Free Present Darkness by Malla Nunn Page B

In a week’s time, the name Aaron Shabalala would fade away into the long list of other black boys they had arrested and imprisoned.
    Emmanuel held his temper. The car search had been a set-up from the outset. He schooled his expression to hide the fury that demanded a voice. Mason’s disregard for the most basic tenets of the law was reprehensible. This was not the just world that he’d fought for during the war.
    “Cooper has doubts,” Mason said.
    “What?” Dryer was incredulous: visions of the cosy cabin and the fresh-grilled fish were slipping away. “The daughter’s statement, the stolen car and now the school badge! It’s all on the table, man. Case closed!”
    “Amen,” the undercover cops said in unison. They turned to Emmanuel.
    Emmanuel looked on their grim expressions and their tight shoulders.
    “I’m not disputing the facts,” he said. Mason had evidence. He had suspicions. The evidence, though corrupted, won.
    “Good. You drive, Cooper.” A reptilian smile tugged the corners of Mason’s mouth. “We’ll follow you to Marshall Square.” The silver keys to the Benz arched through the air and Emmanuel caught them on the fly.
    “Yes, sir.” He now despised Mason with a purity that verged on the religious.

9.
    Gesondheid.” Dryer poured whisky from a bottle wrapped in a paper bag into a coffee mug. “The police commissioner called to congratulate Mason on closing the Brewer case.”
    Emmanuel accepted the drink, aware of the contented atmosphere in the room.
    “Salute.” He clinked mugs with Dryer. The whisky burned a trail from his mouth to his empty stomach where it bloomed warm and started to spread out. He placed the mug on the side of his desk and wrote the first five lines of the report on the discovery of the stolen Mercedes. Dryer drifted away, drawn by the group of detectives smoking near the windows. Ceiling fans whirred in the afternoon heat, moving the air without cooling it.
    Emmanuel waited till Dryer had lit a smoke and then picked up the desk phone and dialled.
    “Johan Britz legal services,” a female voice answered. “How can I help?”
    “Anna. It’s Sergeant Cooper. I need to speak to Britz first thing, please.”
    “Anything for you, Emmanuel.” Anna, the English secretary, punched the call through on the internal intercom of the tiny office located up three flights of stairs of a shabby building in the city centre.
    “Cooper.” The Afrikaner lawyer picked up on the second ring, his subtly accented voice at odds with his reputation as a man who never shied away from a fight, especially with the police. Beaten by vindictive cops, threatened by violent husbands and shunned by the legal fraternity, Britz was the only lawyer in Johannesburg with a full-time bodyguard outside his office and his home. “What have you got yourself into this time?”
    Emmanuel pulled the incomplete incident report closer and scribbled words into the margin. He switched to Afrikaans, Johan Britz’s first language and his own. “I’m calling for some friends. Their son’s being charged with three counts of assault, one of manslaughter, vandalism and theft.”
    “Is that all?” Britz said a dry tone. “You think the boy might be innocent of one or all of the charges?”
    “I’m not sure.” Emmanuel was honest. “His alibi is full of holes and we found his prefect’s badge in a car stolen from the crime scene.”
    “Bad start,” Britz breathed down the line. “Was the search executed according to protocol?”
    “I can’t prove it wasn’t.”
    “Who’s in charge of the investigation?”
    “I’ll spell it out.” Mason’s name in English or Afrikaans would be easily recognisable. The Dutch alphabet made it harder to decipher. He cupped his palm around the mouthpiece and gave each letter quickly.
    “Lieutenant Walter Mason,” Britz confirmed after a long pause, during which the scratching of a pen on paper was audible. “That’s two pieces of bad news, Cooper.