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run.’
    The Dutch colonel was not used to hearing the word ‘no’ except, perhaps, from his virginal English fiancée. There was a brittle silence before he said, ‘Finding another doctor won’t be a problem, Cooper. I’ll make a few calls.’
    ‘Much appreciated, Colonel.’ Emmanuel’s fingers flexed around the telephone cord. A suggestion from van Niekerk was really a de-facto order. Giving up without a fight on having ‘the old Jew’ conduct Amahle’s medical examination was out of character. Or perhaps the colonel felt the examination of a black girl’s corpse was not worth fighting over.
    ‘Who called the case in, sir?’ Emmanuel asked, curious.
    ‘It was an anonymous tip-off from a local woman. A European. The constable on duty figured the victim was white as well.’
    ‘I understand.’ Emmanuel saw the bigger picture. The out-of-town murder of a European (as van Niekerk assumed) provided the perfect opportunity to get the names Cooper and Shabalala back on the board at the European and native detective branch. Van Niekerk had, with characteristic patience, waited for the right moment to move them up the ladder to a more powerful position.
    And Emmanuel had repaid that loyalty by sleeping with Lana Rose. An excusable error for a hormonal teenage boy but not for a grown man able to weigh up the risks and consequences. Running, still running towards trouble. Nonetheless, he wasn’t sure he’d take back the night with Lana, even if he could.
    ‘Everything okay, Cooper?’ Van Niekerk spoke over the soft whir of a ceiling fan. Durban was humid this time of year, the air thick enough to carve into ribbons.
    ‘All fine this end, sir,’ Emmanuel said. ‘We’ll interview the girl’s family and friends and report any news tomorrow afternoon.’
    ‘Make it late. I have a tailor’s fitting in the morning, a final meeting with the minister and a wedding rehearsal dinner to get through.’ No joy there, just lists of duties to be endured till the wedding-night reward.
    ‘No problem, Colonel.’ Emmanuel dropped the heavy Bakelite handle onto the cradle and pushed the phone back onto the grooves marked on the table surface. Bagley had a specific place for each pen and notepad, he noticed.
    White clouds bloomed on the horizon, backlit by shafts of early afternoon sunlight. A white woman had reported the murder. One of the European-owned farms in the Kamberg was the most likely source of the call. Why the tip-off was directed to the Durban detective branch when Constable Desmond Bagley of the Roselet police lived less than fifty miles from the crime scene was a mystery.

FOUR
    F orty or so members of the local Zion Christian Church, known as Zionis, gathered by a wide river. They clapped and swayed in rhythm on the sandy bank as they sang ‘Come, Holy Spirit, Dove Divine’. In the middle of the river, a girl in a white robe with green trim rose up from the water, newly baptised, to shouts of ‘amen’ and ‘hallelujah’. A second group of Zionis clustered around a wood fire with their hands held out to the flames while water dripped from their gowns and pooled at their feet.
    ‘How do we find him?’ Emmanuel asked.
    ‘The mothers sitting with Amahle said that Baba Kaleni is the head of the True Israelites congregation,’ said Shabalala. ‘I do not recognise any of the markings on the robes, so we will have to ask.’
    Looking around as they walked along the compact dirt path, Emmanuel noticed half a dozen different robes; some trimmed in black, others in moss-green. A group of women in pale blue and navy-blue collars sat on rocks by the river sharing an orange. Two men with leopard-skin trim stacked Bibles into a wheelbarrow to be transported back to church.
    ‘Different congregations wear different robes,’ Emmanuel said and wondered why that distinction had never been clear to him before. Perhaps he’d never looked closely enough.
    ‘ Yebo , Sergeant. My church wears green robes with a white