Let the Dead Lie by Malla Nunn Page A

the amount of packages coming into Durban. He does not
like others to bring in more packages than him.'
    'Who's
Mr Khan?' Emmanuel asked. The whack of the bamboo cane hitting flesh was
distracting. Parthiv had accused him of being a spy for Khan moments before.
    'A
Muslim,' Amal whispered. 'He is in business.'
    'What
business?' Emmanuel asked, but he already knew. It would be a legitimate
enterprise - a dress shop or garage - backed up by prostitution, hashish
smuggling and anything else that made money.
    'Taxis
and restaurants and ah . . . many other things.'
    'Is
your mother in the same business?'
    'No.
Sometimes she lends money, and when the people don't pay, then Parthiv and
Giriraj collect it. That is all. Mr Khan is big. My mother is small.'
    Clearly
Parthiv wanted more of Durban's criminal action and his mother was not happy
about that. Maataa stopped and flicked ash from her clove cigarette. She
pointed the bamboo stick towards Emmanuel and Amal. They stood up.
    'You
will tell Mr Khan they have been disciplined, yes?'
    'I'll
tell him,' Emmanuel said. Another lie, but there seemed to be no other answer.
    'Go,'
Maataa ordered.
    Emmanuel
and Amal were out of the courtyard in less than five seconds. Emmanuel had the
keys in the ignition of the Buick in under a minute.

The
waves of the Indian Ocean curled blue against the long sweep of South Beach.
Landlocked Dutch farmers and holidaying Rhodesians splashed in the water or
sheltered under a canopy of striped umbrellas. A recently erected sign was
cemented into the sand: 'Under section 37 of the Durban by-laws this bathing
area is reserved for the sole use of members of the white race group'. The
message was repeated in Afrikaans and in Zulu so there was no misunderstanding.
    A
black vendor in a high-collared uniform moved among the sun worshippers with a
tray of ice-creams slung from his neck by a wide leather strap. The law did not
apply to those whose job it was to service the Europeans.
    Emmanuel
drew level with a bench. A sign painted on the wood read 'Whites Only'. Like
hell. He sat down and sipped his lemonade. There was between a zero and nought
per cent chance that he was going to walk miles to the non-white section of the
beach just to take a rest. Guilt stirred at the sight of the black ice-cream
vendor trudging across the sand. There was no place for him to take a load off
or dip his feet into the ocean when the heat got too much.
    A
child, all blonde pigtails and chubby thighs, chased a ball past the bench.
Emmanuel retrieved Jolly's notebook, which he'd picked up from Amal's house in
Reservoir Hills. It fitted in the palm of his hand. Two strings were attached.
One had a pencil at the end, while the other was cut clean, not frayed or
snapped. That explained the penknife. It was used to sever the notebook from
the boy's khaki pants, not in self-defence.
    Emmanuel
flipped the pages one by one. Lists of orders for pies, cool drinks, boerewors
rolls, hollowed-out loaves of bread filled with curry called bunny chow, and
beer. Where did an eleven-year-old child get beer? The next page wasn't a list
but a portrait sketched in pencil. A girl with wisps of feathery hair stared up
from the paper with ancient eyes. He flicked another page to get free of the
girl's dark gaze.
    The
contents of the notebook fell into a rough pattern: eight or so pages of orders
for a variety of takeaway foods followed by a chilling portrait of a child. The
children - boys and girls, blacks and whites - might have been ghosts for all
the warmth they had in them. They stilled his heart, made him wonder what Jolly
had experienced in his short life to be able to draw such desolate children.
    'Ice-cream.
Ice-cream,' the vendor called out. It was late afternoon and this would be the
last run of the day. The baas wanted only empty boxes at
sundown. 'Vanilla. Chocolate ice-cream.'
    Emmanuel
flipped and found an uneven edge where another page had been. He ran a finger
over it then across the surface