Dying to Live

by Michael Stanley

  “What’ve you got?”

  “Mmm … Here’s the original request for Ho Lan’s body to leave the country by air. Minor, aged thirteen, from the People’s Republic of China. Died of cerebral malaria at Kasane, where she was visiting relatives. It’s signed by Ho Fang, father. That’s funny—the name’s the wrong way around.”

  “They do that in China. Go on.”

  “Here’s the airline manifest. Gaborone to Johannesburg, change to Air China to PEK—that’s Beijing—and then TAO. Hang on, I need to look that up.” There was a moment’s pause. “It’s Qingdao. That’s another city in China.”

  “Anything else?” Kubu asked.

  “I also have a copy of the death certificate.” He paused again. “Yes, it confirms cerebral malaria. Date of death, October nineteenth. There’s a separate note from the doctor. Apparently she hadn’t taken the pills to prevent malaria and came down with a fever. It progressed very quickly, and by the time they got her to hospital in Kasane, it was too late. Tragic.”

  “You said you saw the father?”

  “Just briefly. I was signing off the documents at the plane, and he was boarding. I didn’t speak to him.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  Tole hesitated. “Well, he was Chinese, of course. He looked about forty, I think. But I don’t really know Chinese people.”

  Kubu thought for a moment. “Who was the doctor? Is there a report from the hospital?”

  “It’s a Dr. Wang. No, there’s no report from the hospital. That’s not required if we have the death certificate.”

  “How did the body reach you? Was it flown down from Kasane?”

  Tole thought about it. “I suppose it must’ve been, but a man from the Chinese embassy brought it in a hearse. Probably they needed to keep it cool while they did the documentation and so on.”

  “Would there be a record of the transport from Kasane?”

  “There should be.” Tole sounded doubtful. “But look, Assistant Superintendent, the embassy authorized the paperwork, so it’s all aboveboard.”

  Perhaps, Kubu thought.

  He thanked the man for his help and asked him to fax copies of the manifest and other documents to the CID right away. Then he hung up and sat thinking about the conversation. He looked in the drawer for another health bar, but he was out of luck. He needed to buy some more.

  It took some time to find someone at the hospital in Kasane who was able to help him, but eventually he reached a harried administrator.

  “Mma, I’m investigating a murder. I’m sorry to bother you, but I need your help.”

  “Yes, rra, I understand. What do you want?”

  “I need the records of a Chinese girl, Ho Lan, who was admitted with malaria. She died on Monday, October nineteenth.”

  “Wait, please.” There was the sound of typing on a computer keyboard. “Would you spell the name?”

  Kubu did so—hoping he had it right—and reminded her that the names might be in the reverse order. There was more typing, spaced by short pauses.

  “No,” the woman said at last.

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s no such record. No patient was admitted with that name.”

  “But…” Kubu hesitated. “Perhaps the name is wrong. Is it possible—”

  “Detective, I checked the name and some different spellings. No such person. I checked deaths also. No one’s died of malaria here this month. It’s not such a common occurrence, you know, and we haven’t had much rain up here yet this year.”

  “Is there another hospital in Kasane where she might have been taken?”

  “No. Kasane isn’t a big place. Now, is there anything else?”

  Kubu admitted that there wasn’t. The woman said good-bye, and the line went dead.

  Perhaps what the doctor wrote was that it was too late to take her to the hospital, he thought.

  He realized he’d have to wait until he received copies of the documents from customs to be sure. Meanwhile he’d try to locate Dr. Wang. The medical council would have a list of all practicing doctors, and immigration would be able to give him the details about the Ho visitors, and possibly about Wang also. He would check it all, but he was already sure what he’d find. He no longer believed that Ho Lan had died of malaria. In fact, he no longer believed that she’d ever existed.

  CHAPTER 32

  The next morning Kubu started to follow up on the journey of the coffin. He started with the fax from Tole at customs. The sender was listed as Ho Fang, as Tole had said, and the coffin was to be picked up in Qingdao by Wei Cheng Funeral Service, presumably an undertaker. There was an address and phone number on the manifest, which had been prepared by Botswana Logistics in the industrial area of Gaborone. Kubu picked up the phone and dialed the number on the letterhead.

  When it was answered, he introduced himself and explained that he needed information about a shipment they’d been responsible for.

  “What is the manifest number, Assistant Superintendent?” the man asked.

  Kubu read off the number.

  “Hold on.”

  A few minutes later, the man returned. “Please repeat the number.”

  Kubu did so.

  “I’m afraid we don’t have any manifest with that number. Are you sure it’s a Botswana Logistics manifest?”

  “Yes,” Kubu replied. “The manifest is for a coffin containing the body of a girl, a Ho Lan, to be sent to Qingdao via Beijing. Please check if you can find any record of that and call me back.”

  Next he tried immigration and the medical council, but had no more luck than he’d had with Botswana Logistics.

  It’s not only Ho Lan who doesn’t exist, Kubu thought. It seems everyone involved is also fictitious!

  Kubu spent several minutes assessing his options. He decided that he’d ask Interpol’s assistance in tracking down the Chinese undertaker—if it existed—and he made an appointment to speak to someone at the Chinese embassy to find out who’d authorized repatriation of the body.

  He thought about Ho Fang and what the customs officer Tole had seen when the coffin was delivered to the airport. A Chinese man had been with the coffin, and Tole thought he’d traveled with it. Assuming that, the man would have been compelled to show the immigration officer his passport and fill in the departure form with his real name. There couldn’t have been that many Chinese people on the flight to Johannesburg. He called Edison and explained what he wanted.

  Next he checked with Orange to see if they’d traced the cell phone that had been used to send the message to Petra Collins.

  “Yes, Assistant Superintendent, I was going to call you. We have identified the handset that was used to send that message. It’s the same one you asked us about before.”

  “Which one was that?”

  “The one that was found at the Game City Mall. We weren’t able to trace the owner of that phone, but it’s definitely the same phone that was used to send the email message. That’s all I can tell you, I’m afraid.”

  Kubu thanked the man, and then digested the implications. It was too much to hope that the phone would conveniently point to a culprit. So this seems to be another dead end as far as finding Collins is concerned. But we were right all along. Now we know that there is a link between Collins and Ramala.

  Then he checked to see if there had been any follow-up from Ghanzi. Detective Sergeant Segodi was supposed to check if Collins had stayed at one of the hotels, but there was nothing from him. Kubu frowned. Obviously Segodi had no interest in the case.

  He wondered if Constable Ixau could discover something more. He was obviously interested and had initiative. Kubu dug out Segodi’s original report on his visit to the village, added a note asking Ixau to see if he could discover anything further, and faxed it off to him.

  * * *

  AFTER LUNCH, KUBU made his way to the Chinese embassy to keep an appointment with the most senior consular official he’d been able to reach. The embassy was off Independ
ence Avenue, hidden from the road by thick trees. The security guard checked Kubu’s identification before returning to the guardhouse to announce his arrival. Eventually he returned and waved Kubu through.

  After waiting in the reception area for a short while, Kubu was met by a man who introduced himself as Chan, who checked his identification and then took him through to his office.

  “Now, Assistant Superintendent, how can I help you?”

  Kubu opened the file of papers he’d brought with him and gave the manifest to Chan. “I want to talk to the official who handled this paperwork.”

  Chan read the document carefully. “Yes, I helped with this,” he said. His English was accented but easy to follow. “I got a call from the doctor—Dr. Wang—after the child died. He asked me to help Mr. Ho. Mr. Ho came to see me the next day.”

  Kubu pulled out the note attached to the death certificate. “Dr. Wang wrote that ‘Lan developed a powerful fever very quickly and it was too late to save her when we got her to the hospital in Kasane.’ The strange thing is that the hospital has no record of her.”

  Chan glanced down at his desk. “Assistant Superintendent, in Botswana sometimes things are not done properly. Perhaps this is an example of that.”

  Kubu bristled, but kept his temper. “Did you get identification from Mr. Ho?”

  Chan looked surprised. “He showed identification at the gate. He had just lost a daughter and was very upset. I did not ask for identification.”

  Odd behavior for a consular official, Kubu thought. Perhaps it’s not only in Botswana that things aren’t done properly.

  He tried a different approach.

  “Did you accompany the body to the airport?”

  Again Chan looked surprised. “No. Why should I do that? I helped with the documents Mr. Ho needed. That is all. Maybe an undertaker dealt with the body.”

  “The official at the airport said that the body arrived by hearse and was accompanied by someone from the embassy.”

  Chan shrugged. “He also made a mistake. Perhaps because a Chinese person was with the body. Maybe Mr. Ho himself.”

  Kubu let that go and thought for a few moments before he continued. “Mr. Chan, you will certainly know that Chinese citizens need visas to come to Botswana. I discovered this morning that we have no record of a Ho Fang or a Ho Lan ever applying for a visa.”

  “They were here illegally?”

  “Maybe. Can you trace Mr. Ho? In China?”

  “I don’t have any information about him, but there are contact details on the manifest for the undertaker who would have picked the body up. Assistant Superintendent, what is this about? Do you believe that Ho Lan was murdered?”

  “I believe Ho Lan didn’t exist. I believe someone else’s body was flown out of Botswana.”

  Chan took a moment before replying. “Why? Why do that?”

  “Do you know anything about this Dr. Wang?”

  Chan shook his head. “He was in Kachikau when I spoke to him.”

  “How do you know the call was from Kachikau?”

  “That is what he said.”

  “The Ministry of Health has no record of a Dr. Wang on its health professional registry, nor is there a record of a visa application from a Dr. Wang, either.”

  Chan shrugged. “I’m sure there is a simple explanation for all this, Assistant Superintendent. I’m afraid I cannot help you with these odd facts.”

  Clearly the interview was at an end as far as Chan was concerned, but Kubu wasn’t satisfied. The man had been quite convincing, but Kubu had experienced embassy officials before and had discovered that they could be accomplished liars. Yet the only flaw in Chan’s story was the matter of the identification.

  Surely he should have checked Ho’s bona fides, he thought. And how did Ho get into the embassy in the first place?

  “Mr. Chan, I want you to know that these ‘odd facts,’ as you call them, are a very serious matter. Last week the body of a murdered man was stolen from the mortuary. We believe that may have been to hide the identity of the killer. In any case, the body vanished. Then, the next day, a coffin is flown out of the country, supposedly containing the body of Ho Lan, but there’s no record that she ever existed. We now believe that coffin was used to smuggle the stolen body out of Botswana. You assisted with that, and by doing so you’ve become an accessory to a serious crime. I expect your full cooperation to understand these ‘odd facts.’ If I don’t get it, the minister will be in touch with the ambassador.”

  Kubu wasn’t at all sure he could make good on that threat, but it had the desired effect. Chan sat in silence for some time before he responded.

  “Of course we will do whatever we can to help. Possibly an error of some sort was made. It will not be necessary to involve the ambassador.”

  “We’ll see. Now, why didn’t you ask for identification from Mr. Ho?”

  “I have explained that. But it may have been a mistake. We will try to trace Mr. Ho. We will also interview the guard who let him through.”

  “Do you have security cameras?”

  Chan frowned. “I don’t think we would have the pictures from those.”

  Kubu smiled. “Mr. Chan, I’m sure the ambassador would have them.”

  Chan frowned again. “I will have to check if—”

  “Please do so,” said Kubu rising. “I want them this afternoon. We need to move quickly on this case.”

  “I will try,” Chan said, as he took Kubu back to the reception area.

  Kubu shook his hand. “I’ll hear from you later on, then,” he said.

  As Kubu drove out of the embassy, he was feeling rather pleased with himself. By evening, he would have pictures of one of the men involved in the theft of Heiseb’s body. Chan’s mistake concerning the identification had bought his cooperation. Kubu’s smile faded. That was, if indeed it had been a mistake, and if indeed he was now cooperating. If not, Kubu was going to receive pictures that had no relation to Ho whatsoever.

  CHAPTER 33

  For the third time, Constable Ixau read the faxed report on the Heiseb case that the assistant superintendent in Gaborone had sent to him. He was puzzled. It said that a young man had spoken to Detective Sergeant Segodi when he’d been in New Xade, and had suggested animosity between some New Xade men and Heiseb. Yet Ixau had been with the sergeant when he’d interviewed the men—and afterward—and no one had suggested such a thing. His mind went back over the meeting, and he recalled who’d been present. As usual, the one who’d done most of the talking was N’kaka, he thought. But he’s certainly not a young man; he’s one of the oldest men in the village. The youngest person there was Daniel. I remember how he grabbed for a cigarette, but he didn’t say anything.

  Ixau decided he’d have a chat with the boy. After all, he wasn’t busy. He was hardly ever busy. There were some quarrels, some fights—usually with alcohol involved—and some petty theft. But really, very little happened in New Xade.

  He stood up and went in search of Daniel.

  He found the boy with a small herd of goats at the watering point behind the school. The animals milled around and drank, and then headed back toward the bush. The area inside the village was barren—every blade of grass and green shoot had been eaten—but a little way outside the village, the goats would find plenty. This year, the gods had been generous with rain.

  “Must you stay with the goats?” he asked Daniel.

  The boy shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. There’s nowhere for them to go.”

  “Mma Doha said one of hers was stolen.”

  Daniel snorted. “Her? She knows nothing. Probably it became lost.” He watched the goats making their way toward the outskirts of the village.

  “Did you talk to the police detective from Ghanzi when he was here?” he asked.

  Daniel swung round to face him. “Yes. I was with the others when he brought us cigarettes and asked about Heiseb.”

  “But you also spoke to him alone.” Ixau deliberately made it a s
tatement, not a question. Daniel’s reaction had already answered the question.

  “No, I—”

  “You didn’t do anything wrong. You were trying to help.”

  Daniel hesitated. “You won’t tell the others?”

  Ixau shook his head. “I’d just like to hear what you know. I’d also like to help.”

  Daniel started to follow the goats, and Ixau walked with him.

  “What did you see?”

  At first Daniel didn’t reply, but after a moment he said, “Sometimes Heiseb was followed. To see what he was doing in the desert. He had powerful magic. Everyone knows that!”

  “I have also heard so.”

  Daniel nodded. “So he was followed. Without him knowing. Until he was far from here, and they had to give up and come back.”

  “Did you follow him?”

  “Never.”

  “Who did follow him, then?”

  Daniel glanced at him again and shrugged. “I don’t know. You know who to ask. He sent them.”

  Ixau sighed. He didn’t know, but he could guess. Somehow, if there was conflict in New Xade, one man was always involved, using the status of his age to persuade the others to do things that were better not done.

  “N’kaka?”

  The boy nodded. “But I said nothing to you,” he reminded Ixau. They’d reached the last road bordering the village, and the goats had spread out in the bush to forage. Daniel stopped and squatted at the side of the road. “I don’t know anything else.” He turned his back on Ixau and watched the goats.

  * * *

  IXAU FOUND N’KAKA outside his house, under his usual tree, with a scattering of St. Louis beer bottles around him. It was late afternoon, and the old man had already emptied several. Ixau greeted the old man respectfully.

  “What do you want?” N’kaka responded.

  “Just to talk to you for a few minutes.”

  N’kaka didn’t reply.

  “May I sit down?”

  N’kaka shrugged, and Ixau took that as permission. He made himself comfortable in the sand and asked about N’kaka’s family. The man spoke for a while, having nothing good to say about any of them, but at least he seemed less unfriendly after that.