Read Online Just a Dead Man by Margaret von Klemperer - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Margaret von Klemperer
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cops will be doing all that.â
âHe wasnât robbed. At least, I donât think he was. And why was he dumped near my house? Or killed there? Thecops havenât said which it was yet â or, at any rate, not to me.â I had forgotten to ask Robin if he knew. Stupid. âLook, Verne. Iâm going to phone this Paul. Apparently he wants to see the place where his fatherâs body was found. Could I ask you ⦠would you come up here and meet him with me? I donât want to be a wimp, but I donât want to be stupid either.â
There was a long pause. âWell, I suppose I could try. Obviously I want to make sure Dan gets off this rubbish charge. But Iâm not sure how clever it is to get involved.â
âBut we are involved. Heâs our friend: he was staying with you; he was walking my dog when he found the body. And surely we both know he couldnât have killed anyone!â
âI know, I know. But if the cops havenât got evidence, they wonât get a conviction. Still, I donât want poor old Dan to sit in jail while they lose dockets and fiddle around. Okay. If you get him, and he wants to see the spot, Iâll come.â He wasnât exactly enthusiastic, but it was a start.
11
R OBIN HAD TOLD ME P AUL Ndzoyiya was some kind of deputy manager at a plastics factory in the industrial area. I tried to work out when he would have a lunch break, and phoned him. No use waiting too long, or I might never do it.
He answered quickly, a deep, slow voice, sounding older than I had expected. I explained who I was, said how sorry I was about his fatherâs death and that I believed he was anxious to see the place where the body had been found. It was no use pretending I was being altruistic. No one was going to believe that, and the police had probably told him about me anyway. So I admitted Daniel was my friend, said I was concerned about him, and that I simply did not believe he was a killer.
Ndzoyiya listened, saying little, and on a crackly line that threatened to break up several times, it was hard to gauge his emotions. But finally he said he would like to come to my house at half past four and I could then show him where the body had been. When I gave him directions, he gave no indication he knew the area at all.
I rang Verne again. Gloomily, he agreed to be there, and would ask Chantal to join us. So now there was nothing to do but wait.
I went back into my studio, and decided to see if Icould make a start on the mango painting. I leaned the apple one on the sofa where I could see it and clipped the new photograph to the corner of my easel. To my surprise, I slowly became utterly absorbed. Creative urges and moments of inspiration are all very well, but I have discovered over the years that the real issue is making a start. Once you are on the way ⦠well, you are on the way. I may be one of the worldâs great procrastinators, but at least I know it, and sometimes try to do something about it.
I had expected the colours to be difficult: the mango skin ought be reasonably straightforward, but the flesh and the backdrop were quite similar, and needed to be contrasted by showing textures, the fruit glistening wet but with a hint of fibre, while the cloth would be matt, receding into the distance. And the skin tones for Danielâs hand and wrist were not going to be simple either. I have seldom painted black people, having no wish to get entangled in debates about the representation of âthe otherâ. I donât have the energy for a discussion that seems to generate more heat than light, and anyway, Iâm not quite sure what I think about it all. I reckoned, however, that painting one black left hand shouldnât land me in philosophical hot water.
I was engrossed, relishing the technical problems and the fact that they took my mind off other things. At least here I was in charge: the work would stand or fall by my efforts.
âHe wasnât robbed. At least, I donât think he was. And why was he dumped near my house? Or killed there? Thecops havenât said which it was yet â or, at any rate, not to me.â I had forgotten to ask Robin if he knew. Stupid. âLook, Verne. Iâm going to phone this Paul. Apparently he wants to see the place where his fatherâs body was found. Could I ask you ⦠would you come up here and meet him with me? I donât want to be a wimp, but I donât want to be stupid either.â
There was a long pause. âWell, I suppose I could try. Obviously I want to make sure Dan gets off this rubbish charge. But Iâm not sure how clever it is to get involved.â
âBut we are involved. Heâs our friend: he was staying with you; he was walking my dog when he found the body. And surely we both know he couldnât have killed anyone!â
âI know, I know. But if the cops havenât got evidence, they wonât get a conviction. Still, I donât want poor old Dan to sit in jail while they lose dockets and fiddle around. Okay. If you get him, and he wants to see the spot, Iâll come.â He wasnât exactly enthusiastic, but it was a start.
11
R OBIN HAD TOLD ME P AUL Ndzoyiya was some kind of deputy manager at a plastics factory in the industrial area. I tried to work out when he would have a lunch break, and phoned him. No use waiting too long, or I might never do it.
He answered quickly, a deep, slow voice, sounding older than I had expected. I explained who I was, said how sorry I was about his fatherâs death and that I believed he was anxious to see the place where the body had been found. It was no use pretending I was being altruistic. No one was going to believe that, and the police had probably told him about me anyway. So I admitted Daniel was my friend, said I was concerned about him, and that I simply did not believe he was a killer.
Ndzoyiya listened, saying little, and on a crackly line that threatened to break up several times, it was hard to gauge his emotions. But finally he said he would like to come to my house at half past four and I could then show him where the body had been. When I gave him directions, he gave no indication he knew the area at all.
I rang Verne again. Gloomily, he agreed to be there, and would ask Chantal to join us. So now there was nothing to do but wait.
I went back into my studio, and decided to see if Icould make a start on the mango painting. I leaned the apple one on the sofa where I could see it and clipped the new photograph to the corner of my easel. To my surprise, I slowly became utterly absorbed. Creative urges and moments of inspiration are all very well, but I have discovered over the years that the real issue is making a start. Once you are on the way ⦠well, you are on the way. I may be one of the worldâs great procrastinators, but at least I know it, and sometimes try to do something about it.
I had expected the colours to be difficult: the mango skin ought be reasonably straightforward, but the flesh and the backdrop were quite similar, and needed to be contrasted by showing textures, the fruit glistening wet but with a hint of fibre, while the cloth would be matt, receding into the distance. And the skin tones for Danielâs hand and wrist were not going to be simple either. I have seldom painted black people, having no wish to get entangled in debates about the representation of âthe otherâ. I donât have the energy for a discussion that seems to generate more heat than light, and anyway, Iâm not quite sure what I think about it all. I reckoned, however, that painting one black left hand shouldnât land me in philosophical hot water.
I was engrossed, relishing the technical problems and the fact that they took my mind off other things. At least here I was in charge: the work would stand or fall by my efforts.
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