Present Darkness (38 page)

Cassie gave Emmanuel a quick glance and turned her face away.

“Shh … it’s okay,” the police secretary soothed. “I’ll take care of you, my darling. Don’t fret.”

Cassie eased into the woman’s arms. She shut her eyes and shut Emmanuel out. The police secretary held Cassie close and whispered to Emmanuel, “Let it rest, Detective. The poor thing has suffered enough tonight.”

Emmanuel retreated. He’d made Cassie wary with that earlier look. If he got within a foot of her without tears spilling it would be a miracle. The girl enjoyed being the hurt one.

“Where are you off to for Christmas, Cooper?” Dryer asked from his moonlight perch.

“I’m staying in Johannesburg.” That was a lie but a necessary one. His private life was private. “And you?”

“Me, the wife and children are off to Kosi Bay. Ten days in a cabin by the sea.” Dryer cast an imaginary line into the garden. “Fishing, swimming, eating prawns. It will be good. Why the hell would you stay in Jo’burg, my man?”

“I like it here,” Emmanuel said. This conversation, he realised, followed the pattern of every single work interaction. The other detectives gave him facts and family stories and he replied with bullshit.

“Sergeant.” The milk-faced policeman appeared from the garden path, flashlight waving in panic. Whiter now, his pale eyes huge in his face, he stammered, “Come. Please. It’s the man. There’s a rattle in his chest, only wet. What should we do?”

“There’s nothing you can do,” Emmanuel said. The black man needed medical attention immediately. Not at dawn or whatever time the native ambulance arrived. “Stand guard till I come out and relieve you.”

“Yes, sir.” The constable retreated into the tangle of fruit trees.

Emmanuel moved to the top stair, dry-mouthed and searching for a plan. Ian Brewer was glory-bound but Martha Brewer would likely survive the night thanks to a fully equipped “Whites Only” emergency ward. The black man in the garden had no such hope. He’d be dead within hours and any evidence he had would die with him. If Aaron Shabalala and his schoolmate provided an alibi for the time of the robbery they might get clear. If they didn’t, then Cassie’s word would remain the gospel and every detective on the case with holiday leave pending would happily sing from her hymnbook.

There was one avenue open to him. Taking it meant stepping into the world of police who played by their own rules. Emmanuel considered his situation. As a lying European Detective Sergeant with a mixed-race woman and daughter stashed away from public view, he broke the law every day. He was, in reality, already across the line that divided the dirty cops from the clean ones.

“Head home if you like, Dryer,” he said. “Things are pretty quiet. I’ll stay on here.”

“No way, man,” the Afrikaner detective said. “Mason will have my guts if I leave before this is closed.”

“Mason won’t know.” Emmanuel smiled reassurance. “Go on. You have a wife and children at home. I don’t have anybody.”

“It wouldn’t be right leaving you with all this.” Dryer rummaged around in his jacket pocket, searching for car keys, his commitment eroding.

“A beaten up kaffir and a girl … Having two detectives on the scene is a waste of time. Or would you rather stay and keep me company till the native ambulance shows?”

“You sure you don’t need me?”

“I’ll be fine,” Emmanuel said.

“All right.” Dryer found his ring of keys and swung them around his index finger. “You should come over for dinner some time, Cooper. Meet the brood.”

“That would be nice,” Emmanuel said. He’d take up the invitation right after he started performing his own dentistry for pleasure.

“I owe you.”

“Don’t mention it.” He clapped a hand to Dryer’s shoulder and gently guided him down the stairs. It was hard to keep smiling. He wanted the Afrikaner detective gone five minutes ago.

“See you tomorrow.” Dryer squeezed between the house and the garage wall and out to the driveway. Emmanuel waited till the car’s red tail lights faded into the dark at the end of the street and then walked quickly to the rear of the house. If he stopped to think about what he was doing, he might reconsider.

3.

Dr Daniel Zweigman, grey hair askew and reading glasses halfway down his nose, stitched the wound with precision and knotted the cotton thread. A circle of policemen held torches to light the outdoor surgery, including the folded sheet upon which lay the disinfectant, bandages and morphine syrettes used for the operation. Emmanuel told the German doctor to bring everything and he had.

“The wounds are closed and the bleeding has stopped,” Zweigman said. “That is all I can do with what I have.” He pushed his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose. “It might be enough.”

Emmanuel stood up and stretched. The injured black man had a chance to live. That had to be worth breaking the promise he’d made just a few months previously to keep Zweigman out of danger and away from police business.

Zweigman removed his bloodied gloves and tucked the wool blanket around the unconscious patient’s shoulders. The doctor’s blue trousers and checked shirt were rumpled. He’d probably dressed in the dark to avoid disturbing his wife, Lilliana, and their adopted son, Dimitri, as they slept in the guest bedroom of Davida’s father’s house. A few months earlier, Davida had given birth to Rebekah at Zweigman’s clinic in the Valley of a Thousand Hills to avoid the complications of bringing an illegitimate, half-caste child into the world.

“What now?” Zweigman asked.

“You go back to Houghton. I’ll wait here for the native ambulance to arrive,” Emmanuel said.

“So, that is it. ‘Thank you, doctor, and
auf wiedersehen
’?” The wiry doctor repacked the medical supplies into his leather bag and snapped the lock shut. “Once again it has been a pleasure doing business with you, Sergeant Cooper.”

“I’ll walk you to your car,” Emmanuel said. Zweigman’s involvement with the Brewer case ended here. There were still nights when Emmanuel woke in a panic at how close he’d come to losing Zweigman on a hillside in the Drakensberg Mountains a few months ago. In Emmanuel’s dreams the spear wound on the doctor’s shoulder refused to heal and he died cold and alone in a cave while Emmanuel watched and did nothing.

“Put the torches down and take a break,” Emmanuel told the policemen. “I’ll see the doctor out.”

“Thank you for your assistance, gentlemen,” Zweigman said to the Constables and cut through the dense foliage. Twigs snapped under his feet. Moonlight illuminated the dirt path that led to the back door of the Brewers’ house.

“I appreciate your help,” Emmanuel said when they emerged from the suburban jungle and onto a patch of grass. “But I can’t drag you deeper into the investigation. Not after last time.”

“What will you tell Shabalala?” Zweigman ignored the reference to his own near-death experience and ducked under the clothesline. He accepted that life inflicted wounds and life healed them. Surviving the war in a concentration camp had taught him that lesson.

“If this Aaron is actually his son, then I’ll tell Shabalala the truth,” Emmanuel said. “I just haven’t figured out the right words yet.”

“There is nothing right about this situation.” Zweigman studied the garden. “No son of Shabalala’s could inflict such a brutal attack.”

“I don’t know,” Emmanuel said. “I ran wild at the same age and got myself into plenty of trouble.”

“Drinking and riding in stolen cars with girls,” the doctor guessed. “Nothing involving blood and broken bones, I’m sure.”

“No,” Emmanuel said. “That came later.”

A pulse of bright red light blinked from the driveway. Evans, the policeman left to guard the front of the property, broke into the yard.

“The kaffir ambulance is here, Sergeant,” he said. “It’s in the drive.”

“Show the attendants through, Evans.” Emmanuel checked his watch in the glow of electric light spilling from the neighbour’s window. Eleven forty-two. If he’d held steady for half an hour longer, Zweigman would still be in bed instead of attending a crime scene.

“The line between life and death is not set in stone,” Zweigman said, reading Emmanuel’s mind with a glance. “The quicker a wound is cleaned and stitched, the better a patient’s chance for survival and recovery. You know this from the war.”

“I do,” Emmanuel said. They might not have saved the man’s life with their open-air operation but they had, at least, increased his chances of his surviving the night.

“Back here. Back here.” Evans waved his arms in the air, excited by the coming end of shift. With the injured black man out of the way, he and the boys could return to their homes, loosen their belts, and knock the top off a cold beer. “Come down this passage and into the yard.”

Two burly black men muscled through the gap between the house and the garage carrying a canvas stretcher with a small first aid kit resting in the folds. Zweigman motioned them to follow him into the garden. Emmanuel let them get well ahead. The handover from field doctor to hospital attendants was a courtesy Zweigman would insist on.

The ambulance men worked fast and in silence. Within minutes of their arrival, the injured man occupied a bench seat in the rear of the ambulance kitted out with donated blankets and hand-rolled bandages. The younger of the two attendants pressed Zweigman’s hand in his massive paw and simply said, “Bless you, Baba.”

And they were gone.

“Do they have far to travel?” Zweigman asked.

“Miles and miles,” Emmanuel said and dismissed the policemen who’d bunched together next to a blue police van. They scrambled aboard, stretching out their limbs and breaking open packets of cigarettes. The engine revved and the van jumped the lip of the curb before vanishing into the neat grid of white Johannesburg streets.

He ushered Zweigman through the Brewers’ front garden to a blue Ford sedan, glad to see the doctor depart the crime scene for his own warm bed.

Emmanuel slipped behind the wheel of his police-issue black Chevrolet and started the engine. He turned on the headlights. The houses on the street were dark now, but for a solitary window in the bungalow next door. He glanced across at the unpruned rose bushes, expecting to see the angular figure of Mrs Lauda bordered by the wood frame.

Instead, he saw Cassie Brewer standing with her right palm pressed to the glass, her yellow nightie a splash of colour under a pale face pinched tight with fear. She stepped aside and switched off the light, leaving a black void.

*

The girl took quick, shallow breaths though her open mouth. The rough cotton sack covering her face wasn’t a pillowcase grabbed up from a bed and shoved into a pocket. It was designed and made for this purpose alone: to be pulled over the head and then tightened around the neck with a drawstring. The exact fit frightened her. More so than the soft purr of the car engine that sang for miles and miles of smooth, tarred road that led away from the city and all her familiar places.

The kidnappers smoked cigarettes in silence. The smell of tobacco and leather permeated the sack. The frayed end of the drawstring rubbed against her neck, irritating her skin. They’d left her hands free but she dared not loosen the string. Any movement might attract attention and it was safer to remain quiet in the back seat, unmolested, at least for the length of the ride.

She could feel leather under her thighs. Wind rattled the passenger side window and her dry breath caught in her throat. Seventeen years old and already an expert at running away. Charity homes, juvenile facilities and Christian youth camps, no place held her for longer than she wanted to be there—and the interior of this immaculate car was not a place she wished to be.

Escape remained possible; a quick lift of the door handle, a hot rush of summer air and then a leap into the dark. Landing on the road would hurt. The alternative—staying with men who owned homemade hoods and prowled alleyways for lone prostitutes—would hurt multiple times more. One way or another, tonight would end in her blood.

She moved her right hand across the supple leather, slowly inching in the direction of the door. The tarmac ran smooth beneath the car wheels. The road would lead her back to the city, to the room with a single cot in the corner and a window ledge decorated by pigeon droppings; a dump made beautiful in her mind’s eye.

Cool metal curled under her hand. Blood roared in her ears, drowning out the wind that rattled the window glass. Now. It had to be now. Her fingers lifted the handle. She eased sideways, ready to take the leap. A hand encircled her wrist and tugged her away from the door with a jerk.

“Do you know who I am, sweetheart?” the man who’d blocked the alleyway asked. His fingers tightened against her skin to make a handcuff.

“No,” she croaked. In her heart she already knew plenty about the big man. He was patient: sitting in the front seat, smoking a rollie, waiting for her to break cover like an antelope drinking at a waterhole. He was not angry that she’d tried to escape. He was amused. Cold enjoyment, the girl knew from experience, was worse than violent rage.

“I’ll tell you who I am, sweetheart,” the big man said. “I am your salvation.
”