And just to think, all of this happened because Spokes had once stood at the corner of Lobengula Street and Selborne Avenue, waiting on a promise.

PART I

CLEAVE

DECEMBER 1979

SPOKES

Rumours were very rare occurrences at the Western Commonage Police Station, or, rather, credible rumours were. The station prided itself on being a place where reason and logic reigned, but it was really a place like any other and conjecture had long travelled its halls with ease. The latest rumour had been started by someone who had received the news (from an excellent source) that on the very next day, at Lancaster House in London, the peace agreement would finally be signed and the ceasefire would be announced.

Since then the station had not known a moment’s peace, especially after the crates of Castle and Lion lagers were smuggled in by a group of extremely enthusiastic young constables. By the time the rumour had reached every ear in the station, Lovemore Majaivana and the Jobs Combination’s Istimela album was playing on a loop in the canteen, the tantalising smell of braaing meat was filling the air, and the sound of dancing and stomping feet mingled with voices, not altogether sober, to create a mixture of cacophony and commotion.

The enthusiasm proved irresistible for most officers, even the more senior ones, in the station. Amidst all this uncustomary chaos sat Chief Inspector Spokes Moloi in the Sergeants’ Office, which until too recently had been called the Native Senior Officers’ Station. Although no longer a sergeant himself, Spokes shared the office with two senior sergeants and one sergeant major, and was extremely glad that they were all otherwise engaged because his aloneness allowed him to do what he needed to do without prying eyes looking on.

Even though he did not partake in it, Spokes understood his fellow officers’ need for celebration. A ceasefire meant that there would no longer be any stints with the Police Anti-Terrorist Unit, and that, therefore, the chances of having the letters KIA attached to their names for an eternity had diminished greatly. With the future potentially this discernible and more certain thing, the station had decided that 20 December was as good a time as any for the holiday season to begin.

For his part, however, Spokes chose to remain cautious. They had been here quite a few times in the past three years: talks that took place in other parts of the world, talks meant to broker peace, talks that had given much-needed hope – talks that had only amounted to continued disappointment and protracted war.

Spokes shrugged off his chariness as best he could, reached for two A4, station-issued, manila envelopes and placed them neatly in front of him, parallel to each other, on top of his desk. He was buying time, he knew, and found that he could not, as yet, bring himself to confront what lay within the envelopes. Instead, he turned his attention to his in tray.

There it was, where it always was at the end of every working day – the thin, light-blue manila folder, faded with age and dog-eared from too much handling. Spokes no longer had to open it to see the bulging burlap sack, the dead eyes, the severed limbs, the Y-dissection running down the torso, the brand-new dress. Yet he did open the folder, he did look at the dismembered body, he did feel the guilt of not having solved the case after so many years, he did deeply regret not being able to allow Daisy to rest in peace. He ran his hands over the contents of the folder in a gesture made more tender because his hands were trembling. Daisy: her unsolved murder made what he needed to do now very difficult – near impossible – but still he managed to close the folder carefully.