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doctor’s perfect Sunday afternoon.
    ‘The police.’ A tall woman with hazy blue eyes and dark hair cut in a bob held the door ajar with her elbow. She was good-looking in the horse-faced way of English ladies who wore floral-print dresses, wide-brimmed hats and cotton gloves. ‘Has Jim crashed the car again?’
    ‘This isn’t about a crash,’ Emmanuel said, not happy about the possibility that the local doctor was an inveterate speeder with a history of abrupt endings. ‘We’d like a word with Dr Daglish if he’s in.’
    ‘I’m Dr Daglish, Detective. Margaret Daglish.’ She appeared to take no offence at Emmanuel’s assumption that the town doctor must be a man. ‘What can I do for you?’
    Emmanuel introduced himself and Shabalala, using the time to recover from his embarrassment. It was provincial and chauvinist to think the words ‘female’ and ‘doctor’ didn’t go together. ‘We have the body of a teenage girl that requires a medical examination to determine time and cause of death. It’s urgent.’
    ‘Who is it?’ Her dark eyebrows lifted.
    ‘A Zulu girl. Amahle Matebula,’ Emmanuel said and a flash of some emotion crossed the doctor’s face. Anxiety? Fear? And a softer feeling that he couldn’t read as well. Regret? ‘Did you know her?’
    ‘No.’ Margaret Daglish raised her left hand to show a bandaged wrist. ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you, Detective Cooper. I fell over about a week ago. Manipulating instruments is out of the question. I don’t have the strength to carry out a proper examination. Not one that I’d be happy with.’
    ‘You’re incapable of performing an examination?’ Emmanuel said and held the doctor’s gaze. Something more than a sprained wrist was behind this refusal.
    ‘Not a full and proper examination. That would be impossible.’ Dr Daglish leaned closer and added in an anxious voice, ‘You should get another doctor. One from out of this area.’
    ‘I see. Where do you suggest we look?’
    ‘Pietermaritzburg or Durban,’ came the swift reply. ‘A qualified physician who can stay in Roselet for a few days and then leave after the work is done.’
    Emmanuel reflected on what Daglish was really saying: Amahle had to be examined by an objective stranger with no local ties who’d sign off on the medical findings and clear town before the shit hit the fan.
    ‘An outside doctor can be arranged,’ he said.
    ‘That’s for the best,’ Daglish said with a strained smile. ‘I’m happy to assist the visiting doctor with medical supplies.’
    Dodging the examination was one thing, but Emmanuel wasn’t going to let the town doctor walk away from the case altogether. ‘It will take time for the relief doctor to get here and we need somewhere to keep the body until then. Can you help?’
    Margaret Daglish looked at the hearse-like Chevrolet surrounded by garden flowers. The colour drained from her cheeks and remorse registered in her eyes: a response prompted by the death of a young girl or by her own cowardice in refusing to perform the examination, it was impossible to say.
    ‘There’s a basement at the back of the house,’ she said. ‘It’s dark and cool inside. She will be safe there.’
    ‘May we move her in right away?’
    ‘Of course.’ The doctor blinked hard and pointed to the side of the house. ‘Follow that path to the rear. The land slopes down to a door that opens directly into the basement. I’ll have the room open and ready.’
    Emmanuel and Shabalala headed for the Chevrolet. Safe. Loved. Beautiful. Protected. The words from his notebook played on his mind. Amahle had been blessed, but with every blessing came a shadow. Envied. Hated. Feared. Harmed. Those words might also apply to the dead girl.
    ‘The constable did not look for her and now the doctor will not examine her.’ Shabalala seemed to read Emmanuel’s mind. ‘What is there to fear from a Zulu girl?’
    ‘You think Dr Daglish is lying about her wrist,’ Emmanuel