believe that she was in real danger – despite being a small woman with a predisposition to that? Perhaps she was financially conservative. Or just stingy. Or too modest or self-conscious to bear the presence of two to four men with firearms around her.
Or she could be playing a game.
Our luggage arrived. We went over to Budget Rent-A-Car. My phone rang while Emma was completing the forms. I recognised the number, moved a distance away and answered.
‘Hello, Antjie,’ I said.
‘Where are you?’ said Antjie Barnard in her deep, incredibly sensual voice.
‘Working. I’ll be away a week or so.’
‘That’s what I thought. What about your turn for irrigation? It’s hot here.’
‘I’ll have to ask you to do it.’
‘Then I will. If I don’t see you before then, Happy New Year.’
‘Thanks, Antjie, same to you. Look after yourself.’
‘What for?’ She laughed and rang off.
When I turned, Emma was right behind me, with the light of new information shining in her eyes. I said nothing, just took the key of a white BMW 318i that she held out to me. It was parked outside in the sun. I loaded our bags in the boot and did a 360-degree reconnaissance. Nobody was interested in us. I got in and started the engine so the air conditioner could kick in. Emma unfolded a map on her lap.
‘I thought we should go to Hoedspruit first,’ she said. Her index finger sought out the road. I noticed that she wasn’t wearing nail polish. ‘Here, past Hazyview and Klaserie, it looks like the shortest route. Do you know this part of the country, Lemmer?’
‘Not well’
‘I’ll navigate.’
We drove. There was more traffic than I had expected, pickups, 4 ? 4s, trucks and minibus-taxis. No sign of anyone following. Through White River the contrast with the Cape was sharp – here the colours of nature were bright and over the top in the foliage of the endless trees, the blood red of nearly every flower, the deep dark mahogany of the people manning stalls along the roadside. Ugly, amateurish signs shouted names, prices and directions to campsites, guest houses and private game farms.
Emma gave directions; we found the R538 and drove on, initially in silence.
When the question eventually came, it was no surprise. No woman can suppress her curiosity over certain things.
‘Was that your …’ An instant of hesitation to indicate that the term would be broadly inclusive: ‘friend?’
I knew what she meant, but feigned ignorance.
‘The one who phoned just now?’ Emma’s tone was in chit-chat mode, that neutrally friendly style that indicated mere curiosity, a matter of interest. It was not necessarily untrue. That is how women’s brains work. They use such information to colour in the picture. If you have a girlfriend, you can’t be a total psychopath. The art is to answer them in such a way that you avoid the annoying follow-up questions. What does she do? (To determine your and your girlfriend’s status.) Have you been together long? (To gauge the degree of the relationship.) How did you meet? (To satisfy their craving for romance.)
I just grinned and made a non-committal noise. It worked every time, because it said to them she was not the sort of friend they had in mind and that it actually was none of their business. Emma took it bravely.
We drove through Nsikazi, Legogoto, Manzini, little villages, a continuous monotony of poor houses and restless people wandering about in the incredible baking heat, children squatting on their haunches beside the road, swimming in a river under a bridge.
Emma looked to the left, at the horizon. ‘What mountain is that?’ She was determined to pursue a conversation.
‘Mariepskop,’ I said.
‘I thought you didn’t know this area.’
‘I don’t know the roads.’
She looked at me expectantly.
‘When the ministers come to the Kruger Park for a weekend, they fly into Hoedspruit. There’s a military airport.’
She looked at the mountain again. ‘How many ministers have you guarded, Lemmer?’ Carefully adding: ‘If you can talk about it …’
‘Two.’
‘Oh?’
‘Transport and Agriculture. Mostly Agriculture.’
She glanced back at me. She didn’t say a word, but I knew what she was thinking. Not exactly high risk. Her bodyguard – an unarmed former minder of the Minister of Agriculture. I knew she felt really safe.
‘I’m looking for Inspector Jack Phatudi,’ Emma said to the constable in the Hoedspruit charge office.
The hefty policewoman had an inscrutable expression. ‘I do not know that man.’
‘I think he works here.’
‘No.’
‘He is investigating the Khokhovela murders.’ Emma’s voice was light and friendly, as if she were talking to a loved one.
The constable looked at Emma without comprehension.
‘The traditional healer and three other men who were killed.’
‘Oh. That one.’
‘Yes.’
The policewoman moved slowly as if the searing heat were holding her back. She pulled a telephone closer. The phone might have been white once. It was battered and coffee coloured now. She tapped in a number and waited. Then she spoke in staccato sePedi – phrases like bursts of machine-gun fire. She put the phone down.
‘He is not here.’
‘Do you know where he is?’
‘No.’
‘Will he be coming back?’
‘I do not know.’
‘Is there somewhere I can find out?’
‘You will have to wait.’
‘Here?’
‘Yes.’ Still without inflection.
‘I … uh …’ Emma looked at the hard wooden bench against the wall, then back to the constable. ‘I’m not sure …’
‘They will phone,’ the constable said.
‘Oh?’
‘To say where he is.’
‘OK,’ said Emma with relief. ‘Thank you.’ She went over to the bench. Her skin had a sheen of perspiration. She sat down and gave the constable a smile of patient goodwill. I stood beside the bench and leaned against the wall. It wasn’t as cool as I had expected. I watched the constable. She was busy writing up a dossier. She did not perspire. Two black men came in and went up to the desk. They spoke to her. She scowled and upbraided them in short bursts. They answered apologetically. The phone rang. She held up a hand. The men stopped and looked down at their shoes. She answered the phone, listened and then replaced the receiver.
‘He has gone back to Tzaneen,’ she said in Emma’s direction. But Emma was gazing out through the door.
‘Lady!’
Emma jumped and stood up.
‘He has gone back to Tzaneen.’
‘Inspector Phatudi?’
