Let the Dead Lie (12 page)

The driver of
the Chevrolet was a skinny white woman who'd given up being blonde. A trench of
dark brown hair ran down the centre of her head like a deserted landing strip.
The major unlocked the handcuffs and Emmanuel caught a glimpse of the driver's
green eyes examining him in the rear-view mirror. A freckled hand flicked ash
from the end of a cigarette onto the chrome- plated ashtray built into the
dash. The woman's fingernails were chewed down to the quick.

'Drive on,
Hélène,' the major said and the woman eased the car into a steady stream of
Fords, Packards and Rovers. Up ahead the traffic robot turned green and she
piloted the Chevrolet through the intersection. The police station receded
behind them but Emmanuel knew that as far as the Durban police force was
concerned, it was open season on his hide.

'Pull over,' the
tradesman instructed after a two-minute ride during which he sat silent and
unmoving, like a crow on a gravestone. The Chevrolet slid to a stop in front of
a tailor's shop advertising 'A Whale of a Sale'. He got out, shut the car door
and disappeared into the Saturday
market crowd of Indian traders, European shoppers and Zulu rickshaw pullers without
a backwards glance. Just a skinny white male of above average height, dressed
in a dark suit and moving 'quick like'.

'Who
was that man?' Emmanuel asked van Niekerk.

'Constable
John Smith. Commissioner's office.' The major's voice was heavy with sarcasm.
'Recent transfer from Cape Town.'

'You
don't believe it,' Emmanuel said. And neither did he. The tradesman was not a
garden-variety police recruit. His quiet intensity suggested he belonged to a
group beginning with the letter 'S': Security Branch or Special Services.

'I
got a call about two hours ago from a brigadier who got a call from a major
general,' van Niekerk said. 'It must have been just after your arrest.
Cooperate: that was the message. It seemed like a good idea. The . . . uh,
albino was waiting at the police station for me. He asked questions; I
answered.'

'All
this cloak and dagger for a boy with no family connections? Doesn't make any
sense, not even when you include the murders this afternoon.'

'That's
your job, Cooper. To make sense of things.'

Emmanuel
wound the window down to get some air. The pills had stopped the throb against
his skull but dulled his thoughts. On the pavement, a double-chinned dame
festooned with gaudy seashell necklaces reeled at the sight of him. She
clutched her suede handbag with both chubby fists. None of the pretty Durban
postcards showed a bloodied man being chauffeured around town in a Chevrolet
Deluxe.

'Head
back to the house, Hélène,' the major said to the driver, then made a detailed
study of the side panels of a sluggish tram, which advertised 'J. Gustave
Coiffeur Beige' on West Street.

Emmanuel
closed the car window. His release from custody was wrong on every level.
Catching a triple murderer at the scene covered in blood was the equivalent of
winning the July handicap horserace at five hundred to one. The police would
never walk away from this case. The department's hand had been forced from
somewhere high up.

'Who
signed my release forms?' he said.

'I
did.' Van Niekerk loosened the top three buttons of his uniform jacket and
tugged at the starched collar. His lean face was impassive and his hooded eyes
were unreadable.

'Why?'

'To
the victor belong the spoils. If you pull this off, the major general will
remember your name and mine. You'll get your detective's ID back and I'll have
friends in high places.'

'And
if I don't?'

'That's
not an option. For either of us. I vouched for you, Cooper. Gave a personal
guarantee. If you don't deliver, they'll come after you, then they'll come
after me.'

Emmanuel
rubbed the bruised muscles of his neck. It was possible that signing off on the
backdated letter of discharge in Jo'burg six months ago had gotten van Niekerk
blackbanned from the promotions list. That would explain why he was taking a
gamble on the results of a one-man investigation. Maybe he needed friends in
high places.

'What
now?' Emmanuel said.

'Investigate
the Marks boy's murder and report to me. That's the sum of it.' The major
pulled Jolly's notebook from his jacket pocket and threw it onto Emmanuel's
lap. 'The victim's address is pencilled in the back. Some hovel out on the
Point.'

'How
did you get this?'

A
piece of evidence liberated from the hands of legitimate law enforcement
without a fight? That was another action that made no sense.

'I
took it,' the major said, then handed over a mimeographed piece of paper
printed with a black and white mug shot of a European male with a Frankenstein
head. Dark eyes glared from the police portrait. 'Until you turned up with
bloody hands and a knife in your pocket, this man was the number one suspect. A
low-level heavy called Joe Flowers.'

The
escaped prisoner, Joe Wesley Flowers, was proof that the discredited science of
phrenology wasn't completely off the mark. His very large square head, shifty
eyes and slack mouth all said criminal. Petty theft, housebreaking and malicious
wounding showcased his versatile talents.

'What
makes him right for the murders?' Emmanuel asked.

'He
was in for stabbing two men in a bar fight, and he worked as a flenser at the
whaling station for a year and a half. He knows knives.'

A
single cut to the throat had killed Jolly and Mbali, the maid. Whoever killed
them knew knives, too.

'Was
Mrs Patterson killed the same way as the maid?'

'No.
The killer made a mess of that one. She was cut across the shoulder, made a run
for it and knocked over a table of porcelain figurines. The crash alerted the
neighbour who called the police. A single cut across the neck finally killed
her.'

'Does
Flowers have the legs for this kind of crime?'

Emmanuel
asked. 'It's a big jump up from cutting whale carcasses to murdering two
children and an old lady.'

'Maybe
he's trying his hand at something new.' Van Niekerk's tone was dry. 'Moving up
the criminal ladder.'

'Any
leads?'

'Patrol
cars haven't caught sight of him. His mother has vanished as well.'

'No
other family?'

'A
dirt-farming uncle who lives out past Pietermaritzburg. The police called in
yesterday and found nothing.' The major shrugged. 'Rootless whites. You know
what they're like, Cooper. No fixed address, no forwarding address and no
better than the
kaffirs.'

Yes,
he knew all about that life.

Out
the window, red-brick shopfronts and flats gave way to peacock-green lawns and
mature shade trees with limbs that overhung the road like the beams of a cathedral.
The rest of the country was dressed in brown for winter, but Durban still had
orange, purple and sunny bursts of yellow. 'Leafy' was one of his ex-wife
Angela's favourite words and also one of her biggest criticisms of South
Africa. The country was not 'leafy' enough. Not quaint enough. Not English
enough. Perhaps if they'd lived in Durban they might still be together. He did
not long for the past or for her cool embrace, though. She was one of the
unsuccessful ways that he had tried to escape the past.

'Where
are we headed?' he asked.

'Glenwood.
You're staying with some friends of mine.'

The
Chevrolet turned into a driveway set between whitewashed brick columns. A
brass plate on the right-hand column read 'Chateau La Mer'. They stopped in
front of a vine-covered trellis flecked with purple blooms. The female driver
slipped out from behind the wheel and held van Niekerk's door open.

'Merci,
Hélène,' the major said, pulling
the lines of his uniform jacket straight.

'De rien,
Major,' Hélène replied and kept
the door ajar for Emmanuel, like a hotel valet. He crunched onto the gravel
drive and checked the neat suburban surroundings. Chateau La Mer was a handsome
brick house with leadlight roses decorating the windows and a wide veranda that
ran along three sides. High on the roof, an iron weathercock swayed east in the
breeze, while a white marble statue of a nude woman balanced in the middle of a
tinkling fountain set up on the front lawn.

'Cooper.'
The major waved him over. 'This is Hélène Gerard. You'll be staying with her
for a few days.'

'Very
kind.' Emmanuel substituted a nod for a handshake. His hands still had dried
blood on them.

Hélène's
smile was tight but the skin on her cheeks and neck sagged, as if she'd
recently lost a great deal of weight. What kind of a friend agrees to
accommodate a man fresh out of police custody?

'Hélène,
this is Detective Sergeant Emmanuel Cooper,' the major said. 'He scrubs up fine
so pay no attention to his appearance.'

'A
pleasure to meet you, Detective Cooper.'

Hélène
was grace itself; she might be welcoming a guest to a civic reception and not
talking to a dishevelled man with a boot print on his neck. Van Niekerk must
have something big on Hélène to get her to take a murder suspect into her
home, Emmanuel thought.

'I'll
arrange for a bath and fresh clothes. Please come in when you're ready.' Hélène
dropped a half curtsy in van Niekerk's direction then slipped away into the red
and green blaze of the garden.

'Well...'
The major checked his watch. 'I'll leave you to settle in. Hélène will take
good care of you.'

Does
she have a choice, Emmanuel wondered.

The
major frowned, a piece of trivial information popping into his mind. 'You don't
have a lot of time, Cooper.'

'Meaning?'

'In
forty-eight hours members of the Durban police will issue a warrant for your
arrest on three counts of murder, one count of assault of a police officer and
one count of resisting arrest. Those are the terms of the deal for your
release.'

'What
can I achieve in that time?' He was being set up to fail before the
investigation had even started.

'You've
been given a second chance at life, Cooper. Stick to the Marks boy's murder the
way you've been told. There's not enough time to chase three separate
inquiries.' The major extended his hand. 'Call me with any updates. Or better,
call around to my house if it's after hours.'

They
shook hands and van Niekerk got into a car that was parked off to the side of
the drive. The engine started up and the major pulled away without looking
back.

A
company of Cape canaries bickered on a swaying telephone wire. Emmanuel sat
down on the front stairs of La Mer. The blood on his palm was bright with
moisture. The ice-cool major was sweating heavily on a mild winter's day. Now
that was a miracle.

A
single question kept Emmanuel on the stair. Why was he sitting in a pool of
sunshine instead of a jail cell? There was no answer to that, yet. The Cape
canaries took to the wing and arched across the blue sky.

Forty-eight
hours. He checked his watch. It was four forty-five. Time to get moving.