Let the Dead Lie (9 page)

A
whisper rustled through Emmanuel's consciousness, like a skirt trailed against
the floor. He sat up and blinked hard into the unfamiliar environment. A garden
of floral prints crowded the tiny room. A lavender bush motif on the curtains
crashed into daisies embroidered on scatter cushions thrown on a couch. On a
small table pushed up against the window stood a ceramic vase with a dozen
white roses in bloom.

Last
night's lift home had turned into much more.

The
black shadow of Jolly Marks's murder had made him reckless. The need to chase
life in order to outrun death was a soldier's response to fear and one that he
recognised from wartime Europe. Trouble was, he'd awakened in South Africa and
not Paris.

'Relax,
Major,' a woman's voice teased. 'The war's been over for eight years. You won,
remember?'

Emmanuel
examined the barmaid in the clear light of the morning after. Lana Rose. A name
so perfect it had to be made up. She stretched her body out against the cream
sheets, comfortable in her own skin.

'My
slip at the bar,' he said, 'you noticed.'

'I
picked you long before that. I just didn't know if you were army or police. I'm
betting it was both.'

'All
that brain power stuck behind the Harpoon's bar. Shouldn't you be running the
country?'

'I'm
finished with the Harpoon. Today is the start of a new life. I just needed to
get some things out of my system first.' Lana unknotted a stocking from the
bedhead and draped the flimsy length of silk over Emmanuel's left shoulder
where an old bullet wound marked his flesh. 'I ticked off quite a few boxes
with you last night, Mr Cooper.'

Ah,
yes. The stocking. Emmanuel rubbed his face to cover his embarrassment. It was
a common enough game. What bothered him was the enthusiasm he'd brought to
it...
the ragged authenticity of a policeman enjoying the full exercise of power
after a long absence.

He
got out of the bed and searched for items of discarded clothing. The memory
from another time of door hinges flying inward and the breath of the law on his
neck quickened his movements. Technically, the snug little flat was a crime
scene. Sexual contact across the colour line was a punishable offence in the
new South Africa. He located a hat and belt. No sign of his trousers or shirt.

'Relax,'
Lana said. 'There won't be any trouble.'

'Really?'

'Yes,
really.'

Emmanuel
found his trousers, improbably wedged between the sofa cushions and the seat
springs. Jolly's notebook was still in the back pocket. Everything in the flat,
including a chunky Bakelite radio, looked as if the price tag had just been
removed: high-quality items for a woman who'd worked a low-end bar until last
night.

Had
these things been given to Lana or had she stolen them?

He
found his shirt at the foot of the bed entangled with a lace brassiere. Lana
motioned towards the bathroom.

'Have
a shower,' she suggested. 'You might be shy this morning but you weren't shy
last night.'

Her
relaxed posture and the dozen white roses on the table eased the tension from
his body. The law would not come. This flat was an illicit haven, set up for
whoever had paid for the flowers and the transistor radio in the kitchen. It
was the South African demilitarised zone. The normal rules separating race
groups did not apply. Lana had waved off Emmanuel's racial identification last
night because she was protected and she knew it.

He
headed for the blue and yellow tiled nook that contained a shower suspended
over the bathtub. He closed the door and turned the water on. The spray was
warm and soothing but a little fear remained. He was safe. He was satisfied. He
was lucky. He ticked off the list but the onset of a headache pressed against
his skull. Images collided and tangled together. The curve of Lana's naked
back, the slender stems of the roses, pale legs jutting into a cobblestoned
Parisian lane, and Jolly's hand against the dirt of the freight yard. His mind
jumped from one thought to another like a radio receiver scanning for a clear
signal. A needle of pain stabbed behind his eye and the force of it threw his
head back.

Did you really
think that a night in the sack was going to make it all okay, soldier?
a ragged Scots voice said.
It didn't work in Paris after Simone Betancourt's murder and
it's not going to work now. That little fucker needs you, Cooper
.

Emmanuel
turned off the shower and gripped the wet taps. The last he'd heard from the
Scotsman was eight months ago, when he was laid out on the veldt between Zweigman,
the old Jew, and Shabalala, the Zulu Shangaan constable. Like a vulture, the
voice of his sergeant major from army basic training eight years previous
appeared only when there was a fresh carcass to feed on. If the Scotsman was
here in Durban, that could only mean one thing.

That's right.
Your arse is in big trouble,
the sergeant major said.
That's the only
reason I'm here. I don't like the ocean and I hate the bloody heat
.

'I
don't need looking after.'

Emmanuel
dried himself and dressed quickly. This appearance by the sergeant major broke
all the rules. His was the voice of war, not of a soft winter's morning in
peacetime Durban.

Okay, I know I'm
only supposed to front up when the blood sprays the walls,
the Scotsman said.
But we've got to talk about the dead boy
.

'There's
nothing I can do about him.' Emmanuel opened the medicine cabinet above the
sink. 'It was a mistake to get involved. Investigating murder is a police
matter.'

What's that got
to do with it? I've got a bad feeling, soldier
.

Four
or five painkillers were all Emmanuel needed, just enough to quiet the voice
and get out of Lana's flat without incident. He searched rows of face creams,
plastic rollers and metal hairclips on the narrow shelves.

Look, you've
spent the last ten hours listening to your dick,
the Scotsman went on.
You owe me five minutes
.

A
glass container of Bayer Aspirin was on the second shelf. Emmanuel checked the
bathroom door and took the painkillers down.

Come on, lad.
The sergeant major adopted a
friendlier tone.
We have to talk.

There is no
'we'.
This
time Emmanuel answered without talking out loud. It was a small step back from
crazy but nowhere in the vicinity of normal. He shook out six pills and
swallowed them with tap water.

They're not
going to do anything. Morphine maybe, but six wee
pills ...
It's insulting.
A piddling dose like that underestimates my power to fuck with you, laddie
.

Emmanuel
ignored him. The medication would take hold soon. Then he would be free to
escape the bathroom and leave the flat. He replaced the bottle of pills and
spotted a piece of paper the size of a playing card glued to the back of the
cabinet.

The
Scotsman said,
I'd never have guessed it of her.
She doesn't seem the type
.

'No,
she doesn't,' Emmanuel said softly and examined the image printed on the front
of the cardboard square. A doe-eyed Virgin Mary wrapped in a royal blue cloak
held an adoring Baby Jesus on her lap. The holy child, painted as a miniature
adult, was kissing his mother's cheek. Silver whorls and eastern crosses surrounded
the Madonna and child.

Papist rubbish,
the Scotsman said.

Not
papist, Emmanuel knew. The image was a Russian Orthodox icon. He'd seen plenty
tucked into kitbags and hidden in the folds of the uniforms worn by the
apparently godless Red Army. He replaced the bottle of pills and closed the
cabinet door. The Virgin Mary icon was private, in the same way that Zweigman's
postcard was to Emmanuel: both were symbols of faith and an unspoken belief in
safe haven.

Okay,
the sergeant major said,
I'll admit she's prettier than I am and you've got no time
for me right now. But listen well, Cooper. The fight has just begun
.

'What
fight?'

Heavy artillery.
Expect casualties
.

'What
does that mean?'

There
was no reply. The Scotsman had vanished. Emmanuel splashed cold water onto his
face. This was Durban. The war was won. There was no fight. He rested another
minute and then went out to face the awkward social shuffle of two strangers
who had nothing in common but a carnal knowledge of each other.

Lana
had a pot of coffee on the stove and the transistor tuned to Louren
ç
o Marques radio, which played a
mix of American country music, English torch songs and the daring new sound of
Negro rhythm and blues.

'Coffee?'
She turned the radio volume down low and leaned against a kitchen counter when
Emmanuel approached. Her silk slip was pale green and faded at the hem.

'Milk
with two sugars, thanks,' Emmanuel said. 'But I'll leave right away if you want
me to.'

She
handed him a mug. 'There's no rush. I have to be somewhere in three hours.'

Lunch
with the benefactor and then back here to pay for the new furniture. If Lana
saw Emmanuel on the street this afternoon she'd look right through him. Her
boxes were ticked off. The moment he stepped out of the flat he'd revert to
being a shipyard worker from the wrong side of the colour bar and a white
girl's secret.

'Thanks,'
Emmanuel said and accepted the mug. He was going to enjoy the coffee and the
view while they were on offer. Lana poured herself a cup and leaned her hip
against the kitchen sink.

'Don't
look at me like that,' she said.

'How's
that?'

'Like
I'm a question you have no idea how to answer.'

'Sorry.'
Emmanuel drained his coffee and placed the mug on the counter. Any questions
about the dark-haired ex-barmaid would remain unanswered. In his daylight world
she too would remain a secret.

'Oh,
I almost forgot.' Lana slipped into the lounge room. 'It was under the table.'

She
handed over his leather wallet and the older barmaid's comment from last night
came back. He tucked the wallet into his jacket without checking the contents.
He didn't have anything worth stealing and there was no way to place a value on
last night. The old Emmanuel Cooper had returned for a few happy hours.

'Another?'
Lana gestured to the empty coffee mug.

'Please.'
He was reluctant to leave. Here, right now, in this room, he was a man and she
was a woman. The complications of race, the law, the past and the future
didn't exist. It was good to stand with her in the quiet kitchen.

Lana
handed him a fresh coffee and pulled the curtain open. The hum of traffic
drifted into the room.

'I
love the beginning of winter,' she said. 'Everything looks so clean, even the
tarred roads and the cars.'

Emmanuel
joined her and peered through the glass. City traffic held no interest but
being close to her for a few more minutes did. Through the sharp morning light,
an aged bus disgorged a flow of black maids dressed in green and blue cotton
housecoats. Sunday was the domestics' day off so this was the last ten-hour
shift of the working week. A white man in a dark suit leaned against the wall
of a hardware store and read the weekend newspaper. His hat was angled to block
the sun and it was impossible to make out his features.

Emmanuel
waited for the turn of a page or any movement of the head left to right to
indicate the paper was being read. The edge of the newspaper dipped and the man
in the suit did a three-point check that took in the parked Buick, Lana's front
door and the windows of the flat. Emmanuel stepped back into the kitchen.

'Something
wrong?' Lana asked.

'Nothing.'
Adrenaline, the old flame from the battle and the crime scene, warmed his
blood.

'Are
you sure?'

'Yes,
I'm fine.'

Imaginary
voices giving commands and enemies lying in ambush were classic signs of the old
soldier's disease. None of it was real. The man across the street was a
Saturday morning pedestrian catching up on the news before jumping on a bus.
Emmanuel went back to the window and looked out. The newspaper reader was gone,
replaced by a tall black man sweeping the sidewalk with a grass broom.