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Kramer.
    “Not far, man, not far …”
    The sugarcane began to thin out and the track changed color, switching from reddish brown to almost white. Little grew on the flat landscape ahead, apart from the waxy-looking tufts of grass and a few wind-bent thorn trees, while in the distance lay a line of pale hillocks of an unusual kind, reminiscent of mine dumps.
    “What the hell are those?” asked Kramer, pointing.
    “Man, those are giant dunes, believe it or not,” said Terblanche. “This is all duneland, this part—you know, it was once under the sea. You can even find seashells way back here.”
    “Don’t they have bloody animals in this game reserve?”
    “Birds will be the big attraction, so they say. It isn’t properly open yet.”
    “Just birds?”
    “Ach, there’s a few crocs in the estuary, but let me show you something …”
    The Land Rover slowed down and stopped. “Over there,” said Terblanche. “Do you see that clump of thorn trees about fifty yards to the right?”
    “Ja, and I can also see what is probably Kritzinger’s car hidden and abandoned there,” said Kramer.
    “You’ve got good eyes!” exclaimed Terblanche, sounding mildly miffed to have had his punch line stolen from him. “I haven’t really enough boys to put one on guard there, but I will if you insist, hey?”
    Kramer shook his head. “Forget it,” he said. “Clever positioning, though, on Kritz’s part. I bet that at night any headlights going along this track wouldn’t touch it.”
    “Correct, Tromp—mine didn’t. I only noticed the car this morning and Sarel says the same.”
    “A very cautious man, then, Maaties,” said Kramer. “I see better now how he could have successfully worked alone for so long.”
    “Who told you that?” asked Terblanche, rather sharply, as he set the Land Rover in motion again.
    “The Colonel.”
    “Ach, of course. What else did he tell you?”
    “About Maaties Kritzinger? That he was a father of four, an ace detective and Olympic-class arse-creeper.”
    “
Du Plessis
said that?”
    “Not exactly,” admitted Kramer. “But it was there, if you read between the lines. I just didn’t want to bore you.”
    Terblanche smiled slightly. “What gives you the idea it might bore me?” he asked, his eyes fixed on the track ahead.
    “Who was Kritzinger’s main Bantu detective?”
    “Mtetwa,” Terblanche replied, nonplussed. “Why? What has that to do with—”
    “Do you know, Hans,” Kramer remarked, “you’ll say the name of everyone else here at Jafini, including a kaffir’s—but you never use the name of the male deceased in this matter. I find that a little strange.”
    The even roar of the Land Rover’s engine faltered, as though Terblanche’s foot had lifted involuntarily for a moment from the accelerator. “Is that so?” he said. “Then it’s easily put right: Maaties Kritzinger …”
    “I was more interested in the reason,” said Kramer.
    For a long moment, Terblanche stared ahead of him, as though all his attention had shifted to his driving and he wasn’t going to be drawn any further.
    “Man,” he said, quietly, “I don’t know the reason. Ja, he thought I was slow and I was stupid, but I didn’t mind that—every man is entitled to his opinion. What I did mind was him never being around to give me CID backup on jobs like the armed robbery at Mulamula yesterday. Where was he? But that still isn’t reason enough, I agree.”
    Then he began driving the Land Rover faster and faster, his eyes fixed on the track. “Huh! What I will always remember,” he said, “God forgive me, is how I reacted when I arrived at this place last night and found his body lying out there on the sand. I wanted to grin, to laugh, shout out—only I had a boy with me, and that put paid to that. You know, despite all my prayers, all that trying to find love for my neighbor, there’s a good chance I actually—ja, hated him?”
    “But why?” persisted Kramer, aware one