Just a Dead Man by Margaret von Klemperer

foreigners. Perhaps even about white people. But he does his job well, and will go far in the police service. Probably further than I will.”
    He smiled at me then, and I thought again what a nice face he had. His front teeth were slightly crooked, but he was fine-featured, with sharply defined cheekbones that emphasised the shadows under his dark eyes. It would be an interesting face to paint: it made me want to try my hand at portraiture, which was something I had hardly done since my student days.
    â€œBut I’ll bear your concerns in mind, Mrs Marsh. Mr Moyo did lie to us, you know. And he had been in contact with Mr Ndzoyiya. About the Mendi , which he denied knowledge of when we showed him the photograph. I do understand that he may have been nervous: being a refugee is not easy, I know that. But it was a silly thing to do. And he is known to the police in Johannesburg.”
    â€œSo you are looking for other suspects?” I felt I had to keep pushing. “And surely, the Mendi can’t seriously be a motive? Not to kill someone. It’s all so long ago.”
    â€œWe are keeping open minds. Don’t worry. And now,the rain is easing up. I must go and get on with detecting.” He smiled again, slightly mocking. “And thank you for the coffee. The thunder seems to be over – you will be all right now?”
    â€œOf course.” I walked out to the car with him. He was not all that much taller than me, a small, neat man. “Look after that knee.”
    He nodded, and held out his hand. Our handshake lasted a little longer than perhaps would have qualified as merely formal: his grip dry, warm and strong. I watched the car pull off, out of the gate and along the road, feeling slightly confused. There was something about Adam Pillay that made me feel safe: I would trust him with a lot, I thought to myself. But he was still the man responsible for holding Daniel in the cells.

15
    W ITH NO ELECTRICITY , I WAS contemplating the rival delights of takeaway pizza – too much cardboard base and too little mozzarella – or a tired lettuce for my supper when the power surged back, sending household electronic devices into a frenzy. The fridge gurgled back to life; the burglar alarm beeped and the washing machine, halfway through a cycle when the power failed, began its watery hum. And a little later the phone, useless without the electricity that ran its various gizmos, began to ring.
    â€œMrs Marsh? This is Paul Ndzoyiya. How are you?”
    â€œFine. What can I do for you, Mr Ndzoyiya?”
    â€œI think I would like to talk to you again. Perhaps on Saturday morning?”
    â€œOf course. Though it will have to be early. I’ve got to go to Durban to fetch my son from the airport. Where would you like to meet?”
    â€œUh … I think it is best if I come to your house, if that is okay with you. It would be better if we are not seen together, I think.”
    That seemed peculiar. “You’re welcome to come here, Mr Ndzoyiya. But what do you mean?”
    â€œMrs Marsh, someone has killed my father. A friend of yours is in prison and you say he is innocent. If we have things to say to each other, I think it better that we do soaway from watching eyes. I will come at half past eight on Saturday.” And with that, he rang off.
    Well. That was distinctly odd. But at least he felt he had something to say. Apart from remembering the mysterious bakkie I might have seen going down the road but not coming back and that might have been outside the court when Dan was appearing, my detecting was unimpressive. I couldn’t really think of much else I should be doing. Even if I were to follow the old railway track, which the bakkie might or might not have taken, it would be unlikely to yield me any clues … and that’s assuming I knew what to look for. This afternoon’s rain would have seen to that, if nothing else had.
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    I was up early on Saturday,