bones
loose.'
'He's
pretending.'
'Put
him down, Fletcher.' The order was given quietly. 'Get Dr Brownlow in here to
give him a once-over.'
'No
disrespect, sir, but—'
'We
have him on three counts of murder. All the evidence is right here on the
table. I want him in top shape when he appears in court.'
Emmanuel's
body slid to the floor.
A small drop
compared to the gallows, the Scots voice rasped .
Emmanuel
rested his head on his forearm. The absence of pain was pure joy. He felt
better than fine. The fistful of codeine the doctor had pushed down his throat
was working. The demented sergeant major's voice was crushed into silence and
happiness was five minutes' sleep away.
The
door to the interview room opened. Emmanuel sat up.
'Major.'
He greeted van Niekerk with a nod.
The
major was in full uniform: the pleats of his trousers and jacket ironed to a
razor's edge. A subtle floral scent mixed with whisky lingered on his person.
No surprise as to how the perfume had been transferred to van Niekerk's skin.
'Sit
down, Cooper.' The major held the door open for a second man who entered the
room carrying a dented blue toolbox. The newcomer, pale-haired and
pale-skinned, mid-thirties, sat in the corner. Emmanuel waited for an
introduction. None came. Van Niekerk closed the door. What was the major doing
in the interview room with a man who wore a suit and carried a toolbox?
'They've
got you on three counts, Cooper,' the major said. 'There's enough evidence to
make the charges stick. Plus the fact that you were caught, literally,
red-handed.'
'I
know.'
'Are
you going to answer my questions truthfully?' The ghostly man in the corner
spoke for the first time. Emmanuel glanced at him. He hadn't moved an inch.
'I'll
answer,' Emmanuel said.
'You
knew Jolly Marks?'
'Not
well. He worked the freight yards and the passenger terminal. Ran errands. I
knew him by sight.'
'You
were at the yards the night before last?' The pale man's voice was emotionless
and, like his skin, leached of colour.
'I
was in the yards.'
'Doing
what?'
Emmanuel
hesitated. The major didn't mean for him to answer that question truthfully,
did he? There was nothing illegal about observing corrupt police conducting
their business. Hiring an ex-detective to record proof was in another league,
however.
'I
get bad headaches. I went to the docks to buy hashish. It helps me sleep.'
A
flicker of emotion crossed the major's face. Relief? Emmanuel couldn't tell.
The man in the corner shifted position but stayed put.
'How
did you get Jolly's notebook?' the major said.
'From
the freight yard.' Emmanuel kept the Dutta family out of it. Amal especially.
The young man's only sin was having a stupid older brother. 'It was in the
alleyway near the body.'
The
major nodded. 'Did you kill the boy, Cooper?'
'No.
He was dead when I found him.'
'Like
the landlady and the maid?'
'Yes.'
'Hard
to believe.'
'The
truth often is.'
The
man in the corner walked towards the table, leaving the toolbox behind, and
Emmanuel's skin tingled with relief. The toolbox shut and out of reach seemed
like a good thing. The man's clean fingernails and unwrinkled black suit
confirmed he was not a tradesman in the traditional sense. Emmanuel suspected
he knew how to break and fix things: none of them domestic.
'You
lied about what you were doing at the docks.' The accent was South African with
an undertone of English public school. A colonial boy sent back to the
motherland for an education in bad food and bullying. His eyes were an
indeterminate colour, like pieces of quartz lit by an unknown source. 'Major
van Niekerk has already confirmed that you were doing private work for him.
Surveillance.'
Emmanuel
shifted under the scrutiny. Why would van Niekerk confirm anything unless he'd
been forced to? The thought was disturbing. It was nearly impossible to get the
jump on the old fox.
'I've
worked for the major before,' Emmanuel said. And, like so many who'd served
under van Niekerk,
loose.'
'He's
pretending.'
'Put
him down, Fletcher.' The order was given quietly. 'Get Dr Brownlow in here to
give him a once-over.'
'No
disrespect, sir, but—'
'We
have him on three counts of murder. All the evidence is right here on the
table. I want him in top shape when he appears in court.'
Emmanuel's
body slid to the floor.
A small drop
compared to the gallows, the Scots voice rasped .
Emmanuel
rested his head on his forearm. The absence of pain was pure joy. He felt
better than fine. The fistful of codeine the doctor had pushed down his throat
was working. The demented sergeant major's voice was crushed into silence and
happiness was five minutes' sleep away.
The
door to the interview room opened. Emmanuel sat up.
'Major.'
He greeted van Niekerk with a nod.
The
major was in full uniform: the pleats of his trousers and jacket ironed to a
razor's edge. A subtle floral scent mixed with whisky lingered on his person.
No surprise as to how the perfume had been transferred to van Niekerk's skin.
'Sit
down, Cooper.' The major held the door open for a second man who entered the
room carrying a dented blue toolbox. The newcomer, pale-haired and
pale-skinned, mid-thirties, sat in the corner. Emmanuel waited for an
introduction. None came. Van Niekerk closed the door. What was the major doing
in the interview room with a man who wore a suit and carried a toolbox?
'They've
got you on three counts, Cooper,' the major said. 'There's enough evidence to
make the charges stick. Plus the fact that you were caught, literally,
red-handed.'
'I
know.'
'Are
you going to answer my questions truthfully?' The ghostly man in the corner
spoke for the first time. Emmanuel glanced at him. He hadn't moved an inch.
'I'll
answer,' Emmanuel said.
'You
knew Jolly Marks?'
'Not
well. He worked the freight yards and the passenger terminal. Ran errands. I
knew him by sight.'
'You
were at the yards the night before last?' The pale man's voice was emotionless
and, like his skin, leached of colour.
'I
was in the yards.'
'Doing
what?'
Emmanuel
hesitated. The major didn't mean for him to answer that question truthfully,
did he? There was nothing illegal about observing corrupt police conducting
their business. Hiring an ex-detective to record proof was in another league,
however.
'I
get bad headaches. I went to the docks to buy hashish. It helps me sleep.'
A
flicker of emotion crossed the major's face. Relief? Emmanuel couldn't tell.
The man in the corner shifted position but stayed put.
'How
did you get Jolly's notebook?' the major said.
'From
the freight yard.' Emmanuel kept the Dutta family out of it. Amal especially.
The young man's only sin was having a stupid older brother. 'It was in the
alleyway near the body.'
The
major nodded. 'Did you kill the boy, Cooper?'
'No.
He was dead when I found him.'
'Like
the landlady and the maid?'
'Yes.'
'Hard
to believe.'
'The
truth often is.'
The
man in the corner walked towards the table, leaving the toolbox behind, and
Emmanuel's skin tingled with relief. The toolbox shut and out of reach seemed
like a good thing. The man's clean fingernails and unwrinkled black suit
confirmed he was not a tradesman in the traditional sense. Emmanuel suspected
he knew how to break and fix things: none of them domestic.
'You
lied about what you were doing at the docks.' The accent was South African with
an undertone of English public school. A colonial boy sent back to the
motherland for an education in bad food and bullying. His eyes were an
indeterminate colour, like pieces of quartz lit by an unknown source. 'Major
van Niekerk has already confirmed that you were doing private work for him.
Surveillance.'
Emmanuel
shifted under the scrutiny. Why would van Niekerk confirm anything unless he'd
been forced to? The thought was disturbing. It was nearly impossible to get the
jump on the old fox.
'I've
worked for the major before,' Emmanuel said. And, like so many who'd served
under van Niekerk,
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