Free Let the Dead Lie by Malla Nunn Page B

Paris.
    'Relax,
Major,' a woman's voice teased. 'The war's been over for eight years. You won,
remember?'
    Emmanuel
examined the barmaid in the clear light of the morning after. Lana Rose. A name
so perfect it had to be made up. She stretched her body out against the cream
sheets, comfortable in her own skin.
    'My
slip at the bar,' he said, 'you noticed.'
    'I
picked you long before that. I just didn't know if you were army or police. I'm
betting it was both.'
    'All
that brain power stuck behind the Harpoon's bar. Shouldn't you be running the
country?'
    'I'm
finished with the Harpoon. Today is the start of a new life. I just needed to
get some things out of my system first.' Lana unknotted a stocking from the
bedhead and draped the flimsy length of silk over Emmanuel's left shoulder
where an old bullet wound marked his flesh. 'I ticked off quite a few boxes
with you last night, Mr Cooper.'
    Ah,
yes. The stocking. Emmanuel rubbed his face to cover his embarrassment. It was
a common enough game. What bothered him was the enthusiasm he'd brought to it... the ragged authenticity of a policeman enjoying the full exercise of power
after a long absence.
    He
got out of the bed and searched for items of discarded clothing. The memory
from another time of door hinges flying inward and the breath of the law on his
neck quickened his movements. Technically, the snug little flat was a crime
scene. Sexual contact across the colour line was a punishable offence in the
new South Africa. He located a hat and belt. No sign of his trousers or shirt.
    'Relax,'
Lana said. 'There won't be any trouble.'
    'Really?'
    'Yes,
really.'
    Emmanuel
found his trousers, improbably wedged between the sofa cushions and the seat
springs. Jolly's notebook was still in the back pocket. Everything in the flat,
including a chunky Bakelite radio, looked as if the price tag had just been
removed: high-quality items for a woman who'd worked a low-end bar until last
night.
    Had
these things been given to Lana or had she stolen them?
    He
found his shirt at the foot of the bed entangled with a lace brassiere. Lana
motioned towards the bathroom.
    'Have
a shower,' she suggested. 'You might be shy this morning but you weren't shy
last night.'
    Her
relaxed posture and the dozen white roses on the table eased the tension from
his body. The law would not come. This flat was an illicit haven, set up for
whoever had paid for the flowers and the transistor radio in the kitchen. It
was the South African demilitarised zone. The normal rules separating race
groups did not apply. Lana had waved off Emmanuel's racial identification last
night because she was protected and she knew it.
    He
headed for the blue and yellow tiled nook that contained a shower suspended
over the bathtub. He closed the door and turned the water on. The spray was
warm and soothing but a little fear remained. He was safe. He was satisfied. He
was lucky. He ticked off the list but the onset of a headache pressed against
his skull. Images collided and tangled together. The curve of Lana's naked
back, the slender stems of the roses, pale legs jutting into a cobblestoned
Parisian lane, and Jolly's hand against the dirt of the freight yard. His mind
jumped from one thought to another like a radio receiver scanning for a clear
signal. A needle of pain stabbed behind his eye and the force of it threw his
head back.
    Did you really
think that a night in the sack was going to make it all okay, soldier? a ragged Scots voice said. It didn't work in Paris after Simone Betancourt's murder and
it's not going to work now. That little fucker needs you, Cooper .
    Emmanuel
turned off the shower and gripped the wet taps. The last he'd heard from the
Scotsman was eight months ago, when he was laid out on the veldt between Zweigman,
the old Jew, and Shabalala, the Zulu Shangaan constable. Like a vulture, the
voice of his sergeant major from army basic training eight years previous
appeared only when there was a fresh carcass to feed