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bound to come with pressure.’
    ‘Maybe,’ Jaffari says. ‘But you have to understand that pressure is like a button, or a switch that can be turned on or off. You think you’ve got it under control, and then suddenly it can change. Sometimes you don’t realise you’re losing control of it until the button is pressed and you do something . . . spectacular . It can happen in any walk of life. Not just sport.’
    His tone is patronising.
    ‘So why did Aiden Nel call you? Had Meyer’s button been pressed?’
    I try to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.
    ‘Coaches come to me with all sorts of issues. Athletes who need to find an edge somewhere. Better focus in training, more aggression in competition – that kind of thing. Sometimes they’resuffering from a problem. Drugs. Addiction. Anger issues. Sexual deviances. Gambling. You name it.’
    ‘What about Meyer?’
    ‘Meyer couldn’t cope with the media schedule, the sponsor meetings and the photo shoots. He’s wasn’t that kind of guy. So Aiden Nel wanted my help.’
    Jaffari looks back out to the horizon.
    ‘The coach told me he was worried about how Meyer was acting. He said Meyer had anger issues and personality problems.’
    For a second time I remember Oscar Ryan, and the glowering way he looked at me in the Maracanã after I had shot Gilmore. Ryan was another athlete with anger issues, but according to Paz, his statement checked out. Oscar Ryan was a dead end.
    ‘The coach arranged for Lucas to take a holiday for a fortnight. I just happened to take a holiday at the same time. In the same hotel. And we met up. Every day.’
    ‘Is that how it works?’ I ask.
    ‘Sometimes.’
    I imagine Meyer and Jaffari sitting at a table like this, in the sunshine near a pool.
    ‘Where?’
    Jaffari looks at me. In the sunlight, his brown eyes look almost amber, calm and calculating.
    ‘Does it matter?’
    I shrug. I guess it probably doesn’t.
    ‘Nairobi,’ Jaffari says after a minute. ‘In Kenya. I met him halfway.’
    In my mind, I calculate the distance between Johannesburg and Nairobi, and begin to wonder where Jaffari himself might have been flying from. I decide not to ask. I have other, more pressing questions and Jaffari looks like he could clam up at any time he liked.
    ‘We met every day and processed some of the things that were bothering him. He just wanted to be the best in his field.’
    ‘I thought he was the best?’
    Jaffari smiles wryly.
    ‘The human animal is not programmed to be satisfied,’ he says. ‘I bet you celebrated becoming a detective, back in the day, but you’ve probably spent the past few years asking yourself why you never made Chief, right?’
    He studies my reaction with his amber eyes, as if I’m one of his clients.
    ‘Too late to worry about that now,’ I tell him tersely, and flash him an acerbic smile.
    ‘My point is that people are never satisfied. Neither is Meyer. Paupers spend their lives wanting to be princes, and princes spend their lives waiting to be kings. And once they’re kings, they want to expand their empires. We’re all human. It’s what we do. Lucas Meyer is no different.’
    ‘In what way?’
    ‘He wants to be the best ever. He wants to be remembered for a thousand years. The media and the photo shoots are all distractions to him.’
    ‘Distractions that were causing the moods and the anxiety?’
    Jaffari leans forward very slightly.
    ‘Partly,’ he says, as the breeze picks up over the Guanabara Bay and ripples the calm turquoise of the pool. ‘Meyer told me he was dependent on drugs.’
    Jaffari leans back, unburdened.
    ‘What kind of drugs?’
    The psychologist pauses, calculating.
    ‘You understand that under normal circumstances I would not be able to tell you about this?’
    Under normal circumstances, I’d throw you in a cell , I think.
    I repeat the question. Jaffari shifts in his chair and rolls his shoulders back.
    ‘Performance-enhancing,’ he says. ‘Apparently