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I who observed these tsotsis making off with their ill-gotten gains,” chipped in the minister from the tin church next door. “Naturally I gave chase.”
    “And?”
    “They dropped everything in their wake, so effecting their escape.”
    “The building was in the way for us to see this,” explained one constable.
    “But Christ, man, didn’t you see them in the shop?”
    “My back was like this to look at the people.”
    “Didn’t they say anything?”
    Kramer glared round at the crowd, which was now standing much farther back but still maintaining a lively interest. No, they wouldn’t have said anything. In fact, some of the sods were smiling from ear to ear and nudging one another.
    “Stuff looks like it was taken from storage,” murmured Gardiner, tapping the corner of a cornflakes carton with his fingerprint case. “Maybe they stayed in the back. Let’s take a look.”
    The minister, whose white collar and black bib were all that he was wearing under his sagging tweed jacket, made a self-important bid to accompany them, but was motioned back.
    Gardiner scored half a mark. Just inside the rear door, a relatively clean rectangle in the dust on a packing case indicated where the carton had stood. The other half went to Kramer when they discovered that the till was now quite empty.
    “Can you remember which divisions the coins were in?” asked Gardiner helpfully.
    “Hell, no. They’d been scattered about by the first lot. Worth trying still?”
    “Even though the others must have worn gloves, I don’t see why not.”
    “Hey, just a minute—why’s there no mud? Lucky’s tracked it all over the place. Come, I’ll show you.”
    Kramer led Gardiner back to the rear door and pointed out the big puddle immediately outside it, which had been caused by the constant dripping of a tap standing nearby. The storekeeper’s teapot and chipped cup were inverted on a half brick beneath it.
    Gardiner dusted his brush over the wooden doorstep coated in green enamel.
    “Thought so,” he said. “Got a sole print for you—and another. Didn’t want to get their feet wet so they jumped it. I’ll lift them in case they come in useful.”
    Of course, they had only been youngsters. Kramer felt he was beginning to lose his grip. And petty theft wasn’t his job anyway. Jesus.
    No, his first instinctive reaction had been right. “Ja, you do that. Could help us nail the buggers if we need them for elimination on the till. A big hope—and a lot of bloody extra work. Look, I’m just going across to see if Zondi has had any joy.”
    Gardiner nodded and got on with the job, suddenly absorbed in what he was doing. Should have been an artist.
    Kramer was trailed across to the tin church by a raggle-taggle of big eyes and round potbellies who were hoping for a glimpse of his gun. One was rescued by its mother, who pounced with a squawk like a brown hen.
    The windows were the proper pointed shape, but had been glazed with ordinary glass, some of it now broken and all of it so dusty it was difficult to see through. Kramer found a convenient hole and peered in.
    Bantu Detective Sergeant Mickey Zondi was holding court, with his snap-brim hat set very straight on his head. He sat at the minister’s table on the low, shaky platform, cool and dapper in his silver-thread suit despite the heat, and listened solemnly as a weeping woman, on a bench placed below him, gave her statement.
    He was a terrible man for dramatic effects.
    Yet Kramer could see that his improvisation was being received with due respect and, more importantly, might even be getting some real results at last. So he decided to have a smoke until there was a break in the proceedings.
    Zondi stepped out of the building only a few seconds later. His eyes had always been quick.
    “Well?”
    “Same as before, boss. They hide when they hear the gun go off. When they look up, all they see is a red car driving away.”
    “Was a blue one last time.”
    Zondi shrugged.