‘Mrs Dunn, it’s Sergeant Brooks.’ ‘OK, come in.’ The electronic lock on the gate clicked and it rolled open. Suzanne drove the stolen white Corolla inside and past manicured lawns and bright flower beds until she came to number three. The woman opened the front door and came out to meet her. She was attractive, well groomed, with long dark hair which she brushed away from her eyes. Suzanne had readied herself for the meeting with Dunn’s ex-wife. She needed to keep up this disguise as a police officer a little longer so she had bought some new cheap clothes from a Pep store, found a laundromat and washed and dried Sergeant Khumalo’s filthy, blood-stained uniform. She had showered at a gym whose chain she still had membership for, changed into the clean uniform and fixed her hair as best she could. ‘Sergeant, I’m Tracy Zietsch. Dunn was my first husband’s name. I remarried. Is everything all right? Is Mike hurt?’ Suzanne heard the genuine concern in her voice, perhaps a residue of love in the query.
