that sounded apologetic in Portuguese. She hung up and hoped that Artur would be able to get through to her.
Nothing happened. She tried the number given in the rental contract. No answer, there was neither an answering machine nor any recorded instructions.
She saw the distant gleam of headlights in the rearview mirror. Fear cut deep into her. Should she get out of the car and hide in the darkness? She was incapable of moving. The headlights came closer. She was convinced the oncoming vehicle would crash into her. It swerved away at the last moment. A battered lorry rattled past.
It was as if she had been overtaken by a riderless horse.
It developed into one of the longest nights of her life. She listened through the half-open window and kept her eyes skinned for lights. She occasionally tried to ring Artur again, but failed to get through.
Shortly before dawn she tried the starter again. The engine spluttered into life. She held her breath. The engine continued turning.
It was broad daylight when she arrived at the outskirts of Maputo, everywhere there were women with backs as straight as ramrods walking out of the sun and the red dust, with gigantic loads balanced on their heads and children in slings on their backs.
She edged her way through the chaotic traffic, through the black smoke oozing out of buses and lorries.
She needed a wash, a change of clothes, a few hours of sleep. But she had no desire to see Lars Hæ°“kansson. She found her way to the house where Lucinda lived. No doubt she would be asleep after a long night's work in the bar. Too bad. Lucinda was the only person who could help her now.
She parked the car and tried Artur's number one more time. She thought of something he'd said once.
Neither the devil nor God wants competition. That's why we humans end up in our lonely no-man's-land.
She could hear that he was tired. No doubt he'd been up all night. But he would never admit as much. Even if she was not allowed to tell lies, he had granted that privilege to himself.
'What happened? Where are you?'
'Nothing's happened, except that the car started again for no obvious reason. I'm back in Maputo.'
'These damned telephones!'
'They are fantastic.'
'Isn't it time for you to leave there?'
'Soon, but not yet. We can talk about that later. My battery's nearly flat.'
She hung up, and at the same time noticed that Lucinda was standing by the house wall with a towel wrapped round her head. She got out of the car thinking that the long night was over at last.
Lucinda was surprised to see her.
'A bit early, isn't it?'
'That's what I ought to ask you. When did you get to bed?'
'I never get much sleep. Perhaps I'm permanently tired? Without noticing it?'
Lucinda patiently shooed away some children who might have been her brothers and sisters or cousins or nieces and nephews. She shouted to a teenager who was sprucing up some plastic chairs standing in the shadow cast by the house, and shortly afterwards appeared with two glasses of water.
She noticed that Louise was uneasy.
'Something's happened. That's why you've come here so early.'
Louise decided to tell Lucinda the truth. She told her about Christian Holloway and Umbi, the darkness on the beach and the long night in the car.
'They must have seen me,' Louise said. 'They must have heard what we were talking about at the village. They followed him, and when they realised that he was going to spill the beans, they killed him.'
It was obvious that Lucinda believed her, every word, every detail. When she had finished, Lucinda sat there for ages without speaking. A man started hammering away at a roofing sheet in order to bend it and make a ridge. Lucinda shouted at him. He stopped immediately and sat down in the shade of a tree, waiting.
'Are you convinced that Henrik was involved in the blackmailing of Christian Holloway's son?'
'I don't know anything for certain. I try to think calmly and clearly and logically, but everything is so elusive. I can't imagine Henrik as a blackmailer, not even in my wildest dreams. Can you?'
'Of course not.'
'I need a computer and a link to the Internet. I might be able to find those articles, and it might be possible to see if it really was Christian Holloway's son. If so, at least I'll have found something that hangs together.'
'What?'
'I don't know yet. Something fits, but I don't know how yet. I have to