‘I remember when this place was a preparatory school,’ Cottesloe said, as they rumbled down the rough driveway towards the gigantic three-storey honey-stone hall. ‘But it’s been owned by some sheikh from the UAE since the mid-1990s. This private zoo of his must cost a fortune.’

Wickens’ eyes glittered. ‘I’d love that kind of cash. Private plane, my own Caribbean island.’

Cottesloe stared at his younger colleague. ‘You’re in the wrong business if you want to be rich.’ He chuckled. ‘There’s too many dangerous temptations. You have to be incorruptible.’

‘Like you?’ Wickens said sceptically.

‘That’s right. Never taken a free pint or a free meal in all my twenty-seven years on the force.’ Cottesloe pointed left out of the window. ‘That’s the zoo.’

‘What’s he got?’

‘No lions or tigers. Crocodiles, I heard, lots of reptiles and a rhino.’

‘So what’s the point if it’s all private?’

Cottesloe turned. ‘Conservation. The sheikh is a big donor to conservation societies, the fight against ivory poaching, that kind of thing. Very progressive chap. There’s an old white rhino here. I saw an article about it in the paper. Shot and injured by poachers in Kruger National Park. Had its horn chainsawed off, then was left for dead. Still got a damaged leg.’

Wickens stared out the window, as if expecting to see the benighted animal. ‘Perhaps they should put the poor bugger out of its misery.’

Cottesloe shook his head. ‘Never underestimate the power of a good story, Andy. It’s fantastic PR for the sheikh.’

The patrol car came to a halt outside the grand portico, next to a battered olive-green Land Rover. Wickens and Cottesloe headed up the steps to the main door, but a greeting from below drew their attention. A man had emerged from a basement door and climbed a short flight of steps to the gravel. Wickens now recognised him from the local paper.

Gus van Steenis was a ramrod-straight septuagenarian of grizzled features. He was wearing a faded short-sleeved brick-red shirt and muddy green shorts, and looked like he hadn’t shaved for several days. A battered bush hat sat on his head, giving him the appearance of a long-retired Indiana Jones. ‘I’m Gus. Good day,’ he said, thrusting out a hand. His grip was strong, and he made eye contact. ‘Terrible business about the body.’ He showed them in through the basement door, which led along a low dark corridor to a small 1960s-type kitchen with pale green glass-fronted cupboards. The remains of a meal could be seen on a yellow melamine plate on a Formica-topped table. ‘Excuse me, gentlemen, I was just finishing my scrimbled iggs.’ His accent sounded South African to Wickens.

He arranged wooden chairs at the table, and dumped the plate and cutlery in a big enamelled sink. ‘So what can I do to help?’