‘Well, that’s reassuring, but we might have to do better than that.’ Superciliousness came naturally to Missenden.

‘Who says? Is this coming from the top?’

‘You know how it is, Jake. I’m his eyes, ears and voice. He only has to think something and I’m already there. We need to shut this whole thing down, no need for all this publicity. I’m hearing on the grapevine that even the bloody FT is getting interested in doing something on land. You’d expect that sort of thing from those pinko-liberals at the Grauniad …’

‘The what?’

‘The Guardian. Oh, never mind. Anyway, we don’t want this thing snowballing.’

‘Like I said, we’re working on it, we’ll make a plan.’

‘You need to pin it to someone and quick,’ said Missenden, catching his own reflection in the desk. ‘This deal is only the beginning. Mark my words, with all this guff about climate change making farming impossible you’ll have the whole world and his sister queuing up for your land. The Chinese, the Gulf sheikhs, they’re all on the lookout for more.’

‘The police have arrested a Mozambican labourer and—’

‘Don’t give me that bullshit, Jake,’ said Missenden. ‘Nobody’s going to believe some wretched, shirtless Mozambican was responsible for this.’ A change of tone. ‘And, besides, we’ll need those chaps when, if, this project gets off the ground.’

‘Don’t worry, it will get off the ground.’

‘It better had. As I recall, you have quite a lot riding on it. All that talk about foreign investment in the land. Got you quite a few good headlines here. And then there’s your little share, only a fraction of what you’ll get as you climb the greasy pole I’m sure but, still, something to be getting on with.’

Missenden thought he was playing the conversation rather well, imagining Willemse squirming at the other end.

Jake Willemse was one of a new breed of South African politicians, who evoked ‘the struggle’ in their speeches but were privately contemptuous of those who still believed it offered a rubric for government. They’d attend the ruling party’s conferences for as long as it took to be noticed, then make a quiet exit. They pretended to listen as the grey-haired veterans relived their glory days, singing revolutionary songs. The young Turks would watch it all from the sidelines, as if they were indulging a grandparent who still thought he was the head of the family. One by one, these men and women had either died or been given a seat on the Board of Elders, the political equivalent of a care home. The Elders were allowed to attend big state occasions, like the start of a new parliamentary session, but were otherwise hardly seen or heard.