Blessed Are the Dead Page 16

  “Zweigman was flashing new baby photos. That’s what friends do.”

  “If you say it is so, Cooper.” The sergeant major repeated Shabalala’s words, deadpan, with all the subtext intact.

  In the silence that followed, a small animal scuttled through the underbrush. Obsessing over Zweigman and Shabalala’s private picture show would lead to suspicion and paranoia, Emmanuel knew. Combine that with insomnia and his disturbing dreams, and he might as well be back in combat and on the edge of a meltdown.

  “Track down Mr. Insurance Policy, Cooper.” The voice resumed. “He’s the key to everything.”

  “Nobody’s ever heard of him. Amahle probably met a man in town on the day she was left behind. He bought her a drink and a bag of sweets and made promises he had no intention of keeping. It’s an old story.”

  “Yeah. Fair enough,” the sergeant major said. “I’ve got a feeling about it, that’s all.”

  “You’re a detective now?” Emmanuel asked. “Go back to your Edinburgh slum.”

  “You need to get some sleep, Cooper,” the Scotsman said. “We’ll talk when you’re less of a grumpy bastard. Okay?”

  “Yes, sir.” Emmanuel gave a mock salute to the air and then picked his way back to the moonlit campsite. Dawn was still hours away. The sergeant major was right about one thing: he badly needed sleep.

  Shabalala lay on his side, facing the opposite direction from Emmanuel’s mound of leaves and discarded blanket. Still awake but pretending to be asleep, Shabalala was too polite to ask a second time if the sergeant was well.

  The leaf mattress did not make the hard ground much softer and the pain in Emmanuel’s back throbbed when he eased under the blanket. He closed his eyes but didn’t think he could sleep.

  “Remember that village cemetery with stone walls and an avenue of oak trees, Cooper?” the sergeant major whispered inside Emmanuel’s head. “The sun set behind the row of crosses and there was a white marble angel with a lamb cradled in her arms.”

  Yes, he remembered. Autumn was closing in, the leaves had begun to turn copper and yellow. Fading light and shadows dappled the walls of the ancient church, now bombed to ruins. Then, from the open window of an apartment building, the soulful swell and dip of a cello floated out over the blackened rooftops and the low-lying fields, the music mending the world.

  Emmanuel fell asleep.

  Pebbles arranged in the shape of an arrow pointed northeast toward Roselet. A second arrow pointing in the same direction at the base of the hill on which they’d camped repeated the instruction: Go back.

  “Huh . . .” Shabalala was at once annoyed and impressed by the hand-formed signs. “This one was placed here only one hour ago while we searched the place where he slept.” They’d found a nest of leaves scraped into a circle, Gabriel’s burrowing ground, where he’d curled up without a fire or a blanket.

  “Is he heading back to town or are the arrows telling us to abandon the chase and go home?” Emmanuel stifled a yawn. Dawn had just broken and a flock of black-winged swallows dipped and swooped through the mist that lay over the fields.

  “The boy has gone straight, straight.” Shabalala pointed directly across the grasslands dotted with sagebrush. “In the footsteps of the impi.”

  “The boy is following Mandla and his men and he wants us to tag along,” Emmanuel said. The arrows weren’t a warning but a finger pointing them in the right direction.

  “That is what I think, Sergeant.”

  “Roselet’s suddenly the place to be.” A runaway schoolboy and a Zulu warrior were running to the little town. “We’d better catch up. We don’t want to miss anything.”

  The stone arrows marked a straight path across the grass meadows. On this journey, Gabriel did not detour or loop back on his tracks as he had the previous day. It took Emmanuel and Shabalala one hour to make the edge of Roselet.

  “The boy ended here.” Shabalala stopped to examine one last arrow, hastily arranged and with a crooked shaft. “His footsteps go into the water but do not come out the other side.”

  Across the stream, the whitewashed walls of Dr. Daglish’s cottage glistened with dew. The entrance to the cellar was wide open, the timber doors held ajar by a stone.

  “Mandla and his men didn’t stop on this side of the stream, did they, Shabalala?”

  “No. They went on.”

  Emmanuel leapt the breadth of the water in one bound. He attacked the steep gradient, knowing with each footstep that he was already too late.

  The cellar was dank and cold as ever. The white sheet used to cover the body lay on the stone floor. A brown moth circled the naked bulb above the empty gurney.

  Amahle was gone.

  14

  EMMANUEL WALKED THE southern boundary of the yard and met Shabalala in the empty front driveway. It was hopeless. Amahle’s body was deep in the mountains by now, carried on a platform of rawhide shields.

  “The mortuary van was not here,” Shabalala said. “Mandla and his men have taken Amahle back to her mother.” Put that way, kidnapping a corpse was a community service provided on behalf of the dead. No white judge or jury would see it that way.

  “Daglish?”

  “Gone, but not with the impi,” Shabalala explained. “She did not leave the house till after the men took the body and crossed the stream.”

  “Thank Christ for that,” Emmanuel said.

  The National Party loved an interracial crime with sexual overtones. They would turn it into headline news to ensure that liberal whites and redneck farmers alike got the message: Your women and children are in danger from savage forces. Only We Can Save You.

  “And Zweigman?”

  “Gone with the town doctor.” Two shoe tracks led down the gravel drive. “Both running to Greyling Street.”

  “Let’s find them, make sure they’re safe.”

  “This way, Sergeant.” Shabalala walked to the road and swung right past the closed café and then Dawson’s General Store—already open for trade, a cream-colored cat sleeping on the threshold. Three white farmers in khaki pants and worn cotton shirts stood outside the farm depot, smoking their first cigarettes of the day. They marked the strangers moving through their town, stone glances passing judgment on the black and white men who appeared too close, too intimate for a baas and his servant. Emmanuel walked on. Righteous farmers held power over the boy he once was, not the man he’d become. Let them think what they wanted. The police van was out in front of the station, tires splattered with mud, dead insects smeared across the windscreen and on the grille. Smoke drifted from a side window of the station house and a pyramid of spent butts lay beneath the sill. Voices came from inside.

  “The girl was taken by force and it is your job to retrieve her, Constable.” That was Zweigman in full steam, his German accent shredding the English language to tatters. He was angry.

  “I know my job.” That was Bagley, not taking any shit from a foreign stranger. “You’ve reported a criminal activity and I will take the appropriate action at the appropriate time.”

  “After your cigarette?” Zweigman snorted. “Or after your afternoon naptime, perhaps?” The doctor would argue the point no matter how many enemies he made.

  “Out!” Footsteps slapped the floor, a prelude to action. “Get out of my station or I will arrest you for disturbing the peace.”

  Emmanuel stepped through the front door and walked behind the long counter. Margaret Daglish, still in nightdress, gown and slippers, sat in one of the interview chairs, trying to make herself as small as possible. Zweigman and the station commander stood face-to-face, neither backing down.

  “Sergeant Cooper.” Zweigman was gray with fatigue. He looked as if he’d slept in his clothes. “You saw what happened?”

  “Yeah. How long ago?”

  “One hour.” The German glared at Bagley, who’d returned to the windowsill to finish his Dunhill. “We waited until the men crossed the river and then came here to report the crime. No action so far.”r />
  “Unlike you to stay indoors and not try to stop them from taking the body,” Emmanuel said. He was aware of Shabalala hovering in the doorway.

  “Dr. Zweigman tried to leave the house, but I stopped him.” Daglish loosened her hold on the chair arms. “The leader said he’d spear anyone who came into the garden. I believed him.”

  “Good call.” Surrender was the only option for two unarmed physicians pinned down by a Zulu impi. Constable Bagley’s foot-dragging was another matter. “Why are you still here, Constable?” Emmanuel asked. “Your native police probably have a good idea where Mandla is headed.”

  “Got a message for you.” Bagley scratched the bristles on his throat. He was haggard, with black smudges under his eyes and nicotine stains on his fingertips. Probably up at dawn, marooned on the back steps again, smoking to forget whatever plagued him.

  “Fuck,” the sergeant major growled. “The bastard has something, Cooper.”

  Emmanuel waited out the station commander in silence.

  “Colonel van Niekerk said to call.” Bagley flicked ash out of the window. “It’s urgent.”

  “Don’t answer him, Cooper,” the sergeant major said. “Don’t even look at him. Just make the call, soldier.”

  Emmanuel followed orders and rang through to Durban on a static-free line. The sweet scent of bruised sagebrush crept in through the open window, dampening the smell of burnt tobacco and of leaf litter clinging to his shirt. He turned to face the broken filing cabinet, blocking out Zweigman’s anxious expression and the blank imprint of Shabalala’s face.

  “Colonel,” Emmanuel said when the phone was picked up at the other end. A photo portrait of Queen Elizabeth on the far wall smiled down at him, beatific in pearls and a diamond tiara.

  “Do you know what it’s like being pissed on from a great height by an English general, Cooper?” van Niekerk asked with chilling calm.

  “No, sir. I do not.”

  “It’s scalding hot and smells of defeat.”

  “Sorry to hear that, sir.” Emmanuel retrieved his notebook and pen from his pocket, determined to appear calm. “What happened?”

  “A call from General Hyland at seven last night, half an hour before my wedding rehearsal dinner. Have you met Hyland?”

  “Never, sir.”

  “He’s an old boy from King’s Row College. Life member of the Durban Club. Still calls England home. You get the picture, Cooper?”

  “I do, sir,” Emmanuel said, even though the question was rhetorical. The windowsill creaked under a weight: Bagley settling back to watch the show.

  “This fucking Englishman called me to say he’d received a complaint about my boy. That’s the phrase he used, Cooper. ‘My boy.’ Like I was a dumb Boer with an even dumber kaffir working for him.” The colonel paused. “Because the complaint was made by Thomas Reed, an old boy of King’s Row College and a personal friend of the general’s son, he was obliged to take swift action.”

  “Meaning?” Emmanuel knew the answer to that question, knew it down to the bone.

  “You’re off the case, Cooper. Effective immediately. General Hyland’s replacements will get there in a few hours.”

  “Is that final?” Emmanuel bent forward, easing the tension from his body, stretching the knots from his neck and shoulders. Ripping the broken drawers clean from the filing cabinet and sending them in Bagley’s direction could wait till he was absolutely sure that working the case was out of reach.

  “Yes, it is. The general is not open to negotiation or persuasion. The mortuary van you ordered has already been canceled.”

  That was it. One phone call and he and Shabalala were back on sanitation duty for the Durban Detective Branch. Only now they had to shoulder the added burden of van Niekerk’s humiliation.

  “Who’s being sent out to replace us?” he asked.

  “Detective Sergeant Benjamin Ellicott and Detective Constable John Hargrave.”

  “Bad cop. Worse cop,” Emmanuel said. “They’ll turn over a rock, find nothing, then drink the local pub dry and leave the next day.”

  “Not our problem, Cooper. Not anymore.” There was a tight pause before the colonel added, “Bullying helpless women and destroying police property. Doesn’t sound like you.”

  “There’s no truth in it, Colonel.” Not in the fine details. He’d spoken to a fragile white woman in the presence of her daughter and, yes, he’d broken into the police files, but for good reason.

  “Pack up and come home, Emmanuel. There’ll be other opportunities to break out of police purgatory.”

  The colonel’s use of his first name opened an escape hatch from the situation. He straightened up, fingers tight on the receiver. “Did the general mention Detective Constable Shabalala, sir?”

  “No. Just you. My boy.” That term, reserved almost exclusively for natives, still rankled. Bowing to an English general reminded van Niekerk that despite his education and blue blood, he’d always be the equivalent of a black in the eyes of some British settlers.

  “I’ve been ordered off the case but not Shabalala.” Emmanuel needed official clarification.

  “That’s technically correct. Why?”

  A deep silence permeated the interior of the police station. Everyone, including Bagley, was listening in, trying to determine the direction of the conversation.

  “Native detectives aren’t allowed to drive police vehicles, Colonel. If Shabalala is technically still on the case he’ll need someone to drive the Chevrolet. Police policy.” Emmanuel heard the uncomfortable shuffling of feet on the concrete floor and the sharp intake of Zweigman’s breath. He knew he was stepping into uncharted territory and didn’t much care about the consequences.

  “You as driver,” van Niekerk said. “I don’t buy it, Cooper. No one else will, either, least of all General Hyland. You can’t make it work.”

  “I’ll plead ignorance and wear the consequences of my actions, sir.”

  “Jesus Christ, you’re a hungry beast, Cooper,” the colonel said. “First you fuck my girlfriend and then you fuck the case and now you expect me to look the other way while you disobey a direct order from a general. Have I got that right?”

  Adrenaline shot through Emmanuel’s chest. Van Niekerk knew about Lana . . . of course he knew.

  “Hold steady, soldier.” The sergeant major gave the order. “There’s only one thing to do when a superior officer has you by the short and curlies. Bend over and smile.”

  “Yes, Colonel,” Emmanuel said. “That’s correct. With your permission, sir.”

  Van Niekerk’s laugh was soft on the line. “Now, that’s my boy, always running ahead of the pack.”

  “Is that a yes, sir?”

  The colonel was silent a long while. “You can stay on as official driver for Detective Shabalala of the native police, but undercover operation rules apply.”

  “I understand.” The rules were simple. A positive result in the murder case belonged to the colonel. A bad result belonged to him. If he were caught disobeying an order from a general, van Niekerk would deny all knowledge of his activities; would call him a rogue policeman and a disgrace to the uniform. “You ordered me to leave. I disobeyed the order.”

  “You have till Friday night, Cooper. I expect to see you, the old Jew and Shabalala at the church on Saturday morning. Clear?”

  “We’ll be there, Colonel.” Emmanuel held on to the heavy plastic receiver long after the line went dead. He kept his back to the room. He needed two minutes to think.

  “First order of battle.” The sergeant major took control. “Be nice as a Quaker’s wife to Bagley. Extricate Daglish from the room and send her home. Don’t say a word to Zweigman or Shabalala till you’re well outside the constable’s hearing. You’re good to go, soldier.”

  Emmanuel replaced the receiver and stood up. He turned to the station commander and smiled.

  “We’ll leave you to it,” he said. “Good luck with the rest of the investigation and pass my greetings on to Ellic
ott and Hargrave. Fine chaps, the both of them.”

  Bagley flicked his cigarette butt into the yard and frowned. “You’re off the case. General’s orders.”

  “That’s right.” Emmanuel kept smiling. “But I’ve decided to stay in town for a couple more days. See the sights. Take in the mountain air.”

  “What sights?” Bagley’s face turned red.

  An activity from the “things to do while in Roselet” list read out by the hotel receptionist came to Emmanuel’s mind. “The bushman paintings at the game shelter pass in Kamberg Reserve,” he said. “They’re supposed to be the Rosetta stone of rock art. Worth a detour.”

  “You’re disobeying a direct order, Cooper.” Bagley straightened up from the windowsill and tried to assert control.

  Christ above, Bagley was a fool. Years of ruling this backwater station had given him a false sense of his own power. “Did you go to King’s Row College, Constable?” Emmanuel asked. The station commander was the servant of an elite social institution, not one of its members.

  “No.” The question threw Bagley. He couldn’t figure how where he went to school was relevant to lodging an official complaint.

  “In that case you should contact Thomas Reed with the complaint and he’ll phone General Hyland on your behalf. I doubt the general would take your call.” Emmanuel made for the door and waited for Zweigman and Daglish to follow. “That’s how the chain of command works in Roselet, right?”

  Shabalala opened the station door for the two doctors and kept it open for Emmanuel. They moved into the yard without speaking. Shabangu, the native policeman, was cleaning up the spent cigarette butts with a metal rake and deposited them in a bucket. He might have heard the entire conversation with Bagley or nothing at all.

  “What next, Sergeant Cooper?” Zweigman asked. “I assume, perhaps naïvely, that you have a plan.”

  “Home and rest for you, Dr. Daglish. We’ll walk you back.” Emmanuel stuck to the sergeant major’s basic instructions. “I’ll think up a strategy on the way.”

  Zweigman lifted an eyebrow but kept quiet. They walked along Greyling Street, cutting across the threshold of Dawson’s General Store. The sight of the town doctor flanked by three strange men stopped pedestrian traffic. That she was still in a nightdress and dressing gown added a titillating element to the story. Black and white, Indian and coloured, by late afternoon theories on the doctor’s bizarre outing would unite the racial groups in gossip. After supper and with the children safely in bed, the adults would whisper, And true as I stand here, one of the men was a Zulu big as a sycamore tree, the second was a small foreigner with gold glasses and the third man looked white but walked down the street like a township gangster. Three men, one woman; they imagined the permutations.