Let the Dead Lie (13 page)

The
sky was streaked pink when Emmanuel emerged from the dilapidated mansion. A
long-necked ibis pecked at a mango pip discarded on the sidewalk. The
wheelchair-bound man was still there; a silent witness to the fall of night
across the harbour.

Emmanuel
peeled off in the direction of the Buick. He'd picked the car up from opposite
his apartment, where he'd parked it a lifetime ago. Hélène had driven him from
the chateau to the Dover, smiling every mile of the way. The ibis took flight
and circled overhead. Two men in a hurry walked towards the stairs that led to
Jolly's home. It was Detective Constable Fletcher and Detective Head Constable
Robinson. Emmanuel turned and showed them his back. The Buick was a quarter
block away. He'd make a run for it if he had to.

Footsteps
sounded on the stairs and then faded. Emmanuel sprinted. Robinson and Fletcher
would be back on the street the moment Jolly's mother mentioned a visit from a
lone police officer. 'He was just here,' she'd say. 'Now, now.'

Emmanuel
unlocked the driver's door and slid in. He started the engine, reversed back a
foot and made an illegal U-turn. The side mirror reflected the image of the two
detectives flying down the stairs of the decrepit mansion. They split and
began a search of the street. Emmanuel shifted up to third and saw Fletcher
sprint to close the distance between himself and the departing Buick.

Jesse
Owens in his prime couldn't have run down an American eight-cylinder engine.
The detective diminished to a black bump on the horizon. This will be the
pattern, Emmanuel figured. Wherever I go, the police will follow. Five minutes
with Jolly's mother and they'd know about the mermaid illustration and to whom
it belonged.

He
had to find the Flying Dutchman. The mystery man with the sharp car might have
been the last person to see Jolly Marks alive.

Emmanuel
parked the Buick in a tight space on Quayside Road and headed to the passenger
terminal on foot. The docked liner,
Pacific Pearl,
had drawn a mix of Indian
families, Christian youth groups and courting couples to the quay. White cars
dotted the kerb of the red-brick streetscape. Finding the Dutchman was going to
be a challenge.

A
Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith limousine cruised along the wharf. Emmanuel checked
both sides of the street for a white convertible with silver trim and for the
police. The Durban boys couldn't arrest him but they could break a couple of
ribs. The Rolls pulled over to the sidewalk and stopped a few feet ahead. The
engine still hummed.

Emmanuel
turned to see two dark-skinned men a few yards behind him. They seemed to have
sprung out of the ground. In front of him, the back passenger door of the Rolls
swung open and blocked the footpath. He glimpsed polished wood panels and cream
leather.

A
rich honey and tobacco scent drifted out of the car's interior. A British
bulldog of a man in a chequered suit emerged from the front passenger seat and
motioned for Emmanuel to lift his arms. Emmanuel complied. The man patted him
down for weapons and then nodded to the Rolls. Please accept my gracious
invitation, his manner indicated, or my friends will break your legs.

'Get
in,' he said.

Emmanuel
slid into the limousine. The passenger door sealed with a click and the Silver
Wraith rolled into traffic. Soft leather and plush carpet hushed the engine and
the world outside. The red tip of a lit cigar cast the only light in the dim
interior.

The
passenger compartment light switched on and Emmanuel blinked in the sudden
glow. An Indian with dark skin, black hair and black eyes sat to his right. The
man wore a grey linen suit. The material stretched tight across the powerful
width of his shoulders and chest.

'You're
supposed to work for me,' the Indian said. 'But I don't know who the fuck you
are.'

'I'm
Emmanuel Cooper.' Emmanuel held his hand out politely. Parthiv was a pretend
gangster; this man was the real thing. 'You're Mr Khan.'

The
man said nothing and ignored the offer of a handshake. He continued to examine
Emmanuel. 'You have a message for me, from the Duttas. What is it?'

'Mrs
Dutta wants you to know that Parthiv and Giriraj have been disciplined.'
Emmanuel decided this was no time to explain that he wasn't involved with the
Duttas or their business. Somehow, Khan seemed to already know what had
happened in the backyard of Saris & All.

'What
does that mean?'

'A
beating. With a stick.'

Khan
smiled but the black centre of his pupils remained dead. 'I like that. The old
ways are the best. Did Mrs Dutta know about her son's hash dealing?'

'She
wasn't happy. That's all I know.'

'Good.
I don't want to start trouble with the Dutta family but if I have to, then ...'
Khan left the rest of the sentence hanging.

The
Rolls turned onto Marine Parade and cruised past Art Deco hotels and beachfront
bars where colourful crowds spilled onto the pavement. A Zulu rickshaw boy in
animal skins and a feathered headdress posed for pictures with two English
women in tweed. The street bustled with people. That was a good sign. If he
could be seen, he was safe.

The
Rolls took a sharp turn into a dark service lane and parked at the rear
entrance of a closed warehouse. A sign on the steel reinforced door read 'Cold
Meat Storage'. No lights and no passing traffic. Emmanuel tensed. Being light
skinned didn't count for much in the back of a Rolls with an Indian gangster
where no one could see you. Khan was on the second-rate non-white rung of the
South African ladder, but he had a thug, a Roller and a complete lack of fear.
The scent of blood and meat crept in from the alley.

Khan
leaned to within an inch of Emmanuel's face and breathed out smoke. 'Working
for Parthiv Dutta and that mute is a mistake.' His voice was ice. 'It could get
you killed.'

'I
don't work for Parthiv or the Dutta family,' Emmanuel said. He wanted to make
that clear. 'I work at the Victory Shipyards.' It was better to throw out
correct information right away. It might stop Khan from digging deeper later.

'Ah
. . . the Victory,' Khan said. 'The famous refuge for the old men of war. What
theatre were you in? North Africa or the Mediterranean?'

'Europe.
The western front. France and then Germany.'

'Tell
me, do you miss the fighting?'

'No,'
Emmanuel said. Not even the temptation to sit around a bar and rehash memories
of the war had appealed to him.

'That
is my big regret.' Khan crushed his cigar into the ashtray. 'Not being able to
join the Indian army. I was ruled morally unfit. In a war!' Khan laughed. 'I
would have loved war, I think.'

'Some
men do.'

Khan
retrieved a wooden box from the floor and placed it on his knee. He clicked
open the brass latch and Emmanuel noticed that the index finger on his right
hand was severed at the middle joint.

'I
have a message for Parthiv. Pass it along for me, Mr Cooper.'

He
did not want to be caught in the middle of a feud over hashish. Life was
complicated enough and the clock was ticking down to his re-arrest.

'I'll
pass the message on,' Emmanuel said anyway. If Jolly Marks's killer was found
in the next forty-five hours, then maybe he'd swing by Saris & All. If not,
he'd be in jail and Khan's disappointment would be the least of his worries.

'Tell
Parthiv he is no longer in the hashish business. If I hear he is selling it
anywhere, it will not go well for him. You understand?'

'I'll
let him know,' Emmanuel said.

Khan
rapped on the glass privacy screen that separated the front from the back
seats. The Rolls reversed out of the alley and swung back to the Point. Khan
undipped the lid of the wooden box and pushed it open. The scent of tobacco and
cannabis bud spiced the air. He selected a lumpy hand- rolled cigarette as
thick as a baby's wrist and offered it up.

'What
is it?' Emmanuel said. The vanilla and chocolate butt at Jolly's murder scene
had probably come from a box like the one on Khan's knee. He considered a
connection between the Indian gangster and Jolly Marks but nothing seemed to
fit.

'This
is a gift,' Khan said. 'Kentucky burley mixed with Swazi Gold and a sprinkle of
Durban Poison.'

'Thank
you, but I'll pass.'

Swazi
Gold and Durban Poison were two of the most potent
daggas
on the market. Together they might be lethal. A few puffs and the night would
be spent searching wardrobe corners for invisible enemies. Real life provided
all the paranoia he could handle.

'You
don't smoke?'

'Not
since I was a kid.'

All
part and parcel of a slum childhood and an adolescence spent in a country
boarding school long on discipline and short on fun. He had been wild until the
army tamed him. The police force and the detective branch had harnessed his
mental and physical energy. Even the Victory Shipyards kept him straight up. If
he stepped off the path now he might end up exactly where his teachers had
predicted: in jail.

'Maybe
next time,' Khan said and Emmanuel's jaw clenched involuntarily. The Indian
gangster was not going to let him walk away from their acquaintance. Khan would
know him from now till the end of time.

'Maybe,'
Emmanuel said.

The
Rolls came full circle and stopped at the intersection of Quayside Road and
Old Station Street. The bullish white man who'd conducted the weapons search
opened the passenger door and leaned in.

'Walk
Mr Cooper to his car and make sure he knows where he is going,' Khan said.

'Will
do, sir.'

The
message for Parthiv was supposed to be delivered tonight. Well, he needed
something from this encounter.

'Where
can I find the Flying Dutchman if he's not at the passenger quay?' Emmanuel
said. Knowing a criminal boss had to have advantages.

Khan
smiled but again no emotion showed in the black eyes. 'I can get you a woman,'
he said. 'Any colour, any size. For the right price. Just say the word.'

The
offer of free marijuana and now a woman had both been made with a smile, but
Khan sat back watching Emmanuel like a spider, waiting for a weakness to show.

'Not
tonight.'

'You
should reconsider. The Dutchman left town Friday morning and won't be back till
tomorrow.'

'Where
can I find him tomorrow?'

The
Indian man lit up the giant spliff and settled back into the leather seat.
Smoke drifted from his mouth in a thick plume. 'Try back at the quay in the
middle of the afternoon. Sundays are slow and he'll be trawling for tourists
off the boat.'

'Time's
up,' the bodyguard said and laid a hand on Emmanuel's shoulder.

Emmanuel
shrugged off the heavy sausage fingers and climbed out of the car. The two men
who'd earlier blocked him between the Rolls door and the pavement materialised
from the shadows of a closed teashop. Khan's voice reached out from the gloom
of the passenger compartment.

'I
will see you again, Mr Cooper. Soon, I think.'