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certain that the charge office sergeant had sent him out to
chase a waste-of-time tip-off. The constable entered the narrow pathway with
his torch on high beam and re-emerged quickly, gasping for air. The subtropical
night was still and the policeman's rasps could be heard across the width of
the road. Nausea, shock and disbelief . . . Emmanuel waited for the young man
to go through the emotions that came with the discovery of a murder victim. The
constable wiped his nose with a sleeve and pulled the police whistle free. A
long and mournful note sounded across the Point.

CHAPTER THREE
     
    It
was 6.45 a.m. and the morning light was soft on the shop-front awnings and the
tidy red-brick houses sitting behind tidy red-brick fences and trimmed hedges.
Emmanuel buttoned his grubby jacket, plastered down errant strands of hair and
approached Dover, the Edwardian-style apartment box that housed his 'fully
furnished short-term accommodation'. The cross-town tram rumbled off towards
West Street in the heart of the city, the lion's share of the seats reserved
for white office workers, clerks and perfumed shop girls. Non- whites were
squashed into the last six rows of the carriage in a press of saris, khaki suits
and pre-packed lunch pails.
    He
approached the entrance to the Dover flats slowly, the better to judge the
chances of slipping in the side gate. He'd waited to see a guard posted at the
murder scene before turning for home. That was a mistake. Mrs Edith Patterson,
the landlady, was out on the front footpath pulling up weeds from cracks in the
pavement. Her purple hair was wound tight over rollers. The brass ring that
held the keys to her building clanked together against the green material of
her housecoat as she worked to tame nature.
    The
black maid, a slight Zulu girl in a patchwork dress, collected the debris and
made neat piles ready to be swept up. Rows of paper Union Jacks were strung
along the fence to celebrate Princess Elizabeth Windsor's imminent coronation.
A dirty Scottish terrier panted down the stairs, trotted to Mrs Patterson and
attempted to mate with her arm.
    'No,
Lancelot.' The landlady shook off the dog. 'Bad boy!'
    Emmanuel
did a half turn towards the tram stop. He'd try his luck later.
    'Mr
Cooper.'
    Mrs
Patterson was now standing up, a much better vantage point from which to look
down her nose at him. He walked over to her and smiled. Buttoning the jacket
was a mistake, he realised. It only made him more pitiful: as if he really
believed a simple gesture could wipe the smell from his clothes or rearrange
the muddy creases in his suit. He unbuttoned his jacket in a show of defiance.
Five months at the Dover and he'd never been late making the monthly rent. He
was still paid up one week in advance. That counted for something.
    'Mr
Cooper.' The landlady's brown eyes narrowed. 'Are you going to make me regret
my decision to take you on?'
    She
pointed to the hand-painted sign nailed under the building's name, which read
'Europeans and well-behaved Mauritians allowed. No Exceptions'. Well-behaved
Mauritians being a code for any light-skinned, mixed-race person willing to
pay the inflated rent and refrain from bringing bar girls into the room for a
night of mattress thumping.
    'My
car broke down and I missed the last tram,' Emmanuel explained while the mangy
terrier began an unsuccessful liaison with the mailbox pole.
    Mrs
Patterson pursed her lips. She waited for Emmanuel to make an apology or show
regret for confirming her worst suspicions about mixed-race men. He relaxed his
shoulders, kept eye contact and said nothing. He'd explained himself enough
for one day. The maid's hand hovered above an unplucked weed, held there by the
sudden tension in the air.
    Mrs
Patterson broke eye contact first. 'I run a good house. A clean house.' She
brushed dirt-flecked hands against her housecoat and the keys at her waist
chimed. 'I thought you understood that, Mr Cooper.'
    Emmanuel
sidestepped the landlady and walked to