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get some fresh air.”
    “Ja.” Hansie headed for the exit with hunched shoulders. It would take a while for the image of the captain, naked and molested by a black woman, to clear from his mind.
    Emmanuel waited for the door to close before he spoke to Sister Angelina and Zweigman, both of whom had stepped back from the body during the young policeman’s outburst. A white teenager with a uniform and badge clearly outranked a foreign Jew and a black nun.
    “Carry on,” he said, trying to move past an acute feeling of embarrassment. The Afrikaners had voted the National Party in. Racial segregation belonged to people like Captain Pretorius and his sons. A detective didn’t have to adhere to the new laws. Murder didn’t have a color.
    “It is just as well,” Zweigman said after he’d murmured a low instruction to the sisters, who unfolded a white sheet and held it across the front of the captain’s body to shield it from view. Zweigman reached for the internal thermometer, hesitated, then cast Shabalala a concerned glance.
    “You can leave now, if you’d like,” Emmanuel said to the Zulu constable.
    “No.” Shabalala didn’t move a muscle. “I will stay here with him.”
    Zweigman nodded, then continued with the grim task of extracting information from the dead. He checked the results of the internal thermometer, rechecked the milky film masking the captain’s eyes, and then examined the cleaned body for a second time.
    “Cause of death was trauma to the head and spine caused by a bullet. The trauma to these areas is so specific and severe I believe the victim was most likely dead before reaching the water. I have not gone into the lungs to confirm, but that is my opinion.”
    “How do you know he was found in water?” Emmanuel was sure he hadn’t mentioned the fact to Zweigman.
    “Sediment on his wet clothes and in his hair. Captain Pretorius smells of the river.”
    Emmanuel’s shoes were covered in mud and decaying leaves. Both he and Shabalala looked as if they’d been dredged in the river and then hung out to dry.
    “Time of death?” he asked.
    “Hard to tell. The captain’s lack of body fat and the cool water in which his body was found make calculations difficult. Somewhere between eight PM and midnight last night is my best guess.” The white-haired grocer handed the internal thermometer to Sister Bernadette and peeled off his gloves.
    The sliced police uniform was heaped on the floor. The buttons still shone.
    “Shabalala, did the captain always go fishing in his uniform?”
    “Sometimes, when it was late, he went straight from the station to fish. He didn’t like to disturb madam after dinner.”
    “Or maybe”—Zweigman pulled off the untied surgical gown and dumped it onto the side counter—“he just liked to wear the uniform.”
    Emmanuel flicked back in his notebook and placed a tick next to “Zweigman vs. Captain?” The uniform statement was harmless enough, but there was an edge to it. Had Pretorius used his position to come down on the shopkeeper for some minor infraction? Every year the National Party introduced a dozen new ways to break the law. Zweigman wouldn’t be the first to get caught.
    “If you’ll excuse me, I will fill in the death certificate and be on my way. Here is a supply of painkillers for your head.” Zweigman handed over a full bottle. “No offense, Detective, but I hope not to see you again.”
    “Can you think of anyone who could have done this?” Emmanuel pocketed the pills and opened the morgue door for the physician.
    “I’m the old Jew who sells dry goods to natives and coloureds. Nobody comes to me with their secrets, Detective.”
    “An educated guess, then?”
    “He didn’t have any enemies that I know of. If the killer is from this town, then he has kept his feelings well hidden.”
    “So you think the murder was planned and personal?”
    Zweigman lifted an eyebrow. “That I cannot say, as I was not privy to any discussions