Free Just a Dead Man by Margaret von Klemperer Page A

why.”
    Well, that was news. Or, at least, the confirmation of what Adam Pillay had originally suggested.
    â€œIt’s strange,” I said. “They don’t seem to have even tried to hide him. People use these paths: cyclists, walkers,joggers and people taking short cuts. He was always going to be found quickly.”
    My companion nodded, and stood politely aside to let me get to the garden gate and spin the combination. We filed back into the house, and I offered everyone a cup of tea. Mr Ndzoyiya accepted, but Verne said he had to get back to university. He and Chantal shook hands with Mr Ndzoyiya, and left.
    I made the tea, and carried the tray through to the studio.
    â€œYou are a painter?” Mr Ndzoyiya asked, gesturing to my easel. With a jolt I realised that the hand beginning to take shape on the canvas was that of the man accused of murdering his father.
    â€œYes. That’s how I met Daniel … Mr Moyo. You know, Mr Ndzoyiya, I can’t believe he had anything to do with this. I don’t know quite how to put this … but can I ask you? Did your father have any enemies? Could anyone possibly have wanted him dead? I suppose the police have asked you all of this, but I’m very worried about Mr Moyo. He’s a Zimbabwean refugee, and things haven’t been easy for him. And, of course, many foreigners have had very bad experiences in this country. Even at the hands of the police. And Mr Moyo’s only contact with your father had been on the phone, a request for information.”
    I felt uncomfortable: I had no idea what Mr Ndzoyiya’s feelings about foreigners, or anything else, were. But I ploughed on. “I feel I must try to help Daniel. If you have any idea who might have killed your father, who his enemies were, could you tell me?”
    Mr Ndzoyiya reached for his tea. Considering that the accused was a friend of mine, he seemed relaxed in my presence and, if not exactly friendly, certainly perfectly amiable. Looking down into the mug, he began to speak.
    â€œMrs Marsh, my father believed deeply that the sacrifice his grandfather and others made for their masters in war should be recognised. Perhaps particularly in the First World War, which he felt was not the business of African people but where they went willingly, from a sense of duty. And that is, in itself, not a contentious opinion. But the way that recognition is given and by whom is, like so many things, not as readily resolved.
    â€œWhen Mr Moyo contacted my father, and told him, as I understand it, that he wanted to do some paintings about soldiers fighting for their colonisers, he was interested. He had many stories and felt he could share some of them, maybe give Mr Moyo some ideas. He did not believe memorials should be the property of governments, the kind that are officially opened with fanfares and expensive celebrations and then ignored. He felt they should be everywhere – in schoolbooks, in art, in everyday life.”
    â€œThat seems a good idea,” I said. It was a feeble response, but I wanted to say something to keep Mr Ndzoyiya going as he seemed to have reached a natural pause.
    â€œMany of the people on the Mendi , including my great-grandfather, were from Pondoland, as I am. I know my father sometimes felt other people were trying to take over our memories, use them for their own ends. But I don’t really know if he had had any specific quarrel with anyone about it. Though I do remember …” Mr Ndzoyiya trailed off, and looked up at me. “Maybe these are things I should rather be telling the police.” He stood up and thanked me formally for the tea, and for taking time to show him where the body had been found.
    â€œMr Ndzoyiya, look, I don’t want to interfere, but I do feel the police are targeting Daniel. If you know anything, or if you feel you could tell me anything, please won’t you? Or if you would rather not talk to me