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have been the guy you were going to meet, it could help them to identify him.”
    â€œI don’t want to be involved. Not in any way. Look, Laura, you have no idea how tough it is to be an immigrant here, a refugee. You saw that man, Dhlomo, yesterday. He obviously wanted to have a go at me. Just because I’m not South African. It’s easy for you to say, ‘Go to the cops.’ But no, I want nothing to do with it. The cops don’t like Zimbabweans any more than anyone else does. And anyway, in Joburg recently … I just don’t want to have anything to do with them again.”
    â€œBut, Dan, for God’s sake, a man is dead. If you think you know something about him, you have to say so.”
    â€œIt may just be a coincidence. If they find out who the body is, and if it’s the same man … then maybe I’ll say something. But not unless. He was probably carrying ID anyway. They just didn’t tell us. And if it was him, why was he here, in this road? I never told anyone I was coming here, except Verne, in passing. And he wouldn’t come looking for me: we were going to set up a meeting. He was coming to Pietermaritzburg for other stuff as well.”
    We stared at each other. Dan had articulated exactly what I was thinking: why here? If it was the same man, and Dan told the police now, they were certainly going to wonder why he hadn’t said anything yesterday. He was making all this worse for himself. They had already picked up on the Mendi connection: our reaction to their questions yesterday had made sure of that.
    â€œWhat was the name of the guy you contacted?”
    â€œPhineas Ndzoyiya. That’s all I know.”
    â€œDaniel, I really think you have to tell the police. Say you were shocked yesterday, and the Mendi thing came out of the blue. But that this man had said he wanted to talk to you about the survivors’ stories. There can’t really be a connection. I mean, no one would be killed because he was going to repeat stories his grandfather had toldhim of things that happened in the First World War. It’s nearly a hundred years ago.”
    Daniel shrugged. “I’ll see. I’m sure the cops will be back anyway. Look, thanks for lunch. I’m going to head off now.”
    He left, rather abruptly. I went back to the computer and started fiddling with a couple of the photographs in Photoshop, cropping and highlighting until I got the effects I wanted. But my heart wasn’t really in it. What the hell was going on?

7
    I PRINTED OUT A COUPLE of the photographs, and was comparing them with my apple painting when the doorbell rang again. I had been half expecting it and, sure enough, there was Inspector Pillay, on his own this time, for which I was grateful. I hadn’t much taken to Sergeant Dhlomo, but then he also seemed not to have taken much to me either. Or Daniel. Either way, his was a presence I could do without.
    Pillay came in looking rumpled and even wearier than yesterday.
    â€œTea, Inspector?”
    â€œThat would be lovely. If you’re having some.”
    â€œSure. Go through to the studio and I’ll bring it now.”
    As tribute to the might and dignity of the law, I made the tea in a pot rather than follow my usual teabag-in-a-mug regime. But I did stick with the mugs. Somewhere in a cupboard are teacups and saucers, but in the five years since my divorce and the merciful end of visits from my ex-mother-in-law, they have stayed there.
    When I carried the tray through, Pillay was staring out of the window. No art criticism today. He turned as I came in, and waited until I had sat down before he moved to an upright chair facing me.
    I thought I might as well take the bull by the horns:“Do you know who the man is … was?”
    â€œOh yes. He was carrying his ID. We didn’t say anything until we had contacted his family. His son identified the body this morning.” If anything, Pillay