He opened the passenger door and Lindi sat down, cosseted in supple leather. Patel got in on the driver’s side. He turned on the ignition and they glided away. ‘Can I offer you a drink?’ he asked. ‘There’s a hotel on the way back to my house.’

‘No, thanks. I’m really looking forward to meeting your wife – and her famous biryani.’

‘So how do you know Father Petro?’

‘Oh, we just met this afternoon. I was visiting the bishop.’

‘You work for the Church, Ms Seaton?’

Lindi thought about asking him to be less formal, but decided to leave things as they were. ‘No, I work for an organisation in London. It’s called South Trust.’

‘I’m sorry, I’ve not heard of that one. Of course we know about the UN and Save the Children …’

‘Well, we’re very different. We don’t go around giving food or money.’

‘Oh, very good, very good,’ he said. ‘So you’re interested in the Mozambicans.’

‘Actually, I’m interested in what led to the situation with the Mozambicans.’

‘I don’t follow. You mean Lesedi Motlantshe’s murder?’ he asked.

‘Well, not even that, really. Though I suppose the murder may be a part of it …’

‘Part of what?’

‘The reason I’m here is to find out what’s going on with all this selling of land.’

‘Oh, that is very straightforward. There is nothing to find out. Everybody knows what’s going on.’

‘If everybody knows, why doesn’t anyone try to stop it?’

‘Look, Ms Seaton, I don’t think you know Africa like I know it. My family has been doing business here for generations. My great-grandfather started off in Tanzania. Then one of his sons went to the Congo, another to Kenya and so on. Now I am here. Everywhere we have been it is the same.’

‘The same in what way exactly?’

‘The big people just look after themselves. Always. That is what is happening here. It is no different,’ he said.

‘South Africa is not exactly Congo.’

‘You’re right. There is more money to steal here.’

‘That’s a bit harsh!’

He shook his head. ‘People saw what Mandela did when he was around and they say South Africa will be different. But they forget that before Mandela there were other good men in Africa. Nkrumah, Kenyatta, Nyerere. They all started off with wonderful words and ideas but it was the people around them. Look what happened to their countries.’

Patel pulled up outside a walled compound and pressed the horn. Ancient eyes looked through a grille in the metal gate before it began to roll away along a track in the ground. The man, wrapped up in several layers of clothing, raised his arm in a desultory salute. Patel ignored him.

Patel continued. ‘South Africa is the same. Hundreds of years ago African chiefs were selling their own people to the slavers. Now they are selling the land.’