After he had laid his mother to rest, Spokes lay in bed for weeks, his body debilitated by a painful stiffness along his spine. He would have lain there for a lot longer had not the lovely Loveness, in her infinite wisdom, suggested that they start taking ballroom dancing lessons at Stanley Hall.

At first, Spokes was more than reluctant. He was not the sort of man who danced. He had managed to live through the township jazz craze without moving to its rhythm. He liked the music, loved it, in fact – often whistled a favourite tune while he went about the business of the day; he just did not feel the need to dance to it. That said, once he found himself in Stanley Hall with the lovely Loveness in his arms, in front of a group of friends, neighbours and strangers, he realised that while he would never be a truly accomplished dancer, he liked having the opportunity and the occasion to hold his wife close in public, which was something, hitherto, that he and propriety had only allowed in the comfort of his own home. Let him trip over his two left feet if he must, as long as the world got to look at the perfection that was Loveness. After a few lessons, the painful stiffness in his back disappeared. Loveness had found the perfect remedy; she always did.

As he, the luckiest of men, drifted off to sleep, Spokes was happy that he had applied for his retirement – it was the least he could do to thank the lovely Loveness for all she had done for him. Yes, he regretted not being able to solve Daisy’s case, but he was also very grateful that Emil Coetzee’s sighting of the burlap sack had brought Loveness back into his life.

SASKIA

Although Saskia Hargrave was making a point of not looking at any of her co-workers, she knew that they were all looking at her. She could feel their gazes crawling over her skin and there was nothing she could do about it. She most certainly could not turn back now. Of the many things that made her, cowardice was not one. As much as she would have liked to, she could not just walk to her desk and set to work because it was obvious that the features editor had prepared a party to celebrate her return. There were some lacklustre balloons and a bakery-bought Black Forest cake at the tea station. And so here she was feeling awkward (a foreign feeling for her) and standing close to the editor, even though she did not want to be doing either.

Instead of acting, the editor stood beside her on tenterhooks, and Saskia realised that none of this was going according to his plan. What had he thought would happen? Had he thought her colleagues would rush forward and welcome her back? Had he thought they would express feelings they had never felt towards her simply because the occasion called for it? It was not for nothing that she was called the Vulture (amongst other things she was sure she would never hear said to her face) within her circle of fellow reporters. She was determined and sometimes even ruthless when going after a story; or, for that matter, anything else she wanted. She was so relentless that she often was accused of muckraking, which was water off a duck’s back to her. She liked these particular qualities about herself, was aware that they did not make her many friends, and had long reconciled herself to her fate.