‘You came to the Tribal Trust Land that my mother lived on. Broke windows …’

‘Yes,’ the man said in that slow way of his. ‘Broke so much more.’ He picked up the interestingly shaped bottle of a Canada Dry Ginger Ale that lay at his feet. The action held no threat or malice. ‘So … you remember me?’ the man said, evidently full of hope.

‘Yes.’

The man looked relieved. ‘I remember you too,’ he said, twirling the bottle in his hands.

‘Is that why you and your partner have been following me? Because you remember me?’

‘Partner,’ the man said, confused. Something clicked. ‘That is not my partner. That is my commander.’ The man seemed genuinely concerned that Spokes could make such a mistake.

‘My apologies. Your commander: where is he? Up ahead?’

The man nodded slowly.

‘Shall we go to him, then?’ Spokes said before going to collect his Raleigh from where it leaned against the Idlazonke store.

‘One of the boys who came out of the store soon after you went in – he tried to take that messenger bag. I stopped him by showing him this bottle.’

Spokes knew that he had done more than show the boy the bottle. ‘I would like to thank you,’ Spokes said, ‘but I need to know your name first. Last time we met, it wasn’t something that you could freely give.’

‘Lukha … Lukhayezi Mzingeli Hlotshwayo.’

‘Thank you, Lukhayezi Mzingeli Hlotshwayo,’ Spokes said, offering his hand for Lukha to shake.

‘You are Chief Inspector Spokes Moloi of the CID. You’re the man that The Chronicle says is investigating what happened to Emil Coetzee,’ Lukha said, shaking his hand.

‘I am that man, yes.’

Lukha did not say anything else, and Spokes, although intrigued, let the matter rest there – at least for the time being.

They walked silently together some distance. When Lukha whistled loudly, a clear whistle responded from up ahead, but even with his trained eyes and ears, Spokes could not pinpoint its exact location.

Now, all his life Spokes had only ever been in complete awe of one man, and one man only – the incomparable Pelé – and he had thought that there would never be any need for him to be in awe of another man ever again – until he saw the impossibly tall man with gleaming white skin walking towards him. There was only one possible emotion he could feel.

‘My father named me Livingstone Stanley Tikiti,’ the man said, offering Spokes his hand. ‘But my name is Golide Gumede.’

For the first time in a long time, Spokes did not know what to think, feel or say, and so he just shook Golide Gumede’s hand.

‘I had absolutely nothing to do with whatever happened to Emil Coetzee,’ Golide Gumede said.

‘I know,’ Spokes managed to say, still shaking his hand.