His underwear had been pulled down around his knees. There was a bloody gash where his scrotum should have been. Whoever had held the camera made no allowances for those of a more delicate temperament.

Lindi turned away. ‘This is disgusting. It’s like watching one of those snuff movies you hear about.’

Anton brought a hand up to his mouth. He retched, tasting a gutful of fear.

Slowly, the camera panned up the torso, passed the beginnings of a rich-man paunch and another fleshy, gaping wound on the chest. Finally, it settled on a grotesquely misshapen head. Skin that must once have been shiny and pampered was now a dull blue-grey. The man’s mouth had been pulled open, as if he were about to unleash some primordial scream, but stuffed into it was his own penis and a crocodile-skin wallet.

‘I need to get some fresh air,’ said Lindi, already heading out of the door.

Anton shut down the computer. He felt utterly washed out.

Lesedi’s grotesque murder would unnerve those in power in a way that went way beyond the crime itself. He knew it would stir a visceral foreboding among South Africa’s elite. There was a time when he would have relished the thought. Now it just made him want to curl up and hide in a dark place.

He knew what the authorities would be thinking. If only it had been a Du Plessis or a Westhuisen who’d been battered to death on that farm; if only the vehicle had belonged to a Schmidt or a Smith. That would be so easy to explain. Newspaper editors, local councillors, the provincial premier – everybody who had a stake in the way things were – could get on their high horse and bemoan this throwback to an era that South Africa had left behind. But this, this was different. This was not a man who was killed because of his colour but because of what he represented.

Lindi returned. There was some colour in her cheeks again. She’d tied her thick, wavy brown hair into a knot sitting high on her head. The roots just above her forehead glistened with the water she had just splashed on her face.

‘I think it’s time you headed down there,’ Anton said. ‘The sooner the better.’

‘I’m not sure where I’d start. Where do we fit in?’

‘Listen, I think there is something going on that neither the government or the unions—’

‘Nor.’

‘What?’

‘Neither/nor, either/or …’ Lindi paused mid-correction. ‘God! I’m sorry. It’s like your swearing, it just pops out. Can’t help it.’

‘I can’t remember what the fuck I was saying now.’

‘The government or the unions,’ she said, grateful she’d remembered the train of thought.

‘I think there is something going on that neither the ministers nor the unions want out in the open. They must know about all the attacks on farms. And now this.’