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Chapter 1

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No, in the 21st century you don’t get tragedy. Only sordid stories of disgraceful behaviour leading to predictable consequences.
No, no tragedy, because tragedy is supposed to elicit pity, not disgust. This is the disgusting story of Matt Dreyer’s short life and it begins with the murder of his father.

*

Houghton, leafy suburb of Jo’burg. On Google Earth the paved driveways leading to mansion roofs set in rectangles of green are evident everywhere. Each garden is big enough to be a public park, and there are blue pools and perimeter walls and gates and guardhouses.
It was March 2007, and the evening was warm and stuffy. It felt like there was a good chance of a late summer thundershower.
“That was Claude,” said Bruce Dreyer, returning to the room. He was referring to his brother, to whom he’d been speaking on the phone. “He’s got to get back to Cape Town in a hurry. Damn it!” He drained his whisky. “Look at the bloody time. I’m going to have to go over and get him to sign some papers before he leaves. I don’t suppose you want to come for the ride?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
Dreyer went to the study to fetch his briefcase and car keys. He was a slightly built man of 52. Although he was balding, his hair still had no grey in it. He had always kept himself fit and was determined not to let himself go to seed like so many of his slobbish peers. His brown eyes were humourless, and from the hard lines of his mouth and the irritable edge to his voice it was clear he was used to getting his own way in life.
Barbara was 34. She had been living with him for a year and a half. Most people called her ‘Barbs’ or ‘Barbie’, and she did indeed have the very long legs of a Barbie doll. She also had big tits, blue eyes and long blond hair. Trudy, Bruce’s estranged wife, referred to her as ‘Bimbo’. “How’s Bimbo?” she’d ask. Or, “Bimbo still around?”
“Actually,” she said, swinging her long legs from the couch and feeling about for her shoes, “I will come with you. It’s too early for bed, and I don’t feel like watching the box on my own. I’ll just go to the loo while you get the car out.”
The car was only a few months old. It was the latest in a long line of grand saloons he had acquired and disposed of over the years. He wasn’t as obsessed with cars as his ...NEXT-->

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