A COUPLE OF DAYS LATER the phone rang – right in the middle of the morning mayhem. Coffee in one hand, I grabbed it, cursing under my breath.
“Hello?”
“Mrs Marsh? It’s Paul Ndzoyiya here. I am back from my father’s funeral, and I would like to talk to you. Can I come and see you this afternoon, after work? My sister is with me.”
For a moment I contemplated saying no. Adam’s strictures on non-interference had been pointed, but maybe hearing what Paul Ndzoyiya had to say wouldn’t be interfering, just keeping up. And Paul had asked to see me, not the other way round. So with that bit of sophistry, I agreed. I made myself feel slightly better by asking if he was going to see the police, and he told me he had seen them the day before, telling both Adam and his sergeant about what he had heard on his visit to the coast. So I wasn’t going to be getting any information before they did.
When Paul rang the doorbell late that afternoon, I told Mike to keep a low profile – promising to fill him in once Paul had left. He came in, looking tired. The lines that ran from his nose to his mouth seemed more deeply carved than before. His sister was tall, taller than he was, and looked both smart and stern. Her name was Busi Dhlamini, and I gathered she was some kind of businesswoman, based in Mthatha. But she was unforthcoming on the reason for her visit. I made us all a cup of tea, and we went through to the studio. Paul and Busi glanced incuriously at my final still life. I was pleased with it; the distance gained by the viewer and artist looking inside through the window was counteracted by the intimacy of the objects I had finally chosen for the painting. But brother and sister had other matters on their minds.
Feeling like a character from a Cold War novel, I asked Paul if he was sure he hadn’t been followed. He seemed unsurprised. “No, I don’t think so. I was checking, but it was just normal afternoon traffic. Nothing else.” He had brought his car into the garden, and unless someone stopped and peered in through the gate, it would be invisible from the road.
He began to tell me about his visit to Pondoland. Inevitably, as his father’s eldest son, he had been busy with arrangements for the funeral and helping his mother who now had to decide whether to stay in Durban or return to the coast. But he had managed to find the time to talk to two of his uncles, his father’s younger brothers, and to a couple of the village elders. He had asked them whether the community was still divided over the Mendi memorial.
“They said, in fact, that there is little division. For most people, the idea of a visible memorial, which they think could attract tourists and bring in work, is something they would support. One of the elders was actually critical of my father. Of course, he put it politely … It was a funeral and it wouldn’t do to say my father had been wrong, or had caused a rift. But he said that if there was money available, it must be spent on something visible, something to give the community pride. Other memorials have been erected, after all.”
Paul Ndzoyiya sighed and took a sip of his tea. “The next day, I walked with my uncle to the place on the coast where the statue is to be erected. He told me, privately, that he had agreed with my father; this would be a waste of money, and if it brought work at all, or even tourists, the benefits would be minimal. Maybe a few labourers employed to create the park, and perhaps to maintain it. But not much more than that. It seems unlikely that the sculptor will be from Pondoland: those sorts of contracts go to artists from Gauteng, Joburg or other big cities. People – white people mostly – go to the Pondoland coast to fish and have holidays but few of them are foreigners. And even if some do come, they wouldn’t need tour guides to show them a statue. If they know about the Mendi, they would look at the statue. Those who know nothing probably wouldn’t care. No one is going to drive all that way just to see a memorial.
“It’s not that my uncle and I, or my father, don’t want the victims of the Mendi to be remembered. Of course we do; we are descendants of one of the survivors. But my father had strong views on how it should be done and he was dubious about the people driving the project. This Thabo Mchunu: I asked my uncle about him. My father and uncle had meetings with him and both thought he was too smooth, too full of talk about helping the community. He was unwilling to say exactly how the money would be spent, and who would benefit from the contracts that could follow.”
Paul continued, sounding defeated. He had passed the emails in which Phineas Ndzoyiya and Mchunu had expressed their disagreements on to Inspector Pillay. They were all polite, at least on his father’s side: Paul said his father would never be anything other than polite to anyone, a man of the old school. But his uncle told him that when Mchunu came to the village, he and Phineas Ndzoyiya had clashed publicly at a community meeting.
“Mchunu was plausible, telling people that they would all benefit, and inferring that my father’s views were those of a small man, an old-fashioned teacher who had no concept of modern ways of doing things. Memorials must be big and bold, not small and educational. He belittled my father, showed no respect for his views. But my uncle says my father stood up to him, and although most people believed what Mchunu was saying, a few of the older people in the village agreed with my father, even if they did not do so publicly. There were concerns that Mchunu and his cronies would pocket the money, and once some kind of memorial had been put up, they would vanish with the profits.”
Paul Ndzoyiya had made little eye contact with me while he was speaking, but now he looked up. “Maybe Mchunu felt my father would be able to gather more support for his views; maybe he saw my father as a threat; maybe he just doesn’t like people going against him. I don’t know. I have no proof he was involved in the killing, but I cannot think who else may have done it. My father was a teacher; he had no enemies – certainly none who would wish him harm. But I doubt that Mchunu would have done it himself. He’s a big man, a senior civil servant, always surrounded by acolytes. If he wanted my father out of the way, he would get someone else to do it. And I still don’t understand why the body would have been dumped here, virtually on your doorstep.”
Unsure of whether I was doing the right thing, I mentioned Martin Shongwe. His name didn’t seem to mean anything to Paul. I then asked about titanium mining, and immediately sensed a reaction from Busi. I turned, but she looked calm, remote even. However, it was she rather than her brother who answered my question.
“It is a hot topic on the coast, as it has been for some years. There are always rumours. People arguing about what damage it will do, what profits it will bring, the building of a new toll road along the coast. Why do you ask about it?”
I told her that it had come up in a discussion of the area, and I wondered if her father had had an opinion about it. There would be far more money involved in mining deals than in a heritage site, and perhaps, if her father had opposed it, he could have made many powerful people very angry indeed.
Busi was watching me closely as she replied: “Mining could bring benefits for the community. It is easy only to be concerned with the landscape, or the beauties of the Wild Coast; to be critical. But if it brings jobs, it would have our support.” She made no mention of her father’s views, and obviously had no intention of saying anything more. She seemed to be a strong person, stronger than her brother, and when he made as if to join in the conversation, she cut him off.
Then, with an uneasy memory of the coffin brochures, I told them about remembering the name of Flash Funerals and the bakkie I had seen going down the road before Dan found the body. I asked if the name, or the logo – which I redrew on a piece of paper – meant anything to them. Paul looked at it carefully but Busi gave it little more than a glance.
Paul looked up: “Maybe. I can’t say. I’m not sure, but I don’t think so.”
“It doesn’t seem to be local, not from here. Maybe it’s a Pondoland undertaker? Could you have seen it when you were home?”
Paul shook his head. “Perhaps. There are so many funeral parlours springing up, all over. Aids has meant that the industry has become big business. Busi, have you seen it before?” She shook her head vigorously, but said nothing. Paul promised he would make some enquiries.
“Well … maybe we should leave it to the police. I don’t want to put you at any kind of risk. You’ve already had an attempted break-in. It’s not worth looking for trouble. I’ve told the police about Flash Funerals, and they’re supposed to be checking.”
Paul nodded. Soon after, they got up to leave. Paul shook my hand and said he was grateful for my help. As he left, he reiterated that he was determined to see someone brought to justice for his father’s murder. I nodded, unaware that I would never see him again.
As soon as the door shut behind them, Mike emerged from his room, and I outlined what Paul and Busi had said. He seemed to be enjoying the idea of detection, and was now convinced that Thabo Mchunu was the killer. In Mike’s view there was no reason not to arrest and charge him straight away.
“He didn’t like what this Phineas Ndzoyiya was doing. He obviously thought he would, like, put the boot into his plans to make money out of this statue thing or, more likely, the mining, and so he smashed his head in.”
“But why on earth do it here? Or at least dump the body here.”
“Pure coincidence. It’s a convenient place to dump a body – easy road access, quiet. Only dog-walkers, mountain bikers and joggers go along there. It was bad luck for you and Dan that he found the corpse. That’s all.” Mike sat back in his chair, convinced that he had found the answer. I shrugged. I didn’t want to engage him in discussion: I was already feeling guilty that I had told him anything. Adam had told me to butt out, so maybe we should heed his words.