Blood Safari by Deon Meyer Page B

passed the photo to Branca.
    ‘I’ve seen it,’ the younger man said.
    ‘And what do you think?’
    ‘There is a similarity.’
    Wolhuter took the photo back. He looked at it again. Gave it back to Emma. He put the pipe back in the still-open drawer.
    ‘Miss le Roux …’
    ‘Emma.’
    ‘Emma, do you have an identity document with you?
    A little frown. ‘Yes.’
    ‘May I see it?’
    She glanced at me and then put her hand in her bag. She took out an ID book and gave it to Wolhuter. He opened it at the photo.
    ‘Do you have a business card?’
    She hesitated again, but dug out her purse, snapped it open and brought out a visiting card. Wolhuter took it between his lean fingers and studied it. He looked at me. ‘You are Lemmer?’
    ‘Yes.’ I didn’t like his tone.
    ‘What is your interest in the matter?’
    Emma drew in a breath to answer, but I was quicker. ‘Moral support.’
    ‘What is your profession?’
    It was his manner which led me to make a mistake. I tried to be clever. ‘I am a builder.’
    ‘A builder, you say?’
    ‘I do up houses, mostly.’
    ‘Do you have a business card?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘And what do you intend to build here?’
    ‘Friendships.’
    ‘Are you a developer, Lemmer?’
    ‘A what?’
    ‘Frank …’ said Emma.
    Wolhuter tried to silence her with a good-natured ‘Just a sec, Emmatjie…’, using the Afrikaans diminutive. Bad choice of words.
    ‘I am not Emmatjie.’ For the first time since I had met her, there was ice in her tone. I looked at her. Wolhuter and Branca looked at her. She sat up straight, cheeks lightly flushed. ‘My name is Emma. If you don’t like that, try Miss le Roux. Those are the only two acceptable options. Are we all clear?’
    I wondered fleetingly why she needed a bodyguard.
    Nobody said a word. Emma filled in the vacuum. ‘Lemmer is here because I asked him to be. I am here to find out whether Cobie de Villiers is my brother. That is all. And we shall do that with or without your help.’

12
    Wolhuter raised a bony hand and slowly rubbed his goatee. Then his face eroded into a wary smile. ‘Emma,’ he said, with respect.
    ‘That’s right.’
    ‘You’re going to need that attitude. You have no idea what a wasp’s nest you’re sticking your head into.’
    ‘That’s what Inspector Jack Phatudi said too.’
    Wolhuter gave Branca a meaningful look. Then he asked Emma, ‘When did you speak to him?’
    ‘This morning.’
    ‘What do you know about him?’
    ‘Nothing.’
    Frank Wolhuter shifted his body forward and leaned his forearms on the desk. ‘Emma, I like you. But I see from your card that you are from Cape Town. This is another world from Cape Town. You won’t like me saying it, but let me tell you that Capetonians do not live in Africa. I know. Every year I go to Cape Town and it’s like visiting Europe.’
    ‘What has all this to do with Jacobus?’
    ‘I’ll get to that. First, let me paint you a picture of Limpopo, of the Lowveld, so you can understand the whole thing. This is still the old South Africa. No, that’s not entirely true. The mindset of everyone, black and white, is in the old regime, but all the problems are New South Africa. And that makes for an ugly combination. Racism and progress, hate and cooperation, suspicion and reconciliation … those things do not lie well together. And then there’s the money and the poverty, the greed.’
    He picked up his pipe again, but did nothing with it.
    ‘You have no idea what’s going on here. Let me tell you about Inspector Jack Phatudi. He is from the Sibashwa tribe, important man, nephew to the chief. And by a mere coincidence the Sibashwa are in the middle of a big land claim. The acreage they want is part of the Kruger Park. And the Sibashwa are no great fans of Cobie de Villiers. Because Cobie is what some would call an activist. Not your usual greeny, your typical bunny-hugger. No. He doesn’t do protest marches or shout from a podium. He’s undercover,