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leading up to the captain’s unfortunate demise. Will that be all, Detective?”
    “For now.”
    There were few certainties this early in a case, but one was already clear: he’d be seeing the old Jew again and not to buy lentils.
    “Constable Hepple!” Emmanuel called.
    The boy policeman scuttled over. “Get the Pretorius brothers. Tell them their father is ready to go home.”

3
    T HE FRONT OFFICE of the Jacob’s Rest police station consisted of one large room with two wooden desks, five chairs, and a metal filing cabinet pushed against the back wall. Gray lines worn into the polished concrete floor made a map of each policeman’s daily journey from door to desk to cabinet. A doorway at one side led to the cells and another in the back wall to a separate office. Shabalala was nowhere to be seen.
    Emmanuel entered the back office. Captain Pretorius’s desk was larger and neater than the others and had a black telephone in one corner. He picked up the receiver and dialed district headquarters.
    “Congratulations.” Major van Niekerk’s cultured voice crackled down the line after the operator’s third attempt to connect them.
    “What for, sir?”
    “Uniting the country. Once the story gets out, the native, English and Afrikaans press will finally have something to agree on—that the Detective Branch is understaffed, ill informed and losing the battle against crime. One detective to cover the murder of a white police officer—the newspapers will have to run extra editions.”
    Emmanuel felt a jolt. “You know about the case, sir?”
    “Just got a call from the National Party boys.” The statement was overlaid with a casual indifference that didn’t ring true. “The Security Branch, no less. They think Pretorius’s murder may be political.”
    “The Security Branch?” Emmanuel tensed. “How did they get to hear about it so fast?”
    “They didn’t get the information from me, Cooper. Someone at your end must have tipped them off.”
    There was no way Hansie Hepple or Shabalala were hooked up to such heavyweights. The Security Branch wasn’t a regional body monitoring rainfall and crop production. They were entrusted with matters of national security and had the power to pull the rug from under anyone—including Major van Niekerk and the whole Detective Branch. Did the Pretorius brothers have those kinds of connections?
    “What do they mean by ‘political’?” Emmanuel asked.
    “The defiance campaign’s got them spooked. They think the murder may be the beginning of Communist-style revolt by the natives.”
    “How did they come up with that?” The revolution idea would be funny if anyone but the Security Branch had flagged it. “The defiance campaign protesters prefer burning their ID passes and marching to the town hall after curfew. They want the National Party segregation laws repealed. Killing policemen isn’t their style.”
    “Maybe the Security Branch knows something we don’t. Either way, they made sure I knew they were taking an interest in the case and they expect to be informed of any developments as they occur.”
    “Is taking an interest as far as it goes?” Even members of the foot section of the police knew “taking an interest” was code for taking control.
    There was a long pause. “My guess is, if the defiance campaign dies down, they’ll step back. If it doesn’t, there’s no telling what they’ll do. We’re in different times now, Cooper.”
    Emmanuel didn’t think the defiance campaign showed any sign of dying down. Prime Minister Malan and the National Party had begun to enact their plan as soon as they’d taken office. The new segregation laws divided people into race groups, told them where they could live and told them where they could work. The Immorality Act went so far as to tell people whom they could sleep with and love. The growth of the defiance campaign meant that the Security Branch, or Special Branch as it was tagged on the street, would walk