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go and look for it, but I imagine he must have brought it. He came round in it this morning.”
    â€œOh. He’s been here today, then?”
    â€œYes. We worked on some photographs.”
    â€œDid he bring his car into your drive, inside the gate?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd yesterday?”
    I stared at Pillay. “I suppose so. I don’t remember.” And I didn’t. Which was odd. This morning Dan had come in the gate and parked his red Citi Golf behind my garage. There was a dent on the back, just below the boot lid, which I had noticed when I opened the front door. Had he done the same yesterday afternoon? I somehow didn’t think so, but if not, why not? A whisper of concern, insubstantial but troubling, drifted into my mind. But whether he had parked in the drive or in the road, what did it matter?
    Pillay got up. “Mr Moyo did have his car here yesterday. Both Sergeant Dhlomo and I saw it when we arrived. It was parked outside your gate. Now, why would he do that?”
    â€œI don’t know. Maybe he didn’t mean to stay long. He didn’t know the boys were away and so perhaps he thought Rory might be coming back with his car. It was only when he came in and saw I was working that he offered to takeGrumpy out.” At the sound of his name, Grumpy, who was sprawled in a patch of sun on the tiled floor, thumped his tail and gave a contented groan.
    â€œWe’ll be asking him about that.” Pillay paused, and looked down at me. “Mrs Marsh, I know you’re a friend of Mr Moyo, but I must tell you he could be in some trouble over this.”
    I started to protest, but Pillay held up his hand. “How long have you known him?”
    â€œFive, six years. He was studying at university and we got friendly. He’s a Zimbabwean: he was in a difficult situation, trying to get his documents in order and short of money. It’s tough for refugees, as I’m sure you must know. Locals, officials, even the police, are resentful. He stayed here for a while. He’s a friend of my sons as well, and I trust him completely. He’s one of the gentlest people I know – he couldn’t do anything violent.”
    â€œHe’s been in some trouble with the police in Johannesburg, part of a vigilante group that got mixed up in a violent altercation. Did you know that?”
    â€œHe mentioned it – it was nothing. Just a scuffle, he said.”
    Pillay said nothing. He shrugged his shoulders and then asked me if I had walked the dog in the plantations today.
    â€œNo. At least, I went up the road and took a lane that runs alongside my neighbours’ house. You can walk along the edge of the trees. It’s a bit steeper, but I didn’t want to go to where … you know.”
    â€œOf course. I’m not sure that walking there alone is a good idea, Mrs Marsh. Nothing to do with this case, but as a general rule. You should be careful.” He looked at me with concern in those deceptively gentle brown eyes. “Well, I must be going. Thank you for the tea. I mayneed to speak to you again, and if you think of anything, anything at all that could be of help, please phone me.” He handed me his card, and I watched him leave, flicking it backwards and forwards between my fingers. I couldn’t help liking him, though at the same time, my concern for Daniel was growing. Why on earth would someone he was planning to meet have been murdered, and then left here for him to find? And was there more to that “scuffle” than he had told me?

8
    A FTER THE INSPECTOR LEFT I felt a deep uneasiness, unable to settle, waiting for further interruptions. At around five o’clock the phone rang and, as my hand went out to pick up the receiver, I was aware of a peculiar sensation – as if a storm was about to break, the smell of sulphur in the air. I’m not usually one for premonitions, but sure enough, the caller was Daniel, his