Part 16 (1/2)

”The coloured church,” he said to Shabalala. ”Where is it?”

”You must go past the old Jew's store. The ma'coloutini church is at the end of that road.”

”Let's roll.” It was d.i.c.kie, chomping at the bit like a racing hippo out for the derby day sweepstakes.

Shabalala hesitated. ”You will be at the station this afternoon, Detective Sergeant.”

It was a request, not a question.

”I'll be there,” Emmanuel said, and d.i.c.kie gunned the engine. The cha.s.sis on the Security Branch Chevrolet dipped a half foot closer to the ground when Shabalala got into the car. There was enough collective muscle in the vehicle to pound a steel girder into shape.

Piet leaned his head out the window. ”Go first,” he instructed. ”We'll follow you out.”

Emmanuel did as he was told. The Security Branch needed to see him run off with his tail between his legs. It gave them pleasure. It wasn't hard to hand them what they wanted. He got in the Packard and drove back to town.

Emmanuel made a sweep of the police files and hit the letter Z Z with nothing. No files under with nothing. No files under P P for pervert, or Peeping Tom. No files at all for any of the women in the old Jew's shop or for Zweigman himself. There was no written evidence the molestation case ever existed. for pervert, or Peeping Tom. No files at all for any of the women in the old Jew's shop or for Zweigman himself. There was no written evidence the molestation case ever existed.

He pulled out files at random. Cow theft. A stabbing. Damage to property. The usual small town complaints. He searched for Donny Rooke and found him-charged with the manufacture and importation of banned items. The photos of the girls were signed into evidence, but not the camera.

Was it possible the coloured women's complaints weren't taken seriously enough to write up? Or had the files been lifted? Donny Rooke's stolen camera proved the captain wasn't above confiscating evidence when it suited him.

The Security Branch and the National Party machine wanted a respected white policeman struck down in the line of duty. They didn't didn't want complications to that story. Under the new race laws, everything was black or white. Gray had ceased to exist. want complications to that story. Under the new race laws, everything was black or white. Gray had ceased to exist.

Physical intimidation, theft and the possible importation of p.o.r.nographic items-Captain Pretorius may have appeared to be a straightforward Afrikaner, but something more complicated lurked beneath the surface.

The small stone church overflowed with wors.h.i.+ppers. Families, starched and pinned in their Sunday best, spilled out onto the front stairs that led to the open wooden doors. The captain's premature death was good for business.

An organ wheezed ”Closer My G.o.d to Thee,” and the coloured families stood to sing the final hymn. Twin girls in matching polka-dot dresses broke free of their plump mother's embrace and ran into the churchyard. They threw themselves down beside a flower bed and peered into the foliage where Harry, the old soldier, was curled around the stem of a daisy bush, fast asleep.

Emmanuel leaned against the wall between the church and the street and watched the Sunday service let out.

Every color from fresh milk to burnt sugar was on show. There was enough direct evidence in the churchyard to refute the idea that blood mixing was unnatural. Plenty of people managed to do it just fine.

A clutch of wide-hipped matrons in flowered dresses and Sunday hats brought pots of food to a table set up in the shade of a large gum tree. Men in dark suits and polished shoes milled around waiting for the signal to pounce on the food.

At the bottom of the stairs Tiny and Theo kept company with two respectable coloured women. Emmanuel needed someone to get him into the community and introduce him around. A white man hanging off the edge of a mixed-race gathering had an unsavory feel. He also had to show the Security Branch something to convince them he was hard at work on the pervert lead now that the station files had yielded nothing.

”Tiny.” He put his hand out in greeting, aware of the murmur of the congregation around them.

”Detective.” The coloured man was all scrubbed up. Any trace of last night's debauchery had disappeared. ”This is a surprise. What can I do for you?”

The liquor merchant was ill at ease, his handshake a quick brush of the fingers. The crowd thinned as people moved back to a.s.sess the situation.

”Sorry to disturb you on a Sunday, Tiny. I need to reinterview all the women who filed complaints about the Peeping Tom.” He took off his hat in a friendly gesture. ”I was hoping you could give me a hand.”

”Um...” Tiny hesitated. It didn't seem right, talking about a degenerate on a potluck Sunday when all the good families were gathered around.

”I won't talk to them now,” Emmanuel rea.s.sured him. ”I need a list of names, that's all.”

”Well...”

”There were four of them.” The tight-girdled woman next to Tiny spoke up. She was fair skinned, with two blobs of rouge painted high on her cheekbones. ”Tottie and Davida, who work for the old Jew. Della, the pastor's daughter, and Mary, Anton's little sister.”

”Detective, this here is my wife, Bettina.” Tiny fell into line. ”And this here is my daughter, Vera.”

While Tiny and Theo were up late with the wh.o.r.es, the women in the family stayed safe at home working the hot comb. Both mother and daughter were starched and neat with hair that hung in a lifeless curtain to the shoulder. Burn marks, now a faint red, marked the skin along their hairlines-battle scars earned in the war against the kink.

”Are all the women still in town?” Emmanuel asked.

”Tottie is there by the steps...”

Honeypot Tottie was surrounded by a swarm of suitors. She wore a tailored green and white dress with a neckline cut just low enough to produce un-Christian thoughts. The girl was ice cream on a hot day.

”Della is there next to her father.” Tiny's daughter, Vera, pointed to a long, skinny girl with b.r.e.a.s.t.s a giant would have trouble getting his hand around. The pastor's daughter was plain in the face but all souped up under the hood.

”Davida lives with Granny Mariah, but she's with her mother at Mr. King's lodge today and Mary is over there, helping serve the food.” Mrs. Hanson indicated a pixie-sized teenager working the tight s.p.a.ce between two hefty matrons. Mary was halfway across the bridge between childhood and adulthood.

The women were different from each other, and distinct from the crowd in their own ways. There was Tottie, the all-round beauty and bringer of wet dreams; Della, the generously endowed pastor's daughter; and Mary, the pocket-sized woman-child. That left Davida, whose only distinction, as far as Emmanuel could tell, was the fact that she didn't stand out in any way. You had to get close to her to see anything of interest.

Now that he had the women's names, it was time to chase up the garage fire story. Anton the mechanic was absent from the gathering.

”Anton not a churchgoer?” Emmanuel said.

”We're all churchgoers, Detective,” Tiny's wife said primly. ”This is a righteous town, not like Durban and Jo'burg.”

The round-heeled women from the liquor store were missing in action.

”Drinking, dagga smoking, loose women, and loose morals.” He looked at Theo meaningfully for a moment. ”I'm glad Jacob's Rest doesn't have that kind of thing, Mrs. Hanson.”

”You want to see Anton, Detective?” Theo asked, anxious for the conversation to move on. ”He's in the church. Come, I'll show you.”

”Thanks for your help.” Emmanuel tipped his hat to the straitlaced pair and followed Theo through the crowd and into the church. Anton was inside, stacking hymnbooks. The stained-gla.s.s windows cast a jigsaw of colors onto the stone floor.

The mechanic looked up.

”Got you working Sundays, Detective?”

”Every day until the case is closed.”

”How's it going?”

”Slowly,” Emmanuel said, then waited while Theo left the church. ”I need information about the captain and his family.”

Anton emptied the last pew of books. ”Can't say I can help. The Dutchmen keep to themselves, the black men keep to themselves, and we do too.”

”What about the fire? How did you and the captain arrange compensation?”