A Beautiful Place to Die by Malla Nunn Page A

for a turn. Emmanuel wondered where the youngest brother was hiding himself.
    “Where’s Louis?”
    “In the shed,” Henrick said. “He’s been in there all day working on that bloody bike.”
    “Ja.” Erich ruffled the hair of a child in front of him. “Go see if you can get him out, Hansie. Ma will need his help soon.”
    Hansie turned to the far end of the garden where a small shed stood flush against the back fence. Behind the corrugated iron structure, flat-topped trees threw their shaggy branches up against wide-open sky.
    “I’ll come with you.” Emmanuel broke from the family group and fell into step with Hansie. A man’s shed was a good place to start feeling out the man himself. Something about the captain had marked him out for a violent death, and something about his death had caught the attention of the Security Branch. No time like the present to try to find out why.
    Hansie knocked on the shed door. “Louis. It’s me.”
    “Come.” The door swung open and Louis, a boy of about nineteen, stepped back to allow them entry. With a featherweight’s build, the captain’s youngest son was more finely drawn than the photo in the house suggested. If the other brothers were rock, Louis was paper.
    “Louis, this here is the policeman from Jo’burg.” Hansie performed the introductions in a rush, embarrassed about taking an adult role in front of his teenage friend.
    “Detective Sergeant Emmanuel Cooper,” Emmanuel said, and shook Louis’s hand. There was strength in the boy’s grip that belied the softness of his appearance.
    “Detective Sergeant Emmanuel Cooper.” Louis repeated the title as if memorizing it, then saw the grease stains on Emmanuel’s hand. “I’m sorry, Detective. I’ve made a mess of you.”
    “It’s nothing.” Emmanuel wiped his hands clean with his handkerchief and Louis moved back toward a pile of engine parts laid out on an old rug. The restored body of a black Indian motorcycle rested up on blocks close to the rear door.
    Louis kneeled down and continued cleaning pieces of metal with a rag. His whole body shook with the effort he expended. “I’ve been cleaning parts all day and I forgot…”
    “What’s this?” Hansie squatted down next to his friend. “I thought you finished the engine already.”
    Louis shook his head. “Have to wait on a part to come from Jo’burg. Do you know much about engines, Detective?”
    “Not much,” Emmanuel answered truthfully. The right-hand side of the shed was the hunting area. A pair of giant kudu horns hung above a gun rack holding three sighted rifles. Below the guns was a beautiful Zulu assagai, a warrior’s spear, complete with lion hide bindings. Under the spear was a wooden desk with two drawers. To the left side of the shed engine parts and tools surrounded the Indian motorcycle. Diagrams and calculations were stuck to the wall under a manufacturer’s illustration of the dismantled motorbike in its prime. The organization of the shed indicated a clear and methodical mind. The back door was propped open with a brick to let in the afternoon breeze and it wasn’t hard to imagine the captain happily at work here.
    “You know a lot about engines.” Emmanuel stepped over the spare parts and headed for the hunting desk.
    “Oh, no,” Louis said, “Pa is the one who knows all about fixing things.”
    There was an awkward silence, then the loud clank of metal on metal made by Louis sorting through a pile of spanners with shaking hands.
    “You can finish the bike, hey, Louis.” Hansie pumped enthusiasm into his voice. “Get that coloured mechanic to help and you’ll have it going in no time.”
    “Maybe,” Louis said quietly, then began sorting the cleaned screws and bolts into neat piles on the floor. Emmanuel watched the compulsive behavior for a moment, then moved deeper into the shed. Grief made people act in strange ways; it could rip them open or close them right down.
    A check of the guns found them