A Beautiful Place to Die Read online

  “Was Mary interviewed at the police station or at home?” he asked.

  “Both.” Anton followed behind. “Why? Is the case being looked into again?”

  “I’m looking into it,” he said.

  “Good.” This time the mechanic’s smile was real. “It never sat right with us that nothing came of the complaints.”

  “Something about the case doesn’t sit right with me, either,” Emmanuel said, thinking of the absent police files and Paul Pretorius’s dismissive attitude toward the idea that any member of his chosen race would cross the color line in search of thrills.

  Anton pushed the door open and allowed Emmanuel to exit first. Outside, the potluck lunch was in full swing. The smell of mealie bread and curry flavored the air. Most of the families sat on the grass with plates of food spread out in front of them or stood in the skirt of shade cast by the gum trees. The matrons had begun to serve themselves from the depleted bowls on the long table.

  “Think there’s any of Granny Mariah’s curry left?” Emmanuel asked. The look of powerlessness on Anton’s face when he talked about the money was still with him.

  “Hope so.” Anton waved a hand toward the serving table. “Would you like a plate of food, Detective? You don’t have to. I’m sure the Dutch church has its own potluck, it’s just…I thought maybe…”

  “I’ll take a plate,” Emmanuel said. Lunch with Hansie and the Pretorius brothers would be as much fun as the time the field medic dug a bullet out of his shoulder with a penknife. Besides, the Security Branch’s insistence that he follow up the molestation case meant he’d be spending a lot of time going in and out of coloured homes. This was a good chance for them to see him and get used to his presence.

  The crowd stilled while Anton and Emmanuel approached the food table. A mother smacked her daughter on the hand to stop her talking, and the congregation kept a wary eye on his progress.

  Emmanuel kept his posture relaxed. A white detective from the city was never going to be the most popular person at a nonwhite potluck Sunday lunch. Anton handed him an enamel plate edged in blue. Emmanuel walked along the table and, army mess style, received heaped spoonfuls of potato salad, roast chicken, lentils and spinach from the matrons, all of whom kept their attention on the serving plate.

  The last of the matrons looked directly at him. He nodded a greeting at the woman, whose light green eyes shone like beacons in her dark face. Her wavy gray hair, pulled back into an untidy bun, was untouched by the hot comb.

  “You investigating one of our people for the captain’s murder, Detective?” There was nothing in the matron’s manner to indicate any deference to the fact that she was a coloured woman talking to a white man in authority. The churchyard went quiet.

  Emmanuel kept eye contact and smiled. “I’m here for some of Granny Mariah’s curry,” he said. “Any left?”

  “Hmm…” She reached under the serving table and produced a silver pot. “Lucky for you we saved some for Anton.”

  The formidable old lady split the curry between the two plates, and the crowd started talking again.

  “Thanks,” Emmanuel said, and turned to face the picnicking congregation.

  “Best we eat over there,” Anton said, and they made their way to a red gate and set their plates on a stone wall. They were as far away from the congregation as they could get without actually leaving the churchyard.

  Emmanuel pointed to the dark-skinned matron who was busy tidying the serving table. “Who’s the woman with the cat’s eyes?”

  “Granny Mariah.” Anton laughed. “You almost got her to smile with that curry comment. That would have been one for the books.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Well…” The coloured man heaped his fork with yellow rice. “Granny doesn’t have much time for men. Doesn’t matter what color. We all a bunch of fools so far as she’s concerned.”

  “I got that feeling,” Emmanuel said, and dug into the food. They ate in silence until the plates were half empty.

  Anton wiped his mouth. “You want to know what’s really going on, Granny Mariah’s the one to talk to. She knows everything. That’s another reason men hold their tongues around her.”

  Emmanuel recalled Tiny and Theo’s late-night antics. “Does she have anything on you?” he asked.

  “Just the usual stuff.” The gold filling in Anton’s front tooth flashed bright when he smiled. “Nothing that would shock an ex-soldier or a detective investigating a murder.”

  “I don’t know,” Emmanuel said. “What passes for the usual stuff in Jacob’s Rest?”

  “I’m not about to confess my sins to the police. No offense, Detective Sergeant.”

  “That’s wise,” Emmanuel said. Harry, the World War I veteran, crawled out from under the daisy bush and grabbed at the plate of food set out for him. He shoveled handfuls of rice into his mouth, barely chewing the food.

  “Harry eats every two or three days,” Anton said. “He won’t touch anything in between. Nobody knows why.”

  He’s in the trenches, Emmanuel thought, starving until the next ration trickles down from the supply line. Harry’s body was back in South Africa, but a part of his mind was still knee-deep in European mud. Emmanuel knew that feeling.

  “Anyone here work at the post office?” he asked Anton as Harry cleaned the plate in four quick licks.

  “Miss Byrd.” The mechanic indicated the church steps. “She’s the one in the hat.”

  Several women on the stairs wore hats, but Emmanuel spotted Miss Byrd easily. The hat Anton referred to was designed to draw all eyes to its glorious layers of purple felt and puffed feathers. Miss Byrd’s Sunday crown transformed her from a sparrow into a strutting peacock.

  “What does she do at the post office?”

  “Sorts the mail,” Anton said. “She also serves behind the nonwhites counter now the whites have their own separate window.”

  Emmanuel finished his lunch and wiped his mouth and hands clean with his handkerchief. Miss Byrd was perfect for what he needed.

  “I’d like an introduction,” he said to Anton.

  The town was deep in a Sunday-afternoon slump. All the shops were closed, the streets empty of human traffic. A stray dog limped across Piet Retief Street and onto a kaffir path running beside Pretorius Farm Supply. Emmanuel’s footsteps were loud on the pavement. He peered into Kloppers shoe store. Hard-wearing farmer’s boots and snub-nosed school shoes clustered around a pair of red stilettos with diamantés glued to the heel. The strappy red shoes sat at the center of the display like a glowing heart. The order for the red shoes must have been made while fantasy images of dancing and champagne blocked out the dusty reality of life in Jacob’s Rest.

  The Security Branch Chevrolet was parked in front of the police station with its doors locked and windows rolled up. A sharp-faced man with clipped sideburns sat on the stoep and stared across the empty main street. His tie was loosened, his shirtsleeves rolled up past the elbow to reveal pink strips of sunburned flesh. Lieutenant Uys was back in town after his holiday in Mozambique.

  “Lieutenant Uys?” Emmanuel held his hand out. “Detective Sergeant Emmanuel Cooper, Marshal Square CID.”

  “Lieutenant Sarel Uys.” The lieutenant got to his feet for the formal introductions and Emmanuel felt the brief crush of sinewy fingers around his hand. Sarel Uys barely scraped the minimum height required to join the force, which explained the “show of force” handshake.

  “You’ve heard?” Emmanuel asked.

  “About a half hour ago.” The lieutenant slumped back down in his chair. “Your friends broke the news.”

  Emmanuel ignored the reference to the Security Branch. Deep furrows of discontent ran from the corner of Sarel’s mouth to his jawline.

  “Did you know the captain well, Lieutenant?” he asked.

  Sarel grunted. “The only one who knew the captain was that native.”

  “Constable Shabalala?”

  “That’s him.” Sarel looked like
he’d sucked a crateful of lemons for breakfast. “He and the captain were tight.”

  Sandwiched between the giant forms of Captain Pretorius and Constable Shabalala, the wiry little lieutenant was number three at the Jacob’s Rest police station. It seemed that fact cut deeper than the captain’s murder.

  “Have you been stationed here long?” Emmanuel continued with the informal fact gathering.

  “Two years. I was at Scarborough before.”

  “That’s quite a change,” Emmanuel said. Scarborough was a prime post. Policemen fought hard to get into the wealthy white enclave and then, if they were smart enough, they made some influential friends to ensure they only left Scarborough to retire someplace sunny. A transfer to Jacob’s Rest smelled of involuntary exile. He’d get someone at district headquarters to dig up the dirt on Lieutenant Uys’s transfer to the cattle yard.

  “That’s why I spend my holidays in Mozambique or Durban,” he said. “I prefer the ocean to the countryside.” Sarel Uys smiled and showed a row of teeth the size of dried baby corn kernels. Everything about the man was small and hard.

  “Most people in town go to Mozambique a couple of times a year, don’t they?”

  “Everyone but the natives,” Sarel said. “They don’t like the water.”

  The blacks’ dislike of water was a tired belief that ceased to apply the moment whites needed their clothes washed or their gardens watered.

  “Did Captain Pretorius go often?” Emmanuel asked.

  “A couple of times a year.”

  “With the family or by himself?”

  The lieutenant was suddenly curious. “You think maybe someone from over there did it?”

  “Maybe. Do you know if Captain Pretorius ever went to LM for business?”

  “Ask the native,” the lieutenant threw back. “He’ll tell you if he has a mind to.”

  “You’ve been here two years,” Emmanuel continued. It was getting harder to maintain a friendly tone with this man. “Surely you got to know Captain Pretorius a little?”

  “This murder is typical of the captain.” Sarel shook his head in disbelief. “I tell you, it’s typical of the way he treated me.”

  Emmanuel had trouble following the logic. “How so?”

  “He got himself killed while I was away on holiday so I didn’t get to find the body or call in the detectives. My one chance to get back to Scarborough and he makes sure I’m not here to take it.”

  “Captain Pretorius didn’t plan on getting murdered,” Emmanuel said.

  “He knew everything that went on in this town. He must have known he was in danger. I could have helped him if he’d just told me what was going on.” The lieutenant’s slender fingers rubbed a bald spot into the material of his trousers.

  Perhaps Sarel Uys needed a permanent holiday from the force instead of six days in Mozambique.

  “He never asked for my help.” Uys stared across the quiet street. “I could have been his right-hand man if he’d given me the chance.”

  The bitter tone had changed to longing. Uys had never left the playground or outgrown the desire to be close to the most popular and athletic student. The captain had denied him the small pleasure of living in his reflected glory.

  “I’ve heard you helped the captain with a lot of cases. You both worked the molester case, didn’t you?”

  “Oh, that.” The little man was dismissive. “Catching a man who interferes with coloured women doesn’t get you noticed with the higher-ups, believe me.”

  Emmanuel leaned a shoulder against the wall and thought of Tiny and Theo out on the veldt with a loaded gun and itchy fingers. They’d taken the law into their own hands because the law didn’t give a damn what happened to their women.

  “Captain Pretorius didn’t care about promotion,” Sarel went on. “He was happy here with ‘his people,’ as he called them. He didn’t have any plans to move up. Not like me.”

  Emmanuel doubted Lieutenant Uys was moving anywhere but sideways and eventually out of the force. He’d end his days warming a bar stool and complaining about his missed chances.

  “Did the investigation run for a long time?” Emmanuel asked.

  “Maybe two months or so. There were times I couldn’t get through a week without hearing some coloured woman complaining about being followed or being touched up.”

  Emmanuel thought of Mary, the woman-child, darting away from the church door like a startled springbok. Who had put the fear of men into her? The Peeping Tom or Lieutenant Uys?

  “You filed all the interviews?”

  “In one big fat folder. Under U for unsolved,” Sarel said with satisfaction.

  The file wasn’t under U or any other letter. The files were no longer “absent,” they’d been taken. Sarel had no idea the file was missing, but even if he’d noticed, he’d have let it ride: there was no glory in hunting up a file concerning a nonwhite problem. The new laws were set to make old attitudes worse. Nonwhite cases were already at the bottom of the pile. That’s why the Security Branch was so pleased to off-load the molester case onto him. Only grunt cops with too much time and too few brains dirtied their hands exclusively with nonwhite cases.

  Emmanuel pushed himself from the wall. Why would someone take the files unless there was something in them worth hiding?

  He left Uys to his bitter musings. The filing cabinet needed to be searched again and then he’d move on to Constable Shabalala and see what shards of information he could extract from the black man.

  Emmanuel entered the front office. A dog-eared paper folder lay on Hansie’s desk. The folder was dark blue and not like any of those in the police station’s filing cabinet. It was not like anything he’d seen at Marshal CID, either. A pale yellow snakelike S was hand-drawn on the front—a Security Branch file. Emmanuel checked the front door and the side door leading to the cells. He couldn’t lock either without drawing attention to himself, so he moved quickly.

  He unbuttoned the fastener: inside the folder was a stack of mimeographed papers stamped along the top with the bright red warning “Highly Confidential.” The word “Communist” was repeated on every page above lists of names neatly drawn into two columns underneath.

  A pamphlet with the optimistic title “A New Dawn for South Africa” was clipped to the front of a hazy black-and-white graduation photo. The face of a young black man wearing thick-rimmed glasses was circled in red. At the bottom of the photo was the school’s name, “Fort Bennington College.”

  Emmanuel knew the school by reputation. It was an Anglican mission school famous for turning out the black academic elite. The first black lawyer to open his own law firm, the first black doctor to run an all-black practice, the first black dentist had all come out of the school. Fort Bennington College educated blacks to rule the country, not just carry a bucket for the white man. Afrikaners and conservative Englishmen hated the place with a passion.

  A cough from the direction of the cells forced Emmanuel to close the file and rebutton the fastener. The folder was proof that Piet and Dickie were the attack dogs of a powerful political force with vast intelligence-gathering capabilities. His hands shook as he repositioned the blue folder and moved to the filing cabinet, where he checked under the letter U and found nothing.

  The door to the cells opened. It was Piet with his shirtsleeves rolled up and a cigarette hanging from the side of his puffy lips. The Security Branch officer undid the fastener on the blue folder and slid a piece of paper into the middle.

  “Have fun at the coloured church?” Piet asked, and took a deep draw on his cigarette.

  “Not much,” Emmanuel said.

  “Shame.” Piet grinned. “Van Niekerk won’t like to hear his number one boy has come home empty-handed.”

  Piet blew a series of smoke rings into the air and Emmanuel’s heartbeat spiked. The Security Branch had found something. N’kosi Duma had given them something good. Piet could hardly contain his glee.

  “Is Constable Shabalala around?” Emmanuel aske
d. There was nothing to gain from going up against the Security Branch in a cocksure mood. He had to sidestep them and find out as much as he could from other sources.

  “Out the back,” Piet said. “You can come through, but be quick about it.”

  Emmanuel walked through to the police station yard and saw Dickie standing by an open cell door. A gaunt black man, whom he assumed was Duma, cowered against the hard metal bars.

  “Don’t worry…” Dickie spoke to the terrified miner in a grotesque parody of motherly concern. “I’m sure your comrades will understand why you did it.”

  “Dickie.” Piet encouraged his partner to move his tank-sized body farther into the cell. The black man flinched and held his arms over his head in a protective gesture. Dark bruises marked Duma’s skinny arms and a low animal whimper came from deep in the terrified man’s throat. The Security Branch always got what they wanted: one way or another.

  “Keep moving,” Piet ordered. “Your business is outside.”

  Two steaming cups of tea rested on the small table by the back door. Emmanuel exited and found Shabalala seated by the edge of a small fire that burned in the outdoor hearth. Piet slammed the back door shut.

  “Detective Sergeant.” Shabalala stood up to greet him.

  Emmanuel shook the black man’s hand and they sat down.

  “What happened in there?” he asked in Zulu.

  “I have been outside,” Shabalala answered.

  “What do you think happened?” Emmanuel pushed a little harder. Unlike Sarel Uys and Hansie Hepple, the black policeman showed a real aptitude for the finer details of police work. Constable Shabalala needed to know that nothing he said could be used against him by the Security Branch later.

  The black policeman checked the back door to make sure it was still shut. “The two men, they want to know if Duma has seen a piece of paper with”—he paused to retrieve the unfamiliar word—“Communist writing on it when he worked in the mines.”

  “Did they get an answer from him?”

  “Those two did not get an answer from Duma,” Shabalala said with a trace of contempt. “It was the shambok that got the answer.”