Silent Valley by Malla Nunn Read Free Book Online Page A

you,’ Shabalala said and fell in by the preacher’s side. Emmanuel held back and let the two Zulu men go ahead. The gap had to be wide enough for Kaleni to be certain that a European detective was not overhearing the conversation. ‘White cop/black cop’ was the homegrown South African version of the ‘good cop/bad cop’ routine used by police across the globe, and just as effective.
    Occasional Zulu words carried to him on the breeze during the walk over flat terrain. Emmanuel caught ‘water’, ‘bread’ and ‘blood’ but didn’t try to make connections. Shabalala would report on the conversation later. A few feet ahead, the flat rock split the red earth to make a natural platform.
    ‘Please, sit.’ Baba Kaleni motioned to the rock in the same way a prosperous farmer might offer a seat in his kitchen to a guest.
    Shabalala climbed on first and found a spot to the rear of the warm stone. He squatted down with his broad hands resting on the curve of his knees and his fedora pulled low on his forehead. It was a signal for Emmanuel to lead the conversation.
    ‘Take the shade,’ Emmanuel said to Kaleni in Zulu. ‘I have protection from the sun.’
    The old man squeezed into the shadow cast by a paperbark thorn and rested his right arm on his lap. The river now looked like a thin silver ribbon on the horizon, the church members gathered on its distant banks smudges of white, blue and green.
    ‘Tell me everything you remember about this morning, from before finding Amahle to what you did afterwards,’ Emmanuel continued in Zulu.
    ‘It happened like this. I awoke before the sun and dressed. It was dark in the hut but my wife is very neat and my church hat, my robes and my Bible were placed just so. My wife has always been like my right hand and a true helper.’
    ‘A blessing . . .’ Shabalala mumbled before the preacher set off again, describing in minute detail the chill of the water in the wash bucket in the hut and the texture of the breakfast porridge, eaten cold and without milk.
    Emmanuel breathed in the scent of dirt and crushed grass and waited for Kaleni’s recollections to reach the crime scene.
    ‘After many miles of walking my legs grew tired and I stopped to rest. That is when I came away from the path.’ Kaleni traced a finger over a tear in the Bible’s worn cover. ‘And that is when I saw her. The daughter of the chief.’
    ‘Saw her where?’
    ‘Under the fig tree. I . . .’ He shook his head, embarrassed. ‘I thought maybe the chief’s daughter was sleeping. Even though the dew was wet on the leaves and the dawn just breaking.’
    ‘Did you see anyone else in the area?’ Emmanuel hoped his patience would be rewarded with a name or a physical description of the man who’d guarded Amahle’s body.
    There was a pause, a mere pulse of a heartbeat, before Baba Kaleni said, ‘I saw no-one, inkosi .’
    ‘You absolutely sure?’
    ‘The chief’s daughter was alone.’ The tear on the Bible cover widened under the rub of the old man’s fingertips. ‘Of this I am certain.’
    ‘So it was just you and her on the mountain?’ Emmanuel leaned closer and established eye contact. This was the first pressure point in an interview, letting a witness know he wasn’t fooling anyone, certainly not a city detective who had heard some of the most accomplished liars in the world doing some of their best work. The eye contact also contained a hint of a threat. It was a ploy but worth a try.
    ‘The chief’s daughter was alone,’ Kaleni said again. ‘Of this I am certain.’
    ‘All right.’ Emmanuel let it go. The old man had his story and he was sticking to it. ‘Describe the place where Amahle was lying.’
    ‘Under the fig tree with flowers all around. There was a red blanket rolled up and placed under her head.’
    ‘Did you put it there?’ Emmanuel had checked the tartan blanket after leaving the crime scene. It was pure wool and made by Papworth’s Fine Fabrics in Cape Town.