A Beautiful Place to Die by Malla Nunn Page B

SA has to know their place. Some of us are pawns and some of us”—he stopped and motioned in the direction of Elliot King, who was walking toward a canvas-topped Land Rover parked on the street—“are kings. I’ll see you later.”
    Emmanuel pressed through a gathering of white farmers and drew parallel with the dapper peacock of a man just as he reached his car. The door to the Land Rover was held open by an older native in a green game ranger’s outfit with the words “Bayete Lodge” embroidered over the breast pocket.
    “Mr. King.” Emmanuel stepped into the space in front of the door and held his hand out in greeting. “I’m Detective Sergeant Emmanuel Cooper. Could I have a moment of your time?”
    “Certainly, Detective Sergeant.” The smile was cool, the handshake brief and firm. “How can I help?”
    In the churchyard, the Security Branch goons were deep in conversation with Paul Pretorius. They’d be down at the police station this afternoon, pissing in all the corners to make sure everyone knew the investigation was theirs.
    “I’d like to ask you a few questions about Captain Pretorius. Would it suit you to talk at your house? Town is crowded, and I think it would be better if we had some privacy.”
    “Am I a suspect, Detective Sergeant?”
    “It’s just an informal chat,” Emmanuel said, aware of the thinning crowd and the risk of exposing his leads to the National Party musclemen. “A favor to the investigation.”
    “In that case I’ll be happy to see you at my farm in an hour or so.” King slid into the Land Rover. “As you’re coming out my way, do go to the old Jew’s place and pick up my housekeeper and her daughter, there’s a good fellow. It will save Matthew here a trip back into town. They’ll be ready to come out to the farm in about an hour.”
    The door slammed shut before Emmanuel had a chance to reply. His reflection blurred in the dusty car window. Elliot King had given an order and he expected it to be obeyed.
    Emmanuel gave a mock salute and the car pulled away from the curb and headed out to the main road. He’d met every form of arrogant Englishman on the battlefield, but at least this one, in his tailored khaki suit and new Land Rover, didn’t have the power to order him over a hill littered with land mines. He’d play the lackey for as long as it took him to figure out why Elliot King’s name had been given to him as a clue in the dead of night.

    “When’s my backup getting here, sir?” Emmanuel asked. He’d reached Major van Niekerk at home: a redbrick Victorian mansion nestled on vast grounds in the posh northern suburbs of Johannesburg. “I can’t run this investigation on my own.”
    “No backup,” van Niekerk replied over the sound of a whistling kettle. “The commissioner has told me to step away. The Security Branch is in control now.”
    “Where does that leave me?”
    “Alone,” the major replied. “The Security Branch wants you replaced but I’ve convinced the commissioner to keep you on. That means you’ll be a very unpopular addition to the team.”
    “Why not replace me?” Emmanuel asked.
    “You’re not a Security Branch stooge,” van Niekerk informed him. “You’ll make sure the right person hangs for the crime.”
    Despite what he said, van Niekerk wasn’t big on the pure justice element of policing. The ambitious major was making sure that a detective loyal to him was on the ground to represent his best interests. Van Niekerk wasn’t going to hand over the headline-making murder of a white police captain to the Security Branch without a fight. Fine, Emmanuel thought, except for the fact that van Niekerk was in Jo’burg sipping tea while he was about to go toe-to-toe with the hard men of law enforcement.
    “What are they like?” van Niekerk asked with mild curiosity.
    “They look like they can beat a confession out of a can of paint.”
    “Good. That means you can turn the whole thing around on them.”
    “How