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and ask, ‘Is he/she nice?’ Not, ‘Is she a good person?’ or, ‘Is he a man of integrity?’ But nice – that all-inclusive, meaningless, lazy word South Africans just love to use. What they really want to know is whether fame and fortune have turned the subject of the discussion into a self-centred monster, news that they can pass on as part of the eternal market forces of information that determine social status.
    Or something like that. The standard answer of B. J. Fikter, the only other Body Armour employee that I can work with tolerably, is, ‘I can tell you, but then I’d have to shoot you.’ It was an affirmation that still afforded status, but the worn-out joke avoided revealing any details.
    ‘We sign a confidentiality clause,’ I told Emma.
    ‘Oh’
    It took a while for her to come to the realisation that she had tried all the possible subjects without success. A merciful quiet descended. After a while she took out the magazine again.

6
    Kruger Mpumalanga International Airport was a surprise, despite the pretentious name. The airport building, set between green hills and chunky rock formations, was modern and new. And attractive. It had an African theme of giant thatched roof and ochre walls, yet was not kitsch. The heat out on the runway was oppressive, the humidity high. I switched on my cell phone as we walked to the arrivals hall. There was an SMS from Jeanette, FILE EXISTS.
    Inside the terminal it was cooler, quite bearable. We waited for our luggage. I stood half behind Emma. There was a sensual curve to her jeans and the slope of her lovely neck and shoulders which set off the powder-blue camisole to best advantage. But shifting my focus away, to compare her to the larger, coarser people surrounding her, I noticed that she seemed vulnerable. She had a tender fragility that cried out for protection, or at least compassion, despite the subtle self-assurance of the beautiful and wealthy career woman.
    On the plane she had been charming, correct, humble, an altruist. I am interested in you as a person, Lemmer, even though you are a hired hand.
    So many facets.
    Lemmer’s Law of Small Women: Never trust them. Not professionally, nor personally. From an early age they learn two Pavlovian tricks. The first is a product of people’s reactions: ‘Ah, aren’t you a cute little thing,’ especially if the little face is round and the eyes large. People treat them like precious little pets, so they learn to exploit that with mannerisms and gestures that emphasise their cuteness, and allow them to sharpen their manipulativeskills into a social blade. The second is the feeling of physical helplessness. The world is big and powerful; they are delicate and relatively weak. The bigger, fuller woman’s curves of breast and thigh are beacons for male interest; the silhouettes of small women attract less attention. For survival, self-defence and to stand their ground, they are forced to resort to other means. They learn to use the power of their intellect; they learn to manipulate, to play a continuous mental game with the world around them.
    Jeanette had confirmed the existence of the case file. There was truth in Emma’s story. But how much truth? Did it answer enough of the questions? If her life truly was in danger, why had she opted for Body Armour’s cheapest option, when, according to Carel, she had inherited grandly?
    Should I give her the benefit of the doubt and assume that Carel had been exaggerating? Or didn’t Emma believe that she was in real danger – despite being a small woman with a predisposition to that? Perhaps she was financially conservative. Or just stingy. Or too modest or self-conscious to bear the presence of two to four men with firearms around her.
    Or she could be playing a game.
    Our luggage arrived. We went over to Budget Rent-A-Car. My phone rang while Emma was completing the forms. I recognised the number, moved a distance away and answered.
    ‘Hello, Antjie,’ I