Just a Dead Man by Margaret von Klemperer Page A

she wasn’t listening and my assurances were sounding unconvincing, even to me.
    Don’t get me wrong: I’m very fond of my mother, and at least 80 per cent of the time she’s a rational, sensible person. But if something unhinges her, it does a remarkably successful job. Eventually, I spoke to my father. He was more reasonable, but he too was concerned and I didn’t want to raise the subject of bail. That was going to have to wait, at least until Robin had some idea of what we might be looking at.
    I couldn’t work. I prepared a canvas for the mango painting, but I knew I was in the wrong frame of mind. If I started now, it would be a disaster. I tried to think of another subject so that, when I felt like working again, I would be ready to complete the Interiors stuff. But nothing came – apart from a vision of a prison cell. Of course, Ihad never actually seen one, apart from Nelson Mandela’s on Robben Island, which I had found curiously unreal. A cell was obviously no place for anyone to spend 27 days, let alone 27 years, but it had reminded me of a visit to Dachau when I had been a student and gone to Munich. The horror, the evil, is reduced to the banal by being clean and tidy and turned into, if not a tourist attraction exactly, at least a place of pilgrimage. Reality cannot be replicated. Once the moment is over, it is over for good. Fine idea for an artist to have, I thought.
    I was contemplating all this when the bell rang, announcing a visit from Vanessa Govender, the instigator of Interiors. She had bumped into Chantal, and had been told about Dan, and so had come hotfooting round to me. I like Vanessa – she’s a close friend in many ways, but she’s also a major league gossip with a malicious streak that can be funny but also uncomfortable at times.
    She launched in straight away. “God, Laura! Are you all right? Has Dan really been arrested for murder? What happened? Who’s the guy he killed?”
    â€œHang on, hang on. He hasn’t killed anyone. It’s a mistake. The cops have some circumstantial evidence, but that’s all. I hope we’ll get him a bail hearing next week, and then he’ll be out. I’m sure we can get it sorted.”
    â€œYou going to play detective? Just you be careful, that’s all. And do you know … really know … that he’s innocent? I mean, I know the two of you have been friends for years, but …” Vanessa left the sentence unfinished. And once again, I felt doubt creep up on me. Of course I didn’t know Dan was innocent. But I was bloody sure he was, nonetheless.
    Vanessa went on talking. At one stage, she asked me who the investigating officer was, and I told her about Inspector Pillay and Sergeant Dhlomo.
    â€œAdam Pillay? I know him. He lives a couple of houses down the road from me. He’s an okay kind of guy. Terribly sad: his wife died in childbirth around 10 years ago. Imagine that, in this day and age! And the baby died too. Ridiculous. Anyway, he lives alone, and his mother, who’s a friend of my ma, is always trying to set him up with women. It’s like Vikram Seth’s A Suitable Boy in reverse! But surely he wouldn’t arrest Daniel without some evidence?”
    I tried to explain about Sergeant Dhlomo, and Vanessa immediately went off on another tangent, this time about xenophobia and how certain elements in the cops were always trying to pin everything onto immigrants and refugees. I have no idea what she was basing her view on, but it seemed to me it would fit with Dhlomo’s attitude. Or maybe he was just a tough cop and Dan had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. I sighed.
    â€œDarling, is this getting to you?”
    â€œWell, a bit, I suppose. After all, the body turned up on my favourite dog walk and now they’ve arrested one of my friends. But other than that, I’m fine.”
    â€œNo, you’re not. Just look at you.