There were some rather imaginative and creative ideas out there, some even outlandish. The most inspired of these was one in which Emil Coetzee had been seized by a group of Amazonian feminists to go and start a new colony where no other men were allowed. Why the women had to be feminists in the theorist’s imagination was anyone’s guess. And what would happen to the boy children who would surely be born? Since no men, save Emil Coetzee, were allowed in the colony, would the boys be banished once they became men? The caller feared much worse – perhaps they would be ritually sacrificed or cannibalised.

Saskia’s particular favourite was the man who not only firmly believed that Emil Coetzee had been abducted by aliens, but also claimed to have physical evidence of the UFO in question.

Saskia did not judge; she faithfully jotted down the strange stories many were willing to tell her. Until recently she had had no idea of how … inventive her people could be. Discovering this side of them made her appreciate them more. Or, perhaps, she appreciated them more because they had turned the disappearance of her father into a larger mystery than it already was, and in that way they helped keep him very much alive for her.

Her father: Emil Coetzee. The man who, wherever he was, might or might not know that he had a daughter.

‘Miss Hargrave? Are you still there?’ the voice on the other end of the line asked.

‘Yes,’ Saskia said.

‘Well, I have just seen Emil Coetzee drive past in his beige bakkie not looking dead at all! What have you got to say for yourself?’

‘You saw him? You saw Emil Coetzee?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you sure it was him?’

‘Yes. Of course I’m sure.’

Saskia exhaled shakily before asking, ‘How can you be absolutely sure?’

‘Well, because he waved at me and everything … and because it is not the first time he has driven past, now is it?’

‘You mean he has driven past before?’

‘Yes. He drove past … let’s see, when was that? The day after the ceasefire was announced,’ the voice on the other end said matter-of-factly. ‘Car trouble just beyond my gate. Drove off before I could offer him assistance. Today, I’ve just seen him driving, going the opposite direction, towards the City of Kings. Obviously heading back from wherever he’s been all this time.’There was no mention of colonising feminists or tinfoil crop-circling aliens. No theory was offered; it was just a good, old-fashioned sighting, with enough credibility to make Saskia reach for her notepad and ask for the woman’s particulars.

‘Louisa Alcott … Mrs.’

Saskia jotted down the name as it had been given to her, then asked, ‘Where are you located?’

‘On the Alcott Farm on the Old King’s Road. About thirty kilometres from the city centre. Huge, sprawling place … You can’t miss it.’