In 1933, the Coetzees moved to a BSAP outpost located at the foot of the Matopos Hills on what is now the Ashtonbury Farm and Estate. It was here, with the veld all around him, that Emil’s true character began to take shape. He was deeply attached to the land and, by extension, to his country, and this attachment was further fostered at the Selous School for Boys …

The obituary continued in the same vein. Perhaps the heading and the biographical parts were true enough, but the story that placed Emil Coetzee’s death in Golide Gumede’s hands was a lie. And the fact that it was a lie was there for all the world to see if they knew how to look for such things. The first clue lay in the brevity of the obituary. Usually a man of Emil Coetzee’s stature had pages written about his life and death, and yet Saskia Hargrave had devoted only ten paragraphs in total to the man she claimed to be writing a biography about. True, the paper was shifting gears, preparing its pages for inevitable majority rule by gradually devoting space to black lives in order to prove that it had always believed they mattered; so although there was still the usual overwhelming coverage of white people and their exploits, there was now diminished space in which to do so. Even while knowing this, Spokes felt that Saskia Hargrave’s reasons for not writing much on Emil Coetzee were more calculated. She was probably saving the story – the real story, the bigger story – for herself and her glory.

Given that Spokes’s first impression of Saskia Hargrave had been that she was confusedly seeking attention, it would have been easy to believe she had simply done what the Secret Intelligence Unit wanted her to do because it gave her the opportunity to tell a great story that would hold the attention of the entire country for a long time to come. However, because she was holding out for a greater story, Saskia Hargrave knew that the story she had written was a lie.

Spokes remembered their encounter and the way her outfit had revealed too much. He remembered her dead tooth. He remembered the strong, sweet scent that clung to her. He remembered her desperate need for something – attention, recognition, adoration – that was not altogether clear to him, and, while this made her unpredictable and perhaps even volatile, he had to admit that for now, at least, they seemed to be on the same side – the side of truth.

Spokes picked up his phone’s handset and dialled The Chronicle’s number, and when his call was answered, he asked to speak to Saskia Hargrave.

‘Hello?’

‘Saskia Hargrave?’

‘Yes,’ she answered, sounding tired.

‘I am Chief Inspector Spokes Moloi. We’ve met.’

‘Yes,’ she said, but Spokes could not tell from the tone of her response whether she remembered meeting him or not.

‘At Emil Coetzee’s house.’