A Beautiful Place to Die Part 18

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 asked. There was nothing to gain from going up against the Security Branch in a c.o.c.ksure 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 d.i.c.kie standing by an open cell door. A gaunt black man, whom he a.s.sumed was Duma, cowered against the hard metal bars.

"Don't worry..." d.i.c.kie spoke to the terrified miner in a grotesque parody of motherly concern. "I'm sure your comrades will understand why you did it."

"d.i.c.kie." 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 think happened?" Emmanuel pushed a little harder. Unlike Sarel Uys and Hansie Hepple, the black policeman showed a real apt.i.tude 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. happened?" Emmanuel pushed a little harder. Unlike Sarel Uys and Hansie Hepple, the black policeman showed a real apt.i.tude 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."

Emmanuel took a breath and looked deep into the fire. The liberal use of the rawhide whip, the shambok, readily explained the bruises on the miner's arms. Hard questioning was one of the things that made the Security Branch "special."

"What did Duma say?"

"I did not hear," Shabalala said. "I could not listen anymore."

This time Emmanuel didn't push. The sound of a man being broken during interrogation was enough to turn the strongest stomach. Shabalala had walked away and Emmanuel couldn't blame him.

"Did they find out anything about the captain's murder?"

"No," Shabalala said. "They wanted only to know about the writing."

If a link, however tenuous, was proved between a Communist and the murder of an Afrikaner police captain, Piet and d.i.c.kie were set for a smooth ride to Pretoria and a personal meeting with the prime minister of the Union. After the ministerial handshake they'd get fast-tracked promotions and an even bigger shambok to wield.

It seemed the Security Branch was in the middle of an investigation that somehow tied in with Captain Pretorius's murder. Piet Lapping was no fool. He was in Jacob's Rest because something in his confidential folder drew him to the town with the promise of netting a genuine Communist revolutionary.

"Are all the police files for this station kept inside?" Emmanuel steered away from the dark swamp of torture and political conspiracy that Piet and d.i.c.kie waded through for a living. The Security Branch could continue chasing Communist agitators. He'd play his hunch that the murder was tied to one of the many secrets Captain Pretorius kept.

"Sometimes," Shabalala said, "Captain took the files home to read. He did this many times."

"He had an office at home?" Emmanuel asked. Why hadn't he thought of that when he was at the house?

"No office," the black constable said. "But there is a room in the house where Captain Pretorius spent much time."

"How would a person get into such a room?" Emmanuel wondered aloud.

"A person must first ask the missus. If she says yes, then he can go into the room and see things for himself."

"If the missus says no?"

The black man hesitated, then said very clearly, "The man must tell me and I will get the key to the room from the old one who works there at the house. She will open this room for the person."

Emmanuel let his breath out slowly.

"I will ask the missus," he said, and left it there.

They sat side by side and watched the flames without speaking. The bond, still fragile, held firm. The Security Branch had a file crammed with enemies of the state but he had the inside track on the captain's shadow life.

The back door opened and Piet stepped out into the backyard with his cup of tea. His pebble eyes had an unnatural sheen to them, as if he'd swallowed a witch's brew and found that what killed other men made him strong.

"We're through." Piet spoke directly to Shabalala. "You can take him back to the location but make sure he doesn't go anywhere until our investigation has finished. Understand?"

"Yes, Lieutenant." Shabalala moved quickly toward the back door. When he drew level with Piet, the Security Branch agent put his hand out and patted his arm.

"Good tea," he said with a grin. "Your mother trained you well, hey."

"Dankie," Shabalala replied in Afrikaans, then stepped into the station without looking at him.

Emmanuel marveled at Piet's ability to mix an afternoon of torture with harmless banter. It didn't matter that Shabalala and Duma knew each other and might even be related. When pockmarked Piet looked at Constable Samuel Shabalala, he didn't see an individual; he saw a black face ready to do his bidding without question.

The Security Branch lieutenant sipped his tea and took in the dusty yard with a sigh.

"I like the country," he announced. "It's peaceful."

"You thinking of moving out here?" Emmanuel said, and made for the back door. He didn't have the stomach to listen to Piet waxing lyrical about the beauty of the land.

"Not yet." Piet wasn't letting anything penetrate his bucolic reverie. "When all the bad guys are behind bars and South Africa is safe, I'll move to a small farm with a view of the mountains."

"Home sweet home." Emmanuel pulled the back door open and walked into the police station. Captain Pretorius had lived the dream. He was a powerful white man on a small farm with a view of the mountains. He'd ended up with a bullet to the head.

"Woza. Get up, Duma, and I will take you home." It was Shabalala trying to coax the traumatized black man out of the cell. The injured miner was still pressed up against the bars with his arms over his head.

Shabalala put both his hands out like a parent encouraging a toddler to walk for the first time.

"Woza," Shabalala repeated quietly. "Come. I will take you to your mother."

Duma struggled to his feet and steadied himself against the bars of the cell, then limped painfully toward the door. The miner's left leg was half an inch shorter than the right and twisted at an odd angle. Even before the Security Branch abuse, Duma must have been a pitiful sight.

Emmanuel felt a flash of heat across his chest. Not the familiar surge of adrenaline that accompanied a break in the case but a white-hot bolt of rage. The captain was shot by an able-bodied man with keen eyesight, a steady hand, and two feet planted firmly on the ground. Duma didn't come close to presenting a match with the killer.

Shabalala held the crippled miner's hand and led him out of the cell toward the back door. The front door and the front offices were for whites only. Emmanuel's rage turned to discomfort as he stepped back to allow the black men pa.s.sage. Shabalala and his charge would spend the next hour dragging themselves across the veldt until they reached the location five miles north of town.

"Stay by the front door to the hospital," Emmanuel said quickly before sanity returned and he changed his mind. "I will come and pick you up."

"We will be there," Shabalala said.

Emmanuel walked through the front office and out onto the veranda, where d.i.c.kie and Sarel were watching a line of three cars driving down the main street. The sour-faced lieutenant looked like a ventriloquist's dummy next to his hefty companion.

"Weekenders coming back into SA from Mozambique." Sarel Uys indicated the country-style traffic jam. "They'll make a dash for home before the sun sets."

d.i.c.kie drank his tea with noisy enjoyment. Like pockmarked Piet, he had the look of a man with the wind at his back and the road rising up to meet him. What had Duma said? The Security Branch had released him, so they weren't looking to hang the captain's murder on him. What, then? He could try to find out, but Duma wasn't in a fit state to talk to anyone. The connection between a Communist plot and Captain Pretorius's murder remained a mystery for the moment.

"Any luck with the pervert?" d.i.c.kie called out with great cheer.

"Not yet," Emmanuel said, and turned in the direction of The Protea Guesthouse, where the Packard sedan was parked. Justice be d.a.m.ned. He'd find the killer first, not to serve justice, but to see the look on d.i.c.kie's face when he shoved the result down his throat.

Duma was slumped in the backseat of the Packard with his eyes rolled back in his head. A low whimpering was the only sound he made. Emmanuel pulled the car to a stop in front of the church and glanced at Shabalala, who was nursing the half-crazed man.

"How was he before this afternoon?" he asked Shabalala.

The black constable shrugged. "Since the rock crushed his leg, he has been bad. Now he is worse."

A group of older black women approached the car. They were cautious and fearful in their movement, not knowing what to expect once the car doors opened. The women stopped short when Shabalala got out and approached them. There was the quiet murmur of Zulu before a pencil-thin woman in a yellow dress gave a shout and ran for the Packard. Emmanuel stilled as the woman hauled the miner into a sitting position in the backseat and wailed out loud. The sound was an ocean of sorrows.

Shabalala pulled the woman away and lifted Duma from the car. The women followed the black policeman who carried the cripple down the narrow dirt road toward home.

The skinny woman's cries carried back to him and Emmanuel switched on the engine to drown out the sound. Five years of soldiering and four years picking over the remains of the dead and still the sound of a woman's grief made his heart ache.

10.

HE CAME UP to the big white house early the next morning and found Mrs. Pretorius planting seedlings in the garden. A wide straw hat covered her head and her delicate hands were protected from the dirt by st.u.r.dy cotton gloves. to the big white house early the next morning and found Mrs. Pretorius planting seedlings in the garden. A wide straw hat covered her head and her delicate hands were protected from the dirt by st.u.r.dy cotton gloves.

"Detective Cooper." Her blue eyes were hopeful as she greeted him.

"No news yet," Emmanuel said in response to the look. "I've come to ask you if I could see the spare room where Captain Pretorius slept."

"On Wednesdays," she told him with the diamond-hard look he'd seen at their first encounter. "Willem only slept there on fishing nights."

"Forgive me. I know you and the captain were dedicated to each other. Everyone in town commented on it. Even the nonwhites."

"We tried to set an example. We hoped others would see us and follow the path to a true Christian union."

"A good marriage is a rare thing," Emmanuel said. Mrs. Pretorius might believe herself to be half of a Christian partnership, but the sin of pride was heavy on her.

"You're married, Detective Cooper?"

Emmanuel touched a finger to the spot where his wedding ring had been. Any mention of a divorce was sure to set her against him and get the door to the spare room slammed in his face. Mrs. Pretorius wouldn't countenance a morally flawed outsider touching her saintly husband's belongings.

"I lost my wife almost seven months ago." He told the truth to the degree he could and hoped she'd fill in the blanks.

"G.o.d has his reasons," she said.

She touched his shoulder. Even when cast down into the valley of grief, Mrs. Pretorius had to be the one to shine her light onto the world.

"I'm trying to understand," Emmanuel said. He was thinking of the captain and the homemade safe cunningly hidden from view. He was starting to see into the dark places in Willem Pretorius that his wife's goodness failed to illuminate.

"You may go into the room," she said with a nod. His confusion, which she took for spiritual struggle, branded him worthy of her help. "Come with me."

Emmanuel followed Mrs. Pretorius across the garden and noticed the imprint of her boots in the freshly turned soil. A work boot with deep straight grooves almost identical to the prints left at the crime scene. He remembered what Shabalala told him: that the Pretorius men and Mrs. Pretorius had won many medals for target shooting.

"You'll have to get Aggie to open up for you. Willem used the room for work and kept it locked when he wasn't at home."

The words nudged something in her and she began to cry with a soft mewling sound. Her face collapsed with grief. If the fragile blond woman had killed her husband, she regretted it now.

She pulled off her gardening gloves and wiped away the tears. "Why would anyone hurt my Willem? He was a good man...a good man..."

Emmanuel waited until the sobs lessened in intensity.

"I'm going to find out who did this to your husband and I am going to find out why."

"Good." The widow took a deep breath and got herself under control. "I want to see justice done. I want to see whoever did this hang."

The diamond-hard look was back and Emmanuel knew Mrs. Pretorius meant every word. She planned to be at the prison when the hatch opened and the killer took the long drop to the other side.

"Aggie-" Mrs. Pretorius called out into the large house. "Aggie. Come."

They waited in silence while the ancient black woman shuffled across the entrance hall to the front door. Her ample body was bent in on itself after a lifetime of domestic work; her hands were gnarled from years of washing laundry and scrubbing floors for the ideal Afrikaner family. Emmanuel doubted she did much of anything anymore.

"Aggie." The volume of Mrs. Pretorius's voice dropped only a fraction. The maid was deaf into the bargain. "You must take Detective Cooper to the spare room the captain used. Open up for him and lock it when he's finished."

The ancient maid motioned Emmanuel in without speaking. What was her position in the household? Hansie said the old woman was no good anymore but that the captain wouldn't let her go. Most Afrikaners and Englishmen had a black servant who was almost part of the family. Almost.

"You must have tea with me after, Detective Cooper," Mrs. Pretorius said. "Get Aggie to show you to the back veranda."

"Thank you."

After tea with Mrs. Pretorius, he was going to see Erich. The doors to the Pretorius family home were going to shut in his face after he questioned the volatile third son about the fire at Anton's garage and the fight he'd had with his father over compensation. He had to get information while he could.