Silent Valley by Malla Nunn Page B

Emmanuel’s head. The promise he’d made to his mother was a wound that had scabbed over, healed and vanished. Yet with one thump on his chest the past had come roaring back as vivid as if it were right here, right now.
    The gruelling mountain climb brought his mind back to the case. Mandla’s men would need to bend to the law or be broken. Together with Shabalala, he’d find Amahle’s killer and bring him to justice. There was so much still undone in his life, but the job of detective he did well.

FIVE
    T wo mangy brown dogs with fur hanging over their bones and an old man smoking a corncob pipe flanked the gateway to the Matebula family kraal . Behind the old man, a stick fence made of dried thorn branches surrounded a collection of thatched beehive-shaped huts.
    At the sight of two city men sweating and panting on the threshold the old man struggled to get to his feet.
    ‘Sit,’ Emmanuel said. ‘Is Chief Matebula home?’ The dogs raised their heads and growled but then went back to sleep in their sun patch.
    ‘ Yebo, inkosi .’ Smoke escaped from the man’s mouth when he spoke. ‘But the great one cannot be disturbed.’
    ‘He’ll make an exception for us.’ Emmanuel stepped onto the dirt path leading to the interior. Ahead was the heart of the family kraal , a dusty cattle yard with a huge white stinkwood tree at the centre. The path split to either side of the enclosure.
    ‘This way, Sergeant.’ Shabalala indicated the right-hand path. ‘The chief’s hut is always at the back of the cattle byre.’
    They moved past squat huts with grass mats rolled down over entryways. A clutch of brown chickens scratched for food in the dirt and a swarm of flies settled on the rim of an uncovered cooking pot. The only human sound was voices whispering behind the hut walls. There was no sign of Mandla or his men. It was as if the whole kraal was holding its breath and waiting.
    ‘Everyone’s under house arrest,’ Emmanuel said quietly. ‘I wonder if the chief is afraid of a riot.’
    The crash of splintering wood and a male voice raging in Zulu came from the northeast corner of the compound. The dozing dogs awoke and barked at the sky. Emmanuel and Shabalala passed a large hut with dried buffalo horns at the entrance, and proceeded to a wide yard with an umdoni tree at its centre. Nomusa crouched on a woven grass mat, her head bowed in supplication. A young girl huddled against Nomusa’s body, her skinny arms circling the woman’s waist. Items of clothing and a small cardboard box with the lid ripped off were flung across the yard. As the detectives approached, a giant Zulu man snapped a tree branch across his knee and raised the limb high enough to cast a shadow over Nomusa and the shivering girl.
    ‘Drop that,’ Emmanuel said in Zulu and crossed the dirt circle in four paces, raising dust.
    The man turned, surprised. He was easily six foot three and had been handsome once, but carried a ring of fat on his belly and under his chin. The onset of middle age had thinned his hair and evidence of too much good living could be seen in his bloated face and red-rimmed eyes.
    ‘I am the great chief . . .’ the man said, blood still running hot. ‘No-one, not even a white man, tells me what to do in my own kraal .’
    ‘We’re the police, which means we can,’ Emmanuel said. He disliked the chief on sight. ‘Now, drop the stick.’
    Shabalala took up position at Nomusa’s right shoulder, ready to deflect an attack. The chief threw the limb against the perimeter wall, rattling the thorn branches and startling a thrush into flight. Nomusa and the child remained hunched over in the face of Matebula’s wrath.
    ‘Have you found out who killed my child?’ the chief demanded. ‘There is a debt owing for her life and it will be paid.’
    ‘Who do you think is to blame for your daughter’s death?’ Emmanuel stepped around Matebula’s bulk and caught a whiff of sour maize beer and dagga smoke. He checked on