Gallows Hill by Margie Orford Page B

1988. I was told that you dealt with the detail of what the tenants required,’ said Clare. ‘And that you had access to the site, and could enter at will. It sounds like it was your special project.’
    He got up, stood at the French windows. ‘I’ll check with Saskia,’ he said. ‘She keeps track of everything. Rainfall, holidays, shopping lists, her shoes. She’llhave our diaries in the study.’
    Clare went with him to the main house.
    A Tchaikovsky symphony drifted through the still air. The house smelt of old money, of decades of furniture polish, and freshly picked roses. Crimson petals dripped across gleaming wooden surfaces.
    ‘Darling,’ Sykes’s voice was hesitant.
    ‘Here. In the study.’
    ‘Dr Hart needs to know a date. I was wondering,do you have all your diaries still?’
    Saskia Sykes got up and opened a cupboard. It was obsessively tidy.
    ‘What year, Dr Hart?’ she asked. ‘My diaries only date back to 1975, I’m afraid.’
    ‘The last weekend of February 1988,’ said Clare.
    Saskia Sykes ran her fingers across the embossed spines of the diaries. She selected one, paged through it.
    ‘A rather busy weekend, that,’ shesaid. ‘Friday dinner with my parents at the Alphen. Saturday shopping and Fatal Attraction at Cavendish. An exhibition opening at the Osman’s. Dinner at the Mount Nelson with the Piggotts. Sunday we went to Hermanus. Stayed there until Tuesday, it looks like.’
    ‘Twenty-three years, and nothing’s changed,’ said her husband.
    ‘Except, now I do it all on my own, don’t I, darling?’ said MrsSykes. ‘Please be a good boy, won’t you, and see Dr Hart out. It sounds like my yoga teacher has just arrived.’

16
    It was too late for breakfast, too early for lunch when Riedwaan got back from the press conference. His desk was a jumble of mugs and piles of paper. He cleared a space and put down a mug of coffee. Then handed one to Rita Mkhize, who was at her desk, documents arranged around her laptop.
    ‘How did the press conference go?’ asked Rita, pulling out her iPod earphones.
    ‘The wholefucking thing’s going to blow,’ said Riedwaan. ‘And Clare’s right there in the firing line.’
    ‘Clare?’ said Rita. ‘Why?’
    ‘Some fucker from Die Son ’s decided that the best angle is to go for Clare.’ Riedwaan handed the tabloid to Rita. ‘Says her filming there is disturbing the sacred rest of the ancestors.’
    ‘Hey. There’s nothing sacred about getting your head bashed in. Or having cementpoured over a box they’ve thrown your body into,’ said Rita.
    ‘Nothing sacred about giving state land to your cronies, either,’ said Riedwaan.
    He picked up a photograph that Rita had just printed out. A well-fed man in a dark suit. A blue cummerbund around his belly, two girls on his arm, each in a dress about the size of a cummerbund.
    ‘Aaron Mtimbe,’ said Riedwaan. ‘He’s even greasierin the flesh.’
    ‘The man who makes things happen. The king of the Young Lions. Greased his way up the ranks of the Youth League,’ said Rita.
    ‘Looks more like Garfield than the Lion King,’ Riedwaan said. ‘And that voice of his. Must be why he chose business instead of politics.’
    Rita pointed to the wedding ring on the lion’s left hand. ‘Mrs Mtimbe will love this. Hell hath no fury –’

    ‘Don’t I know it,’ said Riedwaan. ‘Mkhize, maybe it’s time for a visit.’
    He picked up the keys of the Unit’s Toyota bakkie and held them out to Rita. ‘You want to drive?’
    ‘What do you think?’ Rita snatched them from him and hopped up into the front seat.
    ‘Can you see okay?’ asked Riedwaan, getting into the other seat. ‘You sure you don’t want a cushion?’
    ‘Fuck you,’ said Rita.

    ‘Is that the way you speak to your commanding officer?’
    ‘Sorry.’ Rita made the engine roar. ‘Fuck you, sir.’
    ‘That’s better,’ said Riedwaan.
    ‘How’s Clare?’ asked Rita.
    ‘Complicated.’
    Riedwaan looked out of his