Read Online Just a Dead Man by Margaret von Klemperer - Free Book Online Page B

No one else was involved or could take the blame if things went wrong. I was startled by the doorbell, the events of Monday flooding back.
    It was Verne and Chantal. I thanked them for coming, wondering if I was being silly calling for reinforcements just because an unknown man was coming to see me. Still, I reassured myself, he was the son of a murder victim, andhe might well be antagonistic. I was the friend of the man accused of the killing.
    True to character, Chantal was forthright, asking me straight out why I was getting involved.
    â€œI’m worried about Dan. I think the cops have convinced themselves he’s guilty because he’s a foreigner and he was there, and I don’t get the feeling they’re doing much more investigating. Someone has to do something.”
    â€œSure, but what on earth can you hope to find out? You’re not a detective. You’re a …” Chantal paused. “You’re a middle-aged white teacher and artist.”
    â€œSo? Does that matter?” I decided to ignore the middle-aged bit. She was probably all of five years younger than me but starting the hare of when middle age begins would get us nowhere. She had raised a more pertinent issue: was my whiteness some kind of problem to her?
    â€œWell, quite honestly, I think it does make a difference. Don’t you think you’re going to antagonise the cops?”
    Verne, who had been prowling round the studio, spoke for the first time. “Leave it, Chantal. We’ve discussed this and agreed that Dan needs help. Laura and this Robin guy, you and me. We’ll work together on this one. It’s pointless for us to argue about it.”
    I looked helplessly at them. If what we were trying to do was going to founder on the rocks of race, poor old Dan would probably rot in jail. “Look, if you really believe I’m going to make it worse, I’ll back off. But I think you’re being ridiculous.”
    Chantal looked at me. She is a solid woman, barrel-shaped and plain but with a certain vitality. Those who know her better than I do say she is kind, and does a fantastic job with the abused women she helps. “Well, I’m sorry if I’ve upset you,” she said, “but I deal with the police all the time, and they often resent outsiders. And in a caselike this, with a black victim and a black refugee accused, a white amateur barging in … I don’t know that it’ll help. But I’m sure you think you’re doing the right thing.”
    And at this inauspicious moment, the bell rang again. Mr Ndzoyiya.
    He was a stocky, youngish man, probably in his early thirties. He looked at the three of us when I let him in and introduced Verne and Chantal. Verne, who had been very quiet up until now, looked over to me and with a slight nod, stepped forward.
    â€œMr Ndzoyiya, we’re very sorry for your loss. It must have been a great shock. But we all know Mr Moyo well, and we simply cannot believe he had anything to do with your father’s death. So if we can do something to help him, and at the same time bring your father’s killer to justice, we would like to.”
    Ndzoyiya listened, and looked round the room. His voice was very deep, with a slight hesitancy, and while his English was excellent, it was old fashioned and had he been older, I would have said he was mission-school educated. Maybe his schoolteacher father had influenced him.
    â€œThank you. Of course my father’s passing has come as a terrible shock, to the whole family. But from what he told me about Mr Moyo when he came up from Durban and from what he said he would be doing in Pietermaritzburg, I must admit I was surprised when the police arrested this man. He had made contact with my father over the telephone, from Johannesburg, and my father told me he was interested in my great-grandfather’s stories. These are tales we have all grown up with. My father said Mr Moyo was polite and