The Brewer family and the black man in the garden, however, would remember that Friday night forever.
7.
Emmanuel entered the European detective’s room at 10.30 a.m. with two goals: to fade in and fit in while doing what he could to solve the Shabalala case.
Negus and two undercover cops Emmanuel knew by sight but not by name smoked cigarettes at the far end of the room. Both were of average height with razor-cut brown hair and pink, fleshy faces: they might have been brothers but for the eagle nose on one and the stuck-out ears on the other.
“Christ above.” Dryer shuffled in, blue suit wrinkled and tie crooked. He mopped sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. “I need a cup of coffee with four sugars after last night.”
“You’re early.” Emmanuel shed his jacket and hat.
Dryer consistently arrived five to ten minutes after the start of the shift and always with an excuse for the delay. “When Lieutenant Mason telephones and says, ‘Be in the squad room at 10.30,’ I make sure I turn up at 10.30.”
“Wise move.” The telephone number for the house in Houghton was on the temporary transfer sheet Emmanuel had filled out in Durban before moving to Jo’burg. The transfer sheet also listed his address as that of an ex-detective friend who knew to answer any impromptu visits with a simple, “Cooper is out. Drop by again in a couple of hours.” The real phone number and the fake address summed up his split life nicely.
“Any idea what the guys from undercover are doing here?” Emmanuel asked Dryer. The fleshy-faced twins were not picked at random: they were companions from a life that Mason had formally renounced. The Lieutenant was gathering his boys.
“If we’re short-staffed Mason brings in extra men to help,” Dryer said. “It’s normal.”
“You made the early call, Sergeant Cooper. I’m impressed. I telephoned the number on your contact sheet but the woman who answered said you were gone for the day and she had no idea when you’d be back.”
Emmanuel turned to face Mason, who stood in the doorway of the squad room with a dead-eyed expression. He wore a freshly pressed black suit and dark blue tie.
“I never sleep late,” Emmanuel said. He locked away the memory of Davida lazing in bed this morning with Rebekah at her breast. If anyone could see through the skin of a situation to the raw bone of things, it was Walter Mason.
“Fill the gaps.” The Lieutenant signalled the other detectives closer. “Bad news first: Ian Brewer died of his wounds an hour ago. This is a now a murder investigation. All holiday leave is cancelled immediately. The Police Commissioner called. He wants results and he wants them quickly.”
Dryer groaned. Negus sucked on a cigarette and blew smoke rings. Emmanuel felt the pit of his stomach drop to his toes. He dreaded giving the news to Shabalala who was even now travelling on the fast mail train from Durban to Jo’burg, having been granted emergency leave by his boss, Colonel van Niekerk.
“There is good news,” Mason continued. “We’ve received an anonymous tip-off about the red Mercedes stolen from the Brewers’ house last night. In two minutes we move out to search this Sophiatown address.”
Mason held up a piece of paper with the information written in blue ink. Emmanuel leaned in and read the street name and number: Annet Street backed onto the sewage works, the houses and stores were within walking distance of the front gates of Saint Bart’s school.
“Cooper, you’re with me in the lead vehicle. You know the township so you’ll navigate. The rest of you, follow close. With the assistance of the Sophiatown police we will spread out and perform a grid search of the area. Remain in pairs at all times. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.” The gathered detectives, including Emmanuel, answered in unison. He mapped the street in his mind, recalling the boundaries of the coloured school and the dense collection of shanties and rickety fruit
7.
Emmanuel entered the European detective’s room at 10.30 a.m. with two goals: to fade in and fit in while doing what he could to solve the Shabalala case.
Negus and two undercover cops Emmanuel knew by sight but not by name smoked cigarettes at the far end of the room. Both were of average height with razor-cut brown hair and pink, fleshy faces: they might have been brothers but for the eagle nose on one and the stuck-out ears on the other.
“Christ above.” Dryer shuffled in, blue suit wrinkled and tie crooked. He mopped sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. “I need a cup of coffee with four sugars after last night.”
“You’re early.” Emmanuel shed his jacket and hat.
Dryer consistently arrived five to ten minutes after the start of the shift and always with an excuse for the delay. “When Lieutenant Mason telephones and says, ‘Be in the squad room at 10.30,’ I make sure I turn up at 10.30.”
“Wise move.” The telephone number for the house in Houghton was on the temporary transfer sheet Emmanuel had filled out in Durban before moving to Jo’burg. The transfer sheet also listed his address as that of an ex-detective friend who knew to answer any impromptu visits with a simple, “Cooper is out. Drop by again in a couple of hours.” The real phone number and the fake address summed up his split life nicely.
“Any idea what the guys from undercover are doing here?” Emmanuel asked Dryer. The fleshy-faced twins were not picked at random: they were companions from a life that Mason had formally renounced. The Lieutenant was gathering his boys.
“If we’re short-staffed Mason brings in extra men to help,” Dryer said. “It’s normal.”
“You made the early call, Sergeant Cooper. I’m impressed. I telephoned the number on your contact sheet but the woman who answered said you were gone for the day and she had no idea when you’d be back.”
Emmanuel turned to face Mason, who stood in the doorway of the squad room with a dead-eyed expression. He wore a freshly pressed black suit and dark blue tie.
“I never sleep late,” Emmanuel said. He locked away the memory of Davida lazing in bed this morning with Rebekah at her breast. If anyone could see through the skin of a situation to the raw bone of things, it was Walter Mason.
“Fill the gaps.” The Lieutenant signalled the other detectives closer. “Bad news first: Ian Brewer died of his wounds an hour ago. This is a now a murder investigation. All holiday leave is cancelled immediately. The Police Commissioner called. He wants results and he wants them quickly.”
Dryer groaned. Negus sucked on a cigarette and blew smoke rings. Emmanuel felt the pit of his stomach drop to his toes. He dreaded giving the news to Shabalala who was even now travelling on the fast mail train from Durban to Jo’burg, having been granted emergency leave by his boss, Colonel van Niekerk.
“There is good news,” Mason continued. “We’ve received an anonymous tip-off about the red Mercedes stolen from the Brewers’ house last night. In two minutes we move out to search this Sophiatown address.”
Mason held up a piece of paper with the information written in blue ink. Emmanuel leaned in and read the street name and number: Annet Street backed onto the sewage works, the houses and stores were within walking distance of the front gates of Saint Bart’s school.
“Cooper, you’re with me in the lead vehicle. You know the township so you’ll navigate. The rest of you, follow close. With the assistance of the Sophiatown police we will spread out and perform a grid search of the area. Remain in pairs at all times. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.” The gathered detectives, including Emmanuel, answered in unison. He mapped the street in his mind, recalling the boundaries of the coloured school and the dense collection of shanties and rickety fruit
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