Part 18 (1/2)
Piet blew a series of smoke rings into the air and Emmanuel's heartbeat spiked. The Security Branch had found something. N'kosi Duma had given them something good. Piet could hardly contain his glee.
”Is Constable Shabalala around?” Emmanuel asked. There was nothing to gain from going up against the Security Branch in a c.o.c.ksure mood. He had to sidestep them and find out as much as he could from other sources.
”Out the back,” Piet said. ”You can come through, but be quick about it.”
Emmanuel walked through to the police station yard and saw d.i.c.kie standing by an open cell door. A gaunt black man, whom he a.s.sumed was Duma, cowered against the hard metal bars.
”Don't worry...” d.i.c.kie spoke to the terrified miner in a grotesque parody of motherly concern. ”I'm sure your comrades will understand why you did it.”
”d.i.c.kie.” Piet encouraged his partner to move his tank-sized body farther into the cell. The black man flinched and held his arms over his head in a protective gesture. Dark bruises marked Duma's skinny arms and a low animal whimper came from deep in the terrified man's throat. The Security Branch always got what they wanted: one way or another.
”Keep moving,” Piet ordered. ”Your business is outside.”
Two steaming cups of tea rested on the small table by the back door. Emmanuel exited and found Shabalala seated by the edge of a small fire that burned in the outdoor hearth. Piet slammed the back door shut.
”Detective Sergeant.” Shabalala stood up to greet him.
Emmanuel shook the black man's hand and they sat down.
”What happened in there?” he asked in Zulu.
”I have been outside,” Shabalala answered.
”What do you think think happened?” Emmanuel pushed a little harder. Unlike Sarel Uys and Hansie Hepple, the black policeman showed a real apt.i.tude for the finer details of police work. Constable Shabalala needed to know that nothing he said could be used against him by the Security Branch later. happened?” Emmanuel pushed a little harder. Unlike Sarel Uys and Hansie Hepple, the black policeman showed a real apt.i.tude for the finer details of police work. Constable Shabalala needed to know that nothing he said could be used against him by the Security Branch later.
The black policeman checked the back door to make sure it was still shut. ”The two men, they want to know if Duma has seen a piece of paper with”-he paused to retrieve the unfamiliar word-”Communist writing on it when he worked in the mines.”
”Did they get an answer from him?”
”Those two did not get an answer from Duma,” Shabalala said with a trace of contempt. ”It was the shambok that got the answer.”
Emmanuel took a breath and looked deep into the fire. The liberal use of the rawhide whip, the shambok, readily explained the bruises on the miner's arms. Hard questioning was one of the things that made the Security Branch ”special.”
”What did Duma say?”
”I did not hear,” Shabalala said. ”I could not listen anymore.”
This time Emmanuel didn't push. The sound of a man being broken during interrogation was enough to turn the strongest stomach. Shabalala had walked away and Emmanuel couldn't blame him.
”Did they find out anything about the captain's murder?”
”No,” Shabalala said. ”They wanted only to know about the writing.”
If a link, however tenuous, was proved between a Communist and the murder of an Afrikaner police captain, Piet and d.i.c.kie were set for a smooth ride to Pretoria and a personal meeting with the prime minister of the Union. After the ministerial handshake they'd get fast-tracked promotions and an even bigger shambok to wield.
It seemed the Security Branch was in the middle of an investigation that somehow tied in with Captain Pretorius's murder. Piet Lapping was no fool. He was in Jacob's Rest because something in his confidential folder drew him to the town with the promise of netting a genuine Communist revolutionary.
”Are all the police files for this station kept inside?” Emmanuel steered away from the dark swamp of torture and political conspiracy that Piet and d.i.c.kie waded through for a living. The Security Branch could continue chasing Communist agitators. He'd play his hunch that the murder was tied to one of the many secrets Captain Pretorius kept.
”Sometimes,” Shabalala said, ”Captain took the files home to read. He did this many times.”
”He had an office at home?” Emmanuel asked. Why hadn't he thought of that when he was at the house?
”No office,” the black constable said. ”But there is a room in the house where Captain Pretorius spent much time.”
”How would a person get into such a room?” Emmanuel wondered aloud.
”A person must first ask the missus. If she says yes, then he can go into the room and see things for himself.”
”If the missus says no?”
The black man hesitated, then said very clearly, ”The man must tell me and I will get the key to the room from the old one who works there at the house. She will open this room for the person.”
Emmanuel let his breath out slowly.
”I will ask the missus,” he said, and left it there.
They sat side by side and watched the flames without speaking. The bond, still fragile, held firm. The Security Branch had a file crammed with enemies of the state but he had the inside track on the captain's shadow life.
The back door opened and Piet stepped out into the backyard with his cup of tea. His pebble eyes had an unnatural sheen to them, as if he'd swallowed a witch's brew and found that what killed other men made him strong.
”We're through.” Piet spoke directly to Shabalala. ”You can take him back to the location but make sure he doesn't go anywhere until our investigation has finished. Understand?”
”Yes, Lieutenant.” Shabalala moved quickly toward the back door. When he drew level with Piet, the Security Branch agent put his hand out and patted his arm.
”Good tea,” he said with a grin. ”Your mother trained you well, hey.”
”Dankie,” Shabalala replied in Afrikaans, then stepped into the station without looking at him.
Emmanuel marveled at Piet's ability to mix an afternoon of torture with harmless banter. It didn't matter that Shabalala and Duma knew each other and might even be related. When pockmarked Piet looked at Constable Samuel Shabalala, he didn't see an individual; he saw a black face ready to do his bidding without question.
The Security Branch lieutenant sipped his tea and took in the dusty yard with a sigh.
”I like the country,” he announced. ”It's peaceful.”
”You thinking of moving out here?” Emmanuel said, and made for the back door. He didn't have the stomach to listen to Piet waxing lyrical about the beauty of the land.
”Not yet.” Piet wasn't letting anything penetrate his bucolic reverie. ”When all the bad guys are behind bars and South Africa is safe, I'll move to a small farm with a view of the mountains.”
”Home sweet home.” Emmanuel pulled the back door open and walked into the police station. Captain Pretorius had lived the dream. He was a powerful white man on a small farm with a view of the mountains. He'd ended up with a bullet to the head.
”Woza. Get up, Duma, and I will take you home.” It was Shabalala trying to coax the traumatized black man out of the cell. The injured miner was still pressed up against the bars with his arms over his head.
Shabalala put both his hands out like a parent encouraging a toddler to walk for the first time.