Dying to Live

by Michael Stanley

  “He was going camping,” Zanzi offered.

  “How do you know that?” Kubu asked. “Did he tell you?” It seemed unlikely that Collins would chat up Zanzi, but anything was possible.

  She shook her head. “He had one of those camping vehicles. They’re all set up with tents and everything. He had one of those.”

  “How do you know that?” the manager asked, frowning.

  “He drove it up to the front door to collect his suitcase. A lot of guests do that. The parking is quite far, so they fetch the car and then load up.” She glanced at the manager.

  “I see,” he said.

  Now Kubu was interested. “He must have rented it. There can’t be too many companies that do that here.”

  Zanzi shook her head. “It was 4x4 4U.”

  “And how do you know that?” the manager snapped.

  “My husband is a tour guide. He knows these things. Their vehicles are yellow. He had one for a client once, and I saw it.”

  The manager turned to Kubu.

  “We really can’t help you any further.”

  Kubu nodded. “That’s more help than I expected to get.” He turned to Zanzi. “Thank you, mma.” His stomach rumbled. “I’ll have something to eat before I go. The food’s good here.”

  The manager didn’t smile. “Of course,” he said coldly. “Order anything you like. On the house.”

  Kubu frowned. “Thank you, but I’ll pay for my own lunch.”

  He turned on his heel and walked away, insulted and upset. Nevertheless, he ordered a hamburger and a steelworks and, by the time he’d consumed both, his mood had improved.

  Just as he was finishing his coffee, he saw Zanzi coming toward his table and wondered if she had remembered some other tidbit. However, she just handed him a slip of paper with an address and phone number on it. He thanked her, and she smiled and left.

  What luck! he thought, reading the note. The 4x4 4U agency is just down the road at Game City.

  * * *

  THE MAN BEHIND the counter glanced up from his computer when Kubu walked in. “Can I help you?” he drawled.

  Kubu pulled out his police identification and showed it to the man, who immediately stood up.

  “How can I help you?” This time he sounded eager to please.

  “You rented a four-by-four to a Christopher Collins on the seventh or eighth of this month. I need as much information as you have. Where did he say he was going? For how long? Does the vehicle have a tracking system on it? If so, where is the vehicle right now?”

  “What’s he done?” the man asked. “You’re the second person to ask for him.”

  “Who was that, and when was he here?”

  “I can only remember his first name—Festus. And he was here a few days ago. On Wednesday, I think.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  The man looked down and mumbled something.

  “I asked what you told him.” Kubu’s patience was wearing thin.

  “I told him he went to the Ghanzi area.”

  “Did you give him the vehicle’s coordinates?”

  The man squirmed.

  “Did you?” Kubu raised his voice a notch.

  “He said he was a colleague, and they were worried about Collins. They hadn’t heard from him.”

  “So you gave him Collins’s location.”

  The man nodded.

  “You’d better pray that this Festus person didn’t kill Collins. If he harmed him in any way, I’ll be back.”

  “I didn’t mean any harm,” the man whined. “I was just trying to help.”

  For a price, no doubt, Kubu thought.

  “I need those coordinates now,” Kubu said. “And if this Festus comes back in, you call me immediately.” He handed the man his card.

  “The coordinates, please. Now!”

  CHAPTER 18

  When Kubu returned home, he was glad to see Pleasant’s car parked in the driveway. At least Joy had had her sister’s support while he’d been out. He pulled up, finessed Ilia’s usual overenthusiastic greeting, and headed into the house. He found Joy and Pleasant in the living room, drinking tea. Neither looked particularly cheerful. After he’d kissed Joy and greeted Pleasant, he asked, “How’s Nono?”

  Joy shook her head. “We saw her again this afternoon. When we got there, she was asleep, but she woke up when the doctor came. She seemed a bit better, but the doctor wasn’t happy, because she’s running a bit of a temperature now. They want to keep her for a few more days.”

  Kubu didn’t like the news of the temperature. Wasn’t that what happened to HIV-positive people when they developed AIDS? Didn’t they start picking up every infection going around? “Where’s Tumi?” he asked.

  “She’s playing in her room.” The way Joy said it suggested that this might not have been exclusively Tumi’s decision. “She kept asking about Nono coming home, and it was getting on my nerves. I told her to draw a picture or something.”

  Kubu walked across to the children’s room and found Tumi lying on the bed with a coloring book. She was working on a picture with trees, a cottage, and a boy with a dog. She was finishing the edges of the boy in dark brown, being careful that the brown color didn’t spill into the green of the lawn.

  She looked up and said, “Hello, Daddy.”

  Kubu reached down for her, and she dropped the book, stretched her arms as far around him as she could manage, and hung on as tightly as she could.

  “What’s wrong, darling?”

  She dropped back onto the bed. “Nothing.”

  Kubu could see that tears were close, so he sat on the bed and waited. At last she said, “I’m trying to finish this picture. But it’s not very good.”

  “It looks fine to me.”

  There was another silence, and then she asked, “Daddy, when can Nono come home?”

  “Soon, darling. The doctor wants to be sure she’s all right. She mustn’t get sick.”

  Tumi nodded, but her eyes were still moist.

  “I hope she comes home soon. Maybe tomorrow?”

  Kubu nodded. “I’m going to make us all steelworks. Would you like one?”

  “Can I have a Coke instead?”

  Kubu smiled. “Yes, you can have a Coke.”

  * * *

  THE WOMEN TURNED down the offer of steelworks in favor of wine, so Kubu opened a bottle of sauvignon blanc. After he’d spent a little time serving drinks and unsuccessfully trying to cheer Joy up, he excused himself to make the promised call to Mabaku.

  The director had already heard about the probable death of Kgosi Ramala from Samantha, and he wasn’t happy.

  “So much for your theory about him being involved with the break-in at the mortuary.”

  Kubu had to admit that now seemed unlikely.

  “What’s happened about Collins?”

  Kubu told him what he’d discovered at the hotel and the car rental agency.

  “So someone else is looking for Collins. Interesting. Any idea who this Festus could be?”

  “No idea. But I’d like to find out.” He paused. “I’m going to phone Segodi after we hang up and ask him to go out tomorrow to the coordinates I was given. It’s too late today. I checked the location on my GPS, and it’s off the road. It’ll be dark by the time he gets there, and he’ll never find the vehicle.”

  “I hope we don’t find another unpleasant surprise there,” Mabaku commented. Then he wished Kubu a good night and rang off abruptly.

  Why, Kubu wondered, did it always feel as though the director was dissatisfied with the progress on a case? As though something more could, and should, have been done. And that Kubu could, and should, have done it.

  * * *

  DETECTIVE SERGEANT SEGODI had a tradition of watching soccer with a few friends on a Saturday afternoon. He wasn’t an extravagant man, but he’d invested in a large-screen TV and supplied salty snacks to go with the beers his friends brought with them. That always ensured that he had company for the afte
rnoon. His wife usually took herself off for tea and gossip with her friends. She had no great interest in sports, and the men usually got rowdy as the beer empties built up.

  Today’s match hadn’t been great, and the Botswana Zebras were two goals behind, so Segodi was not as upset as he might have been when his cell phone started demanding his attention.

  “Yes?” he answered gruffly.

  “Detective Sergeant Segodi? This is Assistant Superintendent Bengu from the CID in Gaborone.”

  “Oh yes. Good evening, Assistant Superintendent.” There was not much enthusiasm in Segodi’s voice. He knew the CID director was unhappy with his report on the dead Bushman.

  He listened to what Kubu wanted him to do, then bristled.

  “Tomorrow is Sunday,” he said flatly. “I take my wife to church on Sunday.”

  “You can go after church.”

  “I have other arrangements tomorrow. I’ll go on Monday.”

  “Detective Sergeant Segodi, I don’t think you understand the situation. Let me explain it to you again. This Dr. Collins may be involved in the murder case of the Bushman, Heiseb, that you investigated. And even if he isn’t, he may be missing in the Kalahari. He should’ve been in touch with his wife in the United States last week, but wasn’t. He may have broken down somewhere in the desert. I know what that’s like! This does not wait until Monday.”

  Segodi heard a commotion from the TV and cheering from his friends. Apparently, against all the odds, the Zebras had scored a goal. And he’d missed it because this man was bullying him.

  “Look, Assistant Superintendent,” he said angrily, “you’re not my superior officer. I report to the station commander in Ghanzi. And I don’t believe that this Dr. Collins came out from America to murder a Bushman. And I don’t believe he’s broken down in the desert. Maybe his satellite phone battery is dead. That happens. I will find out on Monday. I…” His voice trailed off as he realized that Kubu had hung up. He snorted and went back to the TV, but the match was over. Despite the late goal, the Zebras had lost.

  A minute later his phone rang again. He was tempted not to answer, but he saw it was a different number. This time it was Director Mabaku.

  Segodi’s ears were burning when the call was over, but he was stubborn. He had no intention of spending his Sunday driving to New Xade and then bundu-bashing to try to find some lost vehicle. But he had an idea.

  He hunted through the contacts on his phone until he found the number for Constable Ixau, and called it. Rather to his surprise, the constable answered almost at once. Segodi explained what he wanted, and Ixau agreed to go out the next morning and try to find the vehicle. Segodi smiled, thanked him, and hung up, happy to have put one over on the brass in the CID, who sat on their backsides dishing out work to the people in the country. He returned to the TV room, only to discover that his friends were getting ready to leave.

  “Hey, I’ve finished my business,” he told them. “We can’t celebrate a win, but at least we can have another beer.”

  One shook his head. “Sorry, my friend, we all had another one after that goal. They’re finished.”

  Segodi silently cursed Kubu, Mabaku, and Collins, each in turn.

  CHAPTER 19

  As soon as Kubu left the Gampone house, Samantha phoned Edison to find out whom he’d contacted at Rra Gampone’s business.

  “There was no reply when I phoned the business,” Edison said. “So I went to the warehouse—it’s on Nyamambisi Street. Luckily there was a guard on duty, who had an emergency number to call. An Adam Mere answered. He said he was the warehouse manager. He told me that Rra Gampone was overseas and had been for about a week. When I asked where he’d gone and when he’d be back, he said he didn’t know. He also claimed he didn’t have a contact number for Gampone. I’m sure he’s lying.”

  Samantha wrote down Mere’s number and the address of the warehouse.

  “Was there anything else he said that could be useful?”

  “No. He said that he’d be at work on Monday at seven thirty in the morning if I wanted to talk to him.”

  “We’ll see about that,” snorted Samantha. “I’m about to spoil his weekend.”

  * * *

  “RRA MERE? THIS is Detective Khama from the CID. I’d like to come over and ask you some questions.”

  “I told the other detective that he could speak to me on Monday morning when I get to work.”

  “Unfortunately, the questions can’t wait until then. I’ll give you a choice. I can come to your house. We can meet at your company’s warehouse. Or you can come down to CID headquarters at Millennium Park.”

  “I’m busy for the rest of the day today and most of tomorrow, so the soonest I can meet you is about six o’clock tomorrow evening.”

  “Rra Mere, let me put this simply. I’m investigating a possible homicide. I think you can help me move the case forward. If you continue to put me off, a police cruiser will arrive at your home and arrest you for obstruction of justice.”

  “A homicide? Who?”

  “All I want is for you to answer some simple questions. You are not a suspect, but if you continue to push back, you may well become one. Understand?”

  “I have my family here, and neighbors. What’ll they think?”

  “Say something has come up at work and you have to go. You should be back in less than an hour.”

  “Okay. I’ll meet you at the warehouse.”

  “Thank you,” said Samantha. “I’ll see you in half an hour.”

  * * *

  WHEN SHE ARRIVED at the warehouse, two men were standing at the gate. One had a security uniform on, so she surmised the other was Mere.

  “Detective Khama, what’s this all about?” Mere asked as Samantha parked and stepped out of her car.

  She looked at his enormous frame and wondered whether she should have brought someone with her. She wouldn’t stand a chance if he wanted to hurt her.

  “Rra Mere, please can we go somewhere we can sit?”

  “Follow me,” he said, and turned toward the building.

  “Just a moment.” She pulled out her cell phone and speed-dialed the CID.

  “This is Detective Khama,” she told the receptionist who answered. “I’m about to meet with a Rra Adam Mere of Gampone Import/Export. I’m at their warehouse.”

  She listened to the response, then replied, “No, I don’t need backup at the moment. I’ll call you back when I’m finished.”

  * * *

  “WHO’S BEEN KILLED?” Mere asked, as soon as they sat down.

  “I can’t tell you that at the moment. But I can say that there appears to have been a break-in at your boss’s home near the reservoir. We found signs that someone had been held prisoner there, and we also found blood on the floor. Human blood.”

  “Someone killed someone in Rra Gampone’s house?”

  Samantha decided not to say that all this had taken place in the garage, not the main house.

  She nodded.

  “The first thing I need to know is how to contact Rra Gampone. Second, I want to know when he left the country—you did tell my colleague that he was overseas, not so?”

  Mere nodded.

  “Third, please give me a list of everyone who knew that Gampone was going to be out of the country—everyone here, customers, suppliers, travel agents, and so on. Whoever broke in must have known he was away.”

  Mere scribbled notes on a piece of paper he’d pulled out of a nearby printer.

  “And fourth, I want his itinerary—his travel agent will have a copy, I’m sure.”

  “When do you need all this by?”

  “Tomorrow, lunchtime.”

  “Lunchtime tomorrow?” Mere’s voice rose. “I’ve got church, then I coach my boy’s soccer team.”

  “Do whatever you want, but meet me at my office at one o’clock. Here’s my card.”

  “But…”

  “And one other thing. You’re not to tell anyone about this. Not your wife. Not R
ra Gampone. Not the travel agent. No one. Understood?”

  Mere’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t have a choice, do I?”

  Samantha smiled and shook her head.

  CHAPTER 20

  Ixau was up early the next morning. There wasn’t much to do in New Xade on a Sunday, and he thought he might as well see if he could find this Collins in his rented 4x4 before the man packed up camp and moved on. The sun was just creeping above the horizon as he fed the coordinates into his GPS and studied the display. The vehicle was well off the road, and that didn’t make much sense. Why would Collins choose to crash through the desert scrub? He zoomed out and studied the location relative to the road and, after a moment, nodded. There was a firebreak in that area, and he’d bet that was where Collins was to be found. Satisfied, he headed onto the road toward the Central Kalahari Game Reserve, with the windows open to enjoy the cool of the early morning.

  * * *

  HE DROVE QUICKLY to where the firebreak intersected the road and pulled his truck over to the shoulder. He jumped out and looked around. The firebreak was quite broad, and the edges were very sandy, with stumps of hacked-down shrubs sticking out. Only the middle section had been bulldozed, leaving a reasonably level region where vehicles could drive. And there were plenty of tracks showing that some had done just that.

  Ixau walked slowly along the edge of the firebreak, noting which tracks crossed which and checking the treads whenever a harder patch preserved a decent imprint. Then he would stop and examine whether the sand had started refilling the impression and how sharp the outline was. When he was satisfied, he returned to his truck, fetched his camera, and took a number of shots.

  He was sure that there were four different tire tracks, three older and one quite recent. He was also fairly sure that two of the old tracks were of the same age and tread, probably from a vehicle that had driven up the firebreak and then returned. It would be easy to assume that the other tracks belonged to Collins’s vehicle—that he’d driven up the firebreak some time ago and then returned yesterday. But Ixau didn’t think so. He didn’t think the tracks came from the same vehicle, and he thought the fresh track was more than a day old. It was hardly likely that the CID in Gaborone had sat on the information for a couple of days and then decided to send him out on a Sunday.