Let the Dead Lie Read online

  Emmanuel sat up at the use of his old army title and recognised his mistake instantly The major was a silver-haired man with broken blood vessels in his cheeks. It was a classic drinker’s face with every bottle accounted for.

  ‘The usual,’ the major said.

  The dark-haired barmaid flashed a look at Emmanuel and caught his eye. Electric currents sent his heart into near-arrest. He checked the level of alcohol in the tumbler. Half full. The eye contact held a moment too long was not a fantasy.

  He finished the whisky in one hit and considered the alternative. A beautiful woman, the centre of every man’s attention, had expressed an unspoken desire for physical connection.

  ‘More?’

  ‘Same again.’ Emmanuel said. Another hit and he would go back to the single cot with its neat hospital corners and folded-down blanket. The bed of a soldier or a priest.

  The full whisky tumbler slid back into view.

  ‘On the house,’ the pretty barmaid said and moved down the counter, filling a line of shot glasses along the way.

  ‘What’s the occasion?’ Emmanuel asked the older barmaid, who wore cat’s-eye glasses and a sour expression. She was pushing fifty and it appeared that every one of those years had been hard fought and hard won.

  ‘It’s Lana’s last night. She’s moving up. Got a job at a posh ladies’ boutique on West Street working as a house model.’ The barmaid’s smile was nasty. ‘Let’s hope they don’t give her the combination to the safe.’

  She moved away, and left Emmanuel to tussle with the enigmatic comment. Stealing was a common criminal activity and if he had to pick the dark-haired barmaid’s area of operation, he’d pick fraud. A smile opened a lot of doors and even more wallets. Not that the older woman’s word was a solid foundation on which to base anything. She’d made no effort to hide her malice.

  Emmanuel drained his whisky and pushed back the barstool. Lana collected the empty tumbler.

  ‘Do you have a car?’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I need a lift. Can you take me?’

  She’d never been turned down, Emmanuel imagined. Never had a man say no. Who was he to change the course of history?

  ‘My car’s around the corner,’ he said.

  CHAPTER SIX

  A whisper rustled through Emmanuel’s consciousness, like a skirt trailed against the floor. He sat up and blinked hard into the unfamiliar environment. A garden of floral prints crowded the tiny room. A lavender bush motif on the curtains crashed into daisies embroidered on scatter cushions thrown on a couch. On a small table pushed up against the window stood a ceramic vase with a dozen white roses in bloom.

  Last night’s lift home had turned into much more.

  The black shadow of Jolly Marks’s murder had made him reckless. The need to chase life in order to outrun death was a soldier’s response to fear and one that he recognised from wartime Europe. Trouble was, he’d awakened in South Africa and not Paris.

  ‘Relax, Major,’ a woman’s voice teased. ‘The war’s been over for eight years. You won, remember?’

  Emmanuel examined the barmaid in the clear light of the morning after. Lana Rose. A name so perfect it had to be made up. She stretched her body out against the cream sheets, comfortable in her own skin.

  ‘My slip at the bar,’ he said, ‘you noticed.’

  ‘I picked you long before that. I just didn’t know if you were army or police. I’m betting it was both.’

  ‘All that brain power stuck behind the Harpoon’s bar. Shouldn’t you be running the country?’

  ‘I’m finished with the Harpoon. Today is the start of a new life. I just needed to get some things out of my system first.’ Lana unknotted a stocking from the bedhead and draped the flimsy length of silk over Emmanuel’s left shoulder where an old bullet wound marked his flesh. ‘I ticked off quite a few boxes with you last night, Mr Cooper.’

  Ah, yes. The stocking. Emmanuel rubbed his face to cover his embarrassment. It was a common enough game. What bothered him was the enthusiasm he’d brought to it… the ragged authenticity of a policeman enjoying the full exercise of power after a long absence.

  He got out of the bed and searched for items of discarded clothing. The memory from another time of door hinges flying inward and the breath of the law on his neck quickened his movements. Technically, the snug little flat was a crime scene. Sexual contact across the colour line was a punishable offence in the new South Africa. He located a hat and belt. No sign of his trousers or shirt.

  ‘Relax,’ Lana said. ‘There won’t be any trouble.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really.’

  Emmanuel found his trousers, improbably wedged between the sofa cushions and the seat springs. Jolly’s notebook was still in the back pocket. Everything in the flat, including a chunky Bakelite radio, looked as if the price tag had just been removed: high-quality items for a woman who’d worked a low-end bar until last night.

  Had these things been given to Lana or had she stolen them?

  He found his shirt at the foot of the bed entangled with a lace brassiere. Lana motioned towards the bathroom.

  ‘Have a shower,’ she suggested. ‘You might be shy this morning but you weren’t shy last night.’

  Her relaxed posture and the dozen white roses on the table eased the tension from his body. The law would not come. This flat was an illicit haven, set up for whoever had paid for the flowers and the transistor radio in the kitchen. It was the South African demilitarised zone. The normal rules separating race groups did not apply. Lana had waved off Emmanuel’s racial identification last night because she was protected and she knew it.

  He headed for the blue and yellow tiled nook that contained a shower suspended over the bathtub. He closed the door and turned the water on. The spray was warm and soothing but a little fear remained. He was safe. He was satisfied. He was lucky. He ticked off the list but the onset of a headache pressed against his skull. Images collided and tangled together. The curve of Lana’s naked back, the slender stems of the roses, pale legs jutting into a cobblestoned Parisian lane, and Jolly’s hand against the dirt of the freight yard. His mind jumped from one thought to another like a radio receiver scanning for a clear signal. A needle of pain stabbed behind his eye and the force of it threw his head back.

  Did you really think that a night in the sack was going to make it all okay, soldier? a ragged Scots voice said. It didn’t work in Paris after Simone Betancourt’s murder and it’s not going to work now. That little fucker needs you, Cooper.

  Emmanuel turned off the shower and gripped the wet taps. The last he’d heard from the Scotsman was eight months ago, when he was laid out on the veldt between Zweigman, the old Jew, and Shabalala, the Zulu Shangaan constable. Like a vulture, the voice of his sergeant major from army basic training eight years previous appeared only when there was a fresh carcass to feed on. If the Scotsman was here in Durban, that could only mean one thing.

  That’s right. Your arse is in big trouble, the sergeant major said. That’s the only reason I’m here. I don’t like the ocean and I hate the bloody heat.

  ‘I don’t need looking after.’

  Emmanuel dried himself and dressed quickly. This appearance by the sergeant major broke all the rules. His was the voice of war, not of a soft winter’s morning in peacetime Durban.

  Okay, I know I’m only supposed to front up when the blood sprays the walls, the Scotsman said. But we’ve got to talk about the dead boy.

  ‘There’s nothing I can do about him.’ Emmanuel opened the medicine cabinet above the sink. ‘It was a mistake to get involved. Investigating murder is a police matter.’

  What’s that got to do with it? I’ve got a bad feeling, soldier.

  Four or five painkillers were all Emmanuel needed, just enough to quiet the voice and get out of Lana’s flat without incident. He searched rows of face creams, plastic rollers and metal hairclips on the narrow shelves.

  Look, you’ve spen
t the last ten hours listening to your dick, the Scotsman went on. You owe me five minutes.

  A glass container of Bayer Aspirin was on the second shelf. Emmanuel checked the bathroom door and took the painkillers down.

  Come on, lad. The sergeant major adopted a friendlier tone. We have to talk.

  There is no ‘we’. This time Emmanuel answered without talking out loud. It was a small step back from crazy but nowhere in the vicinity of normal. He shook out six pills and swallowed them with tap water.

  They’re not going to do anything. Morphine maybe, but six wee pills … It’s insulting. A piddling dose like that underestimates my power to fuck with you, laddie.

  Emmanuel ignored him. The medication would take hold soon. Then he would be free to escape the bathroom and leave the flat. He replaced the bottle of pills and spotted a piece of paper the size of a playing card glued to the back of the cabinet.

  The Scotsman said, I’d never have guessed it of her. She doesn’t seem the type.

  ‘No, she doesn’t,’ Emmanuel said softly and examined the image printed on the front of the cardboard square. A doe-eyed Virgin Mary wrapped in a royal blue cloak held an adoring Baby Jesus on her lap. The holy child, painted as a miniature adult, was kissing his mother’s cheek. Silver whorls and eastern crosses surrounded the Madonna and child.

  Papist rubbish, the Scotsman said.

  Not papist, Emmanuel knew. The image was a Russian Orthodox icon. He’d seen plenty tucked into kitbags and hidden in the folds of the uniforms worn by the apparently godless Red Army. He replaced the bottle of pills and closed the cabinet door. The Virgin Mary icon was private, in the same way that Zweigman’s postcard was to Emmanuel: both were symbols of faith and an unspoken belief in safe haven.

  Okay, the sergeant major said, I’ll admit she’s prettier than I am and you’ve got no time for me right now. But listen well, Cooper. The fight has just begun.

  ‘What fight?’

  Heavy artillery. Expect casualties.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  There was no reply. The Scotsman had vanished. Emmanuel splashed cold water onto his face. This was Durban. The war was won. There was no fight. He rested another minute and then went out to face the awkward social shuffle of two strangers who had nothing in common but a carnal knowledge of each other.

  Lana had a pot of coffee on the stove and the transistor tuned to Lourenço Marques radio, which played a mix of American country music, English torch songs and the daring new sound of Negro rhythm and blues.

  ‘Coffee?’ She turned the radio volume down low and leaned against a kitchen counter when Emmanuel approached. Her silk slip was pale green and faded at the hem.

  ‘Milk with two sugars, thanks,’ Emmanuel said. ‘But I’ll leave right away if you want me to.’

  She handed him a mug. ‘There’s no rush. I have to be somewhere in three hours.’

  Lunch with the benefactor and then back here to pay for the new furniture. If Lana saw Emmanuel on the street this afternoon she’d look right through him. Her boxes were ticked off. The moment he stepped out of the flat he’d revert to being a shipyard worker from the wrong side of the colour bar and a white girl’s secret.

  ‘Thanks,’ Emmanuel said and accepted the mug. He was going to enjoy the coffee and the view while they were on offer. Lana poured herself a cup and leaned her hip against the kitchen sink.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that,’ she said.

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Like I’m a question you have no idea how to answer.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Emmanuel drained his coffee and placed the mug on the counter. Any questions about the dark-haired ex-barmaid would remain unanswered. In his daylight world she too would remain a secret.

  ‘Oh, I almost forgot.’ Lana slipped into the lounge room. ‘It was under the table.’

  She handed over his leather wallet and the older barmaid’s comment from last night came back. He tucked the wallet into his jacket without checking the contents. He didn’t have anything worth stealing and there was no way to place a value on last night. The old Emmanuel Cooper had returned for a few happy hours.

  ‘Another?’ Lana gestured to the empty coffee mug.

  ‘Please.’ He was reluctant to leave. Here, right now, in this room, he was a man and she was a woman. The complications of race, the law, the past and the future didn’t exist. It was good to stand with her in the quiet kitchen.

  Lana handed him a fresh coffee and pulled the curtain open. The hum of traffic drifted into the room.

  ‘I love the beginning of winter,’ she said. ‘Everything looks so clean, even the tarred roads and the cars.’

  Emmanuel joined her and peered through the glass. City traffic held no interest but being close to her for a few more minutes did. Through the sharp morning light, an aged bus disgorged a flow of black maids dressed in green and blue cotton housecoats. Sunday was the domestics’ day off so this was the last ten-hour shift of the working week. A white man in a dark suit leaned against the wall of a hardware store and read the weekend newspaper. His hat was angled to block the sun and it was impossible to make out his features.

  Emmanuel waited for the turn of a page or any movement of the head left to right to indicate the paper was being read. The edge of the newspaper dipped and the man in the suit did a three-point check that took in the parked Buick, Lana’s front door and the windows of the flat. Emmanuel stepped back into the kitchen.

  ‘Something wrong?’ Lana asked.

  ‘Nothing.’ Adrenaline, the old flame from the battle and the crime scene, warmed his blood.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine.’

  Imaginary voices giving commands and enemies lying in ambush were classic signs of the old soldier’s disease. None of it was real. The man across the street was a Saturday morning pedestrian catching up on the news before jumping on a bus. Emmanuel went back to the window and looked out. The newspaper reader was gone, replaced by a tall black man sweeping the sidewalk with a grass broom.

  He was not being followed. He was not in danger.

  Lana pressed her palm to the wild beat of his heart. ‘Are you crazy, Emmanuel?’

  ‘A little,’ he said.

  The emerald lawn was punctured by a blue-tiled swimming pool and the view of Durban was exquisite. Red-hulled freighters and a few graceful sailboats dotted the harbour.

  Two buxom women in polka-dot bikinis splashed in the pool while a group of men fed wood into the belly of a portable barbeque made from half a steel drum. A clutch of couples danced closely to a sentimental country and western ballad that turned on the record-player. The black servants had been sent home for the day. The sight of half-naked white women was reserved for the baas and his friends.

  A photograph of Princess Elizabeth Windsor was propped on a wooden easel, the corners decorated with red, white and blue streamers. Lipstick kisses dotted the princess’s cheek.

  ‘Are they all professional girls?’ Emmanuel asked. He watched the party from the study of van Niekerk’s Victorian mansion perched on the Berea Ridge.

  ‘A mix of professionals and other girls who just want to be here,’ the major said. ‘Some of these men like to think they got lucky.’

  ‘What’s the occasion?’

  ‘The royal coronation. A party is the easiest way to get to know my men and to thank them for their hard work.’

  It was also the easiest way for the major to establish a power base within Durban’s predominantly English police. He was new in town and a Dutchman: a potentially fatal combination. Decades of war for control of land and diamonds kept the two white communities wary of each other. The Afrikaners believed they were the white tribe of Africa, born, nursed and raised on the veldt. To them, the British were newly arrived interlopers only interested in profit and power. The British believed that the Boers had neither the intelligence nor the drive to rule South Africa.

  Van Niekerk was the son of a rich Dutch father an
d an English mother with more blue blood in her veins than the entire Durban force. That fact made no difference. His Afrikaner name branded him inferior. But free booze, food and women would help erode any anti-Afrikaner prejudice.

  Emmanuel sat down in a chair facing a mahogany desk that bounced light off its waxed surface and onto the ceiling.

  ‘This should give you a clear idea of your men.’ He placed the surveillance notebook on the desk. Half the police on the lawn were listed in it.

  The major ignored the book and pushed an unmarked envelope across the smooth surface. ‘Thank you, Cooper,’ he said.

  Emmanuel took the packet and stuffed it into a breast pocket. The weight of it pressed against his heart. This was the closest he’d get to the job of detective sergeant and no amount of money could make up for the loss.

  ‘Back to swinging a hammer at the shipyard?’ van Niekerk asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  The major leaned back in his chair and stretched out his long legs. His dark hair was cropped short as if to emphasise the close ties between the South African police and the military

  ‘Why did you take the surveillance job, Cooper?’

  ‘For the money.’

  ‘It had nothing to do with missing the detective branch?’

  Emmanuel shrugged, hoping to convey a casual interest in the subject. He’d spent the last day and a half conducting an unofficial murder investigation. That was proof enough of how quickly he could be drawn back in.

  ‘I miss the job,’ he said. ‘I miss the camaraderie and the European pay.’

  Blank spaces ran through his life where people and places had once been. His sister and memories of Davida Ellis were hidden in one. His past in the detective branch was hidden in another. He missed being a policeman and, most shaming of all, he missed the ease and power that came with being a white man. None of these things seemed to matter in the closed world of the Victory Shipyards. It was an unusual place for South Africa. All that mattered was whether or not you could do the backbreaking work.

  ‘Work for me again,’ van Niekerk said. ‘I can use you. The wages will be set to European standards.’