‘Dr Daglish,’ Emmanuel called out. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes.’ A stone bounced from the tunnel entrance and Margaret peered over the ledge. ‘No broken bones, Detective, just scared.’
‘Zweigman?’
‘Resting.’ Daglish’s brown cotton dress was rumpled and her blunt-cut bob frizzing at the ends but otherwise she looked fine. ‘Gabriel’s still out in the woods.’
‘We’ll be up in a minute,’ Emmanuel said. The doctor flashed Mandla a quick look and mouthed the instruction ‘Be careful’, before ducking into the tunnel.
Underestimating the speed and strength of a powerful Zulu with a battle-scarred body was not a mistake Emmanuel would make but he was grateful for the warning all the same. He turned his attention to the rock ledge, unsure how to defuse the situation.
Shabalala shot him a look that said, ‘Stop. Let me go first.’ He stepped within range of Mandla’s spear. ‘Have you come to wash your spear in our blood, son of the great chief?’ he asked. ‘Or is there another purpose to your visit?’
‘My spear has already been washed. Many years ago,’ Mandla said, an admission to wounding and perhaps even killing a person in the past. ‘Washing’ one’s spear in human blood made a man a man during Shaka Zulu’s military reign over a hundred years before. Mandla laid his weapon and shield down on the ground and crouched with his elbows balanced on the top of his knees.
‘I come with news,’ he said.
‘If you wish to speak I am listening,’ Shabalala replied with grace and squatted down to begin the conversation.
‘I will talk with the boss, not the servant boy.’ Mandla looked beyond Shabalala’s shoulder to Emmanuel, who stepped back to signal his distance from the interview.
‘In this matter,’ Shabalala said, ‘I am the boss.’
Mandla digested that information with a frown, weighing up the possibility that a black policeman had real authority. True or not, there was nothing to be gained from walking away. ‘I led you to the gardener but you have not found the one who killed him or my sister Amahle.’
‘We are still looking,’ Shabalala said.
‘Looking must turn to finding. The great chief has called for a powerful
sangoma
to sniff out the witches he believes are responsible for the deaths.’ Mandla spoke without emotion. ‘I have heard him say that Amahle’s mother and her little sister have evil spirits in them that must be found and cast out.’
‘Do you believe this is true?’ Shabalala asked.
Mandla treated the question with disdain. ‘Nomusa is a scared woman. The little sister is a child. There are no evil spirits or wizards, only liars and greedy men. Such as my father, the great chief.’
Emmanuel inched closer at the mention of Amahle’s little sister. ‘If the
sangoma
believes there’s an evil spirit in the girl . . . ?’
‘She will be cast out of the
kraal
with her mother. No clan will give them shelter. They will live like ghosts out on the veldt, drifting and hungry.’ Mandla rubbed a scar on his shoulder, an old injury healed but not forgotten. ‘The chief’s fifth wife will make sure of this.’
The fifth wife who’d stood up in the middle of the funeral to get a clear view of Amahle’s body being lowered into the short grave.
‘My heart is heavy with this news,’ Shabalala said. ‘But there is no law against a
sangoma
working a spell unless a person is harmed. We can stop the ceremony if we are there, but once we are gone the chief will proceed with his plan.’ The harm to Nomusa and her daughter would come after the spell – when they were declared witches and cast out.
‘That is why you must find the person who killed Amahle and Philani before sunset tomorrow. That is when the
sangoma
will come to the
kraal
and pass judgement.’ Mandla stood up and collected his weapons. ‘The great chief cannot act against the word of the police once they have named the murderer.’
Mandla jumped from the rock and landed with animal grace. His men moved aside to allow him access to the mountain path. They disappeared into the bush, three African men in a European century. Their ancient regiments of the eagle, the lion and the buffalo were long gone, along with their dominion over the land itself.
Emmanuel walked over to Shabalala. ‘What was that really about?’ he asked.
‘Two things, Sergeant. With his good heart, Mandla wants vengeance for Amahle. With his bad heart, he wants to expose the great chief as a fool who must be removed and replaced.’
‘He’s planning a coup.’
‘Planting the seeds,’ Shabalala said. ‘The chief did wrong when he buried Amahle upright. If he is proved incorrect about Nomusa and the little sister being the witches responsible for the murders, then he will be further weakened. That is when Mandla will come for him. Not openly with a spear, but behind doors with poison or a blanket pressed onto the face.’
‘And everyone lives happily ever after?’
‘No.’ Shabalala looked away, embarrassed. ‘The great chief’s wives and children will be split up and given to other chiefs or to men who can afford to keep them.’
‘It’s the devil or the deep blue sea,’ Emmanuel said. ‘If the chief lives, Nomusa and her daughter will be outcasts. If he dies, they’ll be given away to strangers like cattle.’
‘This is the way of things.’
Married off young, a wife, then a mother and finally a widow without a home to shelter her children: Amahle had looked ahead, seen her own future and said no.
‘I vote for giving Nomusa and her daughter the chance to start again, even if it’s in the house of strangers.’ Emmanuel moved to the tunnel entrance, mentally flipping through the pages of his notebook, searching for a vital piece of information that might have been overlooked. ‘We have a day and a half to crack this case, Constable Shabalala.’
TWENTY
E
mmanuel looped back on one of three straggly approach paths leading to the shelter where Philani Dlamini’s body had been found. The clearest track, a well-trodden seam of dirt winding up from Covenant Farm to the crest of the hill and down again to the English enclave of Little Flint Farm, gave up nothing of value. Shabalala and Emmanuel wasted two hours walking up, down and along zigzagging lines that disappeared into the bush.
Emmanuel then climbed onto the rock ledge. Shabalala was already there, sitting under the shade of a yellowwood tree. He shook his head to say that he too had found nothing on his search.
‘The thunderstorm washed the mountain clean,’ he said.
Emmanuel stood in the shade. It was just after noon and the sun was high overhead. More frustration and wasted hours lay before them. ‘Someone besides the killer must have known Philani was here. He hid in the shelter for at least two days. He lit a fire, for god’s sake!’
Interviews with the inhabitants of the Covenant Farm had come up empty. The Zulu workers claimed to have seen nothing and therefore had nothing to say to the police.
‘The housemaid and the labourers are scared that the great chief will say they were to blame for Amahle and Philani’s death if they talk,’ Shabalala said. ‘For them, it is best to keep quiet.’
‘Forget the servants,’ Emmanuel said. ‘What about Karin? She must hunt in these mountains every two or three days to keep meat on the table. There’s no way she didn’t know Philani was up here, no matter what she says.’
But Karin had been insistent that she, like the servants, saw nothing out of the ordinary in the days leading up to the discovery of the body. Certified bullshit as far as Emmanuel was concerned, but he couldn’t prove otherwise.
‘There is still the schoolboy,’ Shabalala said.
‘If he ever comes back to the tunnel.’ Up before dawn and running through the mountains; it was easier to store water in your pocket than to hold on to Gabriel. No-one had seen him since the night before. ‘We can’t rely on him for anything.’
‘Perhaps we missed something at the place where Amahle’s body was found.’
‘I don’t think the killer left evidence at either crime scene,’ Emmanuel said. He was certain now that the murders weren’t crimes of passion but were planned and coldly executed. ‘Searching the area again won’t do any good.’
A series of long whistles and the crack of a whip rose up to them from the foot of the hill. Sampie Paulus and his oxen were on the move. A thin wisp of smoke drifted from the chimney of Covenant homestead; another meal of stewed springbok on the stove for dinner and then again for lunch tomorrow. The mere thought of it made Emmanuel’s mouth feel greasy. He crossed to the edge of the rock, which provided a clear view of the main path that connected the Afrikaner farm to the English one.
‘Let’s give Sampie five minutes to leave the yards and we’ll head back down. I’m going to have another talk with Karin.’
‘The Dutch woman is hard like a stone in the river,’ Shabalala said. ‘She will not break.’
‘I know it,’ Emmanuel said. ‘But we’ve run out of people to question and leads to follow. We might as well chip away at the granite block, right?’
‘If you say so, Sergeant.’
Sampie’s whistles grew faint and the bellowing of the oxen faded. Shabalala moved to Emmanuel’s side and they stood for a minute, hat brims tilted, jackets buttoned up, and brushed the grass and leaves off their suits.
They jumped off the ledge together and landed on the mossy ground. The path was five yards ahead, cutting through stands of marula and stinkwood trees. Movement flashed between the trunks; someone was climbing up the hill from Covenant Farm.
‘Wait,’ Emmanuel said to Shabalala. ‘Bare feet or boots?’
‘Boots.’
‘Only two people at Covenant with boots, and one of them is driving a team of oxen in the other direction.’
‘The Dutch woman was also waiting for her father to leave.’
Karin might be hunting or on her way to repair a fence. Emmanuel crouched down and Shabalala sank beside him, staying motionless as if stalking prey.
The crunch of boots on dirt grew close, then Karin moved by at a clip with her .22 rifle slung across her shoulder. She radiated a focused energy. Within ten seconds she was gone.
‘Hunting,’ Emmanuel said but kept hidden. ‘There was something about her, though . . .’
‘The white flower.’ Shabalala pointed to his left ear. ‘Here.’
‘That’s it.’ The bloom had looked snow bright against the jet black of Karin’s hair. That a tough Afrikaner female in khaki pants and workboots would choose such a fragile ornament was intriguing. Emmanuel stood up. ‘Let her get ahead,’ he said. ‘Then we’ll follow.’
Shabalala walked to the path and examined the soil, memorising the grid pattern left by the boots and the inward turn of the worn right heel. ‘When you are ready,’ he said. ‘The Dutch woman is moving fast and it is better to keep close to her but out of sight.’
‘On your lead, Constable.’
Shabalala set off and Emmanuel followed. Karin kept to the track until it spilled over the mountain and dropped to the valley floor and they could see the far-off buildings of Little Flint Farm. At that point, she split away and detoured into thick bush, which turned into a green tunnel of overhanging trees that blocked the sun. Shabalala crept ahead and looked down the tunnel that tapered off to an archway made of windswept branches. The air was cool under the trees. ‘Behind the branches,’ he said. ‘I will wait here, Sergeant.’
‘Why?’
Emmanuel understood the answer before Shabalala could open his mouth. A moan came from the concealed area and then the sound of urgent breathing, growing quicker. Shabalala looked like he might turn and make a dash back to the sunlit path. Alone or with another policeman, the Zulu detective was not prepared to witness Karin’s private business.
‘Close your eyes and ears and stay put,’ Emmanuel said. ‘I’ll see what’s going on.’ He edged forward, careful not to step on twigs and rustling leaves. The moans deepened, two voices working in concert but at different pitches.
Emmanuel pressed closer. Karin’s rifle rested against a tree trunk like an umbrella left to dry on a porch. Shafts of sunshine breaking through the canopy lit the dim snuggery, surrounded on all sides by forest. Two figures, partially clothed, straddled a smooth rock platform. Karin, her pants unbuckled and hooked around her knees, ground her hips between a pair of smooth brown legs with white underwear dangling from a foot.
‘Are you my girl?’ Karin grasped a loop of brunette hair with her lean fingers and held it tight like a leash.
‘
Ja
. . .’ Ella Reed dug her heels into Karin’s backside, the skirt of her green dress pushed up around her waist. ‘Your girl. I promise.’
Karin pressed Ella against the rock, controlling the rhythm of their coupling and drawing broken sobs from the Englishwoman’s mouth.
Just when the job turns to shit and you’re ready to walk away, God sends you a little present . . .
The Scottish sergeant major’s laugh was filthy.
I paid good money to see a pussy grind in Naples but you get it for free, Cooper. You lucky bastard.
Emmanuel stepped aside, embarrassed at the sharpness of his desire to lap up every detail of the sexual encounter.
Give me a peek, Cooper. Go on, just one quick one before they finish. I’m asking you nice.
Emmanuel stayed put. Watching Ella and Karin through to the end would place him at a disadvantage when he questioned them; his guilt and his pleasure would show.
They’ll be too scared to say a word to you, soldier
, the sergeant major fumed.
Now get back there, Cooper, or I swear I will rip your fucking lungs out and use them as bagpipes.
Too late
, Emmanuel said.
The groans inside the natural amphitheatre peaked and then ebbed to soft exhalations of breath. The love bite on Ella’s inner thigh must have happened during one of their more leisurely encounters, he figured.
He reached for the rifle left against the tree trunk and slid it behind a bush. After a short interval, to allow time for pulling on panties and rebuttoning trousers, he turned back to the enclosed space.
Karin held Ella’s glowing face between her hands. ‘Tomorrow?’ she asked.
‘The day after.’ Ella pressed a kiss against the Afrikaner woman’s rough palm. ‘My mother has one of her quacks coming to the house. This one uses magnets to draw out bad humours and cure migraine headaches and asthma.’
‘I’m no doctor,’ Emmanuel said from the entrance to the secret place, ‘but your lungs sound just fine to me, Ella. Must be the fresh air and exercise.’
Karin stepped in front of Ella to protect her. She glanced at the spot where she’d left the rifle. When she didn’t see it, she looked Emmanuel over and weighed her strength against his.
‘You’ll get the .22 back after the two of you answer some questions,’ Emmanuel said, adding to Karin, ‘Even if you get through me, Constable Shabalala is waiting outside and he will pin you like a butterfly.’
Ella stood up straight with her brunette hair teased out and the neckline of her dress askew, but her sense of social superiority appeared intact. ‘My brother said you were off the case. You have no right to question us, Detective Cooper.’
‘Oh, I’m not here as a policeman.’ Emmanuel knew the frosty accent was meant to put him in his place. ‘I’m just a private citizen shocked at witnessing an English and an Afrikaner woman having sex in public.’
‘What do you want, Cooper?’ Karin became pragmatic. She understood how a snare worked. The harder you kicked, the tighter the wires pulled.
‘Tell me about Philani,’ Emmanuel said. ‘You knew he was hiding in the shelter.’
Karin and Ella exchanged looks, both searching for the least damaging solution to their dilemma. Talk to the policeman, or appear in the local court on immorality charges?
‘Not for the whole time,’ Karin said. ‘I first saw him on Saturday night just before sunset collecting firewood near the shelter. He hid but I knew he was there.’
‘The second time?’
‘Sunday evening on my way home. It was dark and he had a fire going. He wasn’t too bright for a fugitive. I walked by and . . .’ Karin hesitated and Ella stroked her arm with soft fingers. They’d obviously talked about the Philani situation before this. ‘A Zulu woman was with him. She was in the shelter, so I didn’t see her very well except for the brown buckskin with shiny beads on her shoulders. I heard her voice.’
‘Old, young, fat, skinny?’ Emmanuel asked.
‘Young but not a girl. Confident-sounding.’
‘Saying what exactly?’
‘Something about personally talking to Chief Matebula,’ Karin said. ‘I didn’t stop to listen.’
‘You should have told me this two days ago,’ Emmanuel said. General Hyland would not have bothered to pick up the phone and kill the investigation if he’d known, or even suspected, that Amahle’s murder was a black-on-black crime.
‘I told Pa I was going to check traps on Sugar Hill on Friday, which is way in the other direction from here,’ Karin said. ‘Sunday I said I was going to the river to pray at sunset and wouldn’t be home till after dark. If I’d told him about seeing Philani, Pa would have known I was lying about where I’d gone.’
And the deeper truth, that she was sparking an English woman on a rock bed in the woods, was unspeakable. Emmanuel knew personally the consequences of being caught and then judged a sinner. He didn’t wish it on anyone.
Karin checked the position of the sun overhead. Each minute took her away from work that needed doing on the farm and buck that she had to hunt across the hills. Ella was a luxurious time waster. ‘Can I go now?’ she asked. ‘Pa’s expecting me back home.’
‘Can you remember any other details about this woman?’
‘No.’ Karin straightened her belt buckle and checked that her shirt buttons were fastened. The white flower had fallen from her hair and lay crushed on the ground. ‘Confident, like I said. Not one of those Zulu women who don’t speak without getting a man’s permission first.’
Karin’s observation fitted with some of what Emmanuel had figured. The person who’d murdered Amahle and Philani got near enough to pierce them with a small, specialised weapon. This murderer killed with confidence and skill.
‘You can go,’ he said to Karin. ‘If you double back here with your .22, Constable Shabalala will hear you and bring you down long before you get anywhere close. He’s half-Shangaan, so don’t even try it.’
In the pantheon of South African race groups, every tribe had a special talent. Zulus had a gift for fighting and fine beadwork, the Pondo were cunning with money and the Shangaan had a freakish ability to track animals across any terrain.
Karin reached out a hand to Ella and said, ‘Come.’
‘Not yet,’ Emmanuel said. ‘I have a couple of questions for you, Ella.’
Karin hesitated, reluctant to leave her lover in their hideout with a man. If the situation were reversed, however, Emmanuel knew Ella would skip home without questioning Karin’s loyalty. No relationship was ever truly equal.
‘Day after tomorrow, then.’ Karin threaded her fingers through Ella’s hair and kissed her on the mouth. She threw Emmanuel a hard look to reinforce that she, Karin Paulus, was boss of this English miss.
Emmanuel retrieved the rifle and pulled back the bolt, ejecting the bullet out of the breach before unclipping the magazine and removing the bullets. He returned the rifle. Karin disappeared into the lacework of trees and did not look back.
‘You called the murder in to the police in Durban, didn’t you?’ he said and turned to Ella, who now sat on the smooth rock with her legs crossed. No other white woman in the valley had a motive for making the call and access to a telephone.
‘Constable Bagley is one of my brother’s white
kaffirs
,’ Ella said. ‘He’d have taken a couple of statements and closed the case. I wanted a proper investigation.’
‘Ahh . . .’ Emmanuel let his disbelief show. ‘Calling in outside help had nothing to do with getting your big brother into hot water and watching him get burned?’
‘Thomas has everything his own way. It’s bad for his character.’