sense that his mother's power over him was destroyed, but he'd felt nothing. Well, he'd heard the first one is always the hardest. For days afterwards he'd thought that they'd catch him: every knock on the door had to be the cops. Maybe someone had seen him covered in blood. But the streets had been empty at that time on a Sunday night. The cops didn't show up on his doorstep. They were completely clueless. Considering that South Africa was literally one of the few countries where you could get away with murder, this shouldn't have been too much of a surprise. Every criminal knew that the police were just as corrupt as they, the felons, were. A couple of hundred rand would ensure the police docket disappeared. And then there were the incompetent forensic labs and the back log that was several years long. He'd recently watched a programme on Carte Blanche, the only news programme he bothered to watch, where the Forensic Pathologist office had been exposed. It took about three years for an autopsy report to be filed. The fact that they weren't knocking on his door shouldn't have been much cause for celebration. The news coverage on the first one had been dismal but after the second one they'd paid attention. And now -- he scrutinized the body at his feet -- they would really pay attention. Three bodies were better than one. He bent over, picked up her feet and dragged her through to her