Finally, she phoned Mma Ramala. She said her husband hadn’t returned and she hadn’t heard from him. When Samantha asked if she knew what the entry “Hair On” on her husband’s calendar meant, she couldn’t help.
“I’m told that he carried a box with him, possibly made from stone,” Samantha continued. “Do you know what was in it?”
“Oh yes. That was where he kept the main plant for his muti.”
“And that was the only place he kept it?”
“As far as I know.”
Samantha realized there was little more to be learned and thanked Mma Ramala.
“Please do everything you can to find him,” Mma Ramala pleaded. “I’m afraid another witch doctor may have killed him.”
That idea had also crossed Samantha’s mind. Perhaps Ramala had become too successful.
* * *
SAMANTHA WONDERED WHAT to do next. She hadn’t made any progress at all. She thought of going to see Kubu for suggestions, but quickly rejected that idea. She wanted to show to him that she could handle a case, even if her heart wasn’t in it.
After a few minutes she locked the door to her office, sat down, and put her feet on the desk. She leaned back and closed her eyes. Kubu had once told her, when she’d walked into his office and found him dozing in this position, that he often did this to let his subconscious work on a difficult problem.
She wasn’t quite sure what to expect, but it wasn’t long before she began to nod off, her mind wandering in and out of consciousness. She dreamed of old men drinking muti—the years slipping from their shoulders, their bodies straightening up and becoming active. She saw an apparition dressed in a leopard skin catching young girls and whisking them away.
Her body twitched.
Her mind went back to the horrible case of the witch doctor they had caught who had killed people so he could use their body parts in his so-called magic potions. He was wearing a leopard skin when they caught him.
Suddenly she was awake. That’s what she could do, she thought. She could speak to the witch doctor who had helped them on that case—Mma Gondo. Maybe she could give her a lead or some insight into Ramala and his practice. Then she’d take a better look through Ramala’s office—maybe there were other people on his calendar who could help her find him, and maybe she could find some information about unsolved murders of young girls along the way.
She lifted her feet off the desk and stood up.
It works! she decided. Kubu was right. And I thought he’d made up the story to disguise napping on the job.
* * *
SAMANTHA WALKED UP to the nondescript house surrounded by nothing but sand and a few rocks marking the path to the front door. Nothing had changed since she’d been there several years before. The same elderly man sat barefoot on a milk crate outside the door, wearing long pants, patched at the knees, and an old sport jacket. Gray hair curled from underneath a brown fedora.
“Dumela, rra,” Samantha said, standing several yards away. She was sure he hadn’t changed his clothes since the last time she was there.
“Dumela,” came the reply. Most of the man’s teeth were missing and, when he spoke, there was a slight whistle.
“I am Samantha Khama, rra,” Samantha began.
“I know who you are,” the man wheezed. Samantha was shocked that the man remembered who she was. He struggled to his feet and shuffled inside.
“The policewoman is here to see you, mma.”
She did not hear the reply, but a few moments later, the man returned.
“She will see you,” he said, and returned to his milk crate.
Samantha walked into the house and stopped, letting her eyes accommodate to the darkness. Then she walked into an adjacent room, where she saw Mma Gondo sitting in the corner, wrapped in a blanket. She had white hair and a heavily wrinkled face.
“Sit over there.” She pointed to a low wooden stool.
Samantha sat down and waited.
The old woman stared at her. Eventually she spoke in a husky voice.
“You want to know about Botlele Ramala—the man who calls himself Kgosi.” It was a statement, not a question.
Again Samantha was shocked. How did the woman know that?
Samantha nodded. “That’s right, mma. He is missing, and we’re trying to find him.”
The old woman sat quietly for a few moments, then spoke. “Ramala is not as powerful as he believes. His muti does not work like he says. Perhaps some man who paid him for the muti died, and his brother sought revenge. Perhaps he is dead.”
“Do you know that something has happened to him?”
The woman took her time to answer. “I do not have information from this world. The spirits have told me these things.”
“Do you know where I can find him?”
The woman nodded. “Where water plays, but plays no more. You will find him there.”
Samantha frowned. I wish these witch doctors would say things clearly, not in riddles, she thought. Where water plays, but plays no more. Where the hell is that? she wondered.
“I don’t understand where that is, mma. Can you explain it to me?” Samantha asked quickly. “Can you help me find Rra Ramala?”
“If you are clever, as they say, you will find him.” The woman lifted her hand and dismissed Samantha.
Samantha stood up. “Thank you, mma. You are a woman of great wisdom,” she said, and left the room.
I can’t believe I’m saying these things, she thought. I’m getting as bad as them.
She paused for a few moments when she stepped into the sunshine. The old man was still on his crate, eyes closed.
“Thank you, rra,” she said as she walked away.
The old man nodded slowly, but didn’t open his eyes.
* * *
SAMANTHA WENT BACK to Africa Mall and found the caretaker, who let her into Ramala’s office for the second time that day. “Do you know what has happened to him?” the woman asked.
Samantha shook her head. “We have no information at all, and we haven’t found his car. I think he’s driven to Kasane or Kazungula and forgotten to tell his wife. He’ll show up one of these days, I’m sure.”
“I hope so,” the caretaker responded. “It’s good to have a famous person here. It brings many people to the area. We like that.”
Samantha thanked her and started going through Ramala’s office. She paged back through his calendar, she flipped through all his files, she studied a ledger of what seemed to be payments, but to no avail. She found nothing that could possibly tie him to the several unsolved murders believed to be connected to witchcraft. Nor did she find anything that indicated that he’d left town. In fact, it was as bland and uninteresting an office as she’d ever seen. There wasn’t even a locked filing cabinet or safe that could hide incriminating evidence. Everything was open and accessible.
Samantha sat down in Ramala’s chair, defeated. She’d learned absolutely nothing from her visit. She’d found no leads, not even any muti for forensic analysis. The office was completely clean.
She closed her eyes, and an image of Mma Gondo came into her head. The old woman was talking: “Where water plays, but plays no more,” she said. “You will find him there.”
Samantha still had no idea what that meant.
CHAPTER 8
Kubu arrived at his office on Tuesday, still thinking about the weekend. Because things were quiet at the CID, he’d taken Monday off to spend more time with his mother and to take her back to Mochudi in the afternoon. It’d been good to see the joy that she took in her grandchildren, and how much they loved her too.
It amazed him how important grandparents could be. He’d seen little of his own grandparents because his mother’s parents came from Francistown, a long way north, and although Mahalapye, where his father’s parents lived, wasn’t as far away, Wilmon hadn’t been really close to them.
The weekend had had a few rough patches. Amantle had felt uncomfortable with the children sharing their
parents’ bedroom and had eventually insisted that they spend Saturday and Sunday nights with her. Kubu realized that they had to consider a bigger house. One with three bedrooms would be good. Then Amantle could have her own room—perhaps she would even consider coming to live with them at some time in the future—and the girls would each have their own rooms when they were older.
But where was the money to come from? Policemen didn’t earn much—certainly not the honest ones. Perhaps they could build on a room. Maybe he could do much of the work himself. After all, he’d practically built the garage on his own. But the more he thought about the idea, the less practical it seemed. The garage was separate from the house and had been a simple design. And he’d had a lot of help from his friends.
They had also been concerned about Nono. She hadn’t been herself. The girl had started life hungry and had never quite lost her gratitude just for having enough to eat. For her to play with her food, leave dinner early, and wake up tired in the morning was unheard of.
Amantle had pushed for them to visit a traditional healer—which Kubu’s father had been—but Joy was dead against anything that smacked of witch doctors. So she’d made an appointment with Nono’s doctor for Monday morning, and they’d taken her together. Kubu thought the doctor had looked worried, but he’d made Nono laugh with his funny faces, and she’d let him take blood for the tests without crying. But when he’d told them to expect the results only in a couple of days, Joy had been very short with him, demanding that they do it quicker.
It was almost with relief that Kubu put the memories of the weekend aside and started concentrating on his email to see what new cases had come in on Monday. However, there wasn’t much. If this carries on, he thought, they’ll close the CID. They won’t need us anymore. But, of course, he knew that wouldn’t really happen. Human nature never changed.
The morning passed comfortably as he dealt with outstanding paperwork. He went out for a leisurely lunch, complete with a large steelworks, and returned feeling that a short rest with his feet up on the desk and eyes closed might be in order.
Before executing this plan, he checked his email once more, and there he did find something interesting, something that put sleep right out of his mind. It was an email from Detective Sergeant Segodi, containing his report on the death of the Bushman near New Xade. Kubu was immediately intrigued. Would Segodi’s findings help to resolve Ian’s physiological paradoxes?
The report was quite brief, and Kubu’s disappointment grew as he read it. It was nothing but a circumstantial theory, and even that didn’t point to a killer.
As he reached the end of the report, the phone rang. It was the director’s secretary, Miriam. Director Mabaku wanted to see him as soon as he had a moment. With a grunt, Kubu heaved himself out of his chair.
* * *
MIRIAM SHOWED HIM into the director’s office right away, without the usual short wait. Perhaps the slowdown in Kubu’s office had spread to his boss’s as well.
Mabaku waved Kubu to a seat at his desk and uncharacteristically spent a few moments asking about Kubu’s weekend with his family and his day’s leave. Usually he got straight to the point. Something’s up, Kubu thought. At last, Mabaku said, “The commissioner thinks we need better training for our young detectives, Kubu. Sort of on-the-job guidance. I’d like you to be in charge of that.”
“Me? But I focus on the serious crimes. I haven’t got time to start running courses. And I’m really busy at the moment—”
“With what?” Mabaku interrupted. He rapidly ran through all Kubu’s cases, pointing out that they were either resolved or awaiting trial. “Busy with what?” he repeated.
Kubu had an inspiration. “That Bushman case. You know the one that Ian was so puzzled about?”
Mabaku shook his head. He hadn’t really been following it. Kubu filled him in, emphasizing the factors that Ian found so puzzling, and then turned to Segodi’s report.
“I just got a copy this afternoon. I asked him to keep me in the loop because of the forensic aspects. It’s ridiculous! The best he could do was come up with an identification of the deceased. Otherwise, he’s pushing the theory that someone followed this Heiseb. Instead of the two sets of footprints being two people walking together, the second one is now supposed to be someone who came later, following Heiseb’s tracks. Then this person came on Heiseb and tried to steal something from him, and his neck was accidentally broken in the scuffle. All very unfortunate. End of case.”
Mabaku thought about it. “What’s wrong with that?”
Kubu frowned. “Just about everything. Someone he doesn’t even identify told him a story that other Bushmen used to follow Heiseb because he had something they wanted. There’s no clarity on what that might be. Some secret Kalahari herb or something, perhaps. And Segodi’s made no effort to find out who followed Heiseb. He didn’t try because there is only one other set of tracks, so there can’t be any witnesses! Even if this half-baked theory is right, Director, it’s still manslaughter at least. The assailant was trying to steal something, and the victim died.” Kubu shook his head. “I think Segodi isn’t interested because the victim’s a Bushman, and a very old one at that, and the crime took place almost a hundred miles from his office. It’s too much trouble. But we can’t just leave it at that. This is serious. I need to get involved.”
Mabaku said nothing for a few moments. “Well, if you’re right, it certainly sounds as though Segodi hasn’t done a great job. I’ll review it. If I’m not satisfied, I’ll refer it back.”
Kubu nodded, but Mabaku held up his hand to prevent any implicit agreement. “But that case is in Ghanzi’s jurisdiction, and they’ll be investigating. At the moment, it has nothing to do with us. Specifically, it has nothing to do with you. I know you’re interested because of Ian’s findings and because a Bushman is involved, but stay out of it.” He paused. “And we need to report to the commissioner what we’re doing about this training issue.”
“Why do I have to do it?”
“Because the commissioner said he wanted the top man on it.”
“That would be you, Director.”
Mabaku brushed that aside. “You’re a good mentor, Kubu. Look how far Samantha has come with your help. A weekly meeting to discuss techniques and so on will be fine. You can bring in Ian, Zanele, and other senior officers. It won’t take that much time. And it will look good on your résumé when it comes to promotion.”
Kubu could see no way out, but he wanted something in return.
“Okay, you can tell the commissioner I’m doing it. And you’ll review the Bushman case? And bring me in if Ghanzi needs some help?”
“Absolutely,” Mabaku agreed.
The deal was done.
PART 2
CHAPTER 9
The van arrived at two a.m. and drove slowly through the hospital grounds so as not to attract attention. The night guard saw it, but things happen all day and all night at large hospitals and, when it headed around the back, he guessed where it was going and took no further notice.
The van pulled up opposite the morgue, and three men jumped out. There was no talk; they knew what needed to be done and who would do it. One carried a pair of heavy bolt cutters and other tools; one a powerful flashlight and a folded body bag; and the third, as soon as he was out of the vehicle, faced back the way they had come, hand on the butt of a pistol, his eyes missing nothing. The men had no intention of being caught.
The main door was secured by a heavy bolt with a padlock. Witch doctors would pay well for human body parts, and Ian MacGregor knew that. He wanted the morgue well protected. However, one of the men had been here earlier and knew what to expect.
They didn’t try to cut through the padlock; padlocks are made of titanium-reinforced steel to withstand precisely such attacks. However, the mounting was made of less stern stuff and surrendered to the bolt cutter without much resistance. There was still the Yale lock, but they levered the door open with a heavy screwdriver. There was
a noise when the jamb broke, and they waited for half a minute to see if there was any response.
Once they were sure that there would be no interference, the men who had forced the door donned latex gloves and disappeared into the morgue, leaving the man with the gun on watch. There were only a dozen refrigerated drawers, but checking the dead bodies was an unpleasant job, and they muttered to each other as they worked. The sixth drawer contained what they wanted. They bagged the body, zipped the bag closed, and carried it out between them.
The man outside had already opened the back doors of the van, and he waited while they loaded the body bag. Then he covered it with empty cartons while the others went back into the morgue. One returned with a box loaded with the items of interest they’d spotted in the autopsy room, and the second with a desktop computer. The third man waited until everything was closed up and the vehicle was running before he climbed in.
They drove back the way they had come, left the hospital, and headed into the night.
* * *
KUBU WAS ENJOYING his first cup of tea of the day and a cookie or two to make up for a hurried breakfast, when the phone rang. It was Ian MacGregor, who was so angry that Kubu could hardly understand him through the Scottish burr.
“They’ve broken into my mortuary, Kubu! Bastards! After body parts. It’s outrageous!”
“Calm down, Ian. Who’s broken in and what’s been stolen?”
“Who? How would I know? Isn’t that what your people are supposed to find out? Heaven knows what’s been taken, but certainly my organ samples are gone. And my computer! There’s no mess in the morgue itself, but I’ll bet they’ve stolen the bodies too. I didn’t want to touch anything in there.”
“Quite right, Ian. I’ll get forensics over right away.”
“Good,” Ian responded, mollified. “And come yourself, Kubu. I’m very upset.”
“On my way.”
* * *
KUBU FOUND THE pathologist sitting at his desk, sucking his unlit pipe. It seemed to have calmed him down somewhat. Zanele, the gorgeous head of forensics, was already working with her people in the morgue—an assignment they were clearly not enjoying.
Dying to Live Page 5
