The witness engaged with the cynical and remarkably rational gaze directed at him, then, resignedly, with a shrug of the shoulders, answered. Quietly. Reasonably. “I understand you were a soldier once upon a time? Before you took up policing? Then I invite you to imagine for yourself my state of mind and body on that date. Towards the end of a fifteen-hour battle—the third such in five days, starved, exhausted by a fifty-mile march, many officers shot dead and more than half of my company lying bleeding to death on a scorching plain behind me . . . Are you still with me? Then add to that the bodily pain of a bullet wound to the arm, lungs full of putrid river water after a swim across a perilous river and the mental terror of being under unremitting fire from enemy snipers in the treetops on the opposite bank.”

The languid delivery and the meaningful glance at the station wall clock that said, Had enough yet? I could go on spinning this yarn for hours, had their intended effect and needled the inquisitor into a flippant remark.

“What about the crocodiles? Surely they get a mention?”

“Not even a walk-on part for the crocs. Sorry. Those creatures tend to infest the Orange River to the south, not so much the Modder River. No, no. The Modder was for many years the scene of civilised regattas in the style of Henley—races rowed between willow-lined banks, all parasols and punts. A welcome, home-from-home entertainment for the British colonial settlers, don’t you know. Crocodiles had long since been discouraged along that water course. Mustn’t frighten the Memsahibs! It was very unsettling for us English lads—can you imagine? There we were, ready to go, bullets up the spout, bayonets fixed, the order to charge ringing in our ears and we were facing a four-mile riverfront. Only lacking an enemy. Where the hell were the Boers? Nowhere to be seen.

“We could make out a long line of rich green bordering the river. On the far side there were tall trees and, brightly white, shouldering through the greenery, stately buildings like those of an English spa town. We could clearly pick out the wedding-cake lines of the hotel and the grand bougainvillea-clad houses where the bigwig European businessmen of Kimberley liked to spend their weekends. And their ill-gotten profits. All that gold . . . all those De Beers diamonds, weighing them down. They got out pretty sharpish with their worldly goodies in their saddle-packs when the trouble started. They were back in London, Amsterdam, New York, shuffling their share certificates. Waiting for us to clean up their political mess and establish economic supremacy at the cost of our lives.”