Free Just a Dead Man by Margaret von Klemperer

respectful, and wanted to find a way to remember those brave men. I can think of no reason why he would want to kill.”
    He looked up at us. While he had been speaking, he had been looking down at the floor. “This is hard for me, for all the family. Of course, we want to see my father’s killer brought to justice. But I would never want to see an innocent man punished.”
    We shuffled our feet, and I felt more than a little embarrassed. I asked Mr Ndzoyiya if he would like to walk to the spot where his father had been found, and he nodded. We headed out of the garden gate, Grumpy deeply indignant that we were setting off on his favourite walk without him. We made our way slowly up the hill, past the six houses, three on each side, that line the cul-de-sac. I caught a glimpse of Philippa as we passed her house. She was standing at her kitchen window, watching us.
    Mr Ndzoyiya and Verne led the way, talking quietly, while Chantal and I followed like two ill-assorted Chinese wives, four steps behind the men. We didn’t say much, but as I was running the events of Monday afternoon over in my mind, the elusive memory that had been lurking just out of reach suddenly became clear, and with such force that I gave a little gasp.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” Chantal looked at me curiously. “You okay?”
    â€œYes, fine. I just remembered something, that’s all. Not important.” We went on to the turning circle at the top of the road, and where the tar ended, took the path that led into the plantations, overgrown now in early autumn, the long grass on the verges studded with blackjacks, their dark, barbed seeds waiting like sharp sunbursts to snag on unwary arms and legs. Tattered plastic bags hung on the brambles, and a couple of broken polystyrene boxes that had once held burgers lay scattered on the ground, but once we had gone 50 metres, the litter diminished and the path opened out. Litterers can seldom be botheredto go far off the beaten track. As the trees, mostly gums and wattles, began, the path divided, and we followed the right-hand, slightly steeper route, bare red earth showing through fallen leaves. There had been little rain since the day of the murder, and it was dry underfoot. As we followed the curve, we saw remnants of blue-and-white police tape. Why hadn’t they cleared up after themselves? I had a horrible moment when I thought there might still be blood on the grass, but the short, heavy shower that had fallen just after the body had been removed had washed that away. I showed Mr Ndzoyiya the place, the grass still flattened where the body had lain and the police had tramped around it.
    He stood, looking down, while Verne, Chantal and I stood in a rather awkward row on the other side of the path. My mind was racing. I would need to speak to the police about what I had just remembered. Once I was sure it was a real memory.

12
    A S WE STOOD THERE TRYING not to watch Mr Ndzoyiya staring at the ground, there was a soft, rustling noise in the earth-smelling leaf litter under the trees. Birds or small creatures of the forest feeding, hunting and going about their inscrutable business. If only they could talk, tell us what they had witnessed on Monday afternoon. In the distance, I could hear a police siren, far enough away not to intrude, and somewhere a dog barked: the sounds of urban life that we seldom stop long enough to hear. Verne dug into the softer earth at the edge of the path with the toe of his shoe while Chantal, always restless, made a faint clicking noise with her tongue against her teeth. Eventually, Mr Ndzoyiya straightened up with a sigh.
    â€œThank you. Shall we go now?”
    We shuffled back into our two-by-two crocodile, but this time Verne and Chantal led the way while I walked with Mr Ndzoyiya.
    â€œThe police tell me my father was not killed here. The killer brought his body here and left it under the trees. They say they don’t know