He
was not being followed. He was not in danger.
Lana
pressed her palm to the wild beat of his heart. 'Are you crazy, Emmanuel?'
'A
little,' he said.
The
emerald lawn was punctured by a blue-tiled swimming pool and the view of Durban
was exquisite. Red-hulled freighters and a few graceful sailboats dotted the
harbour.
Two
buxom women in polka-dot bikinis splashed in the pool while a group of men fed
wood into the belly of a portable barbeque made from half a steel drum. A
clutch of couples danced closely to a sentimental country and western ballad
that turned on the record-player. The black servants had been sent home for the
day. The sight of half-naked white women was reserved for the
baas
and his friends.
A
photograph of Princess Elizabeth Windsor was propped on a wooden easel, the
corners decorated with red, white and blue streamers. Lipstick kisses dotted
the princess's cheek.
'Are
they all professional girls?' Emmanuel asked. He watched the party from the
study of van Niekerk's Victorian mansion perched on the Berea Ridge.
'A
mix of professionals and other girls who just want to be here,' the major said.
'Some of these men like to think they got lucky.'
'What's
the occasion?'
'The
royal coronation. A party is the easiest way to get to know my men and to thank
them for their hard work.'
It
was also the easiest way for the major to establish a power base within
Durban's predominantly English police. He was new in town and a Dutchman: a
potentially fatal combination. Decades of war for control of land and diamonds
kept the two white communities wary of each other. The Afrikaners believed they
were the white tribe of Africa, born, nursed and raised on the veldt. To them,
the British were newly arrived interlopers only interested in profit and power.
The British believed that the Boers had neither the intelligence nor the drive
to rule South Africa.
Van
Niekerk was the son of a rich Dutch father and an English mother with more blue
blood in her veins than the entire Durban force. That fact made no difference.
His Afrikaner name branded him inferior. But free booze, food and women would
help erode any anti-Afrikaner prejudice.
Emmanuel
sat down in a chair facing a mahogany desk that bounced light off its waxed
surface and onto the ceiling.
'This
should give you a clear idea of your men.' He placed the surveillance notebook
on the desk. Half the police on the lawn were listed in it.
The
major ignored the book and pushed an unmarked envelope across the smooth
surface. 'Thank you, Cooper,' he said.
Emmanuel
took the packet and stuffed it into a breast pocket. The weight of it pressed
against his heart. This was the closest he'd get to the job of detective
sergeant and no amount of money could make up for the loss.
'Back
to swinging a hammer at the shipyard?' van Niekerk asked.
'Yes.'
The
major leaned back in his chair and stretched out his long legs. His dark hair
was cropped short as if to emphasise the close ties between the South African
police and the military
'Why
did you take the surveillance job, Cooper?'
'For
the money.'
'It
had nothing to do with missing the detective branch?'
Emmanuel
shrugged, hoping to convey a casual interest in the subject. He'd spent the
last day and a half conducting an unofficial murder investigation. That was
proof enough of how quickly he could be drawn back in.
'I
miss the job,' he said. 'I miss the camaraderie and the European pay.'
Blank
spaces ran through his life where people and places had once been. His sister
and memories of Davida Ellis were hidden in one. His past in the detective
branch was hidden in another. He missed being a policeman and, most shaming of
all, he missed the ease and power that came with being a white man. None of
these things seemed to matter in the closed world of the Victory Shipyards. It
was an unusual place for South Africa. All that mattered was whether or not you
could do the backbreaking work.
'Work
for me again,' van Niekerk said. 'I can use you. The wages will be set to European
standards.'
'More
undercover surveillance?' Emmanuel said. 'Something like that.'
Emmanuel
considered the proposal. Being this close to police work without being a
policeman was like picking at a wound. If he stayed, the wound would never
heal. The major didn't have the power to reinstate him in the detective branch
and nothing less would do.
'No,
thanks,' he said. 'The hours are murder.' Van Niekerk smiled. 'I thought you'd
say that.' Music from the record-player in the garden blended with laughter and
the splash of swimmers in the pool. Van Niekerk filled two tumblers with
generous slugs of whisky from a drinks tray on the table and slid one across to
Emmanuel.
'Don't
rush off,' he said. 'Everything is on the house. No one will check your ID
papers.'
'Thanks.'
Emmanuel drank a mouthful. He had no intention of staying. A night with Lana
Rose had eased the ache in him. For a little while.
'Take
some time to think about my offer,' van Niekerk said. 'The Victory is a waste
of your time and your talents.'
Emmanuel
wasn't entirely sure about that. He stood up and collected his hat from beside
the chair. He smoothed the rim with his fingers. It was time to decide if he
lived in the past or in the present.
Emmanuel
pulled his hat low onto his brow and took the stairs leading to the wide gravel
driveway two at a time. Ornate steel gates guarded the major's mini-estate.
There were no devils or gargoyles placed at the entrance to ward off the evil
eye, however. The devils, Emmanuel knew, were in the garden and splashing in
the pool. There was plenty of evidence in the surveillance book to back up that
statement.
On
the last stair he connected with a shoulder. A woman grabbed his arm to break
her fall and Emmanuel looked up. The shock of recognition held him still for
longer than was natural. It was Lana Rose, dressed in a scrap of white silk. A
dozen questions pressed onto Emmanuel in the silence that fell between them.
Was Lana one more girl for the pool or a paid professional brought in to reward
van Niekerk's men?
She
recovered first. 'What are you doing here?' she said. Her dark eyes were
fearful.
'Business
with the major.'
'Did
you say anything about last night?'
Van
Niekerk's garden was jammed with men whose job it was to enforce the strict
racial-segregation laws. Combine that with the belief, common among many of the
police, that a white woman engaged in unlawful sexual adventures across the
colour bar was on par with a child molester. Emmanuel understood her fear. He
felt it too.
'My
business wasn't about you,' he said.
'Oh
. . .' She cast a wary glance towards the white gabled house. 'Will you tell
him?'
'Of
course not.' Van Niekerk's ego was covered by a very thin skin. 'I won't ever
do that. And you won't either if you're smart.'
'Don't
worry.' Her smile was filled with knowledge of things not learned in school.
'I'm good at keeping secrets.'
Emmanuel
pushed his hands deep into his pockets to stop himself: he wanted to kiss her
in full view of everyone then take her hand and lead her away.
'Lana.'
The name was grunted from the top of the stairs. 'Come now.'
A
ginger-haired man with a thick neck stood on the veranda with one hand resting
casually against the leather holster of his Webley service revolver. A
flattened nose and an eyebrow bisected by a silver scar testified to a round or
two in the boxing ring. In the heavyweight division.
'Are
you deaf, girl? I said come quick. The major is waiting.'
'Thanks,
Emmanuel,' she whispered and he moved away from the subtle floral scent of her
perfume. The henchman cleared the stairs two at a time, furious that a civilian
and a female ignored his direct order. He reached for Lana's arm.
'Touch
me,' she said, 'and the major will hear about it.'
The
man backed away. He glared at Emmanuel, the only witness to his demotion from
tough guy to flunkey. 'You going to stand there all fucking day?' he demanded.
Emmanuel
maintained eye contact but didn't move. Life on the streets of Sophiatown had
educated him in the ways of the bully. It was better to be knocked down than to
back down. The heavyweight's hand dropped from the gun holster and Emmanuel
moved towards the gates.
He
had to retrieve Jolly's notebook from the flour tin where he'd hidden it after
getting home from Lana's flat and post it to the Point police station. And then
he was going to forget he'd ever chased murderers for a living. The memory of
Lana Rose leaning against the kitchen cabinet with sleep-tousled hair and a
coffee nestled between her palms drew his attention back to the major's house.
Emmanuel didn't know for sure, but he suspected they were both flies caught in
van Niekerk's web and last night had been a brief flutter against the
constraint.
The
backyard of the Dover flats was empty. The dragon landlady was nowhere to be
seen. Emmanuel made a dash for the stairs. Another encounter with the
tight-lipped Englishwoman and his temper was going to flare.
An
upturned enamel bowl and spilled carrots were scattered across the back
stoep.
A knife with a shred of carrot skin clinging to the blade lay on the trimmed
skirt of lawn. The Zulu maid had left a job half done. Odd.
The
flyscreen that led to Mrs Patterson's lair banged against the back wall.
Lancelot, the filthy Scottish terrier, shivered in the doorway. A radio played
a World War II song heavy on the good cheer and the violin.
The
dog whimpered.
Emmanuel
crossed the lawn and scooped up the peeling knife. The blade was blunt and the
tip was broken off; a useful weapon if one's opponent were a slab of butter. He
slipped it into his jacket pocket, held the screen door open and did a visual
sweep. Mrs Patterson would kick him out of his flat immediately if he entered
her home without permission. The dog retreated into a pile of dirty laundry.
The interior of the flat was unlit. Something was wrong. Apprehension prickled
the skin on the back of his neck but he kept moving forward. Raising Mrs
Patterson's ire was a risk he had to take.
'Mrs
Patterson?' he called out, in case she was in the lounge room listening to
wartime torch songs with her maid in the middle of the day with the curtains
closed and the lights turned off. 'It's Emmanuel Cooper from upstairs. I'm
coming in.'
The
dog snuffled its nose into the neck of a frilled nightgown on the floor and
whined. The song on the radio assured the boys at the front that they'd be home
soon.
Emmanuel
eased the laundry door open and entered the kitchen. It was hard to see. The
drip of a tap punctuated the music floating in from the sitting room. He
stepped towards the covered window and his feet slid from under him with a wet
sound. The inky outline of the sink and the silver handles of the cupboards
flashed by and he flipped backwards and landed hard on the floor. The breath
was knocked from his lungs and pain shot up his spine. A heavy hessian bag marked
'Export' toppled over and raw sugar spilled across the tiles.
Emmanuel
turned to the right. The young Zulu maid stared straight at him with a startled
expression. How, her open mouth seemed to ask, did I end up on the kitchen
floor in a pool of blood? Emmanuel scrambled upright and steadied himself
against the lip of the sink. He jerked the curtains open. Bloody handprints,
his own, were stamped onto the sink's white porcelain surface.
Seams
of black and pink liquid stained the material of his suit. Blood dripped from
his sleeve and splashed onto the floor. His stomach churned but van Niekerk's
whisky stayed down. He wiped his hands against the legs of his pants and felt
them shaking.
Steady, steady
on. Hold the line, soldier.
The
words stilled him; he took a deep breath and kneeled by the maid, a crumpled
rag doll in a hand-me-down housecoat. Mbali. That was her name. It meant
'flower' in Zulu. Had she ever owned a dress of her own? Loops of blue cotton
thread were sewn through her earlobes in place of earrings. Two dead children
in two days. Only savages kill their own young. The maid had a single cut
across her neck, just like Jolly. What connected a white boy who worked the
docks and a black servant girl who lived miles from the harbour?
The
darkened doorway of the next room exerted a magnetic pull on Emmanuel. He stood
up and walked towards it. He stepped into the dusky room. The air smelled of
wax polish, mothballs and the metallic scent of blood. Pieces of broken
figurines were scattered across a Persian rug. An upholstered chair lay on its
side. He fumbled the maid's knife free from his pocket and moved deeper into
the lounge. Marlene Dietrich crooned the anthem of the desert warrior, 'Lili
Marlene', in her distinctive, mannish voice. Violins swelled and an accordion
kicked in.