African Sky (13 page)

‘Why didn't you ejaculate inside her, Nkomo? Not man enough?'

Pip took a deep breath and glanced down at her notebook. She wasn't sure how much of this was supposed to go into the official record of interview, but she also wasn't game to interrupt Hayes mid-interview. She looked across at Nkomo's face. He seemed, through the horrible mask of injuries on his face, genuinely to be confused by the last question. ‘What?'

‘You raped her, but you couldn't finish off, could you? You're weak, aren't you? I'm surprised you could even get it up.'

‘I'm sorry,' Nkomo coughed, looking up with beseeching eyes. ‘Please, Sergeant,
sah,
I don't know what this is about.'

‘We found these in your car,' Hayes said, holding up two documents. ‘Constable, let the record reflect that I am showing the accused the air force identity card and driver's licence of Miss Felicity Langham.'

Pip wrote that down, relieved she could note something remotely relevant and printable. No amount of confusion or protestation of innocence on the part of Innocent Nkomo could change the fact that he had Felicity's personal papers in the boot of his car. And something else. Something worse.

‘And, Constable, let the record show I am holding a pair of female underpants up for identification. Who do these belong to, Nkomo?'

‘I . . . have . . . no . . . idea.'

Hayes grasped the edge of the table, stood and, in one violent, earsplitting movement, up-ended it into Nkomo's face, knocking him to the floor. The African sprawled on his back. A policeman who had been standing by the door moved towards the fallen man. ‘Stay where you are, Constable,' Hayes barked. He stood over Nkomo and swung his foot hard into the black man's ribs. Nkomo groaned and coughed blood.

‘Sergeant!' Pip stood, hands on hips. She realised Hayes' anger was blinding him. Nkomo was either a very good actor or he genuinely had no idea what the sergeant was talking about. If Hayes continued in this way the suspect might die under questioning.

He shot her a look of anger, mixed with contempt. ‘If you haven't the stomach for this interview, Constable Lovejoy, we'll understand if you want to go powder your nose.'

That did it. She strode across to where Nkomo lay. He was a big man, tall, handsome and muscled, maybe thirty years old. She reached down and grabbed the chain linking the wrist cuffs. She leaned back and hauled him to his feet. Hayes stood to one side, mouth agape, apparently so surprised by her actions he was incapable of moving. ‘How did Miss Langham's things get in your car, Mr Nkomo?' she asked.

‘You heard me tell the sergeant before. I do not know how those things got in my car, and that is the truth. I swear to God. Someone has put them there. I did not kill this woman!'

‘Can you possibly imagine what it's like to be raped, Mr Nkomo?' she asked in a quiet voice. Hayes opened his mouth to speak, but seemed to think better of it and remained silent as Pip righted the desk and chair and motioned Nkomo to sit. The African man sat and shook his head.

She stood behind and slightly to one side of the prisoner. ‘The violation, the degradation, of having someone use your body without consent.'

‘I did not . . .'

‘The evidence speaks otherwise, Mr Nkomo. Do you know that a man can be raped?' He turned his head to the side and looked up at her. ‘You've never been to gaol, have you?'

‘No. I am innocent. Like my name.'

‘Yes, very nice, I'm sure your mother was a good judge of character. You'll find out, you know, what it's like to be raped,' she said, matter-of-factly.

‘I did not kill this woman!' Nkomo shouted.

Pip leaned down until her face was a few inches from his. ‘Don't think you can raise your voice to me because I'm a woman. I'm capable of doing you as much harm as Sergeant Hayes, but in other ways.'

Hayes stood in the shadow, arms folded, beyond the circle of light cast by the single bare light bulb hanging in the interview room.

‘I'm not talking about your guilt, or otherwise, of the rape or murder of Felicity Langham, Nkomo.'

He looked back over his shoulder. The angle was awkward, and he had to strain to see her face. ‘What do you mean?'

‘When you were arrested you had a hundred pounds, a fortune in cash, in your pocket. New suit, new shoes, a motor car. Most of us can barely afford to keep a motor car these days, and we can never find the petrol for one. Yet, according to my notes, Mr Nkomo, you had three forty-four gallon drums of petrol in a back room of the house where you live.'

‘That was all bought legally –' he began.

‘Shut up, Mr Nkomo. There's a war on, you know. Lots of things, like petrol, are rationed. Some people, some magistrates, for example, would put black marketeering during wartime up there with murder. You're going to gaol, Mr Nkomo, for possession of stolen goods.'

‘You can't prove that.'

‘Oh yes, I can. And you know it. How long do you think it would take me, if I asked a few questions in your neighbourhood, made a few well-placed threats, to get one of your neighbours to roll over on you? People are jealous of wealth, Mr Nkomo, whether ill-gotten or legally earned. Maybe we'll just sit in your house and wait for someone to
come knocking at your door looking for petrol, or whatever else you've been peddling. And you, Mr Nkomo, will end up in gaol.'

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘What has this got to do with the charges against me?'

‘Everything. If we can't put you away for murder – though we've probably got enough evidence to convict you right here,' she said, pointing to the documents and undergarments, which she had arranged back on the table, ‘we can lock you up for your other illegal activities, and that's a fact'.

‘I am innocent.
Innocent
Nkomo!'

‘So you say. After we've put you away for trading on the black market, after we pack you off to gaol, we can have a few quiet words in the ears of the prison warders.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘I'm sure your fellow inmates would be interested to learn how you cooperated with the police, how you sold out dozens of your contacts, how you've been working as a paid police informer for years.'

A look of horror passed over his face. ‘But that is not true.'

‘Men get lonely in gaol, so I've heard,' Pip said.

‘Why are you doing this to me? I am innocent.' There was a sob in his deep voice now.

‘Men have urges, needs, as I'm sure you're well aware. Rape can take many forms in a prison. Some men may decide to have sex with you for pleasure. More likely they will use it as a means to punish you, as a police informer.'

Behind Nkomo's back, Pip glanced across at Hayes, still standing in the gloom. She saw the whites of his teeth, bared in a leering smile, and his slight nod of encouragement. God, she thought, he's almost proud of me now. Is this how I have to act to be accepted as a police officer? She almost felt ashamed. She hated resorting to such disgusting tactics to make a man talk – even to threaten perjuring herself went completely against her own morals. However, it seemed the only other way of getting a confession out of a suspect, according to the Hayes interogation manual, was with bare fists, or maybe more.

Nkomo coughed, clearing his throat. ‘I am not an informer, but if I tell you what I was doing on the night it happened, what will happen to me? If I have done something illegal, you will still send me to gaol.'

‘That very much depends on what you were doing,' she said.

‘Will I go to gaol, really, for selling black-market petrol?'

‘If that's all you were doing, there's a chance, a reasonable chance, you might get off with a fine.'

‘The people who buy petrol from me, they are not only African people.'

‘Not surprising. I don't see many Africans driving their own cars,' Pip said. ‘What do you want to tell me, Mr Nkomo?'

‘The sergeant asked what I was doing between midnight and two-thirty in the morning, the night the woman died.'

‘Yes, that's right,' Pip said. Another pair of police officers had found the house where Felicity lived – it turned out it was owned by her friend, Catherine De Beers – and interviewed the neighbours on either side. One, an elderly woman, a busybody, Pip gathered, had noted that Felicity Langham had left her home at midnight. The woman had heard, but not seen a car drive away. Felicity's body had been found by a shebeen barman taking out the garbage to the alley behind his pub at two-thirty in the morning. It was a pretty narrow window for the murder to have been committed. ‘You told Sergeant Hayes earlier that you were at your home between midnight and just before we saw you at the crime scene, but you hadn't adequately explained why you suddenly decided to go out drinking in the early hours of the morning. Are you changing your story now, Mr Nkomo?'

‘I am innocent of attacking this woman. I was not at home, though, that night.'

‘Bastard's been lying to us all night. Why should he tell the truth now?' Hayes said from the shadows.

Pip shot her superior an annoyed look and he shrugged, apparently allowing her to continue. ‘The relevant information for us . . . for you, Mr Nkomo, is whether or not there are people who can corroborate your story.'

Nkomo lifted his manacled hands and put his elbows on the table.
He lowered his forehead and wiped his sweating brow. ‘There
are
people who saw me that night, but I do not know if they will speak for me.'

‘You can leave that part to us. We want the names of
everyone
you spent time with that night; from dusk until dawn should do it,' Pip said.

Nkomo looked up at her, his swollen eyes wet with tears. ‘Some of them I don't know their names.'

‘What about for the time in question, midnight to two-thirty?'

Nkomo closed his eyes and thought for a moment. ‘Yes, no problem. I have the names of the people I met at that time. There were three of them. I know because they are regular customers.'

‘Customers, my arse! He'll just give us a list of his bloody mates, and they'll say whatever he wants them to say,' Hayes scoffed.

Nkomo looked up at him. ‘I think you will be surprised, Sergeant, at who I do business with in the middle of the night.'

The RAF Kumalo pipe band played ‘God Save the King' out on the parade ground, the pipers and drummers barely visible through the shimmering curtain of heat haze that rose from the baking Tarmac.

Poor bastards, Bryant thought as he stood at the window in his office. As well as the band's rehearsal, the three classes of trainee pilots who would soon graduate were practising marching on and off. The trainees' drill had to be as good – or better – than their flying, given the bigwigs who would be attending their parade. They would be sweating like pigs, but not for the same reason as the man in front of him.

Bryant turned back from the window and looked him up and down. The young man's back was straight, his eyes staring straight ahead, but he was nervous.

‘Relax, Cavendish, I'm not going to hit you. Cigarette?' He offered the Canadian his packet.

‘Sure. I mean, yes, thank you, sir.' The younger man said, taking a cigarette.

Bryant lit it for him, then returned to his chair. He sat back as he smoked his own. ‘I've read your statement, Andy.'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘And you know what?'

‘No, sir, what?' There was a note of defiance in his voice.

‘I think it's bullshit.'

‘I had engine trouble, sir, and–'

‘The erks pulled your kite apart this morning. Apart from a bent prop, they found absolutely nothing wrong with that engine. The flight sergeant in charge told me he'd be prepared to put it in another Harvard today and accompany the pilot on a flight test. What do you think about that?'

‘I know what I saw.'

‘Oh, yes,' Bryant said, looking down at the typed statement in front of him. ‘Low oil pressure.'

‘Maybe it was the gauge?'

‘Nice try, Andy. The mechanics tested the gauges, all of them. No faults there. Why are you lying to me?'

‘Sir, I am not.'

‘Son – yes, you bloody well are. And I'll tell you the God's honest truth – and this is for your own benefit – the Wingco told me himself he hates liars worse than stupid pilots. His own words, Andy, not mine.'

‘All I know is that I had signs of engine trouble . . .'

‘Signs,
Andy?' Bryant kept his voice calm, soft even. ‘Don't kid a kidder, mate. I was back-squaded to bombers for a stunt almost as stupid as yours. At least I had the guts to admit that all I was trying to do was impress a popsy.'

‘There was no woman involved, sir,' Cavendish said, looking straight ahead, unable to maintain eye contact with Bryant.

‘Catherine De Beers is an attractive woman, Andy. Yes or no?'

‘I'm a married man, sir. I married my high-school sweetheart just before I left Vancouver. I haven't looked at another woman since, and don't intend to.'

‘Yeah, right, mate. Look, Andy, we're both men . . .' Bryant began.

This time Cavendish stared at him, eyes ablaze: ‘Believe one thing I say,
sir.
I would
never
be unfaithful to my wife. That is the God's honest truth.'

Bryant extinguished his cigarette and puffed out his cheeks. ‘You're not helping me here, Andy.' He consulted the file in front of him and flicked through some pages until he found the one he was looking for. ‘This is the charge form, filled out when you were first locked up.' Cavendish had been under detention for the past week and was dressed in plain but highly starched blue overalls and spit-polished boots.

Cavendish looked across the desk, trying to read upside down.

‘Bootlaces, tie, belt, all that stuff they normally take off you when you're arrested. But here's the thing that caught my attention, Andy. Says here you had two hundred pounds in your wallet.'