The land sloped down to the river. Emmanuel and Shabalala tore through the night and met tree branches and thorn-bushes along the way. It was too risky to use the torch. They ran and tumbled on the decline like children in a game of blind man's bluff. The sound of footsteps kept pace with them and a flashlight beam pierced the undergrowth. The tradesman was fast and determined. And he was armed. Bullets pinged into tree trunks.

'There is a river in front of us,' Shabalala said. 'We must cross it before the very white one comes.'

'Yebo. Yebo.' Emmanuel pushed harder and ignored the arrow of fire piercing his side. He had a stitch. Work at the Victory had built strength but no sustained endurance. They had to split up soon or he would drag Shabalala down.

Moonlight made a silver ribbon of the river and cast an eerie glow onto the far bank. The water was knee deep and glacial. Emmanuel's muscles cramped but he kept up with Shabalala, who did not flag. They broke onto the opposite shore and plunged into the marula trees.

Four minutes of hard upward slog and Emmanuel stopped to suck in air. The pain in his side was burning.

'We have to split up,' he told Shabalala. 'Fork out on the hill. We'll have a better chance of losing them if we do that.'

The moon was a pale disc in the sky. The tradesman and his partner were out of the car and probably disoriented. So was he. The plan had worked too well.

'We'll meet back at the clinic,' he said.

Shabalala was a police constable, not a nursemaid for an out-of-shape detective. Somehow he'd find the way back to Zweigman's stone house.

'Hurry,' he said when the Zulu man didn't move. 'I'll be fine soon as I catch my breath. Go now.'

Shabalala hesitated then slipped into the shadows of an acacia thicket. The crunch of footsteps receded. From the darkness came the faint words, 'Stay well, Detective.'

'Go well, Constable.' Emmanuel returned the farewell and kept low among the native forest. A splash sounded from the river. Running headlong into the bush was one option. Ambush was another. He listened to the tradesman's fumbling approach then he moved slowly down the slope and closed the distance between him and his pursuer.

Hissed breath went past to the right. Emmanuel wheeled and found himself behind the dark outline of a man. A twig snapped underfoot. The tradesman swung around and Emmanuel surged forwards with fists clenched. He landed two punches to the midriff and heard the satisfying crunch of a body going down to the ground.

He straddled the prone mass and flicked on the silver torch. A young white man with lumpy skin and a chipped front tooth gasped for breath amid the decaying leaves. He wore a loose black suit. A decoy. Emmanuel patted him down for weapons but found none. The tradesman had sent this boy out into the bush while he went on to the clinic to secure the Russian couple.

'Where's your gun?' Emmanuel asked, holding the boy down.

'Back there,' he said. 'In the river. I dropped it by accident.'

'How many in the Dodge?' Emmanuel pulled the terrified boy upright.

'Three.'

'Do they have guns?'

'Only the one with the fair hair. He has a few. Three maybe.'

The Colt was sure to be near empty but the other weapons would be loaded. That amounted to a bullet for every inhabitant of the clinic plus spares.

'Detective Sergeant. . .'

'Shabalala,' Emmanuel called out. 'Over here.'

The Zulu constable crashed through the bush. 'The car, it has gone to the clinic.'

They both knew what that meant and broke into a downhill run towards the river. This time there would be no stopping for breath. The acned decoy tried to match their speed but soon dropped off and collapsed on the dirt track. He'd be lucky to find his way out of the bush before morning.

'Three men are in the car.' Emmanuel ignored the bonfire scorching his lungs. 'Three guns.'

'Two guns,' Shabalala said. 'The pale one fired six shots at us from the road.'