Emmanuel's neck muscles ached. The smack from the Webley revolver would take days to heal. Handcuffs bit into his wrists.

The door to the interview room opened and a slim man in grey flannel pants and a pressed shirt ambled in. It was the salt-and-pepper-haired detective from the crime scene at the freight yard. He nodded in greeting and placed a leather satchel gently on the floor. He'll be the nice one, Emmanuel thought. The good detective.

A second man swaggered through the door, ginger hair damp with perspiration, a heavy hand resting casually on a leather holster. It was the red-haired policeman flicked away like a fly by Lana Rose. Emmanuel shook his head. The Negro soldiers had an expression: 'If it wasn't for bad luck I'd have no luck at all.' Now Emmanuel knew how funny that was.

Recognition flickered across the detective's beaten features before he pulled up a chair opposite the interview table and sat down with his legs spread apart.

'I'm Detective Head Constable Robinson,' the good detective introduced himself. 'And this is my partner, Detective Constable Fletcher.'

'Two counts of murder, assault of a policeman, resisting arrest,' Fletcher said. 'You've had a very busy afternoon, haven't you?'

Emmanuel cleared his throat and the muscles constricted in protest. Robinson offered a glass of water and a smile. Emmanuel downed the water in one gulp.

'I didn't kill anyone,' he said. The smudge of blood his fingers left on the glass mocked that statement.

'It was a coincidence,' Fletcher said and scooted forwards, 'you being in the flat when the policemen arrived to investigate a disturbance?'

'Yes,' Emmanuel said.

'Ever been in the landlady's flat before?'

'No. I went in because I thought something was wrong.'

'Is that why you were armed?' Fletcher said.

'What?' Blood pounded in Emmanuel's ears and the pressure in his head returned with a vengeance. A dark force seemed intent on breaking through the bones of his skull.

Robinson reached down, opened the leather satchel and withdrew the kitchen knife. He tilted it so the electric light hit the metal and made it shine.

'You had this weapon in your hand when the uniforms broke in,' Robinson said. 'Do you always carry a knife?'

Emmanuel rested his forehead in the palm of his hand. The chain securing the handcuffs swung against his nose. He needed to make sense of things.

'You're aware that the landlady and the maid had their throats cut?' Robinson continued.

'The maid, yes. I didn't see Mrs Patterson.'

'Can you imagine how it looks? You with a knife and the victims sliced from ear to ear. What's a judge going to make of that?'

'It's a blunt knife without a tip,' Emmanuel said. 'It couldn't cut a sponge cake.'

'You have a good knowledge of knives, then?'

'Enough to know when one is blunt.'

Fletcher picked up Emmanuel's driver's licence from the table and read over the details. It listed an outdated Johannesburg address. The licence hit the wood with a slap. The detective's eyes reflected the utter contempt reserved for lowlifes.

'Want to know what upsets me, Mr Cooper? The fact that a degenerate from Jo'burg thinks he can come to my town and commit all manner of filthy acts.'

'I didn't kill anyone,' Emmanuel repeated. The smooth surface of the concrete floor was inviting. It was the perfect place to rest an aching head. Then, an ice pack for the boot- print branded onto his neck.

Robinson said gently, 'Your neighbour Mr Woodsmith claims you had a fight with the landlady yesterday morning. Do you recall that incident?'

Mr Woodsmith, the harmless window peeper, had supplied the police with a time-honoured motive for foul play: bad blood between the landlady and the lodger; a storyline lifted from Detective Tales. Emmanuel closed his eyes and focused beyond the pain that split his temple. Should he tell the truth or take evasive action?

'There was no fight,' he said.

'Really?'

'We talked about dogs. Small versus big.'

'Mr Woodsmith claims the landlady was scared of you. Couldn't wait for you to vacate the premises.'

'I don't know anything about that.'

Discs of light flickered across the room in a bright meteor shower. It was getting hard to hold up the weight of his head.

The detectives' attention was drawn away when the interview door swung inward. A young constable in an olive drab uniform entered and placed a shoebox onto the table with boyish awkwardness. White puffs of bloody cotton wool protruded from his nostrils. Fletcher patted the constable's shoulder, a gesture that said, 'We are both men bloodied in the fight against crime'. Stuttering constable to station hero; this afternoon would be a career highlight for the young policeman who'd taken blows from a vicious killer. His incompetence might even get him a medal from the police commissioner. The injured constable whispered something to Fletcher that made him smile.

'What's in here?' Robinson, the good detective, reached into the shoebox once the constable had left the room. He extracted a bone-handled knife. It was Parthiv's gangster switchblade. Emmanuel had forgotten it in his pocket when he'd rushed from Saris & All, then shoved it into a drawer. Out of sight, out of mind. He lifted his head a fraction. The uniforms had searched his room.

Robinson dipped into the box again and produced Jolly's notebook. He dusted off the cover and rubbed the white powder between his fingers, curious.

'Where did the constable find this?' he asked.

'Wrapped in newspaper and hidden in a flour tin,' Fletcher said with satisfaction. 'In Mr Cooper's kitchen.'

'Strange place to keep something.' Robinson flicked through the pages and then glanced at Emmanuel, waiting for edification on the notebook's placement.

Emmanuel didn't even try to explain how an imaginary Scottish sergeant major's warning had made him cautious to the point of paranoia.

'The boy on the docks . ..' Robinson handed the notebook to his partner. 'What was it his ma said about him?'

'Ran errands at the port. Collected food and booze for various people. Kept everything written in a book.'

'You know a boy by the name of Jolly Marks, Mr Cooper?' Robinson asked.

The empty glass rattled against the metal chain of Emmanuel's cuffs. The shakes were coming on strong. White clusters of light erased outlines of objects and people. The detectives were soft Vaseline smears.

'I can't think,' Emmanuel said. 'I need painkillers . . . something for my head and my neck.'

'Medicine's not going to fix what's wrong with you,' Fletcher said. 'The hangman will set you straight.'

Emmanuel forced his chin up and tried to focus. The white-snow haze of his migraine blinded him.

Your eye is fucked, soldier. The rough Scottish voice filled his head. I'll tell you what they have. The Indian's knife and the dead boy's notebook. Now you know. Your eye's not the only thing that's fucked.

Emmanuel rocked backwards. The glass flew into the air and smashed against the concrete floor. Darkness swamped him. Fletcher grabbed him by the lapels and pulled him to his feet.

'Faking illness?' he said. 'Don't even think about going soft now.'

'Wait.' Robinson examined Emmanuel's pale face and the sweat on his bruised neck. 'The arresting constable clobbered him too hard. Probably knocked some bones loose.'

'He's pretending.'

'Put him down, Fletcher.' The order was given quietly. 'Get Dr Brownlow in here to give him a once-over.'

'No disrespect, sir, but—'

'We have him on three counts of murder. All the evidence is right here on the table. I want him in top shape when he appears in court.'

Emmanuel's body slid to the floor.

A small drop compared to the gallows, the Scots voice rasped.