Let the Dead Lie by Malla Nunn Read Free Book Online

very yard, prepared to meet his maker, oh Lord?'
    Emmanuel
eyed the wiry preacher who stood on a wooden box and held a Bible in the air.
What ten-year-old boy was prepared to meet death? What idiot questioned the
victim's readiness to die instead of questioning God's unwillingness to protect
the innocent? And why, since winning the war, did Americans believe that
rescuing the world was their next mission? Emmanuel felt his body tighten.
    The
preacher lowered the Bible and pointed a bony finger in his direction. He
sniffed an unrepentant sinner in the crowd.
    'What
troubles you, brother? Is there sin in your life? An error against God that you
have not confessed to?'
    'A
punch in the right direction would solve a few of my problems. Brother.'
Emmanuel emphasised the last word, tipped his hat and then turned towards the
Seafarers Club where the Buick Straight-8, on loan from van Niekerk, was
parked.
    Uniformed
police milled on the sidewalk and picked through garbage cans for evidence.
Unmarked Chevrolets and blue Dodge police vans lined Point Road.
    'Keep
up the good work, men.' A tall colonel with mutton-chop whiskers marched
through the ranks boosting morale. A sign that this murder was being taken
seriously.

CHAPTER FOUR
     
    Grey
Street, wide and overhung by electric tram wires, was in the very heart of
Durban's Indian area. Brightly painted vegetarian restaurants jostled for space
with spice emporiums and 'Ladies frock and Gentlemen's suit' retailers. A
gaggle of black women ambled down the sidewalk with bags of rice balanced on
their heads. Shirtless Indian labourers hauled bamboo poles through the windows
of the Melody Lounge, temporarily closed for renovations. The air smelled of
roasted cardamom seeds and chilli.
    Saris
& All was a narrow shop that sold 'English Rose' skin-lightening creams,
loose tobacco, shoelaces and bulk dried goods under a waterfall of silk and
cotton saris that hung from wooden bars bolted to the ceiling. A tall Indian
man in a white cotton suit and open-necked shirt approached Emmanuel.
    'What
may I get you on this fine day, sir?' The shop steward indicated the laden
shelves and burlap sacks of dried lentils and rice.
    'Parthiv
or Amal,' Emmanuel said. 'Are they in?'
    'Mr
Dutta and Mr Dutta junior. That is who you would like to see?'
    'Yes.'
    'Please.'
The tall man fiddled with the top button of his shirt. 'I cannot help you. It
is lunchtime and past that door I cannot go.'
    'What
door?'
    'Behind
the purple sari. This is very private. For the Dutta family, no one else.'
    Emmanuel
swung the shimmering curtain aside and pushed the hidden door open. He stepped
onto an outdoor porch sheltered by a woody bougainvillea vine with sparse pink
blooms. A row of re-used corn oil tins were planted with seedlings tied to
slender bamboo poles.
    Amal
sat at a table with a book in one hand and a samosa in the other. Silver bowls
of curry, pickles and rice were spread out on a table in front of him. He was
so absorbed in his book he didn't look up until Emmanuel pulled up a chair and
sat down opposite him.
    'Detective.'
A well-thumbed science text dropped to the floor. Pieces of paper with
scribbled formulae scattered. 'Detective Sergeant.'
    'It's
just Emmanuel.'
    'But... how...'
    'Relax,
Amal. I want to ask you something.'
    'Am
I in trouble?'
    'No.'
Emmanuel motioned to the bowls of food. 'Finish your meal.'
    Amal
collected the book and papers and placed them on the table. He fiddled with the
tablecloth, too nervous to eat. Emmanuel nodded at a fried curry puff.
    'Mind
if I have one?'
    'No.
Please.'
    Emmanuel
took the spicy pastry and bit into it. Then he selected a samosa and a scoop of
chutney, which he placed on a white plate. He ate that, then served himself
some chicken biryani with sliced cucumber and a warm disc of roti. The
confrontation with the dragon landlady, Mrs Edith Patterson, had put him off
breakfast. He'd eaten nothing since the night before.
    'You
like Indian food?'
    Emmanuel
glanced at Amal,