Let the Dead Lie (11 page)

Emmanuel's
neck muscles ached. The smack from the Webley revolver would take days to heal.
Handcuffs bit into his wrists.

The
door to the interview room opened and a slim man in grey flannel pants and a
pressed shirt ambled in. It was the salt-and-pepper-haired detective from the
crime scene at the freight yard. He nodded in greeting and placed a leather
satchel gently on the floor. He'll be the nice one, Emmanuel thought. The good
detective.

A
second man swaggered through the door, ginger hair damp with perspiration, a
heavy hand resting casually on a leather holster. It was the red-haired
policeman flicked away like a fly by Lana Rose. Emmanuel shook his head. The
Negro soldiers had an expression: 'If it wasn't for bad luck I'd have no luck
at all.' Now Emmanuel knew how funny that was.

Recognition
flickered across the detective's beaten features before he pulled up a chair
opposite the interview table and sat down with his legs spread apart.

'I'm
Detective Head Constable Robinson,' the good detective introduced himself. 'And
this is my partner, Detective Constable Fletcher.'

'Two
counts of murder, assault of a policeman, resisting arrest,' Fletcher said.
'You've had a very busy afternoon, haven't you?'

Emmanuel
cleared his throat and the muscles constricted in protest. Robinson offered a
glass of water and a smile. Emmanuel downed the water in one gulp.

'I
didn't kill anyone,' he said. The smudge of blood his fingers left on the glass
mocked that statement.

'It
was a coincidence,' Fletcher said and scooted forwards, 'you being in the flat
when the policemen arrived to investigate a disturbance?'

'Yes,'
Emmanuel said.

'Ever
been in the landlady's flat before?'

'No.
I went in because I thought something was wrong.'

'Is
that why you were armed?' Fletcher said.

'What?'
Blood pounded in Emmanuel's ears and the pressure in his head returned with a
vengeance. A dark force seemed intent on breaking through the bones of his
skull.

Robinson
reached down, opened the leather satchel and withdrew the kitchen knife. He
tilted it so the electric light hit the metal and made it shine.

'You
had this weapon in your hand when the uniforms broke in,' Robinson said. 'Do
you always carry a knife?'

Emmanuel
rested his forehead in the palm of his hand. The chain securing the handcuffs
swung against his nose. He needed to make sense of things.

'You're
aware that the landlady and the maid had their throats cut?' Robinson
continued.

'The
maid, yes. I didn't see Mrs Patterson.'

'Can
you imagine how it looks? You with a knife and the victims sliced from ear to
ear. What's a judge going to make of that?'

'It's
a blunt knife without a tip,' Emmanuel said. 'It couldn't cut a sponge cake.'

'You
have a good knowledge of knives, then?'

'Enough
to know when one is blunt.'

Fletcher
picked up Emmanuel's driver's licence from the table and read over the details.
It listed an outdated Johannesburg address. The licence hit the wood with a
slap. The detective's eyes reflected the utter contempt reserved for lowlifes.

'Want
to know what upsets me, Mr Cooper? The fact that a degenerate from Jo'burg
thinks he can come to my town and commit all manner of filthy acts.'

'I
didn't kill anyone,' Emmanuel repeated. The smooth surface of the concrete
floor was inviting. It was the perfect place to rest an aching head. Then, an
ice pack for the boot- print branded onto his neck.

Robinson
said gently, 'Your neighbour Mr Woodsmith claims you had a fight with the
landlady yesterday morning. Do you recall that incident?'

Mr
Woodsmith, the harmless window peeper, had supplied the police with a
time-honoured motive for foul play: bad blood between the landlady and the
lodger; a storyline lifted from
Detective
Tales.
Emmanuel closed his eyes and focused beyond the pain that split his temple.
Should he tell the truth or take evasive action?

'There
was no fight,' he said.

'Really?'

'We
talked about dogs. Small versus big.'

'Mr
Woodsmith claims the landlady was scared of you. Couldn't wait for you to
vacate the premises.'

'I
don't know anything about that.'

Discs
of light flickered across the room in a bright meteor shower. It was getting
hard to hold up the weight of his head.

The
detectives' attention was drawn away when the interview door swung inward. A
young constable in an olive drab uniform entered and placed a shoebox onto the
table with boyish awkwardness. White puffs of bloody cotton wool protruded from
his nostrils. Fletcher patted the constable's shoulder, a gesture that said,
'We are both men bloodied in the fight against crime'. Stuttering constable to
station hero; this afternoon would be a career highlight for the young
policeman who'd taken blows from a vicious killer. His incompetence might even
get him a medal from the police commissioner. The injured constable whispered
something to Fletcher that made him smile.

'What's
in here?' Robinson, the good detective, reached into the shoebox once the
constable had left the room. He extracted a bone-handled knife. It was
Parthiv's gangster switchblade. Emmanuel had forgotten it in his pocket when
he'd rushed from Saris & All, then shoved it into a drawer. Out of sight,
out of mind. He lifted his head a fraction. The uniforms had searched his room.

Robinson
dipped into the box again and produced Jolly's notebook. He dusted off the
cover and rubbed the white powder between his fingers, curious.

'Where
did the constable find this?' he asked.

'Wrapped
in newspaper and hidden in a flour tin,' Fletcher said with satisfaction. 'In
Mr Cooper's kitchen.'

'Strange
place to keep something.' Robinson flicked through the pages and then glanced
at Emmanuel, waiting for edification on the notebook's placement.

Emmanuel
didn't even try to explain how an imaginary Scottish sergeant major's warning
had made him cautious to the point of paranoia.

'The
boy on the docks . ..' Robinson handed the notebook to his partner. 'What was
it his ma said about him?'

'Ran
errands at the port. Collected food and booze for various people. Kept
everything written in a book.'

'You
know a boy by the name of Jolly Marks, Mr Cooper?' Robinson asked.

The
empty glass rattled against the metal chain of Emmanuel's cuffs. The shakes
were coming on strong. White clusters of light erased outlines of objects and
people. The detectives were soft Vaseline smears.

'I
can't think,' Emmanuel said. 'I need painkillers . . . something for my head
and my neck.'

'Medicine's
not going to fix what's wrong with you,' Fletcher said. 'The hangman will set
you straight.'

Emmanuel
forced his chin up and tried to focus. The white-snow haze of his migraine
blinded him.

Your eye is
fucked, soldier.
The rough Scottish voice filled his head.
I'll tell you
what they have. The Indian's knife and the dead boy's notebook. Now you know.
Your eye's not the only thing that's fucked
.

Emmanuel
rocked backwards. The glass flew into the air and smashed against the concrete
floor. Darkness swamped him. Fletcher grabbed him by the lapels and pulled him
to his feet.

'Faking
illness?' he said. 'Don't even think about going soft now.'

'Wait.'
Robinson examined Emmanuel's pale face and the sweat on his bruised neck. 'The
arresting constable clobbered him too hard. Probably knocked some bones
loose.'

'He's
pretending.'

'Put
him down, Fletcher.' The order was given quietly. 'Get Dr Brownlow in here to
give him a once-over.'

'No
disrespect, sir, but—'

'We
have him on three counts of murder. All the evidence is right here on the
table. I want him in top shape when he appears in court.'

Emmanuel's
body slid to the floor.

A small drop
compared to the gallows,
the Scots voice rasped
.

Emmanuel
rested his head on his forearm. The absence of pain was pure joy. He felt
better than fine. The fistful of codeine the doctor had pushed down his throat
was working. The demented sergeant major's voice was crushed into silence and
happiness was five minutes' sleep away.

The
door to the interview room opened. Emmanuel sat up.

'Major.'
He greeted van Niekerk with a nod.

The
major was in full uniform: the pleats of his trousers and jacket ironed to a
razor's edge. A subtle floral scent mixed with whisky lingered on his person.
No surprise as to how the perfume had been transferred to van Niekerk's skin.

'Sit
down, Cooper.' The major held the door open for a second man who entered the
room carrying a dented blue toolbox. The newcomer, pale-haired and
pale-skinned, mid-thirties, sat in the corner. Emmanuel waited for an
introduction. None came. Van Niekerk closed the door. What was the major doing
in the interview room with a man who wore a suit and carried a toolbox?

'They've
got you on three counts, Cooper,' the major said. 'There's enough evidence to
make the charges stick. Plus the fact that you were caught, literally,
red-handed.'

'I
know.'

'Are
you going to answer my questions truthfully?' The ghostly man in the corner
spoke for the first time. Emmanuel glanced at him. He hadn't moved an inch.

'I'll
answer,' Emmanuel said.

'You
knew Jolly Marks?'

'Not
well. He worked the freight yards and the passenger terminal. Ran errands. I
knew him by sight.'

'You
were at the yards the night before last?' The pale man's voice was emotionless
and, like his skin, leached of colour.

'I
was in the yards.'

'Doing
what?'

Emmanuel
hesitated. The major didn't mean for him to answer that question truthfully,
did he? There was nothing illegal about observing corrupt police conducting
their business. Hiring an ex-detective to record proof was in another league,
however.

'I
get bad headaches. I went to the docks to buy hashish. It helps me sleep.'

A
flicker of emotion crossed the major's face. Relief? Emmanuel couldn't tell.
The man in the corner shifted position but stayed put.

'How
did you get Jolly's notebook?' the major said.

'From
the freight yard.' Emmanuel kept the Dutta family out of it. Amal especially.
The young man's only sin was having a stupid older brother. 'It was in the
alleyway near the body.'

The
major nodded. 'Did you kill the boy, Cooper?'

'No.
He was dead when I found him.'

'Like
the landlady and the maid?'

'Yes.'

'Hard
to believe.'

'The
truth often is.'

The
man in the corner walked towards the table, leaving the toolbox behind, and
Emmanuel's skin tingled with relief. The toolbox shut and out of reach seemed
like a good thing. The man's clean fingernails and unwrinkled black suit
confirmed he was not a tradesman in the traditional sense. Emmanuel suspected
he knew how to break and fix things: none of them domestic.

'You
lied about what you were doing at the docks.' The accent was South African with
an undertone of English public school. A colonial boy sent back to the
motherland for an education in bad food and bullying. His eyes were an
indeterminate colour, like pieces of quartz lit by an unknown source. 'Major
van Niekerk has already confirmed that you were doing private work for him.
Surveillance.'

Emmanuel
shifted under the scrutiny. Why would van Niekerk confirm anything unless he'd
been forced to? The thought was disturbing. It was nearly impossible to get the
jump on the old fox.

'I've
worked for the major before,' Emmanuel said. And, like so many who'd served
under van Niekerk, Emmanuel thought him arrogant, even ruthless. But it wasn't
his job to bring the major down. His conscience was already burdened by three
murders and the fact that he somehow connected them. Best let van Niekerk go to
hell without help. 'Night before last was private business. The major knew
nothing about it.'

'Are
you calling the major a liar?'

'No.
I'm saying I lied to the major.'

The
tradesman smiled at van Niekerk. 'He'll do nicely,' he said.

'I
never doubted it,' van Niekerk said.

Van
Niekerk and the pale man were visibly relaxed, pleased even. It seemed Emmanuel
had passed a test they'd set for him with a mix of lies and discretion.

'Will
getting out be a problem?' the tradesman said.

'It
won't be comfortable.' Van Niekerk cast a glance at the interview-room door.
'My men will keep it under control but we have to move quickly.'

'Where
are we going?' Emmanuel said.

'Out
of the station,' van Niekerk said. 'There's a car waiting for us at the front.'

'I'm
free?'

'No.'
The tradesman collected the toolbox and placed it on the table. His alabaster
hands rested lightly on the dented surface. 'You're being transferred from
police custody into my custody.'

'And
you are?'

'The
only one who can keep you off death row.'

'Why
would you want to do that?' Emmanuel needed to know the price of his freedom.
Walking away from three counts of murder did not come cheap.

'Because
you didn't kill the landlady or the maid, at least not with the knives they
have in evidence.'

'And
Jolly?'

'Jolly
was killed by the same person who killed the two women. You didn't kill the
women, therefore you didn't kill the boy.'

The
station detectives and the arresting policemen would not agree with the
tradesman's conclusion. They'd be furious when they learned their suspect had
been released.

'Exactly
what am I going to do once I'm in your custody?' Emmanuel asked.

'Investigate
Jolly Marks's murder,' came the tradesman's deadpan reply.

'And
Mrs Patterson and her maid. What about them?'

'Clear
Jolly's murder from the board first,' the tradesman said. 'Concentrate your
resources on one investigation at a time.'

'I'm
the prime suspect in all three murders. How's that going to work?'

'Your
investigation will run parallel with that of the regular force,' the major
explained smoothly. 'You'll report direct to me.'

'Or
stay here and wait for the fingerprint results on the torch that was found in
the alley to come back from Pretoria.' The tradesman picked up the metal box
and moved to the door. 'They can do that now, you know. Lift prints from
objects with a powder. It's a world first, developed right here in South
Africa.'

The
bloodstains on Emmanuel's fingertips made the whorls and ridges stand out like
contours on a map. He'd left clear prints on the torch and on the lip of the
landlady's porcelain sink. The results might take months to come back, but when
they did he was going to swing.

'What
will it be, Cooper?' the major said.

Emmanuel
stood up and went to the door. The murders of Jolly Marks and Mbali the maid
were identical in style and execution. He wouldn't find the connection between
the two victims from a jail cell.

'We'll
leave those on until we've exited the station.' Van Niekerk indicated the
handcuffs. 'Keep your head down, do not make eye contact and keep walking. I'll
deal with the flak.'

Olive
drab police uniform pants, polished black boots and plain cotton trousers
crowded the edges of Emmanuel's vision. He kept his head down. A low murmur
accompanied their speedy exit from the station house.

'Pig...
murderer... special favours... bastard... fucking disgrace . . .'

A
filthy, blood-covered criminal walks to freedom: Emmanuel knew how it looked.
Knew how it felt, too, when a guilty party slipped the net and cheated the law.
It made good policemen want to do bad things.

They
emerged onto the street. A gob of spit hit the pavement in front of him.
Emmanuel looked up. The stuttering constable with the injured nose sneered.
Fletcher balled his hands into fists.

'If
we meet again,' the detective constable warned, 'I'll make sure it's your own
blood you're covered in.'

They
kept moving. Emmanuel glanced over his shoulder. Twelve or so policemen now
stood on the station steps and watched the killer go. Anger and frustration
bound them together. If this special investigation was running parallel with
the regular force, as van Niekerk had said, the men on the stairs knew nothing
about it.

'Popular
move,' Emmanuel said when they stopped at a gold-leaf Chevrolet Deluxe with its
motor chugging.

'You'll
be working alone,' the major said.