ROBIN HAD TOLD ME PAUL Ndzoyiya was some kind of deputy manager at a plastics factory in the industrial area. I tried to work out when he would have a lunch break, and phoned him. No use waiting too long, or I might never do it.
He answered quickly, a deep, slow voice, sounding older than I had expected. I explained who I was, said how sorry I was about his father’s death and that I believed he was anxious to see the place where the body had been found. It was no use pretending I was being altruistic. No one was going to believe that, and the police had probably told him about me anyway. So I admitted Daniel was my friend, said I was concerned about him, and that I simply did not believe he was a killer.
Ndzoyiya listened, saying little, and on a crackly line that threatened to break up several times, it was hard to gauge his emotions. But finally he said he would like to come to my house at half past four and I could then show him where the body had been. When I gave him directions, he gave no indication he knew the area at all.
I rang Verne again. Gloomily, he agreed to be there, and would ask Chantal to join us. So now there was nothing to do but wait.
I went back into my studio, and decided to see if I could make a start on the mango painting. I leaned the apple one on the sofa where I could see it and clipped the new photograph to the corner of my easel. To my surprise, I slowly became utterly absorbed. Creative urges and moments of inspiration are all very well, but I have discovered over the years that the real issue is making a start. Once you are on the way … well, you are on the way. I may be one of the world’s great procrastinators, but at least I know it, and sometimes try to do something about it.
I had expected the colours to be difficult: the mango skin ought be reasonably straightforward, but the flesh and the backdrop were quite similar, and needed to be contrasted by showing textures, the fruit glistening wet but with a hint of fibre, while the cloth would be matt, receding into the distance. And the skin tones for Daniel’s hand and wrist were not going to be simple either. I have seldom painted black people, having no wish to get entangled in debates about the representation of “the other”. I don’t have the energy for a discussion that seems to generate more heat than light, and anyway, I’m not quite sure what I think about it all. I reckoned, however, that painting one black left hand shouldn’t land me in philosophical hot water.
I was engrossed, relishing the technical problems and the fact that they took my mind off other things. At least here I was in charge: the work would stand or fall by my efforts. No one else was involved or could take the blame if things went wrong. I was startled by the doorbell, the events of Monday flooding back.
It was Verne and Chantal. I thanked them for coming, wondering if I was being silly calling for reinforcements just because an unknown man was coming to see me. Still, I reassured myself, he was the son of a murder victim, and he might well be antagonistic. I was the friend of the man accused of the killing.
True to character, Chantal was forthright, asking me straight out why I was getting involved.
“I’m worried about Dan. I think the cops have convinced themselves he’s guilty because he’s a foreigner and he was there, and I don’t get the feeling they’re doing much more investigating. Someone has to do something.”
“Sure, but what on earth can you hope to find out? You’re not a detective. You’re a …” Chantal paused. “You’re a middle-aged white teacher and artist.”
“So? Does that matter?” I decided to ignore the middle-aged bit. She was probably all of five years younger than me but starting the hare of when middle age begins would get us nowhere. She had raised a more pertinent issue: was my whiteness some kind of problem to her?
“Well, quite honestly, I think it does make a difference. Don’t you think you’re going to antagonise the cops?”
Verne, who had been prowling round the studio, spoke for the first time. “Leave it, Chantal. We’ve discussed this and agreed that Dan needs help. Laura and this Robin guy, you and me. We’ll work together on this one. It’s pointless for us to argue about it.”
I looked helplessly at them. If what we were trying to do was going to founder on the rocks of race, poor old Dan would probably rot in jail. “Look, if you really believe I’m going to make it worse, I’ll back off. But I think you’re being ridiculous.”
Chantal looked at me. She is a solid woman, barrel-shaped and plain but with a certain vitality. Those who know her better than I do say she is kind, and does a fantastic job with the abused women she helps. “Well, I’m sorry if I’ve upset you,” she said, “but I deal with the police all the time, and they often resent outsiders. And in a case like this, with a black victim and a black refugee accused, a white amateur barging in … I don’t know that it’ll help. But I’m sure you think you’re doing the right thing.”
And at this inauspicious moment, the bell rang again. Mr Ndzoyiya.
He was a stocky, youngish man, probably in his early thirties. He looked at the three of us when I let him in and introduced Verne and Chantal. Verne, who had been very quiet up until now, looked over to me and with a slight nod, stepped forward.
“Mr Ndzoyiya, we’re very sorry for your loss. It must have been a great shock. But we all know Mr Moyo well, and we simply cannot believe he had anything to do with your father’s death. So if we can do something to help him, and at the same time bring your father’s killer to justice, we would like to.”
Ndzoyiya listened, and looked round the room. His voice was very deep, with a slight hesitancy, and while his English was excellent, it was old fashioned and had he been older, I would have said he was mission-school educated. Maybe his schoolteacher father had influenced him.
“Thank you. Of course my father’s passing has come as a terrible shock, to the whole family. But from what he told me about Mr Moyo when he came up from Durban and from what he said he would be doing in Pietermaritzburg, I must admit I was surprised when the police arrested this man. He had made contact with my father over the telephone, from Johannesburg, and my father told me he was interested in my great-grandfather’s stories. These are tales we have all grown up with. My father said Mr Moyo was polite and respectful, and wanted to find a way to remember those brave men. I can think of no reason why he would want to kill.”
He looked up at us. While he had been speaking, he had been looking down at the floor. “This is hard for me, for all the family. Of course, we want to see my father’s killer brought to justice. But I would never want to see an innocent man punished.”
We shuffled our feet, and I felt more than a little embarrassed. I asked Mr Ndzoyiya if he would like to walk to the spot where his father had been found, and he nodded. We headed out of the garden gate, Grumpy deeply indignant that we were setting off on his favourite walk without him. We made our way slowly up the hill, past the six houses, three on each side, that line the cul-de-sac. I caught a glimpse of Philippa as we passed her house. She was standing at her kitchen window, watching us.
Mr Ndzoyiya and Verne led the way, talking quietly, while Chantal and I followed like two ill-assorted Chinese wives, four steps behind the men. We didn’t say much, but as I was running the events of Monday afternoon over in my mind, the elusive memory that had been lurking just out of reach suddenly became clear, and with such force that I gave a little gasp.
“What’s wrong?” Chantal looked at me curiously. “You okay?”
“Yes, fine. I just remembered something, that’s all. Not important.” We went on to the turning circle at the top of the road, and where the tar ended, took the path that led into the plantations, overgrown now in early autumn, the long grass on the verges studded with blackjacks, their dark, barbed seeds waiting like sharp sunbursts to snag on unwary arms and legs. Tattered plastic bags hung on the brambles, and a couple of broken polystyrene boxes that had once held burgers lay scattered on the ground, but once we had gone 50 metres, the litter diminished and the path opened out. Litterers can seldom be bothered to go far off the beaten track. As the trees, mostly gums and wattles, began, the path divided, and we followed the right-hand, slightly steeper route, bare red earth showing through fallen leaves. There had been little rain since the day of the murder, and it was dry underfoot. As we followed the curve, we saw remnants of blue-and-white police tape. Why hadn’t they cleared up after themselves? I had a horrible moment when I thought there might still be blood on the grass, but the short, heavy shower that had fallen just after the body had been removed had washed that away. I showed Mr Ndzoyiya the place, the grass still flattened where the body had lain and the police had tramped around it.
He stood, looking down, while Verne, Chantal and I stood in a rather awkward row on the other side of the path. My mind was racing. I would need to speak to the police about what I had just remembered. Once I was sure it was a real memory.