‘Not directly, but indirectly they have, through the bloody South African government – they’re scared of the rest of the world. They’ve got the West telling them to pull out of here; the Russians are right behind SWAPO – they’re treading very carefully. So now we have to look after our niggers and keep them fat and well.’ Smed spat on the floor. ‘I’m paid to run this mine at a profit for Westondam – if I don’t, I’m out on my ass, and I got four kids at school. Every day that I work here, I’m meant to lead them to the bathroom and wipe their asses; but I don’t. Because I’m not putting my neck on the block for any fucking niggers.’

I nodded, and stubbed out my cigarette. ‘Did you ever have anyone by the name of Tsenong working for you?’

‘Tsenong? Down on the face?’

‘I don’t know; he died in August.’

‘Daniel Tsenong?’

I nodded.

‘I remember the name all right. His son caused us one hell of a lot of problems. Came sniffing round here – we had to throw him out. Said we’d been covering up his father’s medical records – he put the chief medical officer from Windhoek onto us.’

‘What was his son’s name?’

‘Ben.’

‘Can you tell me a bit more about his father?’

‘I’ll get his file – I still have it.’ Smed went to a filing cabinet and pulled out a drawer, then rummaged through several files. He pulled one out and opened it up. ‘Not much, I’m afraid. He joined us thirty-three years ago: started at twelve; lived with his family in a shanty village about twenty miles west of here. Lot of our workers come from there and a few other villages in the same region; we bus them in each day. Got a wife, and two sons. Left us in May – or rather, we got rid of him. He couldn’t get through a day’s work; he had lung cancer.’

‘Contracted as a result of working in the mine?’

‘Probably.’

‘What about his son, Ben – have you got any more information on him?’

‘May I ask what your interest in him is?’

‘He’s just applied to us for a job.’

‘To you?’

‘My company advertised for an expert on South West Africa to advise us on mineral prospects. He was one of the applicants for the job,’ I said.

‘His son?’

‘He’s in his third year at Oxford University, studying atomic energy.’

‘That’s right. I knew he was at university in England. You want to be careful – smart niggers are dangerous niggers.’

I nodded. ‘That’s one of the reasons for my visit. We are thinking of hiring him – he’s a bright youngster – but we suspect he might have other motives.’