Let the Dead Lie Page 20

  ‘Flick the light switch when I say “now”.’

  The light from the hall revealed a cavernous room. Curtains covered a bank of windows that opened to the veranda. The carpet muffled their footsteps and Emmanuel reached the side of the bed in silence. A dark mound under the blankets indicated a sleeping form. He reached forward, eyes adjusting to the dim light, and cupped a hand over a mouth.

  ‘Now,’ he said and the overhead bulb shone bright. The body in the bed surged forward and Emmanuel pressed down hard. Beard stubble pricked his palms. Hélène Gerard’s frantic voice came from the opposite side of the mattress.

  ‘Don’t hurt him. Please.’

  A man in striped cotton pyjamas jerked and spluttered under the covers, his green eyes alive with panic. Two silver-framed photos tumbled from the side table and bounced on the carpet.

  ‘Please.’ Hélène scrambled across the king-sized bed on all fours, her flimsy nightgown bunched around her thighs. ‘Let him go.’

  Emmanuel lifted his hand and pulled back in shock; an involuntary movement that he immediately regretted. The man’s face was scarred and infected black lumps spread across his left cheekbone and over the bridge of his nose before disappearing into his hairline.

  ‘Vincent Gerard?’

  ‘Yes,’ the man whispered. He was dark-skinned, dark-haired and had once been handsome. Beyond his facial disfigurement he retained a faint glimmer of the fashionable French-Mauritian partial to hand-tailored silk suits. Something terrible had transpired and now Vincent was a recluse in his own house.

  ‘It was the skin-lightening cream,’ Hélène said. ‘We wanted to make sure Vincent got European papers when he was examined by the Race Classification Board but the treatment backfired. The cream damaged his skin and then the rash broke out. We were married before the new laws came in and now …’

  Mauritians, once automatically considered ‘Europeans’, had to be reclassified with the rest of the population and placed in a race group. Some retained their white status but a great many others had been downgraded. A dark-skinned Mauritian and his blonde wife had no future together.

  ‘Major van Niekerk ate at our restaurant once a week … before Vincent’s accident forced us to close,’ Hélène said. ‘He promised he’d sign a letter to say Vincent is white and that he suffers from a rare skin condition that can’t be cured.’

  The solemn word of an Afrikaner policeman given to the Race Classification Board practically guaranteed Vincent his ‘white’ papers. No wonder Hélène smiled till it hurt. Her marriage depended on it.

  ‘What does the major get in return, Hélène?’

  ‘I had to take care of you. Not tell anyone you were here. Call him with any news.’

  ‘Did you tell him about her?’ He jerked his thumb in Lana’s direction. She was halfway into the room, drawn by the mention of van Niekerk’s name.

  ‘No. I did try to call just after you came but there was no answer.’

  Major van Niekerk was eating sherry-infused trifle at the coronation party in Durban North or he could be right outside Chateau La Mer. What was the real reason for signing Emmanuel’s release papers?

  ‘We have to move.’ Lana was anxious. ‘Now.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ Vincent Gerard said. ‘Is the major backing out of our deal?’

  ‘No.’

  Emmanuel opened the top drawer of the armoire and rifled through the delicates and found four pairs of silk stockings. There was no way to do what had to be done gently. He pulled Hélène from the bed.

  ‘You’re hurting me.’ She twisted away but Emmanuel kept hold of her arm. Hélène’s fear had to be real or the raiding party would take their frustrations out on her and her house’s beautifully ordered interior. He pushed her down into a chair and pinned her arms behind her back. He did not look at her. If he did, he’d have to say, ‘I’m sorry. Forgive me.’ A small hurt now to avoid real pain later. That was the trade-off.

  Vincent Gerard growled and sprang forward with his fists clenched. Emmanuel pushed the Mauritian hard on the chest to stop him and Vincent flew back. His head cracked on the edge of a bedside table and he crumpled to the carpet.

  ‘Vincent!’ Hélène tried to get up from the chair but Lana held her down by the shoulders. Blood leaked from a small cut just below Vincent’s hairline.

  Emmanuel remembered too clearly many long hours spent grilling suspects in stark interview rooms where proceedings ended with a confession that stated, ‘It was an accident. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.’ After a year in the detective branch, he could write the confessions himself. He might yet get that chance.

  ‘God damn it.. .’ He scrambled to Vincent’s side.

  He’d come into the room to shield Hélène from the possibility of real damage, not be the cause of it.

  ‘Vincent!’ Hélène cried. ‘Is he alive?’

  A heartbeat drummed against Emmanuel’s fingertips. Thank god. A moan escaped Vincent’s lips and relief unclenched the muscles in Emmanuel’s face. He lifted Vincent onto the bed. When he came to, the trouble would start all over again. The Mauritian wasn’t going to sit quietly while his wife was tied to a chair and gagged.

  Emmanuel retrieved a stocking from the floor. The French-Mauritian couple smiled from the deck of a sailboat in one of the silver-framed photos lying on the carpet. No matter how he approached the situation, Hélène and Vincent would not emerge unharmed.

  ‘I’m going to tie you up,’ he said brusquely. ‘That’s the only way to show the men who are going to raid the house that you had nothing to do with me. Do you understand?’

  ‘What?’ Hélène said. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Six men, maybe more, are going to smash their way into the house soon.’ Emmanuel secured Hélène’s legs to the chair. ‘We have to make sure they don’t blame you for what’s happened.’

  ‘I’ll tell them.’ The Mauritian woman struggled when

  Lana pinned her wrists together and tied them. ‘I’ll tell them.’

  ‘In a perfect world that would be enough,’ Emmanuel said. ‘But this isn’t a perfect world.’ He made sure the stocking didn’t bite but double-knotted the material to ensure that it held fast.

  ‘No …’ Hélène said and Emmanuel gagged her. He and Lana worked quickly and in silence, careful not to make eye contact.

  ‘Should we tie him to the other chair?’ Lana asked.

  ‘We can’t leave a dark-skinned Mauritian in a white woman’s bedroom. The police will beat him. You know how these things go. The fact they’re married might make things worse.’

  ‘I know.’ Lana tucked an escaped strand of hair behind her ear. ‘What should we do?’

  Emmanuel checked his watch. They’d lose precious minutes dealing with Vincent but that’s the way it would have to be. He’d done enough harm tonight.

  ‘The empty kyaha,’ he said. A dark-skinned man hidden away in the servant’s quarters was a common feature of the South African landscape. Vincent could be just another garden boy for the baas and the missus.

  ‘Of course.’ Lana understood the logic. ‘He’ll be invisible.’

  Emmanuel hoisted Vincent over his shoulder in a fireman’s hold. Hélène rocked her chair back and forth and strained against the ties that bound her.

  ‘He’s safer out there than in here with you,’ Emmanuel said. ‘Do you really want a group of white police to find Vincent in your bed?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Get the doors,’ Emmanuel said to Lana.

  They moved quickly through the house and out into the lush garden. Lana ran ahead and opened the tiny servant’s room. The interior was dark and musty. A single camp bed with a sisal mattress bumped up against a small table and a chair. Emmanuel slid Vincent onto the narrow cot and lit the paraffin lantern that was placed on the floor. He turned the wick low. There were no sheets on the mattress and no curtains on the window. That didn’t matt
er. The police would assume that Hélène Gerard was a stingy missus. Some of the Security Branch officers might even applaud her for it.

  A pair of blue work overalls was draped over a tool bucket and the tip of a wool cap poked out from among the rusting forks and trowels. Emmanuel grabbed the dirty overalls and forced them over the fine cotton pyjamas with white piping along the collar.

  ‘My fault…’ Vincent mumbled. ‘It’s my fault.’

  Emmanuel buttoned the overalls to the neck and ignored the Mauritian, who wouldn’t make much sense for a while. He jammed the wool cap onto Vincent’s head and pulled it down low.

  ‘Here.’ Lana spread a thin blanket over Vincent’s body. ‘That’ll do the trick.’

  ‘I was selfish.’ Vincent clutched Emmanuel’s sleeve. ‘I shouldn’t have married her. Play with fire and you’re going to get burned. Even ten years back.’

  Emmanuel wanted to pull away but didn’t.

  ‘I loved her.’ The voice was slurred with emotion. ‘Down to the bone. All the way. Why’s that bad?’

  ‘It’s not,’ Emmanuel said. ‘But the men who will come to this room don’t want to hear that. You understand?’

  ‘Shh.’ Vincent put his finger to his mouth. ‘Big secret. Like when we first stepped out together. Don’t tell no one.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Emmanuel said. ‘Big secret.’

  ‘Oui.’ Vincent curled into the foetal position and his scarred face relaxed. ‘She still loves me. Like this . ..’

  Emmanuel waited till Vincent’s eyes closed. Then he killed the lamp flame and left the room. The garden was beautiful in the moonlight. If he had a match he’d burn it to ash. Even in childhood there had been this contradictory impulse. Gazing out of the boarding school windows to the green summer veldt and a ridge of mountains glowing in the dusk, he had felt it: a rage at the careless beauty of South Africa and a desire to tear it to shreds with his bare hands.

  The dead weight of Nicolai Petrov’s drugged body strained the muscles of Emmanuel’s back. The servant’s room was only a few yards ahead but every step was an effort. Maybe a trail of bombs raining down onto the garden would speed the process up. He’d never been able to regain the alacrity that he’d found under enemy fire. He’d never felt the same level of fear either. At least while he was awake.

  Emmanuel rounded the corner of the kyaha and placed Nicolai’s body on the ground. A half moon lit the path. The little red pills the Russian had gulped in the back seat of the DeSoto weren’t just for pain; they must have contained powerful barbiturates because he was still deeply under. Lana manhandled the suitcase through the hole in the hedge while a sleepy Natalya crouched in the darkness.

  ‘In. Fast.’ Lana pointed to the tunnel and Natalya crawled through on her hands and knees, cursing all the way.

  ‘You next,’ Emmanuel said to Lana. If the Security Branch men were on their tail, then he’d be the first one to face them.

  ‘Hurry,’ she whispered and crawled into the breach and out of sight.

  Emmanuel lifted Nicolai by the shoulders and manoeuvred his bulk to the mouth of the tunnel. The thick winter coat was ridiculous in the tropics but perfect for pulling a body across the ground. Branches ripped Vincent Gerard’s expensive jacket and scraped Emmanuel’s face and hands. The tunnel was built for one person only and dragging a near comatose male through it was a tight squeeze.

  He stopped midway to rest his aching shoulders and catch his breath. Car doors closed on the street. The sound helped him find new strength. Three more tugs and he and Nicolai emerged among the white orchids. There was no sign of Lana or Natalya. The pounding of footsteps came from over the fence. A door smashed open under the force of a boot. Male voices shouted and he heard the men enter the house.

  Emmanuel lifted Nicolai onto his shoulders and ran for the empty driveway. He stumbled but regained his balance. The Russian groaned. Emmanuel pushed hard to the street. Lana and Natalya were still nowhere in sight. Where the hell were they?

  He spun in a circle and saw brick walls, nodding rose heads and Lana at the open door of a green Plymouth. She’d hotwired a car. The engine idled.

  ‘You drive,’ Lana said and slipped into the passenger side while Emmanuel laid Nicolai onto the Plymouth’s back seat. Natalya rested her husband’s head on her lap and stroked his cheek. The lights of La Mer burned into the inky sky, Hélène would be face to face with the men now. Major van Niekerk owed her more than the ‘European’ race papers after tonight.

  Emmanuel took the wheel and eased the Plymouth onto the road. He gave the engine petrol. Houses flashed by and the car’s waxed hood shone. His heartbeat roared in his ears. He shifted up to third gear. No roadblock. No sirens. Ten blocks from the raid now and cruising. The sleeping city hugged the wide harbour below and the engine of the hotwired car hummed.

  ‘You really are bad,’ Emmanuel said.

  ‘You wouldn’t have me any other way.’

  A dark pleasure glittered in Lana’s eyes. Emmanuel wanted to touch her and taste her and lose himself in her just one more time. Their gazes locked before he broke away to check the car was still on the tarmac. Natal mahogany trees lined the island in the middle of the road. Eyes to the front. The cocktail of excitement and relief was more potent than booze or morphine. Lana made a sound, low and sweet, in her throat. Reality peeled away and flew to the wind.

  Now. The word flashed like a neon beacon outside a desert oasis.

  Now.

  A few more streets and Emmanuel knew that he would pull over. A park, an unlit lane, a sleepy cul-de-sac, it didn’t matter. Whatever came first.

  The Plymouth bumped over a small branch blown loose from the tree planting on the island and curses came from the back seat. Emmanuel slowed the car, hands tight on the wheel. The Russians.

  ‘Fuck,’ he muttered under his breath. The Russians were in the back seat.

  ‘Not tonight,’ Lana said and stared out of the window. A municipal park flashed by, pocketed with unlit corners and a stand of fever trees that grew thick enough to get lost in.

  Not tonight. But maybe another one. Although, without danger and the exhilaration of a lucky escape, their lives played out on opposite sides of a great divide. The heat between them diminished but a trace remained.

  ‘I’ll get us back to van Niekerk’s,’ Emmanuel said. The major’s house had tall walls, iron gates and a nightwatchman on guard.

  Lana knotted her fingers together. An ex-barmaid from the moneyless end of Umbilo who had caught the eye of a clever Dutch major could not afford to throw that kind of luck away.

  Natalya groaned and sighed in the back seat of the Plymouth, and the sounds mocked Lana and Emmanuel all the way to van Niekerk’s house in the Berea.

  Emmanuel leaned against the arm of the leather sofa, bruised and aching. His back hurt from carting two barely conscious men across the garden of La Mer and the retreat of adrenaline from his blood had left a hollow feeling of defeat. He only had fourteen hours to find out who had killed Jolly Marks, Mrs Patterson and Mbali.

  ‘Drink?’ Lana stood by the liquor cabinet with two glass tumblers at the ready. The Russians now occupied the guest bedroom in the northwest corner of van Niekerk’s Victorian spread.

  ‘Double whisky and soda, please.’ Emmanuel eased into the middle seat of the chesterfield.

  Lana mixed the drink and handed it to him before tipping ice cubes into the second tumbler and pouring three fingers of scotch. She gulped a mouthful and sank back into the leather next to him. Ice chimed in their glasses.

  ‘Did they hurt her, do you think?’ Lana said.

  ‘I hope not.’

  ‘When men like that get angry,’ she said softly, ‘they do bad things, especially to women.’

  They weren’t talking about Hélène Gerard any more. Emmanuel put the whisky and soda down and turned to Lana. Strands of ink-black hair fell against the pale skin of her cheeks and the ice cubes in her drink rattled against the glass. This was the
post-battle stress. After the exhilaration came the fear and the reopening of old wounds.

  ‘We did what we could with the time we had,’ Emmanuel said. It wasn’t enough, he knew.

  ‘We should never have left them. Those men will hurt them.’

  ‘That’s not certain.’ He removed the glass from Lana’s hand before it cracked under pressure and placed it on the table next to the untouched whisky and soda. No amount of alcohol would reverse the harm done to Hélène and Vincent. He cupped her hands in his; they were icy cold.

  The front door lock opened with a hard click and Lana pulled free and jumped to her feet. She avoided Emmanuel’s gaze and smoothed her hair into place before moving to the door.

  ‘Kallie,’ she called into the corridor. ‘Down here. We have company.’

  Emmanuel retrieved the whisky tumbler from the table. The liquor swirled golden in the glass but he left it untouched. He needed to keep his mind clear. It was time to get the truth from the ambitious Dutch major about his release from custody and about the night raid on La Mer.

  He got up and placed both the half-full tumblers onto the silver trolley before pushing them out of view. No man, especially van Niekerk, would be pleased to find his woman enjoying expensive liquor in the company of an employee.

  The major kissed Lana on the cheek and peered into the lounge room. ‘Cooper,’ he said.

  ‘Major.’

  ‘You look like hell.’

  Van Niekerk’s lean face was touched with colour after a night-long infusion of rich food and booze. Or maybe he had finally triumphed over his fiancée’s brassiere.

  ‘Any news?’

  ‘You tell me,’ Emmanuel said.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Hélène Gerard’s house was raided less than an hour ago. We barely got out before they kicked the doors in.’

  ‘Did you get the Russians out?’ van Niekerk said.

  ‘How long have you known about them?’ Emmanuel’s stomach tightened. He had hoped, in the deepest part of himself, that the major did not have enough information to have planned the raid on La Mer.