‘You may be right, Tannie M,’ said Jessie. ‘I can taste the iron.’
‘I know I’m right,’ I said. ‘I grew up with a pomegranate tree in our garden.’
‘So they were eating pomegranates,’ she said.
‘Or drinking pomegranate juice,’ I said, pointing to the glasses.
We heard a light drumming on the tin roof of the stoep.
‘Rain!’ said Jessie.
We went to the back door and turned off our torches and watched the rain fall in the darkness. Soft, cool rain. Jessie and I grinned at each other. At last. The ground sighed with relief as it fell. I took in a deep breath.
‘Ooh, that smell,’ I said.
The first rain on the warm dry earth. Nothing like it. Then after the smell of the earth came the smell of the plants. It was like each plant gave something of itself to say thank you for the rain. All the smells mixed together to make a delicious air soup for us to breathe in.
‘Let’s have a sandwich to celebrate,’ I said.
She handed me the Tupperware from her pack and I gave us each a bacon-and-marmalade toast sandwich.
‘The lights are off in the cottage,’ said Jessie. ‘We should have a talk to that guy sometime. Wow. Lekker sandwich, Tannie.’
‘I could make him some vetkoek,’ I said.
‘With mince, maybe,’ said Jessie.
‘Did you see any grocery slips, in Martine’s papers?’
‘Ja,’ she said.
‘I am looking for one with Tuesday’s date on. I think someone shopped for her, and it could have been the murderer.’
I explained about the lettuce date, and the packet, and Martine’s broken arm.
‘Let’s go have a look,’ said Jessie.
We brushed the crumbs off our surgical gloves and went into the study.
‘Look how organised this all is,’ said Jessie. ‘Personal letters, bank statements, bills, papers about her son in that home. Grocery slips.’ She shone her headtorch onto the papers as she sorted through them. ‘Here it is . . . Her most recent shop at the Spar was on Friday the fifth. I’ve looked in her purse, but there are no slips there.’
‘Looks like she didn’t shop for herself on Tuesday then . . . ’
‘Maybe Dirk, Anna, or someone else . . . You might be right, Tannie, it could’ve been the murderer. I wonder if the police have taken samples of that pomegranate juice. Did you find the bottle the juice was in?’
‘No,’ I said.
I touched a file marked Letters, personal.
‘Has she got any of our Gazette letters?’ I asked.
‘Nothing here,’ said Jessie. ‘But I wonder if she’d hide them somewhere. Away from her husband.’
‘So who are the letters from?’
‘A couple from a boring brother from Durbanville. But most of them from an interesting cousin. Old letters from her at a Texas address. Then the last few years she writes from New York.’
‘Ja?’
Jessie took out a smart cream envelope and a cheap brown one.
‘The cousin is Candy Webster, her apartment overlooks Central Park. Sounds like she’s in the fashion business, travels all over, sends postcards to Martine from cool places. They seem quite close. Lots of hugs and kisses. The brother, David Brown, has written a letter whining about “Father”, and his lack of appreciation for everything David does.’ Jessie lifted up a file marked Jamie. ‘These are the reports from the doctors and social workers in George about her son with cerebral palsy.’
The rain started hammering down, then there was a flash of lightning and a thunderclap. Really close and loud. I pulled the curtains back and peeped out the window.
‘Jessie, look!’
Through the branches of the gum tree we saw a big car on the top of the hill, creeping down the drive.
‘Oh, shit,’ Jessie said, jumping up. ‘Torches off!’
‘I think it’s turning around.’
We peered out the window, watching the car do a three-point turn. But instead of driving away, the car stopped and its lights went off. The rain went quiet for a moment, like it was holding its breath. Then there was a very big flash of lightning. In that moment we saw a white 4×4 bakkie, and in front of it, walking towards us, was a man.
He had a rain-hood over his head, a torch in one hand. And a gun in the other.
Rain hammered down on the roof, and the next crash of thunder sounded like the sky itself was shooting down at us.