unpleasant.”
“Then let us wait, Sergeant.”
Tongues of dark grey coloured the orange patch of sky visible though the hole in the roof. Birds roosted in the trees, calling loudly to each other about the sun going down. Minutes ticked by. The voices faded.
“Time to go,” Emmanuel said to Shabalala. “Keep low and head back to the path.”
“ Yebo .” The Zulu detective cracked the door and slipped into the garden. The cry of birds was deafening. They heard the chug of distant car engines. The dirt path lay empty, the twilight fading fast. Shabalala stopped by the area of blood spray and shoe prints and frowned. The soil had been brushed over, the evidence of the attack destroyed by the scrape of a heel.
Emmanuel split off the path and pushed into the fruit orchard, heart thumping. The shrub with the white star-shaped flowers shimmered in the gathering darkness. He kneeled and bent back the branches.
“The pitchfork is gone,” he said.
12.
Buses, bicycles and pedestrians streamed along the broad, flat expanse of Main Road where it entered Sophiatown. The air hummed with the sounds of thousands of people talking, singing, and arguing. Tonight, the citizens of the township with money would wash off the working week in dance halls and shebeens, the illegal drinking holes squeezed into shacks and living rooms. Those without money would try to get some, by various means.
Emmanuel slowed, shifted down a gear and swung left into Bertha Street. Shabalala, Zweigman and Emmanuel rode in silence. Lieutenant Mason had out-played them. He parked in front of a wide brick house with bars on the windows. A slender youth lounged on the front stairs with his fedora pulled low onto his forehead and tilted at a sharp right angle despite the darkness.
“This is not my brother’s home, Sergeant,” Shabalala said from the back seat. Zweigman rode up front. “His house is nearer to the corner.”
“I know.” Emmanuel switched off the engine and flipped the door handle. “We need a drink and this is the safest place to park a car in Sophiatown on a Saturday night.”
Zweigman and Shabalala followed him out of the Ford and onto the pavement. The man on the stairs moved to the front gate with a loping stride. He wore a baggy pin-striped suit and a grin that promised trouble.
“White man,” he spoke in a high soprano voice. “You and your friends are too trustworthy. This is Kofifi. The streets are full of thieves who will take your ride and that fine suit also.”
“It’s not you that I trust. It’s your boss. There’s no stealing or fighting allowed on his block. This is still Fix Mapela’s house, correct?”
The guard’s sly fox expression faltered. He was new to the job, with more attitude than experience. “Who wants to know?”
“Tell him the white kaffir said hello and make sure nothing happens to my car.” Emmanuel moved off with unhurried steps, knowing that Zweigman and Shabalala would follow. They caught up and slipped to either side of him. Lights burned at intermittent intervals along the road, brightening the houses of the lucky people with enough money for electricity.
“Who is Fix Mapela?” The German doctor wiped his glasses with the tail of his shirt. He’d seen more patients in three hours at Baragwanath than would normally attend a full day at his medical clinic in the Valley of a Thousand Hills; an experience both humbling and exhausting.
“Fix is a friend.” Emmanuel took a sharp left into a passage between buildings. “I grew up with him.”
“What does this friend do that he needs a guard and bars on all his windows?”
“He fixes things. Like his name says.”
Zweigman made a disparaging sound. “Does he also break things, I wonder?”
“Frequently.” They crossed over pot-holed black top and Emmanuel took a quick left into a narrow passage where the buildings crowded together more tightly. Rough laughter and the rattle of dice came from one direction. From another
“Then let us wait, Sergeant.”
Tongues of dark grey coloured the orange patch of sky visible though the hole in the roof. Birds roosted in the trees, calling loudly to each other about the sun going down. Minutes ticked by. The voices faded.
“Time to go,” Emmanuel said to Shabalala. “Keep low and head back to the path.”
“ Yebo .” The Zulu detective cracked the door and slipped into the garden. The cry of birds was deafening. They heard the chug of distant car engines. The dirt path lay empty, the twilight fading fast. Shabalala stopped by the area of blood spray and shoe prints and frowned. The soil had been brushed over, the evidence of the attack destroyed by the scrape of a heel.
Emmanuel split off the path and pushed into the fruit orchard, heart thumping. The shrub with the white star-shaped flowers shimmered in the gathering darkness. He kneeled and bent back the branches.
“The pitchfork is gone,” he said.
12.
Buses, bicycles and pedestrians streamed along the broad, flat expanse of Main Road where it entered Sophiatown. The air hummed with the sounds of thousands of people talking, singing, and arguing. Tonight, the citizens of the township with money would wash off the working week in dance halls and shebeens, the illegal drinking holes squeezed into shacks and living rooms. Those without money would try to get some, by various means.
Emmanuel slowed, shifted down a gear and swung left into Bertha Street. Shabalala, Zweigman and Emmanuel rode in silence. Lieutenant Mason had out-played them. He parked in front of a wide brick house with bars on the windows. A slender youth lounged on the front stairs with his fedora pulled low onto his forehead and tilted at a sharp right angle despite the darkness.
“This is not my brother’s home, Sergeant,” Shabalala said from the back seat. Zweigman rode up front. “His house is nearer to the corner.”
“I know.” Emmanuel switched off the engine and flipped the door handle. “We need a drink and this is the safest place to park a car in Sophiatown on a Saturday night.”
Zweigman and Shabalala followed him out of the Ford and onto the pavement. The man on the stairs moved to the front gate with a loping stride. He wore a baggy pin-striped suit and a grin that promised trouble.
“White man,” he spoke in a high soprano voice. “You and your friends are too trustworthy. This is Kofifi. The streets are full of thieves who will take your ride and that fine suit also.”
“It’s not you that I trust. It’s your boss. There’s no stealing or fighting allowed on his block. This is still Fix Mapela’s house, correct?”
The guard’s sly fox expression faltered. He was new to the job, with more attitude than experience. “Who wants to know?”
“Tell him the white kaffir said hello and make sure nothing happens to my car.” Emmanuel moved off with unhurried steps, knowing that Zweigman and Shabalala would follow. They caught up and slipped to either side of him. Lights burned at intermittent intervals along the road, brightening the houses of the lucky people with enough money for electricity.
“Who is Fix Mapela?” The German doctor wiped his glasses with the tail of his shirt. He’d seen more patients in three hours at Baragwanath than would normally attend a full day at his medical clinic in the Valley of a Thousand Hills; an experience both humbling and exhausting.
“Fix is a friend.” Emmanuel took a sharp left into a passage between buildings. “I grew up with him.”
“What does this friend do that he needs a guard and bars on all his windows?”
“He fixes things. Like his name says.”
Zweigman made a disparaging sound. “Does he also break things, I wonder?”
“Frequently.” They crossed over pot-holed black top and Emmanuel took a quick left into a narrow passage where the buildings crowded together more tightly. Rough laughter and the rattle of dice came from one direction. From another
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