Dying to Live

by Michael Stanley

  or

  Dumela, Mma Ramala. Let’s go inside and sit down. I’ve something to tell you.

  or

  Mma Ramala, I have some bad news …

  None of them sounded right, so Samantha tried to imagine how she would like such bad news broken to her. Eventually she decided on a direct approach, without preamble, without sugarcoating.

  As hard as it would be, I’d like it straight, without beating around the bush, she decided.

  However, as she pulled up in front of the house, her resolve started to weaken.

  Perhaps I need to establish some rapport first, she thought. Maybe it’s better if she’s sitting down.

  She walked up to the front door and knocked, and it was opened almost immediately. Mma Ramala looked exhausted; her face was drawn and there were bags under her eyes.

  “He’s dead, isn’t he?” she said.

  Taken aback, Samantha could only nod. Then, instinctively, she leaned forward and put her arms around the woman, softly patting her back.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “We think he was murdered.”

  Mma Ramala sobbed. “Where can I get his body?” she asked. “I need to prepare for the funeral.”

  Samantha took a deep breath. “We don’t have the body, mma. We don’t know where it is.”

  Mma Ramala let out a loud wail. “How do you know he’s dead, then?”

  “Mma, we found a shallow grave. Our blood tests show your husband’s body was in it at some stage, then later removed.”

  “How can I put him to rest if I don’t have his body?” Mma Ramala cried. “What will I do for his funeral?” She buried her face against Samantha’s chest.

  Samantha didn’t know how to answer this, so she hugged the woman tighter.

  Eventually, Mma Ramala pulled herself free and invited Samantha in.

  “You’ll have some tea, won’t you?” she asked.

  Samantha nodded and sat down in the living room and waited for Mma Ramala to return.

  * * *

  WHEN THE TEA had been poured, Samantha gave Mma Ramala an edited version of what the police had discovered.

  “Why would anyone want to kill Botlele?” Mma Ramala asked, preempting Samantha’s first question. “He was kind and helped so many people.”

  “We think it has something to do with the muti he gave people to make them live longer. Perhaps someone wanted to do the same thing, to be the best-known healer himself.”

  Mma Ramala shook her head. “But why kill him? He would have shared his remedy.”

  I doubt that, Samantha thought. Why give away something that was making you rich?

  “Did anyone else know what was in his muti?” she asked. “Did people know where he got his ingredients?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Did your husband mention if anyone had contacted him about such things?”

  Mma Ramala shook her head. “He didn’t say anything.”

  “Did he seem worried before he disappeared? How was he on the day he went missing?”

  “I’ve told you before—he was fine, eager to go to work.”

  “I’m sorry to ask these questions, mma, but we need to get as much information as possible so we can catch the people who did it.”

  Mma Ramala nodded.

  “Did your husband ever mention a person by the name of Gampone? A Rra Jonah Gampone?”

  Mma Ramala shook her head. “I’ve never heard the name. Who is he? Do you think he killed Botlele?”

  “He was overseas when your husband died, but his name was in your husband’s appointment book.” She paused. “And how about an American—Mr. Christopher Collins?”

  “No. I don’t think Botlele had any white customers. He’s white, isn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is his name in my husband’s appointment book?”

  Samantha nodded. “Yes. We’re interested in him because he’s also disappeared.”

  Mma Ramala put her hands to her face. “Aaii. His wife must be very worried.”

  “I’m sure she is. And just a couple more questions: Who was the person your husband bought plants from for his muti?”

  “I think he’s called Ou Man. He’s from the Shakawe area.”

  Samantha wrote that down in her notebook.

  “And have you ever heard of a Bushman by the name of Heiseb?”

  Mma Ramala shook her head. “Never.”

  “Mma Ramala, I’ve asked you this before, but I need to ask you again: Did your husband ever use human body parts in any of the muti he prepared?”

  Mma Ramala shook her head. “Never. He thought some witch doctors did it to make lots of money. He said their muti would never work—that anyone who bought such muti was stupid.”

  * * *

  AS SHE DROVE back to the office, Samantha tried to figure out the conflicting emotions she was experiencing. She felt sorry for Mma Ramala—losing a husband and not knowing where his body was. She had mixed emotions about Ramala himself. He was a witch doctor—something she despised—but he appeared to be honest and aboveboard, even if there was no evidence that what he was selling worked.

  As she turned into the parking lot behind the CID offices, she realized that she wanted to speak to Kubu.

  * * *

  SAMANTHA WENT STRAIGHT to Kubu’s office, knocked, and opened the door. Kubu was at his desk, leaning back in his office chair.

  “Yes, Samantha? What is it?

  “I want to thank you, Kubu.”

  He frowned. “What for?”

  “For persuading me to investigate Rra Ramala’s disappearance. I’ve just come back from telling his wife that he’s dead, and I realize that they deserve as much of our time and effort as anyone else. I still hate witch doctors who harm people, but now I realize not all witch doctors are like that.”

  Kubu smiled. “Well done, Samantha. You’ve come a long way in a very short time.”

  PART 3

  CHAPTER 24

  Festus checked the monitors in the arrivals terminal at Gaborone International Airport. Air Botswana flights could be unpredictable, but fortunately Brian Ross’s flight was on time for an eight p.m. arrival.

  He wondered what sort of person his client was. He’d seemed rather abrupt on the phone, but perhaps it was just the worry of Collins’s disappearance. Well, he’d soon find out.

  When the passengers started coming through from customs, Festus held up a card on which he’d written Ross’s name. A few minutes later, a tall man pulling a suitcase approached him.

  “Festus Moeng? I’m Brian Ross.” They shook hands, and Ross took in Festus’s bulk. “Well, you look like you can take care of yourself,” he commented. “Let’s get out of here.” He headed for the exit, leaving Festus to deal with the bag.

  Ross was sweating by the time they reached Festus’s truck. As they drove out of the airport, he said, “Does this thing have air-conditioning?”

  It was on, but Festus turned up the fan. “How was your flight?”

  “Tiring,” Ross replied. He was concentrating on his cell phone. “Can’t get this damn thing to work.”

  “It takes time to find a new network.”

  Ross glanced up. “Things move slowly here, do they?”

  Festus shrugged and didn’t reply.

  “I need to talk to a Professor Thabo at the university. Can you set that up?”

  Festus was tempted to point out that he was a private detective, not a personal assistant, but he shrugged it off. At the rate he was charging Ross, why should he complain about another hour or two? “Shouldn’t be a problem. Does he know you?”

  “He knows Collins. It’s about the only connection I’ve got left, now that you’ve lost him.”

  Festus frowned. He’d hardly “lost” Collins, since he’d never found him in the first place. “Well, there might be some other leads I can follow up. Can you give me some more details about all this? I’d be more help if I knew what it’s all about.”

  Ross w
as quiet for a few moments, then said, “I run a pharmaceutical company in the States. Collins is a consultant for my company, but he’s also an old friend. We go back to college days, and naturally I’m worried about him.”

  Festus digested that. He was pretty sure that however far back they went together, Ross hadn’t rushed to Botswana to rescue an old friend. “What was he doing out here?”

  “He was studying the oral history traditions of the Bushmen.”

  “Yes, you told me that before. What I want to know is, what was he doing for you?”

  Ross spent a bit more time fiddling with his phone, until he gave up and rebooted it. “He was keeping an eye out for wild plants that could lead to new food crops or drugs or whatever.”

  That made sense to Festus. Collins had spent a lot of time with the Bushmen, and they knew things. Collins had probably learned a lot from them.

  “Did he find anything?” he asked casually. “Some desert plant that the Bushmen know about, perhaps?”

  Ross gave him a hard look. “Look, Festus, I need your help to find Collins, and there’ll be a big bonus for you if this works out for me. It doesn’t matter what Collins did or didn’t find.”

  Festus thought for a moment and then responded, “I think it matters a lot. If Collins found nothing, then why has he disappeared? Why has he gone to Namibia?”

  Ross frowned and said, “I don’t know.”

  Festus waited, but Ross didn’t elaborate. “So what did Collins find?” he persisted.

  At first it seemed Ross wasn’t going to answer, but finally he said, “It’s a plant that helps the healing process for cuts and scratches and the like. Apparently the Bushmen have used it forever. Could be very profitable if it works out, but there’s lots of testing and development work ahead. Might be worth nothing at all. Just keep your mouth shut about it.”

  Is that the whole story? Festus wondered. Still, he’s opening up a bit. Maybe, if I play my cards right, this could be worth a lot more to me than a few-thousand-pula fee. We’ll see.

  Then another thought struck him. “Does anyone else know about this?” he asked. “Another drug company?”

  Ross shook his head. “Not as far as I know. Why?”

  “Well, the way I see it, either Collins has taken off with this plant—maybe trying to sell it to someone else—or maybe he didn’t run off but someone got to him in the desert.” Festus hesitated. “Seems a lot of effort for something that’s good for scratches.”

  “So it’s not the cure for cancer, but you know how many people use aspirin and how much money there is in it?”

  Festus nodded and let it drop, but he still thought Ross was holding back.

  Ross changed the subject. “What’s the story with the police?”

  “I told you what I know. I think they want to question Collins about the death of some Bushman he knew.”

  “You didn’t talk to them, did you?”

  “You told me not to, so I didn’t. But, of course, if they ask me about it, I’ll have to tell them everything I know.”

  “Well, just keep me out of it.”

  “Look, Mr. Ross, I’m working for you, but I’m not your lawyer. There’s no client privilege. When you’ve done your business here, you’ll go back to your company and your nice home in America. I have to go on working with the police here. I can’t afford to piss them off.”

  They slowed down as they entered a traffic circle, and Ross watched the cars building up around it. “Don’t you have traffic lights?” he asked.

  “Yes, but these work pretty well. We don’t have the sort of traffic you have.”

  Ross said nothing more until they reached The Grand Palm hotel. “Looks decent,” he commented.

  “Yes. It’s a nice hotel.”

  “Okay, bring my bag, and I’ll check in. I need a drink and something to eat and a proper night’s sleep. Come over tomorrow at nine. Then we can decide what the next steps are.”

  He climbed out of the truck, slammed the door, and headed for the hotel entrance. Festus jumped out, grabbed the suitcase, and followed him. He decided he didn’t like Ross, but he was being well paid, and his meter was running.

  CHAPTER 25

  Festus phoned the university first thing in the morning, but Professor Thabo hadn’t come in yet. So he made an appointment for midday, after the professor’s postgraduate seminar. With some time to kill, he started Googling “plants and traditional medicines.” After a bit of surfing, he came upon a Wikipedia article about the Bushman appetite suppressant hoodia and a big company’s efforts to leverage local knowledge into something marketable. However, the article said that the company had never brought hoodia to market, despite a lot of expensive research, and the Bushmen, who’d been promised a share of the profits, had missed out—in the end there were no profits to share. It seemed that Ross was right when he said these things were very uncertain. Festus didn’t think it likely that another drug company would kidnap Collins for the chance to develop a healing lotion. He guessed that Collins had found something much more exciting than that.

  Festus needed information, and there were some contacts he could lean on, either because they owed him favors or because he had something on them. He made a few calls, but no one had heard of Collins. The last person he tried was nicknamed Legotlo, a nasty little character who would give a tip to the police and then tip off the target that the police were onto him, picking up a few pula each way.

  “Dumela, Legotlo. It’s Festus.”

  There was a brief silence before Legotlo reluctantly returned the greeting. “Dumela, Festus.”

  “Legotlo, I think you can help me with something. There could be a few pula in it for you.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “There’s a white guy from the US who’s missing. I’m trying to trace him.”

  “This guy have a name?”

  “Collins. Dr. Christopher Collins.”

  “Can’t help you. Never heard of him.”

  “Hang on, let me tell you a bit about this—maybe something will jog your memory. He disappeared about three weeks ago in the Kalahari—in the New Xade area.”

  “Where the Bushmen live? Why don’t you ask them?”

  “I have. I’m beginning to think someone grabbed Collins.”

  “You mean like kidnapped? For ransom or something?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I don’t get mixed up in that sort of stuff!” Legotlo squealed. “You think I’m a moron?”

  “I think maybe you heard something through the grapevine. I know you’re discreet, but we’re old friends.”

  Legotlo took his time before he replied. “Look, I’ve heard nothing about a snatch. Not of a white guy. Now will you give me a break? I’ve got things to do.”

  “Okay. But keep your ears open, all right? We can do each other favors. You know what I mean?”

  “Sure, sure. I’ll keep my ears open. I’ll let you know, okay? Now will you get off my back?”

  “Sure, Legotlo. Thanks. You’re a good guy.”

  Festus hung up, disappointed. He checked his watch and realized it was time to get going. But as he picked up his car keys, something from the conversation struck him. Why did Legotlo say “Not of a white guy”? Why not just that he’d heard nothing about a snatch? Festus made a mental note to follow up with Legotlo when he had a chance.

  * * *

  FESTUS PICKED UP Ross on time, and they reached Professor Thabo’s office just before noon. He was still busy running his seminar, and the secretary told them to wait in the professor’s office until he arrived.

  “What can I do for you, gentlemen?” Thabo asked, when he walked through the door a few minutes later.

  Ross started off. “We’re looking for a Dr. Christopher Collins. I believe you know him?”

  Thabo nodded. “I’ve met him a couple of times.”

  “I was in communication with him by satellite phone,” said Ross. “At least I was until about three weeks ago. Then we lost
connection. So I asked Mr. Moeng here to check up on him. To make sure he was okay. But Collins seems to have disappeared. We can’t find any trace of him since he went off with his Bushmen friends into the Kalahari. I thought you might have a few ideas.”

  “Me? I only met him a few times. I understood that he was going back to the US.”

  “Yes, he did. And then came back here.”

  Thabo shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t help you. But I can suggest who might be able to.” He scratched around on his desk and came up with a business card, which he passed to Ross. The card was from Assistant Superintendent Bengu of the Botswana CID and, at the bottom, was a handwritten cell phone number. Ross recognized the name at once, but didn’t react. He passed the card to Festus.

  “The police are involved? Are they also looking for Dr. Collins?” Ross asked.

  Thabo nodded. “They’re investigating the death of a Bushman named Heiseb. They think he was the man helping Collins with his work, and it seems that Collins may’ve been the last person to see him alive.”

  Ross’s eyebrows rose. “They think Collins may have been involved in his death? That’s very hard to believe.”

  Thabo shrugged. “I have no idea what they think. I suggest you ask them.”

  Something about the conversation didn’t ring true to Festus. Thabo was supposed to know Collins—maybe not very well—but he seemed to have no real interest in what had happened to the man or whether he had, indeed, been involved in the Bushman’s death.

  Is he just a cold fish, Festus wondered, or does he have no interest because he knows this is all a bullshit story?

  He decided to take a long shot.

  “Professor, I’m concerned that Dr. Collins may be in danger, that Heiseb was targeted and Collins may be next. Perhaps Collins is already dead.” He said it in a matter-of-fact voice, but his eyes never left Thabo’s face. For a moment he saw shock there, then the bland expression returned.

  “Why would you think that?” the professor asked.

  “I’m afraid I can’t go into the details of my sources, Professor,” Festus replied. “But they are usually reliable.” Which you are not, he added to himself.