“The truth costs nothing … but a dollar would help the cause.”

“Which cause is that? MR, or AC?”

Ve said quietly, “We all have our roles to play. I’m pretending to be MR. You’re pretending to be a journalist.”

That stung. I said, “Fair enough. I admit I still don’t know half as much as Sarah Knight … but I’m getting there. And I’d get there faster with your help.”

Kuwale regarded me with undisguised mistrust. The chequerboard on vis face suddenly melted into blue-and-red diamonds – a disorienting sight, though vis fixed stare throughout the transition only made vis contempt shine through all the more clearly.

Ve said, “Why don’t you just take a pamphlet and fuck off?” Ve held one out to me. “Read it and eat it.”

“I’ve swallowed enough bad news today. And the Keystone—”

Ve grinned sardonically. “Ah, Amanda Conroy summons you to her hearthside , and you think you know it all.”

“If I thought I knew it all, why would I be pleading with you to tell me what I’ve missed?”

Ve hesitated. I said, “On Sunday night, you asked me to keep my eyes open. Tell me why, and tell me what I’m looking for – and I’ll do it. I don’t want to see Mosala hurt, any more than you do. But I need to know exactly what’s going on.”

Kuwale thought it over, still suspicious, but clearly tempted. Short of Mosala’s colleagues, or Karin De Groot – all highly unlikely to co-operate – I was probably the closest ve could ever hope to get to vis idol.

Ve mused, “If you were working for the other side, why would you pretend to be so incompetent?”

I took the insult in my stride. “I’m not even sure that I know who the other side is.”

Kuwale caved in. “Meet me outside this building in half an hour.” Ve took my hand and wrote an address on my palm; it wasn’t the house where I’d met Conroy. In half an hour, I was supposed to be filming Mosala at yet another lecture – but the documentary would survive with a few less reaction shots to choose from, and Mosala would probably be relieved to be left in peace for a change.