Zoo City

'And I found her body.'

'How?' she presses.

'I followed a connection.'

'How did you know the victim?'

'I didn't. I'd seen her on the street. She is, was, lekgosha. A sex-worker. But I don't think it was a client who did this.'

'You don't think? Were you involved with the killing?'

'No.'

'Where were you on the morning of Tuesday 22nd March?'

'Isn't that a different interrogation?'

'You tell me. Where were you?'

'As I said before, at the time Mrs Luditsky was stabbed

to death, I was at home in my flat. Apartment 611, Elysium Heights, Zoo City, Hillbrow. Postal code 2038. With my boyfriend Benoit Bocanga, who I believe has made a statement corroborating such.'

'Benoit Bocanga. We've been reviewing his papers.'

'Which are in order.'

'But his refugee status application is due for renewal.'

'If you want to blackmail someone, blackmail me. I'm sure you can dig up something.'

'Indeed.' She changes tack. 'Ms December. You – and your magical shavi – have been peripherally involved in two murders in the last week. How would you explain that?'

'Phenomenally bad luck, Inspector.'

'Do you own any knives?'

'I have a kitchen. It's small and dirty, but it does come equipped with assorted cutlery.'

'Can we search your domicile?'

'You'll need a warrant.'

'That can be arranged.'

'So can a lawyer, Inspector.'

30.

It takes committed former addicts to drag their sorry asses out of bed at ten in the morning. Or, judging by the faces, perhaps people who don't know how to sleep anymore. Pass the Midazolam.

I help distribute polystyrene cups of truly disgusting instant chicory-coffee mix to the patrons of today's early bird meeting at New Hope, using the opportunity to show round the photocopy of the burned man's ID at the same time.

The problem is that all anyone wants to talk about is Slinger, and how he's not the real makhoya after all. They're passing round a copy of The Daily Truth.

'Fo sho, darkie's Hyena was a fake,' a very tall, very nervy guy says with telltale ringworm patches in his hair. He is carrying a funky old baseball cap upside-down with a Hedgehog curled up in it.

'This whole time?' says a lanky redhead with drawnon eyebrows. 'And no one noticed? Don't you people have a way of telling if an animal is real or not?'

''You people?' 'Real or not'?'

'Ag man, you know what I mean.'

'It's not like being gay. We don't have some magic zoodar to detect other zoos.'

'I think it's sad. That man was doing a lot for zoo relations.'

'That man was doing a lot for his own publicity. Playing Mr Big Tough Gangster Zoo Guy to stir up controversy.'

'Can I see that?' I ask, indicating the newspaper. The guy with the Hedgehog thrusts it at me and launches back into lecture mode. 'Man like that knows how to work the media and rile up parents. You check his album sales. Same with Britney Spears. And Eminem and that freaky vampire guy with the weird eyes? They're just going for a reaction.'

There are two photographs side-by-side dominating the front page under the headline CIRCUS ACT. The first is of Slinger holding an Uzi, posing tough with the diamondcollared hyena and a veritable posse of pussy in gold micro-bikinis with assault rifles of their own. It's contrasted with a harried man in a dark green tracksuit with a jacket over his head, fleeing the paparazzi towards an SUV with the door open to reveal a woman twisted round to hide her face.

I flip through, past the page-three boobs and the story about the people who have been so hard hit by the recession that they're hunting house cats until I find the report on the Sparrow's murder. Dave promised it would be front page, but Slinger's dirty has pushed it to a narrow block on page six, just another police file item.

The Daily Truth

POLICE FILE

Hate Crime Hack Job

The body of an oulike young boynooi was found yesterday afternoon on one of the Crown Mine dumps in the deep dark south of the city. After a hot tip-off, our photographer was first to discover the hacked-up body. The victim, said to be a ladyboy of the night, had apparently had magical and surgical alterations done before the madman killer did a little altering of his own, cutting he/ she/it to bloody ribbons with a panga. Was it a hate crime – a dissatisfied customer complaint taken to the extreme? The Gauteng police say no comment.

I have some comments of my own, but they don't involve homophobic intersex hate crimes. I don't think that's the story behind this at all, but so far I haven't received any mysterious emails from the beyond to explain otherwise.

I stick around for the meeting, but no one recognises Patrick Serfontein from the photocopy of his ID, including the facilitators. I wasn't really expecting them to. After all, Kitsch Kitchen's leftovers aren't quite the same thing as 'eating things from planes', although it did give me the idea. Along with the muti vision of a burning trolley laden with plastic forks.

I spend the morning on the phone to the airlines under the cover of doing a story for Better Business Magazine on 'giving back'. It turns out only two national air carriers donate leftover meals to the needy. As FlyRite's Corporate Social Responsibility person said, 'We live in a litigious society. I can understand that other airlines might be afraid of the possibility of a food-poisoning claim. But we stand by the quality of our food. Even when it's a day old.' She adds brightly, 'If it's good enough for our passengers, it's good enough for those in need!'

Two phone calls later and I have a list of all the welfare facilities catered to by FlyRite and Blue Crane Air. Based on Patrick's age, I eliminate the Bright Beginnings halfway house for juvenile offenders and the Vuka! underprivileged schools feeding programme, which leaves me with the St James Church soup kitchen in Alexandra township and the Carol Walters Shelter situated just off Louis Botha, a stone's throw – give or take an Olympian athlete doing the throwing – from Troyeville. Call it a guess, but I go there first.

The shelter is a graciously decrepit Victorian house with cornices and broekie lace and blue paint peeling off the walls like sunburn. The interior is deserted and resolutely clean, but all the Handy Andy and Windolene in the world can't scrub away the air of desperation that hangs over the building like mustard gas. A man with a mop directs me towards the administrator's office.

Renier Snyman is somewhere in his early thirties, young enough to still believe in making a difference, old enough that he's beginning to feel the weight of trying. He's friendly, but wary when I introduce myself as a journalist on a murder story.

'I can't promise I can help you. We don't keep records

of the people who come through here.'