Let the Dead Lie (6 page)

Grey
Street, wide and overhung by electric tram wires, was in the very heart of
Durban's Indian area. Brightly painted vegetarian restaurants jostled for space
with spice emporiums and 'Ladies frock and Gentlemen's suit' retailers. A
gaggle of black women ambled down the sidewalk with bags of rice balanced on
their heads. Shirtless Indian labourers hauled bamboo poles through the windows
of the Melody Lounge, temporarily closed for renovations. The air smelled of
roasted cardamom seeds and chilli.

Saris
& All was a narrow shop that sold 'English Rose' skin-lightening creams,
loose tobacco, shoelaces and bulk dried goods under a waterfall of silk and
cotton saris that hung from wooden bars bolted to the ceiling. A tall Indian
man in a white cotton suit and open-necked shirt approached Emmanuel.

'What
may I get you on this fine day, sir?' The shop steward indicated the laden
shelves and burlap sacks of dried lentils and rice.

'Parthiv
or Amal,' Emmanuel said. 'Are they in?'

'Mr
Dutta and Mr Dutta junior. That is who you would like to see?'

'Yes.'

'Please.'
The tall man fiddled with the top button of his shirt. 'I cannot help you. It
is lunchtime and past that door I cannot go.'

'What
door?'

'Behind
the purple sari. This is very private. For the Dutta family, no one else.'

Emmanuel
swung the shimmering curtain aside and pushed the hidden door open. He stepped
onto an outdoor porch sheltered by a woody bougainvillea vine with sparse pink
blooms. A row of re-used corn oil tins were planted with seedlings tied to
slender bamboo poles.

Amal
sat at a table with a book in one hand and a samosa in the other. Silver bowls
of curry, pickles and rice were spread out on a table in front of him. He was
so absorbed in his book he didn't look up until Emmanuel pulled up a chair and
sat down opposite him.

'Detective.'
A well-thumbed science text dropped to the floor. Pieces of paper with
scribbled formulae scattered. 'Detective Sergeant.'

'It's
just Emmanuel.'

'But... how...'

'Relax,
Amal. I want to ask you something.'

'Am
I in trouble?'

'No.'
Emmanuel motioned to the bowls of food. 'Finish your meal.'

Amal
collected the book and papers and placed them on the table. He fiddled with the
tablecloth, too nervous to eat. Emmanuel nodded at a fried curry puff.

'Mind
if I have one?'

'No.
Please.'

Emmanuel
took the spicy pastry and bit into it. Then he selected a samosa and a scoop of
chutney, which he placed on a white plate. He ate that, then served himself
some chicken biryani with sliced cucumber and a warm disc of roti. The
confrontation with the dragon landlady, Mrs Edith Patterson, had put him off
breakfast. He'd eaten nothing since the night before.

'You
like Indian food?'

Emmanuel
glanced at Amal, who was observing him in the same way a child might observe a
sword swallower working in a circus tent.

'I
do,' he said. 'You should have some before I finish it all.'

Amal
scooped food onto his plate, still wary but beginning to relax. Emmanuel
waited until the boy was halfway through a plate of rice and chicken curry.

'When
we left the alley last night,' Emmanuel made it sound like a mutual decision
that Giriraj cart him away in a sack, 'what did you pick up as you left?'

Amal
threw a nervous glance towards the courtyard door, then pushed a grain of rice
around the rim of his plate with a spoon. The silence dragged out. Emmanuel
leaned forward.

'This
conversation is between you and me,' he said. 'I won't tell Parthiv or Maataa
or anyone else what we've talked about.'

'True?'
Amal looked up.

'True,'
Emmanuel repeated. 'That is a promise.'

'I
picked up my torch.'

'What
else?'

'A
small notebook.'

Jolly's
notebook.

'There
are two strings tied to the spiral. One string has a pencil attached to the
end,' Amal said.

'Have
you got it?'

'Not
here. It's at home in my bedroom.'

'Anything
else?'

'No.'
Amal shifted uncomfortably and went back to toying with the rice grain. 'I
didn't see anything.'

Emmanuel
knew his torch had rolled under a rail carriage, which explained how Amal had
missed it. What had happened to the penknife was anyone's guess. A police
search of the freight yards should have found it. A vital piece of evidence had
either disappeared or Amal had lifted it and was now too scared to admit it.

Emmanuel
tore a piece of work paper from the science textbook. 'Can I borrow a pen?'

Amal
extracted a ballpoint from his pocket and watched Emmanuel draw a rough sketch
of the crime scene with the shunting yards and Point Road labelled. Sometimes
the long way around was the quickest way to get information.

'This
is the alley where the body was found.' He indicated the map. 'The X marks the
location of the body. You and Parthiv were standing about here against the
wall.'

'I
see.'

'Show
me where the notebook was.'

Amal
frowned, then tapped a finger to a spot. 'It was about here.'

'Are
you sure?'

'Jâ,
I picked it up when we were
going to the car. I thought it might have something to do with Parthiv's
business.'

That
was a surprise. The notebook had been located between the body and the section
of alley that led back to the main road. Jolly must have cut and dumped it on
his way towards the freight yard where he was killed. Why get rid of the book?
Had he done it on purpose?

'Look
at the map again,' Emmanuel said. 'Did you see anything else in the alley that
night? Think.'

'There
was something.'

'Go
on.'

Amal
swallowed hard then whispered, 'A small knife was near the boy's hand.
I...
I was too scared to pick it up.'

'It's
the job of the police to collect evidence,' Emmanuel said. 'You did the right
thing by leaving it.'

'And
the notebook, is it yours, Detective?'

'Yes.
It is,' Emmanuel lied. 'Can we go and get it?'

'If
you drop me off at the school library after.'

'I
can do that.'

The
door leading to the courtyard swung inwards and Parthiv appeared. His brow shot
up to his hairline at the sight of Emmanuel and his little brother side by
side.

'You
talk to him?' Parthiv went straight for Amal.

'No.'
Amal scooted back in his chair. 'I said nothing.'

'Hold
on.' Emmanuel addressed the older Dutta male calmly. 'I dropped a notebook in
the freight yards last night and Amal has it. That's all.'

'You
dead meat.' Parthiv moved in with a raised hand. 'What did you tell him?'

'Nothing.'
The boy ducked away. 'I didn't tell.'

Parthiv
swooped and Emmanuel laid a firm hand on the padded shoulders of Parthiv's blue
silk suit. 'Step back and leave him alone,' he said. Like all policemen who'd
worked the regular foot section of the force, he hated domestics. 'Amal didn't
say anything.'

'You
think I'm stupid? If you're not a policeman then you're a spy, isn't it? For Mr
Khan.'

'Don't
know who Mr Khan is.'

The
veins on Parthiv's neck stood out. 'You're Mr Khan's man, isn't it?'

'Calm
down and listen,' Emmanuel said. The Indian man's reaction was out of
proportion to the apparent threat. Something else was going on. 'I don't work
for Mr Khan, have never even heard his name before now.'

'You're
a liar. First you say you are a police, then, sorry, not a police. Then you say
I will never see you again but now you are here in my family place squeezing
Amal for information to tell Mr Khan.'

'That's
not why I'm here,' Emmanuel said. 'I came to find my notebook.'

'You
think you can walk in and out of this place like it is yours? I must just take
that disrespect?' Parthiv fumbled in a jacket pocket and extracted a
bone-handled switchblade that flicked open with a click.

'Put
the knife down,' Emmanuel said. 'Or I will make you put it down.'

Parthiv
lunged forward with the silver edge exposed. Emmanuel sidestepped the blade and
slapped Parthiv's forearm. The knife hit the concrete floor, clattered as it
spun across the courtyard and came to rest against the side of a corn-oil can.

Emmanuel
grabbed Parthiv's arm. 'Amal didn't tell me anything, but I think you might
have something to tell me. What do you say?'

'No
dice.'

He
pinned Parthiv's arm behind his back and pushed up until he was sure the pain
had reached the shoulder socket.

'Wait,'
Amal cried out. 'I’ll tell.'

Emmanuel
took a quick look at the boy and tried to ignore the shocked expression on his
face. Over lunch they were almost friends. Now he was a violent stranger
hurting his brother.

'No,'
Emmanuel said. 'Your big brother will tell me what happened on the docks last night.'

'We
were looking for a woman.' Parthiv tried to tug free. 'I already told you.'

'What
else?'

'We
. . .'

'The
quicker you tell me, the quicker your arm will start to heal.'

Without
his detective's ID, this altercation was a common assault. There was no way to
dress up what was happening as a citizen's arrest. A judge would determine that
his prior knowledge of the law only made his actions more reprehensible.
Emmanuel could see the headline in the
Natal Mercury.
'Ex-detective beats Indian in
sari shop'.

'We
collected a package,' Parthiv confessed. 'From a steward on one of the
passenger ships.'

'What
was in it?'

Parthiv
stopped talking. Emmanuel shoved his elbow higher.

'Hashish!'
The Indian man's shoulders sagged. 'You smoke it.'

'I
know what hashish is,' Emmanuel said and let go. He stepped away from the
puddle of silk that was Parthiv, collected the knife, pressed the switch to
unlock it and folded the blade back into the ivory handle. Grinning skulls were
carved into the sides. It was the kind of weapon an unpopular twelve year old
might buy to impress classmates.

'You
like knives, Parthiv?'

'Jâ,
sure. If they nice like that
one.' The Indian man rubbed his arm to get the circulation flowing and
concentrated on the cracks in the concrete floor. His gangster pride was
dented.

'Do
you have any other blades?' Emmanuel asked. He remembered the sharpened
butcher's knives in Giriraj's
kyaha,
the empty third hook.

'You
only need one to do the job,' Parthiv said.

'Really?
And what's the job of a knife?'

'To
frighten people.'

'Did
you have this knife on you last night?'

Parthiv
blinked rapidly, his humiliation pushed aside by fear. The connection between a
switchblade and a sliced open child was obvious.

'No,'
he said. 'I didn't touch that boy.'

Emmanuel
pressed the raised switch on the handle and the blade snapped out again. His
own distorted reflection played across the silver metal surface. The skulls
grinned. The knife looked almost unused; there wasn't a scratch on the steel or
a speck of dried blood in the grooves of the handle. Emmanuel closed it.

'Was
Jolly Marks a customer of yours?' he said. Maybe Jolly distributed more than
food and drinks to the night women and their customers.

'Jolly
who?' Parthiv said.

'The
boy in the alley. Was he meeting you to buy hashish?'

'No
ways.' The Indian man shook his head. 'I ain't stupid.'

'Why
did you lie about knowing him last night?'

Parthiv's
Adam's apple bobbed when he swallowed and he blinked rapidly. Emmanuel was all
too familiar with this facial dance, had seen it performed a hundred times
before. It was the desperate search for a new lie to cover an old one. This was
one part of being a detective sergeant that he did not miss. Everyone lied.
Some were better at it than others. Parthiv was an amateur.

'Just
tell me,' Emmanuel said. 'Then we can all go home.'

'I
don't know him. I have seen him. Around the docks and the like: running around
to make deliveries. That's the truth. It doesn't pay for an Indian to get
friendly with a white boy so I never asked him to fetch me anything.'