A Beautiful Place to Die (15 page)

“I used to work at the Pretorius garage,” Anton said. “Five years. Not bad work, but Erich is a hothead, always on about something or other. One day, Dlamini, a native who owns three buses, got me to do some work out at the black location and it got me thinking maybe I could go it alone, you know?”

Emmanuel nodded. He could see where the story was headed.

“I talked to a few people. King, the old Jew and Granny Mariah put up the seed money and I was on my way. Things went good for a while. The Pretorius garage kept the white trade and the holidaymakers moving through town.” Anton worked the dust rag over the wooden pews. “I kept the black and coloured trade. It was a fair split, seeing the Dutchmen own most of the cars.”

“What happened?”

“King’s nephew was visiting and his roadster needed new spark plugs. He brought the car in to me and that started it off.”

“A red sports car with white leather interior?” Emmanuel asked.

“The very one,” Anton replied. “Well, you can imagine the fuss in a town this size. An actual Jaguar XK120. White, black, coloured, they all piled into my shop for a look. I was excited myself. A car like that doesn’t come around every day.”

“You forgot,” Emmanuel said.

“That’s right.” The coloured mechanic managed a smile. “I forgot it was a white man’s car and off limits. Didn’t think about it until the old Jew came pounding on my door that night.”

“How does he fit in?”

“He saw the whole thing,” Anton said. “He saw Erich pour the petrol, light the match and walk away. It was Zweigman who went to the police station the next morning to file a witness statement. Wouldn’t be talked out of it by anyone, not even his wife.”

For someone trying to hide out in a small town, Zweigman managed to attract a lot of attention.

“Did you try to talk him out of filing the statement?”

“I was scared my house would be firebombed next,” the mechanic said. “I wanted King to handle it.”

“Did he?”

“He didn’t have to. Captain Pretorius himself came to see me in the morning and told me Erich would pay for the rebuilding of the garage and for the replacement of my lost stock.”

“In exchange for what? Getting Zweigman to withdraw his statement?”

The mechanic flushed. “It’s not possible to live here and be on the wrong side of the Pretorius boys, Detective. I asked the old Jew to withdraw the statement like the captain asked. He wasn’t happy, but he did it.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Four months.”

“Did Erich pay you the whole amount in cash?” Where would anyone, with the exception of King, get that kind of money?

“Half up front, the rest due next week.”

“How much?” Emmanuel asked.

“One hundred and fifty pounds still owing.” Anton balled the cleaning rag and threw it into the corner with a hard click of his tongue. “Not that I’ll see a penny of it now the captain has passed. There’s no papers, no nothing, to prove Erich owes me a thing.”

“No criminal record to connect him with the fire and no more debt,” Emmanuel said. Hotheaded Erich was now a person of interest to the investigation. “How did Erich feel about paying the money?”

“He was furious.” Anton sat down in a cleaned pew. “Marcus, the old mechanic who works at the garage, said the captain and Erich had a real head-to-head about it. Erich thought his pa was siding with the natives instead of supporting the family.”

That piece of information didn’t surprise Emmanuel. The Pretorius brothers were princes of Jacob’s Rest, who took their father’s protection for granted. It must have stunned Erich to find he’d overstepped the line from privileged Afrikaner to criminal.

“Why do you think the captain made Erich pay?”

“The old Jew,” Anton said. “He was one hundred percent certain he saw Erich start the fire and he was ready to swear to it in a law court. Said he’d even swear on the New Testament Bible. It took me an hour of begging to make him go to the police station and withdraw the statement.”

The captain was levelheaded enough to see that paying the money was the best option. It wouldn’t do for Frikkie van Brandenburg’s grandson to be held in a place of confinement with the detritus of European civilization. Even though it was likely that a handpicked jury of whites would decide in favor of Erich, the purebred Afrikaner, over a Jew. Captain Pretorius, it seems, was an expert at keeping things off the record and out of public view.

“The next payment is due?” Emmanuel asked.

“This Tuesday.”

“You going to ask for it?”

Anton got to his feet. “You believe a coloured man can walk into a Dutchman’s place and demand his money? You really believe that, Detective?”

Emmanuel looked at the floor, embarrassed by the raw emotion in Anton’s voice. The mechanic didn’t have a hope of getting the money unless a white man, one more powerful than Erich Pretorius, made the approach. Both he and Anton knew the simple truth.

The church door opened a fraction and Mary the woman-child peeked in.

“Anton?” Her lips clamped shut and she stood like a gazelle caught in a hunter’s spotlight.

“What is it?” Anton asked.

“Granny Mariah’s curry…” she said, then withdrew her head and disappeared from sight.

Anton forced a smile. “That’s my sister Mary. I think she wanted to say Granny Mariah’s curry is going fast. It’s a popular dish at potluck Sunday.”

“She was one of the victims in the molestation case?”

“Ja.” The mechanic rubbed a finger along the edge of a pew. “That’s why she’s like you see her now. Frightened of men she don’t know.”

“Who interviewed her?”

“Lieutenant Uys, then Captain Pretorius.” Emmanuel stepped into the aisle and moved toward the front door.

“Was Mary interviewed at the police station or at home?” he asked.

“Both.” Anton followed behind. “Why? Is the case being looked into again?”

“I’m looking into it,” he said.

“Good.” This time the mechanic’s smile was real. “It never sat right with us that nothing came of the complaints.”

“Something about the case doesn’t sit right with me, either,” Emmanuel said, thinking of the absent police files and Paul Pretorius’s dismissive attitude toward the idea that any member of his chosen race would cross the color line in search of thrills.

Anton pushed the door open and allowed Emmanuel to exit first. Outside, the potluck lunch was in full swing. The smell of mealie bread and curry flavored the air. Most of the families sat on the grass with plates of food spread out in front of them or stood in the skirt of shade cast by the gum trees. The matrons had begun to serve themselves from the depleted bowls on the long table.

“Think there’s any of Granny Mariah’s curry left?” Emmanuel asked. The look of powerlessness on Anton’s face when he talked about the money was still with him.

“Hope so.” Anton waved a hand toward the serving table. “Would you like a plate of food, Detective? You don’t have to. I’m sure the Dutch church has its own potluck, it’s just…I thought maybe…”

“I’ll take a plate,” Emmanuel said. Lunch with Hansie and the Pretorius brothers would be as much fun as the time the field medic dug a bullet out of his shoulder with a penknife. Besides, the Security Branch’s insistence that he follow up the molestation case meant he’d be spending a lot of time going in and out of coloured homes. This was a good chance for them to see him and get used to his presence.

The crowd stilled while Anton and Emmanuel approached the food table. A mother smacked her daughter on the hand to stop her talking, and the congregation kept a wary eye on his progress.

Emmanuel kept his posture relaxed. A white detective from the city was never going to be the most popular person at a nonwhite potluck Sunday lunch. Anton handed him an enamel plate edged in blue. Emmanuel walked along the table and, army mess style, received heaped spoonfuls of potato salad, roast chicken, lentils and spinach from the matrons, all of whom kept their attention on the serving plate.

The last of the matrons looked directly at him. He nodded a greeting at the woman, whose light green eyes shone like beacons in her dark face. Her wavy gray hair, pulled back into an untidy bun, was untouched by the hot comb.

“You investigating one of our people for the captain’s murder, Detective?” There was nothing in the matron’s manner to indicate any deference to the fact that she was a coloured woman talking to a white man in authority. The churchyard went quiet.

Emmanuel kept eye contact and smiled. “I’m here for some of Granny Mariah’s curry,” he said. “Any left?”

“Hmm…” She reached under the serving table and produced a silver pot. “Lucky for you we saved some for Anton.”

The formidable old lady split the curry between the two plates, and the crowd started talking again.

“Thanks,” Emmanuel said, and turned to face the picnicking congregation.

“Best we eat over there,” Anton said, and they made their way to a red gate and set their plates on a stone wall. They were as far away from the congregation as they could get without actually leaving the churchyard.

Emmanuel pointed to the dark-skinned matron who was busy tidying the serving table. “Who’s the woman with the cat’s eyes?”

“Granny Mariah.” Anton laughed. “You almost got her to smile with that curry comment. That would have been one for the books.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well…” The coloured man heaped his fork with yellow rice. “Granny doesn’t have much time for men. Doesn’t matter what color. We all a bunch of fools so far as she’s concerned.”

“I got that feeling,” Emmanuel said, and dug into the food. They ate in silence until the plates were half empty.

Anton wiped his mouth. “You want to know what’s really going on, Granny Mariah’s the one to talk to. She knows everything. That’s another reason men hold their tongues around her.”

Emmanuel recalled Tiny and Theo’s late-night antics. “Does she have anything on you?” he asked.

“Just the usual stuff.” The gold filling in Anton’s front tooth flashed bright when he smiled. “Nothing that would shock an ex-soldier or a detective investigating a murder.”

“I don’t know,” Emmanuel said. “What passes for the usual stuff in Jacob’s Rest?”

“I’m not about to confess my sins to the police. No offense, Detective Sergeant.”

“That’s wise,” Emmanuel said. Harry, the World War I veteran, crawled out from under the daisy bush and grabbed at the plate of food set out for him. He shoveled handfuls of rice into his mouth, barely chewing the food.

“Harry eats every two or three days,” Anton said. “He won’t touch anything in between. Nobody knows why.”

He’s in the trenches, Emmanuel thought, starving until the next ration trickles down from the supply line. Harry’s body was back in South Africa, but a part of his mind was still knee-deep in European mud. Emmanuel knew that feeling.

“Anyone here work at the post office?” he asked Anton as Harry cleaned the plate in four quick licks.

“Miss Byrd.” The mechanic indicated the church steps. “She’s the one in the hat.”

Several women on the stairs wore hats, but Emmanuel spotted Miss Byrd easily. The hat Anton referred to was designed to draw all eyes to its glorious layers of purple felt and puffed feathers. Miss Byrd’s Sunday crown transformed her from a sparrow into a strutting peacock.

“What does she do at the post office?”

“Sorts the mail,” Anton said. “She also serves behind the nonwhites counter now the whites have their own separate window.”

Emmanuel finished his lunch and wiped his mouth and hands clean with his handkerchief. Miss Byrd was perfect for what he needed.

“I’d like an introduction,” he said to Anton.

The town was deep in a Sunday-afternoon slump. All the shops were closed, the streets empty of human traffic. A stray dog limped across Piet Retief Street and onto a kaffir path running beside Pretorius Farm Supply. Emmanuel’s footsteps were loud on the pavement. He peered into Kloppers shoe store. Hard-wearing farmer’s boots and snub-nosed school shoes clustered around a pair of red stilettos with diamantés glued to the heel. The strappy red shoes sat at the center of the display like a glowing heart. The order for the red shoes must have been made while fantasy images of dancing and champagne blocked out the dusty reality of life in Jacob’s Rest.

The Security Branch Chevrolet was parked in front of the police station with its doors locked and windows rolled up. A sharp-faced man with clipped sideburns sat on the stoep and stared across the empty main street. His tie was loosened, his shirtsleeves rolled up past the elbow to reveal pink strips of sunburned flesh. Lieutenant Uys was back in town after his holiday in Mozambique.

“Lieutenant Uys?” Emmanuel held his hand out. “Detective Sergeant Emmanuel Cooper, Marshal Square CID.”

“Lieutenant Sarel Uys.” The lieutenant got to his feet for the formal introductions and Emmanuel felt the brief crush of sinewy fingers around his hand. Sarel Uys barely scraped the minimum height required to join the force, which explained the “show of force” handshake.

“You’ve heard?” Emmanuel asked.

“About a half hour ago.” The lieutenant slumped back down in his chair. “Your friends broke the news.”

Emmanuel ignored the reference to the Security Branch. Deep furrows of discontent ran from the corner of Sarel’s mouth to his jawline.

“Did you know the captain well, Lieutenant?” he asked.

Sarel grunted. “The only one who knew the captain was that native.”

“Constable Shabalala?”

“That’s him.” Sarel looked like he’d sucked a crateful of lemons for breakfast. “He and the captain were tight.”

Sandwiched between the giant forms of Captain Pretorius and Constable Shabalala, the wiry little lieutenant was number three at the Jacob’s Rest police station. It seemed that fact cut deeper than the captain’s murder.

“Have you been stationed here long?” Emmanuel continued with the informal fact gathering.

“Two years. I was at Scarborough before.”

“That’s quite a change,” Emmanuel said. Scarborough was a prime post. Policemen fought hard to get into the wealthy white enclave and then, if they were smart enough, they made some influential friends to ensure they only left Scarborough to retire someplace sunny. A transfer to Jacob’s Rest smelled of involuntary exile. He’d get someone at district headquarters to dig up the dirt on Lieutenant Uys’s transfer to the cattle yard.