Dying to Live

by Michael Stanley

  “The Botswana police? Did they say what it was about?”

  “No. That’s all they said.”

  “And they didn’t know where he was?”

  “No. They thought he was here.”

  “When did you get the email? Can you read it to me?”

  “It came in at quarter past seven in the morning and said, ‘Hi darling, I’m going to Namibia and don’t want anyone to know. Please don’t tell ANYONE. I’ll be out of touch for some time but don’t worry. All’s well. I love you, Chris.’ The ‘anyone’ is in capital letters.”

  “Well, I don’t think it’s anything to worry about.”

  “It’s also a bit strange. He never says ‘I love you.’ He usually just says ‘Love.’”

  “I’m sure he was just in a rush. I have a contact in Gaborone. I’ll have him see what he can find out. Please let me know when you hear from him.”

  “And you do the same. Thanks, Brian.”

  Ross put down the phone and sat quietly for a few minutes.

  Shit, he thought. Has he reneged on our deal?

  Then he found a number in his Contacts folder and dialed it. Eventually it was answered by a very sleepy voice.

  “Yeah?” it mumbled.

  “Festus. It’s Brian Ross from the States. How’re you doing with the Collins thing?”

  “Um. Give me a minute. I was fast asleep.” He coughed. “Okay, I’m here. I found his four-by-four yesterday in the desert, but there was no sign of him. From some tracks I found, it looked as though he met someone in the desert and left with him.”

  “Were you able to follow them?”

  “No. It was impossible. But I went into the nearest town, which is a Bushman community. They knew who Collins was—he used to spend time with an old Bushman in the area.”

  “Did they know where he was?”

  “They hadn’t seen Collins for a month or two, but they also said that a Bushman Collins had been speaking to had been murdered. And that the police were looking for Collins.”

  Shit, Ross thought. I can’t believe Chris would do this to me.

  “I think he may be in Namibia. Do you have any contacts there?”

  There was a pause while Festus absorbed that. “Namibia? Namibia’s a huge area, Mr. Ross. Do you have any idea where he would have gone there, or why?”

  “Maybe he needed to get out of Botswana.”

  “I have a contact in Windhoek, but—”

  “Okay,” Ross said. “I’m going to come over there to see what’s going on. In the meantime, keep looking, but don’t speak to the police about it. Let’s keep them out of it.”

  “When will you get here?”

  “I’ll let you know. Probably on Monday or Tuesday.”

  After he hung up, he pressed the intercom line to his secretary. “Joe, please book me a flight to Botswana. I’ll leave on Sunday if that’s possible. And get me a decent room in Gaborone for four nights, preferably at the same hotel you booked Collins in at.”

  * * *

  KUBU ARRIVED AT the office a little late the next morning, still feeling a bit groggy from the interruption of his sleep. He immediately contacted immigration and asked them to dig into their computers and come up with Collins’s movements over the past eighteen months.

  He was just about to settle down to the dreaded paperwork, when his phone rang. It was Joy.

  “Kubu, I’ve just got back from the specialist. She wants her to go into hospital for a few days for tests and observation. They’re going to try some different treatments. I’m so worried. I don’t think the doctors know what they’re doing.”

  “Darling…”

  He stopped as he heard Joy shouting at somebody to stop making a noise.

  “Sorry,” she said. “These kids are getting to me today. Anyway, Nono’s getting worse. She hardly ate anything this morning, and she’s got no energy. All she wants to do is sleep. It’s so unlike her.”

  Kubu felt as though a wet blanket had wrapped itself around his body. Nono was HIV positive, but there’d never been any sign of it becoming AIDS—until now, it seemed.

  What could have gone wrong? he wondered.

  “Of course, dear. Is she with you at the day-care center?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll meet you at home in half an hour. Then we can go to the hospital together.”

  * * *

  WHEN HE ARRIVED at home, Joy was already there. As he walked onto the veranda, she came out of the front door, her face full of fear. “I’m so worried, darling,” she said.

  Kubu walked over and put his arms around her.

  “The specialist thinks that she’s developed a reaction to the antiretrovirals,” she continued. “But she’s quite optimistic that they’ll be able to find a treatment that works.”

  Kubu hugged her tighter. “They’ll find one. Don’t worry.”

  “And if they don’t?”

  “My love, we’ll deal with whatever happens. Now we need to give her all our love and support. Let’s take her to the hospital and get her settled.”

  Kubu walked into the house and went to the girls’ bedroom. Nono was there, sitting on the bed. Next to her was a small suitcase, with clothes and a few books.

  “How are you feeling?” Kubu asked as he sat down beside her.

  “I’m tired,” Nono replied. “I want to go to sleep, and my head hurts.”

  Kubu put his arm around her. “The doctor thinks the medicine you’re taking may be making you tired. She wants you to go to hospital for a few days, so she can find a better one.”

  Nono nodded but didn’t say anything.

  “Have you got your nightie?”

  Nono nodded again.

  “And your toothbrush and some books?”

  “Yes. Mama put them in the case.”

  “Okay. Let’s go. Next stop, the hospital.”

  * * *

  AFTER MAKING SURE that Nono was comfortably settled, Kubu left Joy with her and returned to the office, where he found a note on his desk to see the director. He groaned—he didn’t feel up to a meeting with Mabaku.

  As he waited outside Mabaku’s office while the director was on a phone call, Mabaku’s assistant, Miriam, handed Kubu a fax.

  “It’s from immigration, and apparently for you,” she said. “I gave it to the director because it didn’t have your name on it, and he wants to know what’s going on.”

  “Well, it’s going to be a short meeting,” Kubu retorted dryly. “I don’t know much of anything.”

  Kubu glanced at the fax, which gave the details of Christopher Collins’s comings and goings for the past three months. The only items of interest were that he’d left Botswana, as Professor Thabo had indicated, just over a month earlier and had returned on the evening of the sixth, just as his wife had said—just a few days before the Bushman had died.

  Where is he? he wondered. Is he still in the middle of the Kalahari or has he skipped the country?

  He glanced at the fax again.

  No record that he’s left Botswana, but their information might not be completely up to date. I must tell them to watch for him at the border posts.

  Miriam interrupted his thoughts. “You can go in now.”

  Kubu walked into the director’s office, and Mabaku waved him to a seat.

  “Who’s Christopher Collins?”

  Kubu just managed to refrain from rolling his eyes at his boss’s social skills.

  “Director,” Kubu started. “As you know, the body of the old Bushman, who we think was murdered, was stolen from the morgue. We’ve recently obtained information that an American anthropologist—a Christopher Collins—has been hanging around the Bushman on and off for the last several months, apparently using him as a research subject. He went—”

  “I told you anything to do with the Bushman case was Ghanzi’s responsibility.”

  “And what have they done?” Kubu asked sharply. “Nothing! And you told me I could look into different possibilities abou
t the theft of the body. It’s quite possible that Collins was the last to see the Bushman. He could even be a suspect!”

  Mabaku glared at Kubu.

  “Have you reviewed Segodi’s report yet, Director? If you did, you have to admit it was third rate at best.”

  Kubu could see Mabaku clenching his teeth. He wondered if he’d pushed his boss too far.

  Eventually Mabaku took a deep breath. “What’s this Collins researching anyway?”

  Kubu relaxed. “He’s looking at the oral history tradition of Bushmen.”

  Mabaku snorted. “Another Professor of Bullshit—wasting taxpayer money on something totally useless!”

  “I spoke to his wife last night,” Kubu continued, ignoring Mabaku’s outburst. “She returned my call at one in the morning. She told me that he’s back in Botswana.”

  Mabaku frowned.

  “And this fax shows he was in the country when the Bushman was killed.”

  “So why don’t you pull him in for questioning?”

  “That’s the problem. No one seems to know where he is. His wife says she hasn’t heard from him for two weeks, but she isn’t worried because that’s normal when he’s in the Kalahari.”

  “This is getting out of hand.” Mabaku brought his fist down hard onto the desk. “A Bushman is murdered, and our great Scottish pathologist thinks he was a hundred and fifty years old. Then a witch doctor disappears, who’s famous for selling people anti-aging muti at exorbitant prices. Now an American researcher, who probably knows the Bushman better than anyone else, can’t be found! Is the world going mad?”

  “You have to admit, Director, that it would be an amazing coincidence if these things weren’t connected somehow.”

  Mabaku let out a sound that reminded Kubu of a geyser blowing.

  “Well, you’d better find out.”

  “We’re working on it, Director.”

  “Call me at home tomorrow afternoon and let me know how you’re progressing.”

  “Yes, sir,” Kubu said, groaning inwardly. He had enough on his mind without having to report to his boss on a Saturday.

  CHAPTER 16

  “I’m sorry to call so late on a Friday, Samantha, but it’s been difficult to get the tracking information from Orange. Can I come over and show you what we’ve found? You’ll need to see it.” Zanele’s voice sounded excited.

  “Of course. You know where my office is.”

  Samantha took advantage of the time to tackle her paperwork—something, it seemed, all detectives disliked. She’d nearly finished when there was a knock on the door. Samantha jumped up and opened it.

  “Let’s go to a conference room,” she said. “There’s more room there to spread out.”

  After they sat down, Zanele spread out a laminated map of Gaborone with various colored lines drawn on it.

  “The black line is where Orange tells us Ramala’s phone moved from Thursday morning.” She pointed at one end of the line. “This is Ramala’s home. He left there and went to his office, as we know. Then it traveled to the Riverwalk Mall at one fifteen, where it stayed for about an hour. After that it traveled down the A1 toward Lobatse, past the Mokolodi Nature Reserve turnoff, then turned left and was at one location for about an hour, then disappeared.”

  “How do you mean, ‘disappeared’?”

  “Orange says that either the battery was taken out, which is unlikely since the phone was an iPhone and you can’t easily remove the battery, or it was destroyed.”

  “But it must have disappeared at its last known location, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Have you been there yet?”

  Zanele shook her head. “No, I just received this information, and I thought you’d want to come out with us.”

  “I would.” Samantha felt a tingle of excitement. It might be the beginning of a trail.

  “The red line shows the journey of the phone we found in Ramala’s car,” Zanele continued. “There’s no trace of it before the Thursday Ramala disappeared. As you can see, on that day it started at the same location where Ramala’s later disappeared, then traveled into Gabs to Riverwalk Mall—where it arrived at about one o’clock, by the way. Then it went back to where it started, at exactly the same time as Ramala’s—maybe even in the same vehicle, but not necessarily so. Then on Monday morning…”

  “At ten thirty-one…”

  “How did you know?” Zanele asked.

  “We have it on CCTV from Game City.”

  “So you know the rest.”

  Samantha nodded. “Any luck with prints on that phone?”

  Zanele shook her head. “There’s no match with anything on our database.”

  “Never mind,” Samantha said, standing up. “We’re going to find a magistrate to get a search warrant.”

  “I’ve taken care of that already. It took a bit to persuade her to use this Orange tracking as the basis of the address. But she did. My team’s ready when you are, and I’ve got a sergeant and some constables on standby, as well.”

  “I’ll let Kubu know what you’ve found, then we can leave.”

  “I did that already. I was talking to him about something else and he asked.”

  Samantha shrugged, a little put out.

  “Kubu says you’re in charge of the case. He went home a little early because his daughter’s not feeling well.”

  “Okay, let’s go.”

  * * *

  THE LITTLE CONVOY of two police cars, the forensics van, and Zanele’s car stopped shortly after it turned off the A1. The sergeant walked over to Zanele and Samantha.

  “Better you and the van stay here until we’ve cleared the area. We’ll radio you when you can come.”

  Zanele handed the sergeant the search warrant. “I checked Google Maps and Google Earth, and it seems there’s only one building down that road. But if you aren’t sure where to go, call us down and we can make a decision.”

  The man nodded and returned to his car.

  About five minutes later, Zanele’s radio crackled. “Cruiser One to Forensics.”

  Zanele grabbed her microphone. “Go ahead, Cruiser One.”

  “You can come down. There’s only one residence—a house and a detached garage. No one at home.”

  “Okay. We’re on our way. Secure the area and don’t go inside either building. And if there’s a plot number, please contact Detective Edison Banda at CID so he can find out who the owner is.”

  “Ten-four. Out.”

  “I wonder what we’re going to find here,” Samantha commented as they moved forward. “I hope it’s not Ramala’s body.”

  “At least if we find it, we’ll know what’s happened to him. If we draw a blank, we’re no worse off than before.”

  * * *

  THE TWO CRUISERS were parked just before a rickety gate, about fifty yards from the house.

  “Smart move,” Zanele commented. “We’ll be able to see any tire tracks that are on the property.”

  When they arrived at the house, the sergeant told Samantha and Zanele that there was no sign of a break-in at the main residence, but that a window was broken at the back of the garage. It would be possible for someone to climb in and open the garage door, which was electrically operated.

  “Let’s check the garage first, while there’s still some light,” Samantha said.

  First they walked to the front of the garage, carefully avoiding tire marks and footprints clearly visible in the sand. “Secure this whole area with tape, please,” Zanele said to one of the constables. “We’ll want pictures of all this.”

  Then they went to the back of the garage where the window was broken. The sergeant pulled on some gloves and opened the window catch.

  “It would have to be someone small to get in,” he commented. He called the smallest of the constables over. “Okay, climb through, then see if there’s a button inside to open the door. If there isn’t, there’s usually a release so you can open the door when the power goes out. Be caref
ul where you walk.”

  The constable wriggled through the opening and, a few seconds later, shouted that he was opening the door.

  Once her eyes had accommodated to the low light, Samantha was disappointed. The garage was, for all intents and purposes, empty. There was no car, no body, no apparent signs of blood. There was a broken bottle under the window, a ladder standing in the corner, and a variety of gardening tools—a hoe, a rake, a shovel, a hand trowel, and a hose wrapped around a yellow plastic spool on the wall.

  The owner obviously enjoys tending the vegetable garden, Samantha thought, recalling the fenced area near the gate. She’d noticed a number of new plants pushing their way through the soil into the sunshine.

  “Gather round, please.” Zanele walked to the side of the garage. Samantha and the forensics team followed her. “This is how we’ll proceed,” Zanele said and, for the next few minutes, laid out the strategy for checking the garage. She allocated tasks to the various team members—checking for bloodstains, dusting for prints, checking for footprints, and so on. Then she turned to Samantha. “You can stay if you want, but I can’t have you in the garage until we’re finished. I suggest you go and enjoy your Friday evening, and we’ll call you if anything of interest turns up.”

  “I’ve nothing planned,” Samantha responded. “I tell you what. I’m going to take a look around the main house. When I’ve finished, I’ll check with Edison to see who owns this place, then get hamburgers and cold drinks for everyone from the Wimpy at Game City.”

  “How are you going to get into the house?” Zanele asked.

  Samantha grinned and pulled a small leather pouch out of her pocket. “My picks. I can get into almost anything.”

  Zanele shook her head. “You’re amazing.”

  “I’ll be back in an hour or so. Then you’ll have a better idea if anything happened in here.”

  The plan appealed to everyone, and Samantha walked over to the main house.

  * * *

  WHEN THERE WAS no response to her banging on the front door, it took Samantha less than a minute to open it. First, she walked through the house to get a sense of its layout. Then she returned to the room that was being used as a study and spent nearly fifteen minutes looking through drawers, the filing cabinet, and various papers stacked neatly on the desk. Nothing attracted her attention as being suspicious.