A Beautiful Place to Die Part 11

"What made you think my uncle knew anything about Captain Pretorius?" Winston asked.

The boy was half the size of the Pretorius boys, but he shared with them an uncomplicated sense of ent.i.tlement. Emmanuel took the first stair.

"Routine questioning." He took the second and third stair, then turned to Winston. "Do you you know anything about the murder?" know anything about the murder?"

"Me?"

"Yes. You."

"How would I? I just found out about it now."

"Of course." Emmanuel paused to enjoy Winston's moment of discomfort. "Thanks again for your help, Mr. King."

He walked past Winston's Jaguar to the Packard, which looked wide and lumbering next to its expensive English cousin. No maps or discarded drink cans on the pa.s.senger seat. All Winston King needed for his travels was a fast car, a fat wallet and a smile. Emmanuel's dislike rose again and he pushed it aside.

He eased the Packard into first gear and piloted it out of the circular drive. Winston disappeared into the house and his uncle poured himself another cup of tea.

Elliot King carefully selected a piece of cake and watched the detective drive away. He rang the silver bell.

"Mr. King?" The housekeeper stepped out onto the veranda.

"Bring Davida here," he said. "I want to speak to her."

A fence made of tall sticks lashed together with twine and strips of bark stood at the end of the red clay road. The construction was identical to those encircling the native kraals that nestled into the landscape like giant mushrooms.

Emmanuel got out of the car and checked the perimeter. The entrance, a small opening half the size of an average man, was located in the back, away from the road. Casual visitors were obviously not encouraged. He crouched down and entered the compound like a supplicant and there, directly in front of him, was a stone rondavel, a round hut, with a thatched roof and a pale blue door.

"Lair of the white induna," Emmanuel said, and took in his surroundings. The entrance to the stone hut was deliberately aligned with the hole in the fence so that all visitors came and went under the watchful eye of the headman. Even here, miles away from the town, security and surveillance were taken into account.

A river, close by, filled the air with the hum and gurgle of water moving over rock. Emmanuel felt a deep satisfaction. The shed in Jacob's Rest was a front. A place to display the things acceptable to friends and family. This kraal, lying under a clear spring sky, was where the captain let himself out to play.

Emmanuel crossed the compound to a pile of stones heaped against the fence. What did King say? "When he started building..." That would explain the blistered hands and the sinewy muscles noted during the examination of the body. Pretorius had put the hut up himself: stone by stone.

Emmanuel pushed the pale blue door and it swung inward. He squinted into the dim interior. There were two windows, each with its curtains drawn. He left the door open to get more light. Cowhide rugs crackled underfoot as he pulled the curtains open and looked around. As male bolt-holes went, it was embarra.s.sing. Everything was in order: the bed made, dishes washed and resting on the sideboard, the small table wiped clean. Aunt Milly would be happy to spend an afternoon here.

"Come on," Emmanuel said. There had to be something. A man didn't build a secret hut, then use it to practice housekeeping skills.

Nothing in the room stood out as aberrant or unusual, but then it never did where the captain was concerned. Everything appeared appeared normal until you got close enough to press your nose against the dirty window. The vicious beating handed out to Donny under the cover of night, the relentless surveillance of the town disguised as daily exercise, the building of a hut no one in his family knew about. There was a reason this modest stone rondavel was a secret. normal until you got close enough to press your nose against the dirty window. The vicious beating handed out to Donny under the cover of night, the relentless surveillance of the town disguised as daily exercise, the building of a hut no one in his family knew about. There was a reason this modest stone rondavel was a secret.

Emmanuel stripped the bed and checked the pillow, mattress and sheets, which were made of fine cotton weave. Nice. For a woman? Or did the captain have sensitive skin? Next came the chest of drawers, then the small cupboard holding cutlery and crockery. He looked over, under, on top of and behind every item until he arrived back at the front door empty-handed.

He crouched low in the doorway. The room stared back at him with its scrubbed and innocent face. He'd missed something. But what? Everything had been checked, except the ceiling and the floor.

How many bizarre hiding places had the platoon come across during their sweep of villages in France and Germany? Cupboards with fake backs. Trapdoors cut into ceilings. Even a hollow staircase designed to hold a whole family. The captain, with his fondness for facades, would have the good stuff hidden.

Emmanuel grabbed the edge of the cowhide and pulled it toward him.

The opening, a small square with a wooden top, was craftily hidden. A woven loop of rope, finger-sized, was the only indication that the surface of the compacted earth floor had been violated. Emmanuel shuffled forward on his knees and tugged at the rope. The trapdoor swung open easily, its hinges oiled in antic.i.p.ation of frequent use. He reached in, expecting the usual bundle of frayed p.o.r.nographic magazines. The National Party crackdown on immoral publications had slowed the trade but not stopped it. His hand touched on soft leather, a strap of some sort. He pulled it up toward him and felt the weight at its end.

"My G.o.d..."

It was Donny Rooke's camera, with his name proudly stamped into the hard leather casing in gold letters: he'd even included the J, J, his middle initial. Emmanuel flicked up the clips and examined the beautiful instrument. What had Donny said? The camera was expensive and the captain had stolen it from him-and the pictures of the du Toit girls with it. his middle initial. Emmanuel flicked up the clips and examined the beautiful instrument. What had Donny said? The camera was expensive and the captain had stolen it from him-and the pictures of the du Toit girls with it.

"Even a broken clock is right twice a day," Emmanuel muttered, and shut the case. He reached into the hole and fished out a thick brown paper envelope. If Donny's story held, the "art" pictures of his wives would be inside. Did the captain have a taste for underage flesh? He flipped the envelope over and something cast a shadow from the doorway.

Emmanuel turned in time to see the hard line of a k.n.o.bkierie moving toward him. The Zulu club generated its own breeze as it arched downward and made contact with the side of his head.

Whack.

The sound exploded in his eardrums like a mortar round. He fell forward and tasted dirt and blood in his mouth. There was a bright fizz of sheer white pain behind his eyelids and the club fell a second time. He heard his own labored breath and smelled ammonia. A blue shadow flickered and then the distant sound of a mechanical rattle.

7.

You lazy b.a.s.t.a.r.d. How long are you going to lie there, humping the floor?" It was the sergeant major from basic training, his voice thick with the coal and filth of the Edinburgh slum he'd crawled out of. Emmanuel felt the sergeant major's breath on his neck. It was the sergeant major from basic training, his voice thick with the coal and filth of the Edinburgh slum he'd crawled out of. Emmanuel felt the sergeant major's breath on his neck.

"Call yourself a soldier? All you're fit for is f.u.c.king German wh.o.r.es. Is that why you joined up? You hopeless piece of African s.h.i.t. Get up now or I'll shoot you myself. Get to your feet or get the f.u.c.k out of my army."

"Detective?"

Emmanuel shook his head. The dark blue shadow hung over him.

"You going to let that Kraut p.i.s.s all over you? What did I teach you? If you have to go, take one out with you."

"You okay?"

Emmanuel pushed himself off the ground, wheeled full circle, and jumped on the source of the voice. He felt neck muscles tense under his fingers, heard the slam of the body as it hit the ground; then he was straddling the flailing ma.s.s, gaining supremacy. There was the quiet hiss of air leaving lungs.

"De-tec-tive..." The sound drained away to nothing.

Emmanuel shook his head. Detective. He'd heard that t.i.tle recently. The memory of a police ID card fought its way past the hot shower of pain snaking down from his scalp to his jaw. He eased his grip and felt the body beneath him, small and surrendering: a boy soldier called to defend the fatherland against hopeless odds.

"Go home," Emmanuel said, and released his grip. His hands were stiffened into the shape of animal talons. "Ghet du zuruck nach ihre mutter. Go home to your mother."

A relentless boom, boom, boom boom, boom, boom pounded the side of his skull with grim military precision. p.i.s.s and blood, the cla.s.sic smell of the battleground, clouded the air. pounded the side of his skull with grim military precision. p.i.s.s and blood, the cla.s.sic smell of the battleground, clouded the air.

"Detective. Please."

He focused beyond his hands and recognized Davida, the shy brown mouse, lying under him, a red mark slashed across her throat.

"You can speak," he said.

"Yes."

"What are you doing here?"

"Where do you think we are?" She lay still, afraid of startling him.

Emmanuel glanced around. Through the haze, shapes began to appear. A table, a chair, a bed stripped of its linen. The boom, boom, boom boom, boom, boom continued loud as a kettledrum. It was impossible to think. continued loud as a kettledrum. It was impossible to think.

"Where is that smell coming from?" he demanded. "The room is so clean."

"The smell's from you, Detective." There was a slight tremor in her voice, which was barely accented, as if she'd learned English from someone who demanded correct p.r.o.nunciation and usage. "It's on your clothes."

The jacket and shirt, crisp and clean a few hours ago, were crusted in dried blood and urine. Emmanuel jumped up, hands feeling frantically at the crotch of his pants. The material was crumpled but dry.

"It's mainly here." She rose unsteadily to her feet. "Where my head was."

They looked at the dark pool, still damp and reeking. Emmanuel felt for his crotch again. Dry. He pulled off his jacket and sniffed at the material like a dog. Urinal odors rose up in an ammonia cloud. Someone-some f.u.c.king inbred country Dutchman-took a p.i.s.s on him.

"G.o.dd.a.m.n it." He threw the jacket from him in disgust. "What is it about this place? A man can't wear a suit two days in a row."

The jacket landed at the edge of the captain's homebuilt safe, and slithered inside. Images, each crisper than the last, flashed through his head until they made a seamless run of film. The camera, the envelope, the blue shadow, then the club crashing down against his skull.

Emmanuel dropped to his knees and scrambled toward the hiding place. The dirt floor threw up puffs of dust and sand as he frantically searched for Donny Rooke's camera and the brown paper envelope.

"f.u.c.k." He widened his radius, hoping something had been knocked under the chair or the bed when he fell forward. His hands patted the surface like a drunk in a minefield and came back with nothing but the dirt under his fingernails.

"Gone." He slammed the wooden lid shut and the hinges buckled.

"What's gone?" It was Davida, so quiet he'd forgotten she was there.

"Evidence," he said. "Someone took the camera and the photos."

Adrenaline stiffened the muscles of his neck, got his heart rate up to machine-gun speed. Who knew he was here besides King? One of those sanctimonious farmers with a Bible under his armpit? Or was it the Security Branch guard dogs?

His fist swung down hard onto the wooden lid. Never keep your back to the door: it was the most basic rule of self-defense. Even Hansie would know that. Blood leaked from the slit on his knuckles. The boom, boom, boom boom, boom, boom continued with the intensity of artillery fire in his head and the world tilted to one side. continued with the intensity of artillery fire in his head and the world tilted to one side.

"Sit down." Hands pulled him up and a chair was pushed in behind him. "I'm going to find something for you. Sit. Don't move."

He heard the clang and sc.r.a.pe of drawers and cupboards being searched, then she was by the chair again.

"Open your mouth."

He did as he was told and a fine powder coated his tongue with the taste of bitter lemon mixed with salt.

"Now swallow this." There was the smell of whiskey, then the hot taste of it filled his mouth and washed the powder down a fire trail to his stomach.

"Stay here, Detective. I'll come right back."

"Wait." He grabbed her wrist harder than he intended and felt her delicate bones under his fingers.

"You're shaking," he said.

"I...I'm..."

"What?"

"...not used to being touched..." She looked out toward the open door. "...by one of your kind."

"'My kind'?" He repeated the words in a slightly comical tone. What did she mean?

She lifted her captured hand and held it at eye level. His fingers were white as pear flesh against the dark skin of her wrist. He let her go. The National Party and its Boer supporters weren't the only ones who believed SA was divided into different "kinds," each separate and unchangeable.

"Where are you going?" Emmanuel flexed his hand. Touching her was a mistake. Everything he did from now on was a potential source of ammunition for the Security Branch. Physical contact across the color line was a no go.

"To get some water from the river."

Emmanuel watched her stop and pick up a bucket from near the doorway. She was still shaking. The bucket did a jiggling dance against her leg as she moved fast toward the breach in the fence.

She's scared of me, he thought. Scared of the crazy white man who tackled her to the ground, then almost snapped her wrist without once saying sorry. He closed his eyes and ignored the tightness gathering in his chest. He'd been beaten unconscious and what did he have to show for it? No suspects, no real leads, the evidence gone before he had a chance to examine it. The Security Branch would have a field day if they found out about the stolen evidence. It was all the excuse they needed to kick him off the investigation completely.

The slosh of water lapping over the bucket rim told him that she was back. He opened his eyes and took a good look at her.

"No wonder I thought you were a boy," he said once the bucket was placed in front of him. She was dressed in loose-fitting men's clothes, a faded blue shirt and a pair of wide-legged pants that hid the natural outline of her body. Black hair, cut close to the scalp, glistened with moisture from a quick wash in the river.

She touched her wet curls. "I like it this way."

"Then why do you keep it covered?" The plain cotton scarf she normally wore lay on the dirt floor where it had fallen during their struggle.

"It makes people stare."

"Like I'm doing?" Emmanuel asked. Her eyes were the most unusual shade of gray. Davida had her mother's mouth, full and soft.

"You should wash your face, Detective," she said, and moved behind the chair and out of his view. Some questions had no correct answer, especially when white people asked them.

Emmanuel wiped the grime and blood from his skin and heard her shallow breath, amplified in the stillness of the hut.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he said. "Is that what you're afraid of?"

She studied the tips of her battered leather boots. "No. Mr. King will be angry when he finds out I've been in here."

"Why?"

"This is the captain's place. n.o.body's allowed but the captain."

"Why did you come?" She must have seen the sedan and known that one of his "kind" was inside. He could see her quickening pulse under the smooth brown skin at the base of her throat.

"You left Mr. King's house a long time ago. I was riding by and I thought maybe your car was broken."