MAYBE I’M REMEMBERING with the benefit of hindsight, but over the next few days the weather seemed suddenly to turn cold. It was not the glorious freshness of early winter typical of these subtropical regions: it was a bleaker cold that retained the damp of summer as a seeping chill, permeating everywhere. Did I feel it at the time? I’m not sure. But looking back, it is what I recall.
However, life had to carry on. On Monday morning, with the murder of Paul Ndzoyiya the page-three lead in the paper, I headed gloomily to school. I knew Mrs Golightly would have seen the story, which made a lot of the fact that the dead man’s father had been murdered a few weeks before. Although the police said they were following up leads, and that an arrest was expected soon, it was obvious the reporter was treating that with a healthy dose of scepticism. Daniel’s release was also mentioned, in such a way that it made the police look as if they had just rounded up some poor innocent simply because he was there, or alternatively, as if they had released a murderer who had gone off and promptly killed again. You could read it either way. I couldn’t help feeling there was more than a grain of truth in the former implication, but still … things might be more complicated than the reporter allowed.
Sure enough, Mrs G was lurking inside the door when I got out of my car. I had given up the sling, though it was in my basket in case I needed it. But the bandage was large and impressive on its own. It had made driving an interesting experience, but I had got to school without mishap.
“Good gracious, Laura. What has happened to you? You do seem to be having an adventurous life at the moment.”
Little do you know, my dear, little do you know, I thought to myself. But aloud, all I said was: “Stupid gardening accident. But it’s not as bad as it looks.” Mercifully she didn’t ask me to expand. I wasn’t quite sure what I would have said – an attack by a knife-wielding greenfly? She merely said she was glad my “friend” had been released from jail, and exonerated, and how terrible it was that there had now been a second murder. Her eyes lingered on my bandage.
I agreed, and admitted I had met the second victim when he had come to see where his father’s body had been discovered. In as neutral a tone as I could muster, I went on to say that it was a dreadful thing, and how much it had distressed me. She nodded, suggested I must take it easy, and that if I needed any time off, I should come and talk to her. It all sounded kind and caring, but I wasn’t taken in for a moment. She was still eyeing me as a potential liability to the good name of the school, and I had better watch it. I wondered whether she thought I had hurt my hand murdering Paul. After all, Sergeant Dhlomo had had the same idea.
After I left Mrs G standing in the entrance, I saw Carol Odendaal looking at me from the far end of the corridor, and turned and headed to the art room as fast as I could. She wouldn’t follow me there: two flights of stairs should be two too many for her arthritis.
I saw no one and heard nothing from the police for the next few days, and made no effort to contact them or anyone else connected with the case. On Friday, I kept my appointment with the doctor to have the stitches in my hand removed, and although there was an ugly red and itchy scar, it seemed to have healed. I was told I was lucky that no tendons had been nicked, or I could have lost movement in the digit. Nothing like the medical profession to dwell on worst-case scenarios. But my thumb was as opposable as it had ever been, although it felt tight and uncomfortable. That, I was assured, would be only temporary.
After I got home, Stephen’s mother called to say that the boys were keen to go to a party at a classmate’s house, next door to theirs. So would it be all right if Mike stayed over with them afterwards? I trusted her: Stephen and Mike have been friends for years, and I have often discussed how to handle that strange species, the adolescent male, with Stephen’s parents. So I said it would be fine, and settled down to an afternoon and evening alone.
It was at around four that my doorbell rang. I went to the entryphone, and was surprised, and not terribly pleased, when Busi Dhlamini announced herself, and asked if she could have a quick word with me. I was hoping my involvement with murder and the police, or at least most of them, was now at an end. But I buzzed her in, and met her at the front door.
She drove through the gate in a smart red BMW, car of choice for the upwardly mobile. Having met her brother, I was a little surprised: material possessions had not seemed to matter to him. She turned the car neatly, and left it facing towards the gate before climbing out and greeting me with a friendly smile.
I invited her in, and offered her a cup of tea, which she refused. We sat down in the studio, facing each other, and I said how terribly sorry I had been to hear of her brother’s death. I waited for her to start her “quick word”, but after an awkward pause she made a few inconsequential remarks, then stumbled into silence.
I was beginning to feel uncomfortable, and finally took the bull by the horns, asking her straight out what I could do for her.
She didn’t meet my eye. “Ah, yes. Well, Mrs Marsh, actually, I was wondering …” Silence again.
“Yes?” I said as encouragingly as I could manage. Her eyes wandered around the room. There was an air of desperation about her, as if she was waiting for something. I began to feel less embarrassed and more uneasy, almost afraid.
Eventually, she glanced at me, then looked down and began: “You know that friend of yours, the one who was arrested for my father’s murder and then let go?”
“Yes. Daniel Moyo.”
“Yes, Daniel Moyo. Well, I wondered if …” She stopped, as though she didn’t know what it was that she wondered. What on earth was the woman up to? Then her phone pinged, telling her that a message had come in. She whipped it out of her fake Louis Vuitton bag as if it was a lifeline, looked at it, and got to her feet.
“I am so sorry, Mrs Marsh. I have to go. An urgent message, you know. Perhaps another time?” With that, she headed briskly towards the front door, and I was obliged to follow, picking up the little handheld remote control that lay on the hall table so I could open the gate.
I followed her out of the door, and began to say a polite and relieved goodbye, pressing the button on the remote as I did, when I sensed movement beside me. The front door slammed shut, waking Grumpy who had been asleep in the hall, and making him bark. I spun round, and found myself staring straight at a tall, heavily built man. And at the gun he was pointing at my face.
I know nothing about guns. All I knew was that it was a gun – and that was all that mattered. It was small and black and looked like a toy in his large, manicured hand. But I was certain it was nothing of the sort. The man facing me didn’t do toys. His face was familiar: I had seen him before, talking to Rhoda Josephs in the court on the day Dan had appeared. And as soon as he said: “Don’t scream or do anything stupid, Mrs Marsh. Get into the car. Quickly,” I knew his voice too. This was Thabo Mchunu.