Part 12 (1/2)
Emmanuel leaned forward and splashed his face and neck with the cool river water. Something didn't feel right. Natives and coloureds s.h.i.+ed away from white people's business, especially when the law was involved. Yet she was here in the hut with her shaking hands and uneven breath.
”You ever been inside before?”
”No.” The word was sharp. ”What would I be doing in Captain Pretorius's private place?”
”I don't know,” Emmanuel answered drily. ”Cleaning?” The neatness of the hut was another thing that didn't sit right. ”Your mother ever tidy up for the captain?”
Her hands were behind her now, held out of sight. ”I told you. Only Captain Pretorius was allowed.”
”Who knows about this place?”
”Those at Bayete Lodge. Mr. King said not to tell people in town. He made everyone promise. The hut was going to be a surprise for the captain's sons at Christmas.”
”You ever tell anyone about it?” Emmanuel studied his bruised knuckles, now eerily like the dead captain's.
”Never.” The word was emphatic.
”How many people work at Bayete Lodge?” Clarity and focus, both bruised by the wooden club's b.l.o.o.d.y kiss, were slowly making a comeback. The first thing to do was narrow the field, concentrate on those who knew about the hut.
”About twenty,” Davida said. ”Most of them are back at the location for the weekend. Mr. King gave them two days off because of the funeral.”
That narrowed the field of suspects for the attack down to a small footprint. ”Who's at the lodge now?”
”My mother, Matthew the driver, Mr. King, Winston King, and Jabulani, the night watchman.”
”Six, including you,” Emmanuel said. The field narrowed to the head of a pin: large enough for angels to dance on but not thieves or murder suspects. ”Any of those people leave the house?”
”Only me.”
”You sure?”
Her gaze flickered up. ”Everyone was there when I left.”
He considered her for a moment, then turned toward the open door. The shy brown mouse was barely able to hold her own head up, let alone swing a club with enough force to knock out a grown man. Still, there was something about her being in the hut that niggled him. He moved on.
”You hear or see anything when you came near the hut?”
”Well...” she said. ”There was something...”
”What?”
”A sound. It was a machine.”
”A mechanical rattle like an engine.” The memory, still hazy and clouded, pressed forward into the light. He'd heard the sound just before pa.s.sing out. ”I remember now.”
The pin-sized field of suspects collapsed into a black hole. His a.s.sailant had come to the hut with his own transport, a wooden club, and a full bladder. None of the workers at the lodge was likely to own anything more mechanical than a bicycle. That left the Dutchmen who'd ridden into town on tractors, motorbikes, cars, and pickup trucks. Did one of them slip away and follow him to the hut? There was no way to know.
Emmanuel crossed to the safe and pulled open the buckled lid. He'd report to Lieutenant Piet Lapping and tell him the truth: that he had nothing to show from the visit to King's farm. He put his hand into the safe to retrieve his filthy jacket. His fingers touched on the crumpled material and something else.
”Jesus...”
”What is it?”
He threw his jacket to one side and studied the square piece of cardboard-a wall calendar with the months stapled to the front in easy pull-off sections. Red ink circled the dates August 14 to 18; 18 was heavily ringed.
”Two days before he was murdered,” Emmanuel said, and quickly flicked through the remaining months. It was the same on every page. Five to seven days marked in red ink, the last day marked out as special. He looked over the dates again. The pattern was clear, but the heavily circled day could mean anything.
”'Carlos Fernandez Photography Studio, Lorenzo Marques,'” Emmanuel read aloud from the calendar. The name was printed below a photograph of happy natives selling trinkets to whites on the beach. There was no street name or address: a low-profile business. Donny Rooke had been caught smuggling p.o.r.nography across the border from Mozambique. Did the captain take over Donny's flesh and photo trade?
”Captain Pretorius go to LM a lot?” he asked.
”Everyone does,” she answered. ”Even my people.”
”How far is it?”
”Less than three hours by car.”
The circled days could be pickup or delivery dates for some other form of contraband. Being a policeman meant easy pa.s.sage across the border. Wading across a river was for criminals and natives. A high-ranking officer could smuggle goods in comfort.
”How often did the captain visit? Once a month or so?”
”I don't know,” she replied. ”What the Dutchmen do is their business. You must ask Mrs. Pretorius or her sons.”
Emmanuel rubbed his bruised knuckles. The red-marked days glowed with hypnotic brightness. Was he willing to hand over this vital information to Lieutenant Piet Lapping, who had made it clear that the ”personal angle” was not something he was interested in? The calendar might just end up at the bottom of a drawer because it didn't fit the political angle the Security Branch was working.
”Can you keep a secret, Davida?”
”Uhh...” Her voice quivered with fearful antic.i.p.ation. The skin of her throat and face flushed and made her dark skin glow. Pa.s.sing for white was never going to be an option for the shy brown mouse.
”Not that kind of secret,” he said. ”You mustn't tell anyone about today. Not about me, the hiding place, or the calendar. Understand?”
She nodded.
”You have to look at me and promise not to tell anyone.”
She lifted her head. ”I promise.”
”Not even your mother, hey, Davida?”
”Not even my mother.” She repeated the phrase like a dutiful child instructed in the dark secrets of the house.
”Good,” he said, and wondered how many white men had exacted the same promise once the sweat was dry and the shadow of the police loomed overhead. Even the use of her name, Davida, made him feel he'd crossed a line.
Emmanuel closed the safe and returned the cowhide rug to its original position before remaking the bed. He wondered about the sheets again. He folded the calendar and put it in the pocket of his jacket. Davida was the perfect accomplice. If he decided to keep the calendar to himself, the Security Branch would never approach her as a person of interest. He ducked through the low opening and followed Davida out of the compound.