‘I’d be honoured if you would sign our window before you go,’ said Stephen, picking up the diamond stylus and offering it to them.

‘Are you sure?’ queried Mugabe. ‘It might be wise to keep this meeting secret.’

‘Why?’ countered Stephen. ‘You are honourable men; you have come here for honourable reasons.’

Sithole and Chitepo took the stylus and wrote their names in the top right-hand corner, Chitepo underlining his with a flourish. Mugabe refused to sign. He didn’t give a reason and Stephen did not press him for one.

‘Goodbye. Go well.’

‘Go well. Goodbye.’

Outside, daylight was fading into a pink and ashen evening. They left by the back door, looking about anxiously.

33 Ginie, Rhodesia, 1950s

33

Ginie, Rhodesia, 1950s

The policeman getting out of the car and walking towards the house had light brown hair, and his stomach pushed out against his tunic. He was an average height with sloping shoulders, his face and neck brick-red with sunburn.

Ginie, sitting on the veranda drinking tea and doing embroidery, wondered if he was coming to see them about the anonymous letters. Or perhaps word had reached the police about Stephen’s meeting with the nationalist politicians. Or maybe he wanted to question the Courtaulds and their staff, yet again, about the night of the fire and Eric’s murder. Ginie dabbed the perspiration from her face. There were so many reasons why a policeman might want to visit La Rochelle these days; just thinking about it made her dizzy.

She stood up and went to greet him with the dogs yapping at her heels. Sergeant van Niekerk’s handshake was damp and he mopped his face with his handkerchief. She asked if he would like to sit down and have a drink, but he refused, his close-set brown eyes darting away from hers. His breath smelt slightly sour.

Stephen came through the screen doors. ‘Good morning, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘How are you and how’s the manhunt? I’m surprised you haven’t caught them by now.’

Van Niekerk shifted his weight from one foot to the other. ‘Well sir, they’ve been exceptionally wily about covering their tracks.’ His voice was gruff and solemn and he had a pronounced Afrikaans accent. ‘We think they’ve been sprinkling wild chilli powder to throw the dogs off their scent.’

There was a pause. A pigeon cooed in the trees. Another answered. Kru-kruuu. Kru-kruuu. Max growled softly, low in his throat.

‘So, what can we do for you?’ Ginie asked, noticing the scatter of dandruff on van Niekerk’s shoulders.

Van Niekerk kept his eyes to the floor. ‘I’m afraid that I have an arrest warrant for a member of your staff.’

Stephen frowned. ‘I can’t imagine why. Are you quite certain?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Van Niekerk licked his lips uneasily. ‘It’s for Mary Chikomborero.’