down there,” I said, more to break the silence than to make any kind of useful contribution.

Daniel roused himself. “Do you need me any more?” he asked. “I promised to visit someone on campus this afternoon, and I need to go.”

Dhlomo looked as if he would like to refuse, but Pillay
said that would be fine. He made sure he knew where Dan would be staying, reminding him that he was not to leave town without letting the police know. I thought Dan was going to argue, but mercifully, he simply nodded. I walked with him to the front door.

“Hey, don't forget you promised to let me use your hand as a model for the next painting.”

I got the feeling he had no idea what I was talking about. But then he smiled warily, nodded and gave me a kiss. “Sure. I'll call you tomorrow.”

“You okay, Dan? This doesn't concern us, you know. It's just bad luck. Wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Sure,” he said again. But he didn't meet my eye, and he looked troubled.

I headed back to the studio. Pillay was absorbed by the apple painting while Dhlomo was poking in my painting tray as if expecting to find a stash of cocaine or a murder weapon. Ah well, situation normal then.

“You aren't planning to go anywhere, Mrs Marsh?” asked Pillay.

“No.”

“Right. We may need to talk to you again.” At a nod from Pillay, Dhlomo went out through the front door, pressing the button to open the gate. Make yourself at home, why don't you, I thought.

“Will you be all right on your own?” asked the inspector. “You aren't nervous? Is there someone you could ask to spend the night with you?”

“Why? I'll be fine. You're not expecting the murderer to come back are you?”

“No. But this must have been a very unpleasant experience.”

“Well, yes.” He had that right. But the most unpleasant part had been interacting with his sergeant. “I'm okay.
Inspector Pillay … do you think he was killed there, or put there?”

Pillay moved away from the painting and looked at me. “We can't be sure yet … though it looks to me as if the body was dumped there. Why do you ask?”

“I don't know. It's silly I suppose, but I'd feel better if I thought someone had put him there. I mean, around here, we all walk in the plantations, with dogs and so on. It has always seemed perfectly safe.”

“And you're sure you didn't notice anyone, any vehicles, going down the road outside that gate today?”

“No. But I was painting in here, and I was concentrating, absorbed. I mean … there must have been cars, but I don't think anything struck me. Sorry.” Again, something niggled in my memory and was gone before it could materialise.

“Now. The
Mendi
. You say Mr Moyo mentioned it in connection with ideas for an exhibition. Would that be for him or for you?”

“For him.”

“Hmm. And he's come down here from Joburg to do what, did you say?”

“He's visiting friends, and doing some research. But you can ask him.”

“We will, I'm sure. We'll want to talk to him again.”

I didn't like the sound of that. Dhlomo didn't seem to like Daniel, maybe because he was a Zimbabwean, though he didn't seem to like me much either. Pillay seemed to think there was something about the
Mendi
, a connection between Daniel and the corpse. And, as I stood there, looking at the sad-eyed inspector, I couldn't help thinking that it was a very unfortunate coincidence.

A
S SOON AS THE POLICE
left, I phoned my parents. I didn't want them to read in the paper next morning that a body had been found within a hundred metres or so of the home of their unsatisfactory daughter. Not that they have ever so much as hinted that they find me unsatisfactory, but my post-divorce anxieties make me fear they do. I don't think they had really cared much for Simon, though they were far too tactful to say so, and they adore the boys, but I know they worry about me and where I am going with my life. Answer: nowhere. That's the problem. And knowing they worry makes me think maybe they have a reason. One of life's vicious circles.

Dad, a retired GP and a practical man, immediately offered to come over. Then they said I should come and stay with them: they only live a kilometre or so away. But they are in a townhouse complex that doesn't allow pets and I couldn't leave Grumpy alone. I said I would be fine, not to worry, and eventually they calmed down.

Then I thought I had better let the boys know. I was about to phone Rory when the doorbell rang again. This time it was Charlie and Philippa Botha from further up the cul-de-sac. They are good friends, and Phil, who is also a teacher, and I often walk our dogs together in the afternoons after school. They had seen the police cars
and all the to-ing and fro-ing and inevitably wanted the low down on what was promising to be a neighbourhood drama. They were horrified, of course, and said that if I was worried about anything, I should just phone them. Their offer made me feel a little better. I didn't want to go anywhere, but to know there were friends nearby, just a phone call away, was certainly a comfort.

After the inevitable cups of tea, they left and I phoned Rory, who took the news in his stride. He said it must have been awful for Dan, and was I okay? I could always go to Gran and Grandad. I pointed out that Grumpy couldn't, and assured him I was absolutely fine. Please not to worry. I spoke to Mike as well, but neither of them seemed unduly bothered by the idea of a corpse on their regular dog walk.

By now it was after six, and a large whisky was beckoning. I'm not much of a spirits drinker; beer or white wine are more in my line, but today I felt a whisky might dilute, or at least dull, the strains of the afternoon. I poured myself a generous tot, added ice and water and headed back into the studio, flopping down on the sofa with a sigh. I had hardly taken a sip when the phone rang again. I groaned loudly enough for Grumpy to flex an ear.

“Hello?”

“Laura. It's Bob here. My dear, are you all right? I just phoned Rory and he told us what happened. What a terrible thing for you. Are you alone?”

Bob is my ex-father-in-law. I often think that if I could have married him and left Simon to his mother, we might all have been a lot happier. Bob is charming, kind and sensible and there have been moments when the thought has crossed my mind that he may well have been the reason I married Simon in the first place. Maybe I thought Simon would turn out like his father. Instead, he is all too similar to Joan, his mother. Mean-minded, carping,
insensitive and crass. Both of them.

“I'm fine, Bob. Really. It
was
horrible, but worse for poor Daniel. He was walking the dog, and they found the body. He ran back here, and we called the police. They've been around all afternoon, but they've gone now.”

“Is Daniel still with you?”

“No, no. But it's really okay.”

“I don't like to think of you there alone. I wish the boys were home.”

“I could go to Mum and Dad if I wanted, but really, there's no problem.”

Bob talked for a bit and while we were chatting – mainly about how Rory was doing at university, and what Mike was likely to do next year – my cellphone rang. I just left it. I could have a look and see who it was after Bob had rung off, and after I had some more of my whisky. This was all getting to be a bit much.

Bob said he had got the feeling Mike didn't want to go to the University of Cape Town. He thought perhaps he didn't want to be in Rory's shadow – as he had been, to some extent anyway, at school. I felt the same, though my view was that part of the problem was that he didn't want to be in the same town as Simon and Ms Tits. Mike's relationship with his father was still a little tense. Obviously I didn't say that to Bob, merely agreed and said I wasn't putting on too much pressure at the moment, and had suggested Mike might like some kind of gap year. Eventually, after reiterating his shock, asking again if there was anything he could do, and saying, presumably mendaciously, that Joan sent her love, he rang off.

I picked up the cellphone. Oh my God. Simon. I supposed I had better phone him back. Otherwise he'd call at some other totally inconvenient moment. And he was the father of my children, so he was probably entitled
to be concerned if their home was being overrun by corpses and, by extension, murderers.

Of course, Simon's first remark, delivered in the accusatory mood, was to say that he had tried to phone the landline but it had been engaged. I pointed out that it had been his father. Then he went off into a riff about how the house, which
I
had insisted upon, was in an unsafe area, too near the plantations where all kinds of undesirables and criminals lurked. So, ran Simon's subtext, it had been my inconsiderate and stupid behaviour that had put the lives of his sons at risk.

Inevitably, I lost my temper. That's the effect Simon has on me these days. “Hang on, hang on.
You
were the one who insisted, for example, that we had to have a fucking swimming pool. The boys were used to one, you said, so they must continue to have one. So we have this bloody pool, which is the biggest bone of contention in our lives because no one wants to clean it.
And
it hardly gets used. Rory isn't here during the term, and even when he was, he did his serious swimming at school. Mike has never been a keen swimmer. And nor am I. It was the only house, with a pool, and the other things we needed, in
your
price range when we got divorced. So don't blame me! And, anyway, it's bullshit that it's not safe. This is the only incident we've had here in five years. And the cops said the body was dumped there, not killed there. Butt out, Simon.”

He then had the grace to back down, even if only a little. His reason for phoning was supposedly to see if I was okay, and did I want the boys up there with me? He could put Mike on a plane home early, and stand Rory a round trip, if I needed them. It
was
a generous offer, although the ungenerous thought did cross my mind that Ms Tits was probably finding two young males in her love nest a
bit much. So I did my best to refuse graciously, claiming it would be a shame for Mike to have to cut his holiday short and that the boys seemed to be having a great time together. But over all, it was not a happy conversation. I did not send regards to Sonia. She was the ostensible reason for the break-up of our marriage, though things had been going badly long before she undulated onto the scene.