Placed meticulously on his desk were five notes written in a left-leaning cursive on azure-coloured paper. The notes were like beacons, and Saskia could not help but be drawn to them. She felt her right hand, as though of its own volition, stretch out to touch them. She had to use every reserve of self-control to reach out slowly and surreptitiously, so as not to bring attention to herself. From where she was sitting, she was able to make out three words: Zora Neale Hurston.

Saskia picked up the note and, before she could stop herself, found herself secreting it into her notebook. Emil Coeztee’s wife was Kuki Coetzee and his long-term mistress was Marion Hartley; so who was Zora Neale Hurston, and why hadn’t the never-tiring rumour mill of the City of Kings ever heard of her? As she mulled over this, she scribbled in her notebook: ‘Who is Zora Neale Hurston? Find her!’

In the interests of time, Saskia reluctantly let go of this tantalising train of thought, and looked for something else that would catch her interest on Emil Coetzee’s desk. Under a black orb that acted as a paperweight was a fragile-looking and gently folded paper that could not help but attract her attention: she knew instinctively it was the kind of paper that held secrets within it. As her fingers deftly pulled out and unfolded it, Saskia’s breath caught, and as she read what turned out to be a letter, her hands began to tremble with the anticipation of discovery. The letter was not addressed or signed, so there was no way of initially knowing who had written it:

We arrived at the village just before dawn. We fired our rifles into the air so as to wake up the villagers. We had them all gather in the middle of the kraal. We asked them why they were aiding the terrorists. We asked them this as though we thought they had a choice in the matter.

Saskia knew that time was fast running out – any moment now Emil Coetzee would turn away from the window – and so she skipped to the end and read:

You finally got your wish. You have always wanted me to kill something and now I have. I hope you are finally proud of me. I have become the son that you have always wanted.

Saskia realised that the letter was from Everleigh: Emil Coetzee’s son, who had died in the recent war. She let the letter fall from her hands as though it had suddenly become too weighty for her to hold. It landed on the desk with a sound that seemed to belong to a much heavier object.

As she sat there, struggling to arrange her thoughts and emotions, she heard rather than saw Emil Coetzee turn from the window. She was happy to discover that her voice sounded normal when she said, ‘Emil, things are changing in this country … rapidly. Men like you may very well be forgotten in a year or two. You want to be remembered, don’t you?’