I HONESTLY MEANT TO PHONE Adam and tell him about Paul and Busi’s visit and that I had mentioned Flash Funerals to them, but Paul said he had already been to the police so it didn’t seem that urgent, and for the next couple of days I was really busy. I had lessons to prepare, a painting to finish and get to the framers, a household to run and a son to look after. Neither Adam nor his sergeant contacted me, and as all seemed to be quiet, with no more sinister deliveries and no sign of anyone following me, I let it slide.
I was teaching on Thursday morning, so couldn’t get to court to hear the charges against Dan formally withdrawn. Robin phoned afterwards, and told me Dan was free, and had gone home with Verne. Then, during my lunch break, Dan called, and I promised I would pop round to Verne and Chantal’s on my way home.
As I drove in, he met me at the front door and hugged me. He smelled of soap and shampoo and clean clothes. Obviously he had wanted to get the prison stink, literal or metaphorical, off himself. He looked well enough, but despite the hug, there was a distance between us that had never been there before. Both Verne and Chantal were at work, and we settled in their untidy, cheerful kitchen and Dan switched on the kettle. I asked how the court appearance had gone, and he explained that it had been very short and the paperwork had been dealt with quickly.
He thanked me for finding Robin, and for all my help, but for some reason he seemed reluctant to talk about Phineas Ndzoyiya or anything to do with the case. Curious, I asked whether Adam had been in court, and he said no. Only Sergeant Dhlomo, who had said the police were dropping the charges and that their investigation was continuing.
When I asked Dan what his plans were, he shrugged. He wanted to get back to Johannesburg as soon as he could. He had shelved his ideas for the exhibition on colonialism: he needed money fairly urgently and would have to look for some kind of paid job. He was friendly enough, but I got the feeling that all he wanted was to put Pietermaritzburg and Phineas Ndzoyiya’s murder behind him and go and lose himself somewhere else. He showed little interest in what I had found out, or where I believed the police investigation was going. While I searched for something to say that would restore our easy familiarity, he stood silently in the kitchen, sliding his long fingers through a puddle that had dripped from the kettle. He drew an abstract design in the water, seemingly absorbed in what he was doing. Conversation flagged. As we were drinking our coffee, Chantal came in, and I could see that Dan was also treating her with reserve.
Saddened, I got up to leave. Dan kissed me goodbye, and promised to come and see me before he left, but it was Chantal who walked out to the car with me.
“He seems … different. I can’t really explain, but it’s as if he wants to forget the whole thing. And us, because we’re a part of it,” I said.
She nodded. “Not surprising. Oh, he’s grateful to us all, and to the lawyer. But gratitude is not a comfortable emotion to live with, you know. It can make you feel inferior, and tied in some way to the other person whether you want to be or not. Dan feels he owes us money – we don’t know yet how much, I suppose, but lawyers don’t work for nothing.”
I jumped in to defend Robin, explaining that he had assured me he would charge only for his actual expenses: he believed Dan had been victimised because he was a Zimbabwean and he saw the case as a public-interest one. The costs wouldn’t be much.
“Not for you, perhaps. Or even for me and Verne. But Dan lives hand to mouth. He doesn’t have a job, and he has to try to earn a living through his art. And he’s going to feel that he has to pay us back, as well as sending money home. His family depends on him, you know. So he wants to get away and see what he can do to get some cash. And maybe he feels that even though we tried to help him, perhaps, in our minds, we wondered about his involvement. You asked him about why he parked his car out on the road that day.”
There’s something about Chantal that rubs me up the wrong way. Quite apart from being one of those efficient people whose life is always under control and who, as a result, I find intimidating, she manages to make me feel guilty, as though I’m a privileged whitey who doesn’t understand. But she had put her finger on something. Having to be grateful does make you uncomfortable. I would be very sad if it meant that Dan no longer saw me as a friend, or felt I hadn’t trusted him. Yet another conundrum to try to work out. I muttered something to Chantal and climbed into my car, suddenly conscious that it might be seen as too smart, too new and, well, privileged. Why did life have to be so complicated?
Mike, bless him, was delighted to hear that Dan was off the hook, and seemed to think it was all over. “Come on, Ma. Cheer up. The cops’ll nab this Mchunu guy, or whoever the murderer is, and that’ll be that. Dan’s in the clear, and we can relax.”
“Oh no we can’t! With Dan out, the real murderer will be feeling vulnerable, and we have to be careful. Maybe even more careful. You still have to be on your guard. Really, Mike. Once they’ve arrested the killer, then it’s different. But not yet.” I was feeling shaky, and the thought of Mike swanning around as if it was all over made it worse. He looked at me as if I was living in some alternative universe, one of my own making.
“Ma! You’re getting paranoid. Just relax. Sure, I’ll be careful, but it’s over. Calm down.”
I mumbled something about just because you’re paranoid, it doesn’t mean they’re not after you, but I could see Mike thought I had finally lost the plot. At the start of this whole thing I had been determined to get Daniel out of jail, but now that he was free I still felt very uneasy. And I wasn’t sure why. Something was not right.
But even if my telepathic sensors were working overtime, there wasn’t much to show for it over the next few days. I had no contact with Adam Pillay or Paul Ndzoyiya, and although I would have been happy to see the former, I began to accept that maybe life was returning to what passed for normal.
Autumn is my favourite time of year, and the weather was beautiful. The humidity of the summer months has gone; the nights are crisp and comfortable. Sleep comes easier, and while you need a jersey in the early morning and late afternoon, by midday it is warm and sunny. It is an energising time, and, remembering my promises not to walk alone in the plantations while Phineas Ndzoyiya’s killer remained unknown and free, I bullied Philippa into regular afternoon exercise. She had lost interest in our local murder: she knew Dan only vaguely and now that he had been released, seemed to think the story had fallen into that bottomless pit of crimes unsolved and insoluble, too depressing to talk about and sufficiently remote from us not to be a source of concern.
The only reminder I had of the case was on Friday afternoon. I drove out of the school gates behind a shiny silver Peugeot. A girl I hadn’t recognised had got into it, and the woman who was driving, presumably her mother, set off in the same direction that I was planning to go. I followed her into the supermarket parking area, then walked behind her to the entrance of the shop where she turned to face me. She was smartly dressed in a black skirt and jacket with a white blouse.
“Hello, Mrs Marsh.”
I had one of those awful moments, familiar to teachers the world over. Was this a parent of one of the kids I taught? Her face rang a faint bell in the back of my mind, but I couldn’t place her, and the child in her car hadn’t looked like one of my pupils. I put on a smile: polite, friendly, interested and a dead giveaway that I hadn’t a clue who she was.
“It’s Hannah Bhengu. I was the prosecutor in the case against Daniel Moyo. We were introduced by Robin Watson. At the court. Remember? And I’ve seen you at school. Gabrielle – my daughter – will be in your class next year, and she’s looking forward to it. She seems to have a talent for art.”
Of course. The prosecutor. The name Gabrielle Bhengu was familiar from a colleague who taught art to the junior girls. She had mentioned that Gabrielle showed more than a little promise.
“Ms Bhengu, sorry. I didn’t recognise you for a moment: out of context, you know.”
She smiled. Not for one moment did I think she was taken in, but she had impeccable manners.
“You must be pleased for your friend, Mr Moyo.”
“Yes, I am. I saw him yesterday. I think it has been an awful experience for him, but he’s keen to put it behind him and get on with his life.”
“The police told us that they wanted to drop the charges. I was glad: it seemed to me that all the evidence was circumstantial. But the case is still open. I hope they make an arrest soon. We don’t want killers out on the streets.” She smiled at me and picked up a red plastic basket before heading off towards the vegetables.