yes.’ Ian Reed released his death grip on Emmanuel’s fingers and squinted down at the grubby notebook in his hand. Scribbled numbers, some half-formed, bled off the sides of the paper. ‘Sun-up to sundown, a farmer’s work is never done.’
‘That’s right, Dad. Sit over there and finish your calculations.’ Thomas physically turned the old man around and pointed to a wicker chair facing the driveway. ‘I’ll come just now, okay.’
Ian Reed wandered off, gripping the notebook as if it was a life preserver keeping him afloat in a vast and boundless ocean.
‘Five minutes, Detective,’ his son said. ‘We have work to do.’
Thomas Reed was dressed in khaki but the smooth English accent and the dismissive manner were a sure marker of a South African king of the veldt. Under the dust and sweat Emmanuel smelled a posh public-school education and elevated social connections.
‘Just a few questions,’ Emmanuel said. ‘How long did Amahle Matebula work for your family?’
Thomas shrugged. ‘Hard to say. She was in and around the farm from the time she was a kid.’
‘There were no problems with her that you know of?’ Emmanuel fished out his notebook, eager to fill in the half-empty pages. ‘No fights or bad blood between her and the other staff, for example?’
Thomas motioned to the vast acres merging with the gentle hills. ‘We don’t have a lot of trouble on Little Flint, Detective Cooper. Our boys get a new set of clothing and a new pair of sandshoes at Christmas. At Easter they get double provisions of sugar and flour. The housemaids also.’
‘Good to know.’ Emmanuel glanced at his blank page. Thomas’s response aggravated him. A young girl was dead and they could be discussing farming equipment for all the emotion he showed. ‘So, Amahle Matebula was a regular house servant who didn’t stand out in any way.’
‘We employ fifteen, maybe twenty natives on Little Flint.’ Thomas worked a fingernail over a seam of dirt on his thumb. ‘From my end, none of the servants are remarkable so long as they do their jobs right.’
That was country-fresh bullshit. Amahle was exquisite. Any man with a pulse would have noticed her crossing the yard or hanging up the laundry. Then again, Thomas Reed might be one of those rare white men so caught up in the differences between the races that they showed no interest in black or brown girls. Emmanuel didn’t trust those men.
‘Any idea who killed Amahle?’ he asked.
‘None whatsoever,’ Thomas said and offered nothing more.
Shabalala moved back a pace and fixed his eyes on the peaked horizon. Frustration made his face appear carved from stone. If Amahle had been white, the farmer would be crying over himself at the loss of one so special.
‘Constable . . .’ Emmanuel sensed the tension in Shabalala. Standing by while Thomas shrugged off questions took effort, but there had to be a reason for his evasiveness – and for his not once referring to Amahle by name. ‘Get statements from the gardeners and from the housemaids. Find out who was the last person to see Amahle on Friday night. Same goes for Philani Dlamini.’
Thomas Reed frowned, the ingrained dirt on his thumb suddenly less important. ‘Philani’s not here. He didn’t show up for work on Saturday and again today.’
‘Is that unusual?’ Emmanuel asked.
‘Very,’ Thomas said. ‘He’s one of my best boys. He turns up rain or shine.’
‘See if Amahle and Philani left the farm together,’ Emmanuel said to Shabalala.
‘I will ask, Sergeant.’ The Zulu detective walked to the rear of the big house, his steps slowed to allow the old dog to keep up.
Emmanuel looked at Reed. ‘Did any of the workmen take a fancy to Amahle and have to be warned off?’
‘I have no interest in the love life of kaffir girls.’ The younger Reed turned to the circle of wicker chairs, ending the interview. ‘Come, Dad. It’s time to dip the next batch.’
His father got up and walked out
‘That’s right, Dad. Sit over there and finish your calculations.’ Thomas physically turned the old man around and pointed to a wicker chair facing the driveway. ‘I’ll come just now, okay.’
Ian Reed wandered off, gripping the notebook as if it was a life preserver keeping him afloat in a vast and boundless ocean.
‘Five minutes, Detective,’ his son said. ‘We have work to do.’
Thomas Reed was dressed in khaki but the smooth English accent and the dismissive manner were a sure marker of a South African king of the veldt. Under the dust and sweat Emmanuel smelled a posh public-school education and elevated social connections.
‘Just a few questions,’ Emmanuel said. ‘How long did Amahle Matebula work for your family?’
Thomas shrugged. ‘Hard to say. She was in and around the farm from the time she was a kid.’
‘There were no problems with her that you know of?’ Emmanuel fished out his notebook, eager to fill in the half-empty pages. ‘No fights or bad blood between her and the other staff, for example?’
Thomas motioned to the vast acres merging with the gentle hills. ‘We don’t have a lot of trouble on Little Flint, Detective Cooper. Our boys get a new set of clothing and a new pair of sandshoes at Christmas. At Easter they get double provisions of sugar and flour. The housemaids also.’
‘Good to know.’ Emmanuel glanced at his blank page. Thomas’s response aggravated him. A young girl was dead and they could be discussing farming equipment for all the emotion he showed. ‘So, Amahle Matebula was a regular house servant who didn’t stand out in any way.’
‘We employ fifteen, maybe twenty natives on Little Flint.’ Thomas worked a fingernail over a seam of dirt on his thumb. ‘From my end, none of the servants are remarkable so long as they do their jobs right.’
That was country-fresh bullshit. Amahle was exquisite. Any man with a pulse would have noticed her crossing the yard or hanging up the laundry. Then again, Thomas Reed might be one of those rare white men so caught up in the differences between the races that they showed no interest in black or brown girls. Emmanuel didn’t trust those men.
‘Any idea who killed Amahle?’ he asked.
‘None whatsoever,’ Thomas said and offered nothing more.
Shabalala moved back a pace and fixed his eyes on the peaked horizon. Frustration made his face appear carved from stone. If Amahle had been white, the farmer would be crying over himself at the loss of one so special.
‘Constable . . .’ Emmanuel sensed the tension in Shabalala. Standing by while Thomas shrugged off questions took effort, but there had to be a reason for his evasiveness – and for his not once referring to Amahle by name. ‘Get statements from the gardeners and from the housemaids. Find out who was the last person to see Amahle on Friday night. Same goes for Philani Dlamini.’
Thomas Reed frowned, the ingrained dirt on his thumb suddenly less important. ‘Philani’s not here. He didn’t show up for work on Saturday and again today.’
‘Is that unusual?’ Emmanuel asked.
‘Very,’ Thomas said. ‘He’s one of my best boys. He turns up rain or shine.’
‘See if Amahle and Philani left the farm together,’ Emmanuel said to Shabalala.
‘I will ask, Sergeant.’ The Zulu detective walked to the rear of the big house, his steps slowed to allow the old dog to keep up.
Emmanuel looked at Reed. ‘Did any of the workmen take a fancy to Amahle and have to be warned off?’
‘I have no interest in the love life of kaffir girls.’ The younger Reed turned to the circle of wicker chairs, ending the interview. ‘Come, Dad. It’s time to dip the next batch.’
His father got up and walked out
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