Free Present Darkness by Malla Nunn

gangsters controlled the trade in stolen cigarettes, which ones did jewellery, and which ones could make cars disappear. Why was this car still here? At any given time there might be three or four buyers willing to pay cash for a ride like this.
    “Good work, Cooper.” Mason tapped his fingers on the car bonnet. “How far are we from Saint Bartholomew’s school?”
    “About a three-minute walk,” Emmanuel said. Cassie’s statement and the recovered Mercedes Benz put Aaron Shabalala on the lip of the volcano. He’d better provide a credible alibi or else get used to living out the remainder of his days in a cell with a bucket to squat over.
    “The keys are still in the lock.” Dryer peered through the glass. “He must have been planning to come back for it later.”
    Christ, Emmanuel thought, it’s a miracle the car is intact. Residents of Sophiatown lived now , in the moment. Leaving the Mercedes for later made no sense.
    “Open the boot,” Mason instructed.
    Dryer scrambled to obey: the silver Cabriolet keys dangling from his index finger allowed him a brief moment of ownership. He unlocked the boot and lifted the handle. Twigs and dried leaves covered the floor mat. Emmanuel moved closer. A seam of red dust filled the crack between the rubber seal and the metal body of the car. Sophiatown had paved roads and dirt lanes, which split into a labyrinth of paths, most of them packed hard by the traffic of carts and people. White Johannesburg largely enjoyed the benefits of loose gravel and tarred avenues. The red dust in the Mercedes’ boot didn’t belong to either Parkview or the township.
    “Something on your mind, Cooper?” Mason asked. He stood in the lane with the stillness of an eagle watching a mouse.
    “No sir. Just relieved the anonymous call came in before the tyres and the seats were stripped from the car.”
    “A religious man might see the hand of God in it, Detective Sergeant. We now have enough circumstantial evidence to charge Shabalala with the manslaughter of Principal Brewer and with robbery.” Mason shut the boot and wiped dirt from his hands with a handkerchief. “The Commissioner will be pleased.”
    “A good result,” Emmanuel agreed. Keeping a low profile was one of today’s goals but the dried mud and grass seeds embedded in the tyre treads so clearly pointed to a drive across country that he couldn’t stay quiet. “Looks like the car went off the tar and into the bush for a while.”
    Mason glanced at the evidence. “The rougher the ride, the bigger the thrill. That’s how these tsotsis think. Consequences don’t matter. They just want to feel powerful.”
    “True,” Big Ears from undercover backed up the Lieutenant’s theory. “The township grows them wild, and is it any wonder? The men drink, the women whore, and there’s only one shithouse for a hundred people.”
    Big Ears might have been describing Emmanuel’s own childhood except that Colonel van Niekerk had also removed all written references to his mother’s murder and his father’s accusations of infidelity and miscegenation. The official record stated, “Mother deceased. Cooper leaves Sophiatown to attend ‘Fountain of Light’ boarding school.”
    “When a Zulu gets his blood up, anything can happen,” Eagle Nose added. “That’s the way of it.”
    Aaron’s transformation from schoolboy to budding gangster was swift. The press and the public had a clear mental picture of these lawless boys: little more than animals, they acted out of impulse and violent instinct. Every piece of physical evidence from the clogged tyre treads to the cigarette butts would be explained away with a, “You know what these people are like.”
    “Split up,” Mason addressed the group. “Cooper, Negus and Dryer collect the usual ‘I didn’t see anything’ statements from the people in the shacks. The rest of the team and I will examine the car.”
    What Emmanuel heard was, “Go away and leave me and my boys alone.”