‘For Chrissake, what the hell is going on? … Jerry? Jerry, is that you? What the hell is happening?’

‘Josiah, something bad has happened here. It’s Lesedi …’

3

It was barely seven in the morning when Lindi Seaton’s phone rang. She fumbled around the bedside table as her eyes adjusted to the neon glare of a London streetlamp streaming through the ineffectual lace curtain. It was too early for Anton Chetty, her boss at South Trust, a high-profile and well-respected organisation dedicated to conflict resolution around the world. She checked the screen – she didn’t recognise the number.

‘Lindi Seaton here.’

‘I suppose it was your idea, was it?’

‘Who’s this?’

‘It’s Clive, Clive Missenden.’

‘And how lovely to hear from you too. Silly of me not to have recognised your voice instantly.’

‘Let’s get straight to the point.’

‘You’ve already done that. What exactly is supposed to have been my idea?’

‘Come off it,’ Missenden huffed. ‘All that guff on the radio just now from your man about South Trust having warned that something like this would happen. You couldn’t resist it, could you? The poor bastard’s hardly been dead a day and you’ve got it all sorted.’

‘You’ve got a bloody nerve! Just in case it’s slipped your mind, I no longer have to listen to your shit.’

‘You’re at it again, aren’t you? Most people put two and two together and get four. Not you! You’ve gone straight to the conclusion you want, never mind the facts.’

Lindi moved the phone an inch from her ear and sighed. ‘If you want to talk to me about Lesedi Motlantshe’s murder, call me at my office.’

‘I’m just warning you.’

‘A warning. That’s official, is it?’

‘I’ve left the Foreign Office.’

‘Oh? So who’s warning me now?’

‘I’m just trying to prevent you from making another … How shall I put it? Another error of judgement. I’m trying to be helpful, that’s all.’

The needling reference to their shared past was not lost on Lindi. ‘Helpful. Is that what you call it? As in when you helped me out of my job. Piss off, Clive.’

Lindi ended the call. She wasn’t sure whom she was angrier with: Clive Missenden and whoever he was working for now, or her colleague, Anton Chetty, for not talking to her before mouthing off in front of a microphone.