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handed her a thin piece of cake, and cut myself a nice piece.

      Jessie’s phone sang, Light my fire.

      ‘Sorry,’ she said. She took it from her pouch and glanced at it and smiled. ‘It’s just a message. Carry on, Tannie M.’

      ‘But I messed up with him,’ I said. ‘I didn’t give him cake in time, and he wouldn’t tell me anything. And he doesn’t want our help. He wants us to stay out of it.’

      Jessie said something but her mouth was full of cake, so I couldn’t understand it.

      ‘What she is attempting to say,’ translated Hattie, who had not yet touched her cake, ‘is that Kannemeyer wouldn’t speak to her, but Reghardt did.’

      ‘Who’s Reghardt?’ I asked.

      ‘Reghardt Snyman is an old school-friend of Jessie’s who happens to be a policeman. And who happens to be sweet on her.’

      Jessie wrinkled her nose at Hattie.

      ‘What?’ said Hattie. ‘I’ve seen how he looks at you.’

      Jessie stroked a gecko tattoo on her arm. The cake was making her happy. And maybe the mention of Reghardt too.

      ‘Kannemeyer did say that maybe it wasn’t Dirk who killed his wife,’ I said. ‘He thinks it might’ve been suicide, and it seems like they suspect Anna too.’

      ‘This cake is totally awesome, Tannie,’ Jessie mumbled between crumbs. ‘Is there brandy in the icing?’

      ‘Rum,’ I said.

      ‘Did Hattie tell you about the sleeping tabs?’

      ‘Ja,’ I said. ‘But Martine wrote to me that she was planning to leave. I don’t think she was suicidal.’ I picked up the letter and read: ‘I am making a plan that will allow me to leave. I will just have to tread water till I get it right.’

      ‘Maybe she meant leave this mortal coil,’ said Hattie as she nibbled on her cake.

      ‘My ma was on shift at the hospital when they brought the body in and she saw that there was a wound on Martine’s head,’ said Jessie. ‘Then the LCRC came and took the body to Oudtshoorn; they will do the autopsy there.’

      ‘The LCRC?’ I said.

      ‘Sorry, the Local Crime Registration Centre. They do the forensic testing for this region. Though some things they send off to the forensic lab in Cape Town. And Reghardt told me – off the record, of course – that the LCRC was given a fire poker for fingerprinting.’

      ‘A poker?’ I said. ‘Did her husband klap her with it?’

      ‘Well, if she was hit on the head, then I suppose we can rule out suicide,’ said Hattie.

      ‘She could’ve drugged herself and, like, fallen and hurt her head,’ said Jessie. ‘Or he could have hit her with the poker and it was just the last straw and she killed herself.’

      ‘I don’t believe it,’ I said, passing the letters to Jessie. ‘Look at these again.’

      ‘Didn’t you give these to the detective?’ asked Hattie.

      ‘No. I let him read them, but when he didn’t want to stay for cake, I was a bit upset and told him they were Gazette property and I would make copies and drop off the originals tomorrow.’

      ‘He could’ve just taken them, you know,’ said Jessie. ‘Being a murder case and all.’

      ‘He’s a real gentleman, that detective,’ said Hattie.

      ‘Elna le Grange said Martine was a bookkeeper at the Spar,’ I said.

      ‘Ja, that’s true,’ said Jessie. ‘My cousin Boetie works there. He says she went in twice a week. A nice lady, he said. Quiet.’

      She quickly read through the letters I had given her.

      ‘Dirk was a pig,’ she said. ‘But Anna might have been moerse angry when Martine told her not to come around any more.’

      She read out loud from Anna’s letter: ‘She says I mustn’t go to her house.’

      ‘Oh, golly,’ said Hattie. ‘Maybe that’s why they wanted her fingerprints. To see if they matched the ones on the poker. But Dirk is the abusive one, not Anna. He got wind of her plan to leave, and killed her.’

      Jessie’s cake was finished. She got out her pen and paper, and started making notes.

      ‘I know it seems obvious to us that the husband did it,’ she said, ‘but we need to find a way of proving it. It’s also possible, objectively speaking, that someone else did it.’ She took a sip of her coffee. When she was writing, Jessie spoke in a different way. Less like a small-town coloured girl and more like an SABC TV presenter. ‘We need to establish cause of death. Identify suspects and possible motives. We also need to find evidence to convict the guilty party.’

      ‘You’re right,’ I said, cutting another slice of cake for Jessie. ‘I suppose Anna’s letter shows she might kill for love. Then Martine told her not to come round. That might’ve upset Anna a lot. Maybe Martine was planning on leaving not just her husband, but also Anna.’

      ‘Love does funny things to people,’ said Hattie, looking at the first letter. ‘Martine said she wants the relationship platonic from her side. Perhaps Anna wanted more.’

      I gave Hattie some more tea.

      ‘And,’ said Jessie, ‘Martine’s son is in George. Maybe she was planning on leaving Ladismith altogether to go and be nearer to him.’

      We were all quiet for a while, drinking and eating and feeling rather pleased with ourselves as investigators. On the grass, termites were gathering grass and sticks, just like we were gathering clues.

      I was also feeling pleased with the chocolate cake. It was perfect. Moist, dense, rich and satisfying. You can hold the idea of the best chocolate cake in your mind like a memory from childhood; but when you eat a real cake it’s often a bit of a disappointment. Not this one.

      I heard the bokmakierie calling in the veld. I felt bad. Anna had asked for my help, and here we were talking against her when maybe all she was guilty of was love.

      ‘I think I should go and take Anna some cake,’ I said, ‘and see what she has to say.’

      ‘Good idea,’ said Hattie, ‘she trusts you.’

      ‘I could also take a slice to Kannemeyer,’ I said, ‘along with the letters.’

      CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

      ‘You’re here bright and early this morning, Tannie Maria,’ said Hattie as I walked into the office. ‘Bee in your bonnet?’

      The heat had not yet settled onto the day, and the ceiling fan was off.

      ‘I can’t ignore all the other people who write letters, just because some are in trouble or dead.’

      I put Martine and Anna’s letters and a Tupperware with two big pieces of chocolate cake onto my desk, and picked up a pile of envelopes and some pages of email printouts. I heard Jessie’s scooter arriving and I turned on the kettle. Then I sorted through my post. It was important to start the day with the right letter.

      ‘Haai, Hattie and Tannie M,’ said Jessie. ‘What’s up?’

      She was eying my Tupperware. You couldn’t see through it, but Jessie had a sixth sense when it came to cake.

      ‘Sorry, my skat, it’s for Anna and Kannemeyer. Could you make copies of these on your scanner thingy?’ I handed her the letters. ‘So I can give the originals to the detective.’ I rattled the rusk tin to distract her from the cake, but it only had crumbs in it. ‘Coffee?’

      Once we all had our coffee

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