‘First things first: what is your name?’ Spokes asked.

The man stared at Spokes and then said, ‘Philemon … Philemon Dlodlo.’

‘Thank you, Dlodlo. And your wife’s name is?’

‘Sitshengisiwe Dlodlo,’ Philemon stammered.

Ah, Sitshengisiwe … so that was what Mrs Rutherford had been trying to say, Spokes thought. After all these years, most whites still struggled to pronounce African names and words, but instead of seeing this as a failing on their part, they saw it as a point of pride. Mispronouncing African names and words might be a way of inoculating themselves against going native, Spokes concluded.

‘She is the daughter of the late Cosmos Nyathi,’ Philemon added.

Spokes nodded and wrote down this piece of information. You never knew what might prove to be relevant later on.

‘You’ve reported that your wife is no longer with us,’ Spokes said

‘Yes … yes,’ Philemon slowly said, as though he were weighing whether or not Spokes was to be trusted with the truth. ‘They are cutting up her stomach and placing her there in the bush. They are killing her for witchcraft,’ he divulged. The reality of the situation dawned on him afresh, and he cried freely and loudly.

Spokes let the man cry. He was glad he had managed to remove Rutherford and Mrs Rutherford from the kitchen. It had taken some doing. She had been particularly difficult. But her verbal abuse had been worth it, because Spokes knew there were certain things that could never be said in front of the baas and the madam.

‘They?’ Spokes asked after a respectful time had passed.

‘People say they saw two men … one white, the other black … in a very expensive car, in the early hours of the morning when they thought the township was sleeping. But the township is never sleeping. They are removing her body from the car and dumping it in the bush,’ Philemon provided before allowing himself to cry long and hard again. Spokes took the opportunity to make him a fresh cup of strong, sweet black tea.

‘Sir, I am thinking I am knowing who is doing this thing,’ Philemon said hesitantly as he received the Kango cup from Spokes. He again seemed to be weighing whether or not Spokes was to be trusted.

‘I see,’ Spokes said, sitting himself down.

‘Yes. It is Silas Mthimkhulu. Our new neighbour. He is the one doing this thing, truesgod. He is the one witchcrafting my wife.’

Spokes allowed Philemon to drink his tea.

‘Yes, it is Silas Mthimkhulu,’ Philemon said again, seemingly fortified by the tea. ‘He is living next door and he is being a very rich man. Too rich for an African man. There is only one way that an African man is being rich like that, and it is being through witchcraft.’

‘We will definitely question Mr Mthimkhulu,’ Spokes assured Philemon.