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the armed robbery at the garage, the shooting . . . and now the escape. There is a pattern. A spiral. People like him don’t stop; their crimes just become more serious. And that’s why chances are good. I can’t tell you we will catch them now. I can’t tell you when we will catch them. But we will, because they won’t stay out of trouble.”

“How long, do you think?”

“I couldn’t say.”

“Guess.”

The detective shook his head. “I don’t know. Nine months? A year?”

“I can’t wait that long.”

“I am sorry for your loss, Mr. Mpayipheli. I understand how you feel. But you must remember, you are only one victim of many. Look at all these files here. There is a victim in every one. And even if you go and talk to the PC, it will make no difference.”

“The PC?”

“Provincial commissioner.”

“I don’t want to talk to the provincial commissioner. I am talking to you. ”

“I have told you how it is.”

He gestured towards the document on the table and said softly: “I want a copy of the file.”

The detective did not react immediately. A frown began to crease his forehead, possibilities considered.

“It’s not allowed.”

Thobela nodded his head in comprehension. “How much?”

The eyes measured him, estimating an amount. The detective straightened his shoulders. “Five thousand.”

“That is too much,” he said, and he stood up and started for the door.

“Three.”

“Five hundred.”

“It’s my job on the line. Not for five hundred.”

“No one will ever know. Your job is safe. Seven-fifty.”

“A thousand,” he said hopefully.

Thobela turned around. “A thousand. How long will it take to copy?”

“I will have to do it tonight. Come tomorrow.”

“No. Tonight.”

The detective looked at him, his eyes not quite so weary now. “Why such a hurry?”

“Where can I meet you?”
    * * *
    The poverty here was dreadful. Shacks of planks and corrugated iron, a pervasive stink of decay and uncollected rubbish. Paralyzing heat beat upwards from the dust.

Mrs. Ramphele chased four children—two teenagers, two toddlers—out of the shack and invited him to sit down. It was tidy inside, clean but hot, so that the sweat stained his shirt in great circles. There were schoolbooks on a table and photos of children on the rickety cupboard.

She thought he was from the police and he did not disillusion her as she apologized for her son, saying he wasn’t always like that; he was a good boy, misled by Khoza and how easily that could happen here, where no one had anything and there was no hope. Andrew had looked for work, had gone down to the Cape, he had finished standard eight and then he said he couldn’t let his mother struggle like this, he would finish school later. There was no work. Nothing: East London, Uitenhage, Port Elizabeth, Jeffreys Bay, Knysna, George, Mossel Bay, Cape Town . . . Too many people, too little work. Occasionally he sent a little money; she didn’t know where it came from, but she hoped it wasn’t stolen.

Did she know where Andrew would go now? Did he know people in the Cape?

Not that she knew.

Had he been here?

She looked him in the eye and said no, and he wondered how much of what she had said was the truth.
    * * *
    They had erected the gravestone. Pakamile Nzululwazi. Son of Miriam Nzululwazi. Son of Thobela Mpayipheli. 1996–2004. Rest in Peace.

A simple stone of granite and marble set in the green grass by the river. He leaned against the pepper tree and reflected that this was the child’s favorite place. He used to watch him through the kitchen window and see the small body etched here, on his haunches, sometimes just staring at the brown water flowing slowly past. Sometimes he had a stick in his hand, scratching patterns and letters in the sand—and he would wonder what Pakamile was thinking about. The possibility that he was thinking of his mother gave him great pain, because it was not something he could fix, not a pain he could heal.

Occasionally he would try to talk about it, but