Let the Dead Lie (21 page)

'You
going to hang a murder on me?' Joe said. 'Of a kid? No way.'

'I
asked you if you saw Jolly that night. You still haven't answered yes or no.'

'No.
No. No. I never saw him and I never spoke to him. Beat me if you want but I
ain't going to sign a paper that says I killed a kid. I've done plenty wrong,
but murder? No way.'

'Have
you ever been to the Dover apartments on Linze Road in Stamford Hill?'

'Why
would I go there?'

'Answer
the question.'

'How
the hell would I get there?'

'You
drove,' Emmanuel said. 'In the big black Dodge with the silver trim.'

'What?'
Joe's forehead crumpled into deep furrows. 'I don't know what you've got me
lined up for but I'm not signing. You and your friends can bounce me around the
cells all night. All day even. I'm not going to clear a murder off your books
just because you can't find who really did it.'

To
load an unsolved crime onto a suspect already in custody, one with a list of
previous convictions, was the oldest trick in the unofficial policing manual.
The National Government's rollout of regular 'crime drives' demanded that the
police make visible progress towards a safer, cleaner, whiter world.

The
sergeant major said,
What friends?
He said 'you and your friends
'...

Twin
shadows elongated across the back fence: one was broad-shouldered with a hand
resting against the clip of his service revolver; the other, slim and
unobtrusive.

'Take
it easy, Joe,' a male voice said. 'We won't let him pin those murders on you.
We already know who did them, don't we, Cooper?'

Christ above,
the sergeant major said.
These fuckers must have had an eye on the building and seen
you come in. Don't let them give you any shit
.

'Detective
Head Constable Robinson and Detective Constable Fletcher.' Emmanuel got to his
feet. 'I thought you'd be in town arresting flashers and patriotic drunks. You
could beef up your arrest numbers by rounding up a couple of natives who
slipped into town without their passbooks.'

'Joe
Flowers's apprehension will cover us for a month or two,' Fletcher said. 'Your
arrest is going to make us golden till the end of the year.'

'My
arrest?' The van Niekerk deal had twenty hours to run. He should be in the
clear.

'When
the time comes,' Robinson said, 'the major and his friend won't be able to
protect you. They'll cut you loose and we'll be ready and waiting. You'll swing
for those murders.'

'Up
you get, Joe.' Fletcher undipped a pair of steel handcuffs from his belt.
'Time to go back to Central.'

Joe
sprang to his feet and made a run for the gate. Fletcher caught him by the
shirt collar and jerked him backwards like a fish on the end of a line.

'My
ma.' Joe tried to twist free. 'I got to take care of my ma. She's sickly.'

'Should
have thought about that before you stabbed those chaps in the pub.' Fletcher
twisted Joe's arms and snapped the cuffs on. 'Your ma can come see you on
visitors' day.'

'The
black Dodge,' Emmanuel spoke to Joe. 'Tell me where you got it from.'

'What
am I going to do with a car? I got no licence. I—'

'Shut
your mouth, Flowers.' Fletcher shook Joe with bone- rattling force. 'This man
is our prisoner, Cooper. You are not entitled to question him.'

Robinson
grabbed Joe by the shoulder and spun him towards the flats. 'Stay here,
Fletcher. You should have a talk with Mr Cooper.'

Emmanuel
calculated the distance to the exit. Too far to sprint. Same for the
fire-escape stairs. He was squeezed between the heavyweight detective and the
building. No help there.

'My
ma . . .' Joe called out a last request. 'You tell Miss Morgensen from the Zion
to take care of my ma. You hear me?'

'I'll
tell her,' Emmanuel said.

Robinson
pushed Joe through the back door of the flats and paused to give Fletcher the
'go ahead' nod.

'Shh
. . .' The sound came from a corner of the yard. Jolly's little sister Susannah
and her china-faced baby doll huddled in the semi-gloom. Her dark outline
rocked back and forth in an attempt to find a rhythm that would bring both her
and the blue-eyed baby peace. Emmanuel turned towards the girl and Fletcher's
fist came in a blur. His head snapped back with the force of the blow and his
body briefly experienced the sensation of flight. He gained altitude and flew
back to meet the hard wood palings of the fence. The pressure in his head
receded. This was real pain; hot and sharp and to the bone. He slumped to the
ground and the back door to the flats swung shut behind Joe Flowers and
Robinson. Robinson condoned violence but he didn't want to be a witness to it.
By leaving Fletcher to inflict the pain, he thought he stood above the dirty
work.

'Joe's
ma wasn't always a sick old lady. She was a brothel keeper back in the old
days.' Fletcher strolled over to the row of overflowing garbage cans. 'She made
a fortune during the war with all the military boys sailing in and out of
Durban. She gave discounts for first-timers and suddenly the whole British
fleet were virgins.' He pulled a lid free. 'She lost it all to a con man who
said he was an Irish baron. He promised her a castle and a title and a fountain
of Guinness beer bubbling in the garden.' Fletcher's banter suggested they were
two friends who'd bumped into each other accidentally in a darkened yard that
smelled of rotten fish.

'Sad
story,' Emmanuel said. Every criminal had one.

He
struggled to a sitting position. Fletcher whipped the tin lid through the air
and smashed it against the back fence. The wood shuddered and flexed. Emmanuel
got to his feet. The next swing was coming at his head.

'Very
sad.' Fletcher hit the lid against the steel post of the washing line and the
metal screamed. 'The noise is so Detective Head Constable Robinson thinks I
beat the crap out of you. The only reason I used the pole instead of your face
is because Major van Niekerk said to keep hands off.'

Hands off?
the sergeant major said.
That's a joke. He hit you like a sledgehammer.

'Very
kind of you.' Emmanuel wiped blood from his cheek. 'I obviously misjudged you,
Fletcher. Bet you like the ballet as well.'

'No,
that's the major you're thinking about. He's got season tickets to the
playhouse. Shakespeare and all that. I like the horseraces and the fights.
You?'

'I
like the fights, too,' Emmanuel said. 'Saw Joe Louis box an exhibition match in
Europe during the war. Are we friends now, Fletcher?'

'We're
friends till the major tells me different.'

'You
let an Afrikaner tell you who to be pals with?' It was a low shot to be sure
but worth taking. The skin on his cheek was cut and beginning to swell.

Fletcher
shrugged. 'It's better to have powerful friends than powerful enemies. Doesn't
matter if they're English or Afrikaner.'

Despite
appearances, Fletcher was not thick. He'd worked out that van Niekerk's
coat-tails were worth hanging on to.

'And
when the major says to take the gloves off?'

'I'm
going to make sure you land arse first onto the street.'

'You
can try,' Emmanuel said.

Fletcher's
grasp far outweighed his reach. The major had other police detectives who could
drive and punch a bag on the payroll. Fletcher had no idea he was expendable.

'I'll
give your regards to van Niekerk,' Fletcher said and patted Emmanuel on the
cheek with a calloused palm.

Tell him if he
touches you again you will break his fucking arm,
the sergeant major breathed
.

'What
did you say?' Fletcher's hand dropped.

'Touch
me again and I'll break your fucking arm.'

'Huh.'
Fletcher laughed. 'You couldn't break my little finger but you'd still try,
wouldn't you, Cooper? I got to admire that in a man.'

'Pointless
bravery?' The dented angles of Fletcher's face showed that he believed broken
ribs and cut lips were a badge of manhood.

'Bravery
is never pointless,' Fletcher said. 'A man's got to stand up and be a man or
else take up knitting.'

Emmanuel
knew plenty of men who'd joined the army with heroic visions and then found out
the biblical truth of the battlefield: that all flesh is as grass to be cut
down to wither away

'Have
you been following me all day?'

A
car and a handgun were tools of the police trade, easily picked up by two
members of the detective branch. Fletcher or Robinson, both in the standard
dark suits favoured by plainclothes detectives, could have been the figure
lurking on the street corner this afternoon.

'Nah.
Got lucky,' Fletcher said. 'We passed around a hat at the station for Jolly's
ma to help out with funeral costs. Saw you and the old lady leave when we came
to drop off the donation and decided to stake the place out.'

'Stuck
in the car all day,' Emmanuel said. 'Hell of a way to spend a Sunday.'

'Got
lucky a second time. Robinson had to take his little girl to a princess tea
party so we came back after sunset. Bingo. There you were, sitting on the steps
like a fucking welfare worker.'

Emmanuel
checked Susannah. Her eyes were shut tight and the baby doll was clutched in
her arms.

'Third
lightning strike with Joe,' Emmanuel said. This explained the run of dead ends
that had come his way in the last two days. Fletcher and Robinson had stolen
his luck.

'Thanks
for Joe.' Fletcher winked. 'My name is going to look good in the newspaper.'

'Don't
forget the free drinks,' Emmanuel said. 'Dangerous prisoner apprehended. The
public loves a hero.'

The
heavyweight detective's battered face lost its friendly expression. 'Arse out
on the street,' he said. 'With a mouthful of gravel.'

'If
the hangman doesn't get me first,' Emmanuel said. Fletcher grinned.

Emmanuel
bent over to retrieve the scattered contents of Joe Flowers's pockets and the
yard tilted. He sat cross-legged and waited for the fog to clear. Susannah
tiptoed to his side and kneeled on the cracked cement. The baby doll had
evidently fallen asleep and she held it still. Emmanuel collected the rolling
tobacco and the ripped Bioscope ticket stamped with today's date. Joe had spent
the afternoon in the dark, smoking hand-rolled cigarettes and watching Joan
Crawford chew the scenery as a scarred Swedish beauty with revenge on her mind.

Emmanuel
examined the tobacco. It was rough-cut and cheap with not a hint of chocolate
or honey. There never had been much sense to be found in the idea that Joe was
the killer or the shooter on the Bluff, but the possibility had been something,
like a lucky rabbit's foot.

'Did
you ever see Joe drive a car?' he asked Susannah.

'No,
he doesn't have a car. Not even a bicycle. He runs good though.'

'That
he does,' Emmanuel said.

Joe's
stable of sisters was down to one so even a bicycle would be luxury transport.
And there was the little matter of a lack of a driver's licence, which was no
bar to Joe actually driving but added another layer of improbability. Three
days on the run and Joe's main concern had been his sick mother.

'Is
Joe going to eat the stew Anne made for him?'

'Not
tonight,' Emmanuel said.

'Has
Joe gone back to jail?' 'Yes, he has.'

'That's
where my pa is,' Susannah said. 'Do you have a ma and pa?'

'No.'

'A
sister?'

'Yes,
but she's not here in Durban.'

'Has
she gone away like Jolly?'

'Something
like that.'