wall in yellow. A blue van with some native policemen inside parked on the verge.
“Sophiatown foot police,” Mason indicated the six black Constables who jumped from the van and stood on the sidewalk.
Their bull-necked white Sergeant leaned against the back door and smoked a cigarette. “We’re looking for a red car hidden somewhere in this area. Stay sharp and keep your eyes open. If you find the car, blow your whistle and a European officer will find you. Get busy.”
The native police spread out with bemused expressions. Did the white Lieutenant not see the rusted corrugated shacks riddled with holes and patched together with cardboard? If a car was left here, it was because the owner wanted it stripped for the insurance money.
“Cooper, start at the end of the street and take the left-hand side. Work back in the direction of the van. Check every alley and backyard. I’ll interview the people in the house.”
“Will do,” Emmanuel said and moved off. Mason didn’t pair him up with another detective, presumably because the inhabitants of the township would recognise him as one of their own.
Shanties sprouted everywhere. A line of black girls sat cross-legged on the scrubby verge and braided each other’s hair into cornrows. Sullen boys with caps pulled low onto their heads loitered in doorways. Emmanuel searched dirt lanes too narrow for cars and neglected yards too small to lie down in. Mason was wasting time. The search proved how little he knew about township life.
A slight black boy, about eight years old and with a head doused in white louse powder, sat on the sidewalk and angled a mirror to catch the sunlight. Reflections rippled across the walls of a dilapidated tuckshop. Emmanuel crouched beside him.
“Can I see that?” he asked. “I’ll give it back.”
“Promise?” Twitchy fingers tightened their grip on the object and the boy’s brown eyes were large in his dirty face.
“Cross my heart.” Emmanuel held out his hand. The cracked mirror was encased in metal and weighed heavily in his palm. He turned it over. Flecks of silver brushed off the surface. “Where did you get this?”
“Just there, ma baas .” The boy pointed to a space between two dilapidated shacks. “I was walking, looking on the ground for money. I found it fair and square.”
“Keep it. It’s yours.” Emmanuel returned what was likely to be the side view mirror of a Mercedes Benz Cabriolet to the boy and took a closer look at the opening. Chest-high scrub was piled up as a barricade. He ran a fingertip across a streak of red paint scratched into the corrugated iron wall.
He stripped away the branches. Hot colour showed through the leaves. With a quarter of the barrier torn down, the curved lines of a car bonnet became visible. He pulled out more scrub and threw it onto the street. Four more big branches and he could see the whole car: a red Mercedes Benz Cabriolet with black leather seats and a missing side mirror.
Emmanuel opened the driver’s side door and leaned inside. The interior reeked of cigarettes. He flipped the ashtray: butts smoked down to the filter spilled onto the carpeted floor. The fuel gauge needle slumped near empty.
A Sophiatown Constable stopped at the alley entrance and blew his whistle to call the other European detectives to the scene. Emmanuel slid behind the wheel. The keys were still in the ignition. His knees hit the dashboard. The seat had been pushed forwards to allow contact with the foot pedals. The last person to drive the Cabriolet had short arms and legs, a description that didn’t match Aaron Shabalala.
“Make a path.” The rear-view mirror reflected the street. Mason broke through the crowd of pedestrians who’d gathered at the entrance to the alley. Dryer and Negus and the ring-ins from undercover operations appeared next to Mason. “Police business. Move back.”
Emmanuel got out of the car, still puzzled by its location. He’d known from the age of six which
“Sophiatown foot police,” Mason indicated the six black Constables who jumped from the van and stood on the sidewalk.
Their bull-necked white Sergeant leaned against the back door and smoked a cigarette. “We’re looking for a red car hidden somewhere in this area. Stay sharp and keep your eyes open. If you find the car, blow your whistle and a European officer will find you. Get busy.”
The native police spread out with bemused expressions. Did the white Lieutenant not see the rusted corrugated shacks riddled with holes and patched together with cardboard? If a car was left here, it was because the owner wanted it stripped for the insurance money.
“Cooper, start at the end of the street and take the left-hand side. Work back in the direction of the van. Check every alley and backyard. I’ll interview the people in the house.”
“Will do,” Emmanuel said and moved off. Mason didn’t pair him up with another detective, presumably because the inhabitants of the township would recognise him as one of their own.
Shanties sprouted everywhere. A line of black girls sat cross-legged on the scrubby verge and braided each other’s hair into cornrows. Sullen boys with caps pulled low onto their heads loitered in doorways. Emmanuel searched dirt lanes too narrow for cars and neglected yards too small to lie down in. Mason was wasting time. The search proved how little he knew about township life.
A slight black boy, about eight years old and with a head doused in white louse powder, sat on the sidewalk and angled a mirror to catch the sunlight. Reflections rippled across the walls of a dilapidated tuckshop. Emmanuel crouched beside him.
“Can I see that?” he asked. “I’ll give it back.”
“Promise?” Twitchy fingers tightened their grip on the object and the boy’s brown eyes were large in his dirty face.
“Cross my heart.” Emmanuel held out his hand. The cracked mirror was encased in metal and weighed heavily in his palm. He turned it over. Flecks of silver brushed off the surface. “Where did you get this?”
“Just there, ma baas .” The boy pointed to a space between two dilapidated shacks. “I was walking, looking on the ground for money. I found it fair and square.”
“Keep it. It’s yours.” Emmanuel returned what was likely to be the side view mirror of a Mercedes Benz Cabriolet to the boy and took a closer look at the opening. Chest-high scrub was piled up as a barricade. He ran a fingertip across a streak of red paint scratched into the corrugated iron wall.
He stripped away the branches. Hot colour showed through the leaves. With a quarter of the barrier torn down, the curved lines of a car bonnet became visible. He pulled out more scrub and threw it onto the street. Four more big branches and he could see the whole car: a red Mercedes Benz Cabriolet with black leather seats and a missing side mirror.
Emmanuel opened the driver’s side door and leaned inside. The interior reeked of cigarettes. He flipped the ashtray: butts smoked down to the filter spilled onto the carpeted floor. The fuel gauge needle slumped near empty.
A Sophiatown Constable stopped at the alley entrance and blew his whistle to call the other European detectives to the scene. Emmanuel slid behind the wheel. The keys were still in the ignition. His knees hit the dashboard. The seat had been pushed forwards to allow contact with the foot pedals. The last person to drive the Cabriolet had short arms and legs, a description that didn’t match Aaron Shabalala.
“Make a path.” The rear-view mirror reflected the street. Mason broke through the crowd of pedestrians who’d gathered at the entrance to the alley. Dryer and Negus and the ring-ins from undercover operations appeared next to Mason. “Police business. Move back.”
Emmanuel got out of the car, still puzzled by its location. He’d known from the age of six which
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