Free The Serpentine Road by Paul Mendelson Page B

about her employers; he longs for those times to be nothing more than history. He is over ten years short of being a ‘born-free’ – an African born free of Apartheid – but in his adult life, however he chooses to present himself, he has always believed that he is the equal of the next man in the Cape Town street.
    ‘Yes, please.’
    ‘You wait here.’
    When she closes the door, he can hear her footsteps scurry over the wooden floor, a muted exchange, and then a slim, white, middle-aged women pulls open the door, looks down at him.
    ‘We have already spoken with you.’
    ‘You have, madam. But when my colleague talked with you, your daughter was not available.’ He looks at his notebook. ‘You said that she knew your neighbour, Miss Holt.’
    The woman frowns.
    ‘Lorna does not know her. She may have seen her from her window . . . You may come in, but she is doing her homework. You must be quick.’
    Don wipes his feet on the mat, steps up over the threshold into the dark hallway. The house smells both damp and clean, cool and somehow musty. The woman leads him to the back of the house, through an old fashioned kitchen and into a dining room. Three small windows overlook a tiny yard at the back, a grandfather clock ticks against the side wall, a teenaged girl sits bent over the long, dark dining table, sheets of paper lined up across the width of the surface in front of her. She is writing and does not look up when they enter the room. Her mother says nothing, waits for her to finish. When she does, she looks first at her mother and then at Don.
    ‘This man wants to ask you about Miss Holt.’
    ‘Miss Holt has passed on.’
    Her speaking voice is staccato, mechanical.
    ‘I am Don February.’
    She stands up. He offers his hand, but she steps back and looks him up and down.
    ‘What is your rank?’
    ‘I am a Warrant Officer.’
    The girl looks up at her mother, says: ‘That is the same as an Inspector.’
    ‘Yes,’ Don says, ‘that was what my rank used to be called.’
    ‘Why are your clothes too big?’
    Don stutters.
    ‘I am . . . I suppose, because I am only small.’
    ‘Then you should have small clothes.’
    ‘Lorna,’ the austere women says. ‘Why don’t you let the policeman ask his questions, then you can finish your work.’
    Lorna looks from her mother to Don.
    ‘Let me check your identification.’
    Don produces his ID and passes it to her. She does not reach to take it, so he leaves it on the table in front of her. She sits back down, opens it, studies it. Don waits, hears the clock, looks around the room at the dark oil paintings, the deep turquoise velvet on the dining chairs, the ornate crucifix above the dark Victorian fireplace.
    ‘What do you want to ask?’
    ‘I want to ask you if you saw Miss Holt.’
    ‘I saw her from my window, often.’
    ‘Last Thursday night, did you see her then?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘When did you last see her?’
    ‘On Wednesday night at 10.35 p.m.’
    ‘You remember the time?’
    ‘Yes.’
    Don tilts his head; he does not doubt her.
    ‘What was she doing?’
    ‘She drove into her garage. I saw her in her car, but her window was closed.’
    ‘Was there anybody else in her car?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Did you see anything else?’
    ‘There was a man waiting in a car on this side of the road. When she had gone in, he went to the door and rang on the bell. The front door opened and he went in.’
    ‘Can you describe this man?’
    ‘Black. He was a black man.’
    ‘Anything else?’
    ‘Only the police. Every day.’
    ‘I meant, about the black man.’
    ‘He was taller than you.’
    ‘How tall?’
    The girl hesitates.
    ‘Taller than Miss Holt. He was on the step in front of her door. I could see them when they were both inside.’
    ‘Anything else?’
    ‘No. What have you found?’
    ‘We have been investigating.’
    ‘Have you caught the killer yet?’
    ‘No, not yet.’
    ‘No . . . Can I see your notepad?’
    ‘I . . . I don’t think so. It