Let the Dead Lie by Malla Nunn

Author:Malla Nunn
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: For the Benefit of Mr. Kite
Published: 2009-12-31T16:00:00+00:00

Sixteen

A sleepy night watchman in a knee-length wool coat and fingerless gloves waved Emmanuel through the gates and onto the gravel driveway of van Niekerk’s house on the Berea Ridge. Fruit bats circled overhead and the coronation lights lit up the city center. He parked in front of the two-story Victorian building and considered his next move. Coming empty-handed to van Niekerk’s door was not a pleasant feeling.

Joe Flowers, who possessed neither a knife nor a car nor indeed sufficient levels of cunning to commit three murders, was off the list of suspects. And a quick drive through the Point had failed to locate Brother Jonah, the sole person left to investigate. All Emmanuel had was a Russian couple who’d presented Jolly Marks’s drawing to the Dutchman. He pulled the Walther from the glove box and rested it on his lap. The Cyrillic letters engraved in the metal might provide an explanation as to why the Russians were being hunted by a man driving a black Dodge. He pressed his fingers into the side of his skull. The spare morphine pill would be useful right now.

“Are you going to sit there stroking your gun all night, Cooper, or are you going to go and tell the major that Flowers was a dead end? Maybe he has a fresh lead for you to chase up or maybe he can extend the deadline,” the sergeant major said. “You’ve got fuck-all to lose. Joe’s in Central. Brother Jonah is AWOL. Exodus has fucked off to Port Elizabeth and the Russian is lights-out. As for the pregnant woman…well, take it from me…even if she could speak English, you do not want to disturb her sleep if you want children of your own down the track. Now get in there and ask for help.”

“Don’t breathe a word while I’m in there,” Emmanuel said, and slid out of the Buick. He locked the car door and tucked the Walther into the waistband of his trousers. Being comfortably crazy was a fact he’d rather keep to himself.

“Fine,” the sergeant major said. “I’ll keep a lid on, but I’m not going to wait for permission to save your arse when the time comes. I’m a soldier, not a bloody nursemaid. Have we got a deal?”

“Yes. We have.”

Emmanuel took the veranda steps two at a time and pressed hard on the bell. A velvet Nat King Cole recording crooned into the night. Imagining the Dutch major sucking on a pipe while enjoying a mellow tune lifted Emmanuel’s mood. The door opened and Lana Rose peered out through a curtain of cigarette smoke.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said.

“I’ve come to see the major,” Emmanuel said. It was a shock to see her half dressed in van Niekerk’s house after dark.

“The major’s at a coronation party in Durban North. A proper coronation party with roast beef and trifle with claret for dessert. Larnies only. No house models or ex-barmaids allowed.”

Larnies was South Africa’s unique name for swells, the quality, the upper crust, the cream that rose to the top through good blood and money.

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