Free A Dry White Season by André Brink

Colonel? I must admit that I was quite dumbfounded by his arrest.”
“A routine enquiry, Mr Du Toit. I’m sure you’ll appreciate that we can’t leave a stone unturned in trying to clean up the townships.”
“Of course. But if you could only tell me—”
“And it’s not a pleasant task either, I assure you. We cannot raise a finger without the press screaming blue murder. Especially the English press. It’s so easy for them to criticise from outside, isn’t it? Whereas they’ll be the first to squeal if the Communists took over. I wish I were in a position to tell you about some of the things we’ve been uncovering since the riots started. Have you any idea of what will happen to the country unless we investigated every possible lead we get? We’ve got a duty, an obligation to all our people, Mr Du Toit. You have your job, we have ours.”
“I appreciate it, Colonel.” There is the curious feeling, in such a situation, of being an accused yourself; uncomfortably, you become aware of sinister undertones to everything you say. “But from time to time one needs the assurance – and that’s what I’ve come for – that in your search for criminals you do not also, unwittingly, cause innocent people to suffer.”
It is very quiet in the office. There are steel bars in front of the window. It hits you in the solar plexus. Suddenly you realise that the friendly chap with the curly hair and the safari suit hasn’t turned a page in his magazine since you arrived. And you start wondering, your neck itching, about the thin man in the checkered jacket behind your back. You cannot restrain yourself from turning to look. He is still standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame, the orange moving up and down in a slow mechanical rhythm, his eyes cool and frank, as if he hasn’t looked away for a second. Strangely dark eyes for such a pale face. The thin white line of a scar on his cheek. And all of a sudden you know. You’d better memorize the name. Captain Stolz. His presence is not fortuitous. He has a role to play; and you will see him again. You know.
“Mr Du Toit,” says Colonel Viljoen at the table. “While you’re here, would you mind if I asked you a few questions about Gordon Ngubene?”
“I’d welcome it.”
“For how long have you known him?”
“Oh, years and years. Fifteen or sixteen, I think. And in all that time—”
“What work did he do at your school?”
“He was appointed as cleaner. But because he could read and write he also helped out in the stockroom and so on. Totally reliable. I remember once or twice when the Department accidentally overpaid him, he immediately brought back the rest.”
The colonel has opened a file and picked up a yellow ballpoint pen, but apart from doodling on a blank page he isn’t writing down anything.
“Have you ever met the other members of his family?”
“His wife sometimes visited us. And his eldest son.”
Why this sudden tension in your jaws when you utter the words? Why this feeling of divulging incriminating information–and suppressing other facts? Behind you, you know, the lanky officer is watching you with his unflinching, feverish eyes while the orange is being thrown and caught and gently pressed and thrown again.
“You’re referring to Jonathan?”
“Yes.” You cannot help adding, with a touch of malice: “The one who died some time ago.”
“What do you know about Gordon’s activities since Jonathan’s death?”
“Nothing. I never saw him again. He resigned his job at the school.”
“Yet you feel you know him well enough to vouch for him?”
“Yes. After so many years.”
“Did he ever discuss Jonathan’s death with you?”
What should you reply? What is he expecting you to say? After a moment’s hesitation you say, laconically: “No, never.”
“Are you quite sure, Mr Du Toit? I mean, if you really knew him so well—?”
“I don’t remember. I told you he was a religious man.” – Why the past tense, following