to be fed and watered by her aunt, no more.
“Say goodbye to the policeman,” Delia instructed. “Without the police, the black boys who put your parents in the hospital would still be walking free.”
“Goodbye, Detective Cooper.” Cassie cast him a nervous glance and tucked a bright strand of ginger hair behind her ear. The spot where the metallic shine of the lipstick had streaked the back of her hand had been scratched raw.
The Land Rover drove off with the main witness in the Brewer assault and robbery case huddled in the front seat. Placing a vulnerable teenager into the care of a relative made good sense, but Delia’s comment that the “man who called said Cassie’s got the case solved” struck a nerve. Aaron was going to get pinned for car theft and three counts of serious assault unless he came up with a credible alibi.
“How’s she holding up?” One of the neighbours, a good-looking man with sandy coloured hair, alligator green eyes and a trimmed moustache, loitered on the pavement. He wore a pressed khaki safari suit that had never been worn outside of an office, much less on a muddy bush track. Emmanuel slotted the man into the “concerned but fascinated with the crime” category of civilians. Most people fell into that group.
“Cassie is fine,” Emmanuel said. The scratches on the teenager’s skin were self-inflicted, as if she were physically trying to erase a stain from her person. Cassie lived a hundred miles from “fine” but that was confidential information.
“My wife heard through Mrs Lauda that you got the thieves.” The man waved a brown leather satchel in the direction of house from which a baby wailed. “My wife reckons it’s two of the blacks that the Brewers had over for dinner.”
“You thought the principal’s native improvement program was a bad idea.”
“Not just me,” the tanned white man said. “Everyone on the street warned him that bringing natives was dangerous. We asked him to stop. He didn’t listen. And now look what’s come of that experiment.”
“Did Brewer get into fights over the native visits?” Emmanuel asked. The untidy garden and weed-choked gutters were another clue that the principal and his wife didn’t care much about fitting into the neat streetscape. Still, they must have known that disputes over music played too loud and cars parked too long outside the wrong house could get people killed.
“Me and Mrs Lauda had words with the principal. Mr Allen from down the road also told Brewer, calm-like, that his three daughters didn’t feel safe with so many strange black boys walking the street. You know what the headmaster told him? To keep his daughters locked in the house where they’d be out of harm’s way.” Colour rose in the man’s face at the remembered conversation. “Brewer got a fist to the chin from Mr Allen for that, but we all agreed that the principal deserved it.”
“And you are?” Emmanuel asked.
“Andrew Franklin. Call me Andy.” The man checked his watch, an antique piece with a battered leather strap. An heirloom, Emmanuel guessed, passed down from a distant ancestor with sweat-stained clothing and a rifle slung over the shoulder.
“I’m late for a meeting.” Franklin smiled an apology. “If you speak to Cassie, tell her that we’re thinking of her. She suffered a lot because of the trouble her parents caused.”
“I’ll let her know.”
Andy Franklin walked to a station wagon parked outside a yellow house; a great white hunter dressed for the veldt but off to sell insurance in a sterile cube or maybe accept bank deposit forms. Emmanuel wrote Franklin’s full name in his notebook. If Aaron Shabalala dropped off the suspects list there’d be a number of disgruntled neighbours to interview.
The sky stretched bright blue over the orderly street. When the police barricades were removed there’d be no reminder of last night’s events; no permanent marker of the blood that had been spilled within.
“Say goodbye to the policeman,” Delia instructed. “Without the police, the black boys who put your parents in the hospital would still be walking free.”
“Goodbye, Detective Cooper.” Cassie cast him a nervous glance and tucked a bright strand of ginger hair behind her ear. The spot where the metallic shine of the lipstick had streaked the back of her hand had been scratched raw.
The Land Rover drove off with the main witness in the Brewer assault and robbery case huddled in the front seat. Placing a vulnerable teenager into the care of a relative made good sense, but Delia’s comment that the “man who called said Cassie’s got the case solved” struck a nerve. Aaron was going to get pinned for car theft and three counts of serious assault unless he came up with a credible alibi.
“How’s she holding up?” One of the neighbours, a good-looking man with sandy coloured hair, alligator green eyes and a trimmed moustache, loitered on the pavement. He wore a pressed khaki safari suit that had never been worn outside of an office, much less on a muddy bush track. Emmanuel slotted the man into the “concerned but fascinated with the crime” category of civilians. Most people fell into that group.
“Cassie is fine,” Emmanuel said. The scratches on the teenager’s skin were self-inflicted, as if she were physically trying to erase a stain from her person. Cassie lived a hundred miles from “fine” but that was confidential information.
“My wife heard through Mrs Lauda that you got the thieves.” The man waved a brown leather satchel in the direction of house from which a baby wailed. “My wife reckons it’s two of the blacks that the Brewers had over for dinner.”
“You thought the principal’s native improvement program was a bad idea.”
“Not just me,” the tanned white man said. “Everyone on the street warned him that bringing natives was dangerous. We asked him to stop. He didn’t listen. And now look what’s come of that experiment.”
“Did Brewer get into fights over the native visits?” Emmanuel asked. The untidy garden and weed-choked gutters were another clue that the principal and his wife didn’t care much about fitting into the neat streetscape. Still, they must have known that disputes over music played too loud and cars parked too long outside the wrong house could get people killed.
“Me and Mrs Lauda had words with the principal. Mr Allen from down the road also told Brewer, calm-like, that his three daughters didn’t feel safe with so many strange black boys walking the street. You know what the headmaster told him? To keep his daughters locked in the house where they’d be out of harm’s way.” Colour rose in the man’s face at the remembered conversation. “Brewer got a fist to the chin from Mr Allen for that, but we all agreed that the principal deserved it.”
“And you are?” Emmanuel asked.
“Andrew Franklin. Call me Andy.” The man checked his watch, an antique piece with a battered leather strap. An heirloom, Emmanuel guessed, passed down from a distant ancestor with sweat-stained clothing and a rifle slung over the shoulder.
“I’m late for a meeting.” Franklin smiled an apology. “If you speak to Cassie, tell her that we’re thinking of her. She suffered a lot because of the trouble her parents caused.”
“I’ll let her know.”
Andy Franklin walked to a station wagon parked outside a yellow house; a great white hunter dressed for the veldt but off to sell insurance in a sterile cube or maybe accept bank deposit forms. Emmanuel wrote Franklin’s full name in his notebook. If Aaron Shabalala dropped off the suspects list there’d be a number of disgruntled neighbours to interview.
The sky stretched bright blue over the orderly street. When the police barricades were removed there’d be no reminder of last night’s events; no permanent marker of the blood that had been spilled within.
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