MONDAY MORNING: FRESH BEGINNINGS. I would be sensible and leave Daniel’s predicament to the professionals: Robin and the police. If I pretended my call to Thabo Mchunu hadn’t happened, maybe it would go away. Chantal phoned during break: obviously the kind of efficient person who knows when to phone teachers. She asked if I had heard anything more about the bail appeal, or whether the police had been to see me again. I said no, but told her I would phone Robin and see how things were going.
She said Sergeant Dhlomo had visited them again, asking all kinds of questions about who could have known that Dan planned to visit me. All she and Verne knew was that when Dan arrived from Joburg he said he would be coming round, probably the next day, but had given them no specific time. And she couldn’t think who else he might have told – why would he?
She sounded accusatory, as if the sergeant bugging them was my fault and as if she thought she and Verne were suspected of something. I commiserated, and said it was one of the things that puzzled me too. If the bakkie I thought I had seen had been following Dan – unlikely though it seemed that anyone would follow someone with a corpse in the boot – then I couldn’t have seen it before Dan arrived. The whole thing made no sense. And unless Dan had fortuitously run into the murderer and told him what he was planning to do with his afternoon, how could he, or possibly she, have known where and when to dump the body? It was pure chance that Dan had been walking my dog. Nothing seemed to add up. Chantal and I agreed to keep in touch, and she rang off.
When I called Robin, he had little to tell me. He was “working on” getting Dan bailed, and following up various leads, but he was vague about specifics. I spoke to Chantal again and, forgetting that I had opted out of detection, told her I was hoping to see Dan this week if I could. She had some clean clothes for him, and asked if I would take them. So I did, visiting Dan during the official visiting hours at the holding cells. I again castigated myself for being a wimp as I cringed away from the grimy walls and the people I saw, but it was an experience my run-of-the-mill suburban life had not prepared me for, and I hated every minute of it.
Dan looked drawn, but insisted he was okay. He was still alone in his cell, and while he complained of being lonely, he knew that, as a Zimbabwean, at least that way he was safe from any xenophobic impulses of other prisoners, although not from the police. He was convinced the sergeant resented his status as a refugee, and said he had made a couple of disparaging remarks about freeloading Zimbabweans the last time he had been to question Dan. But at least he had kept it to remarks: there had been no overt violence or threats. I disliked Dhlomo, but it seemed he stayed within the boundaries. His presence, however, was threatening enough.
I handed over the clothes, and the sketchbook and pencils I had brought him. He seemed delighted, and offered to contribute a drawing of the interior of a prison cell to my exhibition. So at least he could still make a joke, albeit a rather feeble one.
My good intentions of Monday were wilting further in the reality of Daniel’s position. I asked if he could possibly have mentioned to anyone, apart from Verne and Chantal, that he was coming to see me. Unless whoever had dumped Phineas Ndzoyiya’s corpse had known Dan was going to be in the vicinity, why on earth would they have dumped him there? As far as I knew, the police had not yet worked out where he had been killed. He had left Paul’s house on the morning of the day of his death, ostensibly to visit the Archives, according to Paul. And had vanished into thin air – until he was found dead later in the afternoon at the top of my road. Paul had said the police told him his father had never arrived at the Archives. All researchers have to sign the register, and his name was not listed. Nor had anyone working there seen him.
“Think, Dan. On the day of the murder, did you tell anyone … anyone at all … where you were going that afternoon?”
Dan sank his head into his fists, elbows on the greasy table. For the first time I noticed a few wiry grey hairs among the black curls on his head. Finally he straightened his neck and looked wearily at me.
“The sergeant has already asked me, Laura, and I honestly don’t think so. I went up to the university in the morning to see a few people, and I had coffee with Verne at the cafeteria. I did say to him that I would probably go over to your place later, but he knew that anyway – and we can’t suspect Verne, surely? There were a few people around, but I didn’t know them. Though, wait a minute, one was that fellow Martin – Martin Shongwe, I think he is. He was on campus when I was a student, but he became SRC president at some stage and dropped a year. I didn’t know him well. He’s back there – I think he’s now doing some kind of postgrad work on curatorial policies.”
He sat up. “Hang on, Laura. Curatorial policy. Heritage. I was probably talking to Verne about my ideas – I’ve been banging on to anyone who would listen about colonial wars and how to present a fair picture in artistic terms. We were in the cafeteria, so Martin, or anyone else, might have overheard us. Do you think Martin Shongwe might have told the killer? Or even been the killer?”
“I don’t know. I can’t imagine why he should be. I think I know who he is, though. Isn’t he that brash, tough-talking guy with dreads? Tall? I thought he had gone up to Joburg, but he must be back. But I can’t see what connection he could possibly have had with Phineas Ndzoyiya, or Thabo Mchunu for that matter.”
“Thabo Mchunu? Hold on – isn’t that the guy who gave me Phineas Ndzoyiya’s name, the man Rhoda Josephs introduced me to. Why him?”
I realised that Dan, stuck away in his cell, knew nothing about my getting Mchunu’s name from Rhoda, about his interactions with Phineas Ndzoyiya or about my much-regretted call to him. I gave Dan a brief rundown, playing down my concerns, but he looked worried.
“Laura, for God’s sake, don’t take risks. Whoever killed Phineas Ndzoyiya, or had him killed, is not someone to mess with. If you’re worried, go and talk to the Inspector. Anyway, I’ll tell him that I’ve remembered talking about my exhibition and saying I was off to see you while I was in the Fine Arts Department, and that Martin Shongwe was around. I honestly don’t think he could have anything to do with the murder, but for all we know he may be a friend of the murderer and may have mentioned something, however innocently. It’s the only thing I can think of. After I left campus, I went back to Verne and Chantal’s, had a sandwich, made a couple of phone calls and then came to see you.”
“One more thing, Dan. When you were at my place you parked outside, and when Sergeant Dhlomo and Adam Pillay asked me about it, I did wonder why. I mean, you usually bring the car in.” I felt awkward. It wasn’t that I suspected Dan of anything, but it was niggling me, and the happenings of the past few weeks had jolted me out of mindless acceptance of superficial appearances. My own recent past should have made me realise I am no great judge of character, and I was coming to see that most of us are chameleons, taking protective colour from our surroundings, making an effort to blend in and wanting to be as seen as just another leaf on the tree, nothing threatening, nothing out of the ordinary. Perhaps I had previously been too willing to accept what I saw at face value.
Dan looked surprised. “I dunno. I hadn’t been there for a while. I know Rory has a car, and I didn’t know if he was at home. I suppose I didn’t know if you were in, so I parked and then got out of the car and rang the bell. When you answered, I just came in. There was no reason to get back into the car and bring it in. Why do you ask?”
“I didn’t think about it until the cops raised the issue. And then it seemed … well, odd. Did they ask you about it?”
“I suppose they did. I didn’t really think about it.” Dan gave me a thoughtful look. On one hand, it was a relief. His explanation made sense. But on the other, I sensed him wondering. Didn’t I trust him? However, all he said was: “The sergeant says forensics found nothing in my car. It’s in the clear. Verne fetched it yesterday.”
I felt depressed as I left the cells, and it wasn’t just my surroundings. That sad, shattered body at the top of the road had set in motion a whole slew of events and emotions that I didn’t want in my life. But, with Dan in jail, I couldn’t just walk away. And my own actions had left me floundering in a quicksand of mistrust, unhappiness and potential danger.