‘And how can you possibly know that?’

‘Because I was on desk duty, sir.’

‘When?’

‘I beg your pardon, sir?’

‘When were you on duty?’

‘Last night. This morning. Over the past three days.’

‘How very convenient.’

‘Probably someone just making a joke, sir. Some New Year’s Day fun.’

Spokes did not know what to do with his frustration. He looked at the officers busying themselves with getting rid of evidence, and realised that there was no use in even asking to see a superior. He walked away from the Section Officer. Perhaps this had indeed been meant as a joke. He could think of two people – Clement Rutherford and Joseth Maraire – who would think it was worth their time to waste his.

‘You forgot your note,’ the Section Officer called after him.

Spokes was certain that the note was safely tucked away in his breast pocket. He turned, and the Section Officer was indeed holding up a note. He returned to the station’s front desk, took the note from the Section Officer, put it in his pocket without reading it, and left the station.

Once Spokes was safely in the police bakkie, he retrieved the note the Section Officer had handed him. It simply read: PIONEER HOUSE. FIVE MINUTES. Spokes drove to Pioneer House and had just parked when the Section Officer opened the passenger door and got into the car.

‘You don’t remember me, sir. I don’t expect you to,’ the Section Officer said. ‘But I remember you. You gave a lecture on ethics in my first year in the force. I wasn’t lying, sir, when I said I was on duty. Early hours of yesterday, a young man comes in and says someone’s been shot. There’s a body. A man. Looks very much like Emil Coetzee but is almost certainly not Emil Coetzee. Body’s on the Selborne Avenue pavement over at City Hall. Young man says a woman did it. Young man, Vida de Villiers is his name, smells strongly of beer and dagga, but he is in military fatigues and so I take him seriously … eventually. I take down his report and then put him in one of the cells, just in case. Two patrol officers go investigate, and sure enough, there is a dead body, and sure enough, it looks like Emil Coetzee. And so I call the Western Commonage because I have heard that Emil Coetzee is suspected missing and you are working on his disappearance. I go to the morgue, but as soon as I see the body, I know it is not Emil Coetzee: it is Tom Fortenoy. Mr Fortenoy makes a living, or rather, made a living impersonating Emil Coetzee.’

‘And this is why you denied the report earlier?’ Spokes asked.

‘No, sir,’ the Section Officer said. ‘Soon after I returned from the morgue two men from Secret Intelligence arrived—’