CONVERSATION WITH DANIEL didn’t exactly flow as we headed back to the house. In fact, we walked in absolute silence. I wasn’t sure how to react to him: it was all very well to be angry, but I hadn’t put the body at the end of the road for him to find. And having found it, he could hardly – any more than I could – pretend it wasn’t there. We were both going to have to deal with it. We went back through the garden gate, and I headed straight to the kitchen: I needed more tea. Or coffee. That might be even better. I put the kettle on and went to ask Dan if he wanted anything.
He was still in the garden, contemplating the stork made from recycled oil-drum metal that stands watch over my rockery. It has a permanently startled expression and a fragile leg where the varnish was thin and rust has attacked, and I am very fond of it. Now you can buy them, all looking identical, on any street corner, but when I got mine there weren’t nearly so many about. Mostly they used to be sold by Zimbabweans who had made the long trek south in the hope of earning some kind of useable cash for their families back home.
“Dan, you want coffee? Or more tea?”
“No, thanks.” But when he turned to me, he was smiling. At least that was some relief.
When I had made myself a strong, real coffee, I took it out to the garden. Despite the heat my hands were cold, and I wrapped them round the mug. A sudden breeze scattered a few petals from the roses: time I did some deadheading. But thinking the word made me remember why we were here.
“Laura … the cops’ll be here in a minute. Look, I think there might be –” But Dan never finished his sentence. Dhlomo and Pillay were at the gate. They had seen us in the garden, and obviously decided to come in that way rather than go round the corner and ring the bell at the front door.
I opened the padlock again and led the silent duo into the studio. Dan followed us, but whatever he had been going to say was gone. “Do you know who he is?” I asked.
“All in good time,” said Dhlomo, turning that menacing stare in my direction. Maybe he just looked like that all the time, but I was getting the feeling he had taken a dislike to both me and Dan. It was the latter he turned to next.
“You a Zimbabwean, Mr Moyo?”
“Yes.”
“Got ID?”
“Yes.”
He stared at Daniel for what seemed an eternity before Dan slipped his hand into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out an identity document. Dhlomo took a long, long look at it and compared the photograph carefully with the reality in front of him before he handed it back.
“Been here how long?”
“Six years.”
Dhlomo just looked at him. Then Pillay stepped forward, holding the plastic envelope Dhlomo had been showing him earlier as they bent over the body. Dhlomo reached out for it. Pillay seemed quite happy for his sergeant to be in charge of questioning us, despite the difference in their ranks.
In the envelope was a photograph. Dhlomo turned it over, looking at the back.
“Do either of you know a Mr SS Mendi?”
I could feel Daniel stiffen beside me as I gave what must have been an obvious start. I carefully avoided looking at him.
“No,” said Daniel quietly.
“Do you mean the SS Mendi, the ship?” I heard myself say. Dhlomo glared at me, but out of the corner of my eye I could see Pillay, standing very still as he watched both me and Daniel.
“What ship?” asked Dhlomo.
“The Mendi was a troop carrier in the First World War that sank in the English Channel and drowned a whole lot of South African soldiers who were on their way to France.” I hesitated, and then ploughed tactlessly on. “I thought everyone knew about it. It’s had a lot of publicity since 1994, with memorials, and cabinet ministers visiting the site to drop wreaths in the sea and so on. It was felt that because the soldiers were black, they hadn’t been given due credit.”
Dhlomo was looking even angrier, if that was possible.
There was a long silence. The four of us stood like statues, but no one said anything. Then Pillay stepped forward.
“Mrs Marsh. Mr Moyo. You both reacted when Sergeant Dhlomo mentioned SS Mendi. May I ask why?”
I waited for Daniel to speak, but as the silence stretched out, it was obvious he had no intention of doing so. There wasn’t much point denying we had both been startled by what Dhlomo had said.
“It was just that the name of the ship came up when we – Mr Moyo and I – were talking earlier, before he took the dog out. So it was a bit of a shock, the coincidence. That’s all.”
Pillay turned to Daniel: “Mr Moyo?”
“Yes. The Mendi was mentioned.”
“In what context?”
Daniel made no response. Come on, you stupid arse, I thought. It’s hardly a crime to talk about a ship. But he seemed to have taken a vow of silence. Reluctantly, I went on.
“We were talking about ideas for exhibitions. Mr Moyo mentioned the role of indigenous troops in colonial wars, so the Mendi came up. Along with Isandhlwana and various other things.”
“I see,” said Pillay thoughtfully. Dhlomo gave another grunt. I didn’t think they saw at all. Now we seemed to have a connection with the body at the end of the road, and they were determined to find out what it was. Well, that was going to be an uphill job. Daniel and my dog had stumbled across it, but that was all.
I held out my hand for the photograph and Dhlomo passed it to me. Through the plastic sleeve, I looked at a faded and dog-eared snapshot of an elderly African man, smiling and holding onto the handlebars of an old-fashioned black bicycle. I turned the envelope over: the only words on the back, in brownish ink, were SS Mendi. I passed it to Daniel who glanced at it without comment and handed it back to Dhlomo.
“It’s not the man … down there,” I said, more to break the silence than to make any kind of useful contribution.
Daniel roused himself. “Do you need me any more?” he asked. “I promised to visit someone on campus this afternoon, and I need to go.”
Dhlomo looked as if he would like to refuse, but Pillay said that would be fine. He made sure he knew where Dan would be staying, reminding him that he was not to leave town without letting the police know. I thought Dan was going to argue, but mercifully, he simply nodded. I walked with him to the front door.
“Hey, don’t forget you promised to let me use your hand as a model for the next painting.”
I got the feeling he had no idea what I was talking about. But then he smiled warily, nodded and gave me a kiss. “Sure. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“You okay, Dan? This doesn’t concern us, you know. It’s just bad luck. Wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Sure,” he said again. But he didn’t meet my eye, and he looked troubled.
I headed back to the studio. Pillay was absorbed by the apple painting while Dhlomo was poking in my painting tray as if expecting to find a stash of cocaine or a murder weapon. Ah well, situation normal then.
“You aren’t planning to go anywhere, Mrs Marsh?” asked Pillay.
“No.”
“Right. We may need to talk to you again.” At a nod from Pillay, Dhlomo went out through the front door, pressing the button to open the gate. Make yourself at home, why don’t you, I thought.
“Will you be all right on your own?” asked the inspector. “You aren’t nervous? Is there someone you could ask to spend the night with you?”
“Why? I’ll be fine. You’re not expecting the murderer to come back are you?”
“No. But this must have been a very unpleasant experience.”
“Well, yes.” He had that right. But the most unpleasant part had been interacting with his sergeant. “I’m okay. Inspector Pillay … do you think he was killed there, or put there?”
Pillay moved away from the painting and looked at me. “We can’t be sure yet … though it looks to me as if the body was dumped there. Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know. It’s silly I suppose, but I’d feel better if I thought someone had put him there. I mean, around here, we all walk in the plantations, with dogs and so on. It has always seemed perfectly safe.”
“And you’re sure you didn’t notice anyone, any vehicles, going down the road outside that gate today?”
“No. But I was painting in here, and I was concentrating, absorbed. I mean … there must have been cars, but I don’t think anything struck me. Sorry.” Again, something niggled in my memory and was gone before it could materialise.
“Now. The Mendi. You say Mr Moyo mentioned it in connection with ideas for an exhibition. Would that be for him or for you?”
“For him.”
“Hmm. And he’s come down here from Joburg to do what, did you say?”
“He’s visiting friends, and doing some research. But you can ask him.”
“We will, I’m sure. We’ll want to talk to him again.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. Dhlomo didn’t seem to like Daniel, maybe because he was a Zimbabwean, though he didn’t seem to like me much either. Pillay seemed to think there was something about the Mendi, a connection between Daniel and the corpse. And, as I stood there, looking at the sad-eyed inspector, I couldn’t help thinking that it was a very unfortunate coincidence.