Spokes and Kuki Coetzee stood awkwardly under the archway, not quite knowing what to do next.

Marion Hartley presently returned carrying a magazine – The World Tomorrow. She opened the well-thumbed magazine at a particular page and carefully placed it into Spokes’s hands. Spokes gingerly held it and saw an essay by Zora Neale Hurston titled ‘How It Feels to Be Colored Me’.

Her expression guarded, Marion Hartley waited for Spokes to read through the essay before she said, ‘Zora is such a unique name. Who mentioned it?’

‘The name was written on a piece of paper that was found on Emil Coetzee’s desk, I believe,’ Spokes lied, rather easily.

Marion Hartley’s stance softened somewhat. ‘Over the years I sent him passages from her book Their Eyes Were Watching God. Perhaps he used her name as a code or password.’

‘Perhaps,’ Spokes said non-committally as he handed back her obviously cherished magazine.

After they said their goodbyes, Spokes opened the door of the BSAP bakkie for Kuki Coetzee, and as she settled into the passenger’s seat, she said, ‘She is rather good at what she does, is she not?’

‘And what is that?’ Spokes said, realising he still had Emil Coetzee’s keys in his possession.

‘Getting men to fall in love with her.’

Saskia

SASKIA

The two men – one white, the other black – in Emil Coetzee’s disarrayed office looked as if they had been caught with their proverbial trousers around their ankles. What showed Saskia that they were not supposed to be doing whatever it was they were doing was that they were too busy thinking of a plausible excuse to explain why they were in an office that had obviously been tampered with to ask her why she was there.

‘My name is Saskia Hargrave. I am a journalist for The Chronicle. I am working on Emil Coetzee’s biography but I cannot seem to get hold of him,’ she said by way of introduction.

‘He has gone walkabout,’ the white one said, coming forward, almost stumbling in his eagerness to get close to her. Saskia read the situation clearly: these two men, whoever they were, had taken advantage of Emil Coetzee’s absence to look for something. She was naturally curious as to what that something was, and saw no reason not to ensure that they both divulged this information to her at a later date. The white one offered his hand and said, ‘Clement Rutherford. Everyone calls me Rutherford.’

Saskia could tell that Clement Rutherford was one of those middle-aged men who had had quite a bit of luck with women in the past, but who had recently gone to seed and was desperate to reclaim something of his former glory.