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      Keke sighs theatrically. ‘How lucky does a girl get?’
      ‘Ja, yum, look at all those … shiny green apples.’
      ‘No, I meant Marmalade. Kind, generous, god-like in appearance, saves little children, AND does the grocery shopping!’
      ‘Well, he gets cars loaned to him all the time, for his job, so it’s easier for him.’
      ‘Pssh. There is a Man-Lotto and you won. uLula. ’
      ‘He also has his faults, you know.’
      ‘Ha! Not likely.’
      Kirsten hides her smile.
      ‘Seriously though,’ says Keke, ‘his parental units did an amazing job.’
      ‘They didn’t, actually,’ says Kirsten.
      ‘Hai, stoppit.’
      ‘I’m not kidding. His mother was never around and his father is a real nutcase. Horrible guy.’
      ‘I can’t imagine that.’
      ‘He left home at fifteen. He just couldn’t live with his dad any more. He won’t even talk about him. Cut all ties.’
      ‘An evil father … so is that why he keeps trying to save the world?’
      ‘Probably. Good premise for a superhero story, anyway,’ says Kirsten.
      ‘It’s been done before.’
      ‘What hasn’t?’
      ‘Funny you should say that,’ says Keke.
      ‘Huh?’
      ‘I have a … story for you.’
      ‘You found something? About my parents?’ Kirsten turns the ring on her finger.
      ‘I tried to get something out of the cops, anything, but they completely closed ranks. Even my contact there, in profiling, said only certain creeps are allowed access to the case. Who’s that inspector?’
    ‘The thug? Mouton. Marius Mouton.’
    ‘Yes, Mouton is handling the thing, doesn’t want too many other creeps involved. Can’t have any leaks jeopardising the investigation. Apparently this happens sometimes on high profile cases, according to my guy, but it’s not like your parents were, like, diplomats or anything? But then he said it could be that the criminal is high profile, you know, like a serial killer, or in this case, maybe a terror gang. So maybe they’re close to getting someone, and they want the case to be really tight.’
    ‘Ack. We’ll never get anything out of Mouton.’
    ‘Ja, we’d have better luck asking a gorilla.’
    ‘The gorilla would have more manners.’
    ‘A better vocabulary.’
    ‘Better teeth. And smell better. A gorilla would smell better.’
    ‘More sex appeal?’
    ‘Okay, I think you just crossed a line there,’ laughs Kirsten, ‘as in, a legal one.’
    ‘It wouldn’t be the first time. Anyway, I don’t see us getting much out of them, so I asked my FWB, Hackerboy Genius, to see what he could find, under the radar.’
    ‘Remind me?’
    ‘Friend With Benefits. Marko. The hacktivist.’
    Keke was the only person Kirsten knew who went bi-curious speed-dating to gather work contacts. The fact that they came in useful for her journalistic grind didn’t mean that there was no sex on the table.  From Keke’s cryptic hints Kirsten gathered that there was, indeed, a great deal – and variety – of sex on the table. As well as being ‘a raging bisexual,’ (‘Isn’t everyone bi these days?’) she was what she liked to call ‘ambisextrous.’
    ‘Marko is a very – talented – individual,’ she sparkles, sitting up a little straighter.
    Uh-huh, Kirsten thinks.
    ‘Speed dating?’
    ‘Yawn! Speed dating is so last season, old lady. How ancient are you? Now it’s DNA dating. Very New York.’
    Kirsten was glad she didn’t have to date anymore. The dating pool in Jo’burg made her think of a tank of Piranhas; Keke loved it.
    ‘Chemically compatible couples, what’s not to love? And boy, are we … compatible. You’d never believe it if you met him. Anyway, so he’s actually the one who found this for me,’ she says, putting her hand on the