Deadly Harvest

by Michael Stanley

  “A high-­up man, that’s what’s clear to me.”

  Kubu didn’t reply. He’d spotted the house he was looking for and was happy to change the subject.

  “There’s the house we’re told the witch doctor uses. We’ll park around the corner and walk to it. I picked up the key from the owner earlier this morning. Zanele should be here soon. I suggested that she come alone, not with the whole team.” He paused. “Not that it makes much difference after Wednesday night.”

  He parked, and they walked the few hundred yards to the house. Next to the front door was a light with a naked bulb. Kubu looked at it carefully.

  “The bulb is okay,” he said. “Maybe that’s what he uses to signal his clients to come in.”

  When Kubu tried to unlock the door, the key didn’t work.

  “He’s changed the lock,” he said. “Damn!”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “Let’s take a look.” Kubu walked slowly around the small house, carefully avoiding a footprint in the sand near the back door. He pulled out a small camera and photographed it. There were also tire tracks nearby. Kubu photographed those, too. Then he tried the key in the back door, but it didn’t work. All the windows were shut and apparently covered with heavy blinds. It was impossible to see in.

  “I’m going to call the owner.” Kubu pulled out his notebook and flipped through it until he found what he wanted. Then he took his cell phone from his pocket and dialed a number.

  “Rra Mogwe? This is Assistant Superintendent Bengu again. I’m at the house, but I think the locks have been changed.” He paused to listen. “Are you sure? Thank you. I’ll let you know what I find.”

  He hung up and walked once again to the back door. “He says the back door has always had a suspect strike plate. He says a good kick will dislodge it and not damage the door any more than it is. Of course, if the witch doctor fixed it, we’ll be in trouble.”

  He positioned himself in front of the door, steadied himself by holding Samantha’s shoulder, and gave the door a solid kick next to the handle. The door crashed open. Kubu nodded to Samantha. “Let’s take a look.”

  When they realized that there was no power, and no light coming in the windows, Kubu walked back to the Land Rover and fetched a flashlight. After putting on their boot covers and gloves, they walked in, closing the back door behind them. Then they searched the house, avoiding touching anything. Other than two chairs and a small table, all they found were a few candles and a kerosene lamp.

  “Zanele isn’t going to find much here,” Samantha commented.

  “We’ll see,” Kubu responded. “She finds stuff that no one else can see. Let’s go and walk around the area and see what we can learn.”

  AN HOUR LATER, THEY met in the Welcome Bar No. 2, which was only a few blocks from the house. Both Samantha and Kubu ordered Coca-­Colas, two for him and one for her. They sat down at a corner table to compare notes.

  “I didn’t learn anything,” Samantha said. “No one said that they’d seen anything or anyone out of the ordinary. And nobody had ever seen anyone go in or out of the house. It’s really bizarre.”

  “Did you get any sense of whether they were afraid when you spoke to them?”

  “No, I didn’t. They all seemed to be relaxed.”

  “Only one of the ­people I spoke to had anything to report. He goes for a walk every day, past the house. He happened to notice fresh footprints at the front door about two weeks ago. But he says he’s never seen anyone go in or out. He also didn’t seem scared at all.”

  “The witch doctor is obviously a real person,” Samantha said, “but he certainly tries hard to be invisible. I’m beginning to understand why Mma Gondo said he was.”

  Kubu glanced around. There were two large rooms. The one they were in had a dozen or so tables and a bar counter with a ­couple of men leaning against it; the other was a game room. There were a few pinball machines, one of which was being used by a teenage boy, who kept shaking it and banging on its side. A ­couple of his friends looked on. There was a foosball table, which was not being used, and a small pool table on which a quiet game was in progress between two well-­dressed men, probably taking a break from work. And in the corner was a computer with a handwritten sign above—“InterNet cafee—­10 pula 4 15 mins.” What was a little odd was that whoever used the computer had their back to the wall so that the screen couldn’t be seen by passersby.

  “I’ll be right back,” Kubu said, standing up. He wandered into the game room and watched the pinball game for a few moments. Then he spun the handles of the foosball machine as though he were an expert player. Finally he walked over to the man using the computer. The man was so engrossed in what he was doing that he didn’t notice Kubu until he was right next to him. With a start, he closed the window he was watching, but not before Kubu saw a ­couple of naked women entwined on a bed.

  “Dumela, rra,” Kubu said with a smile.

  The man was flustered. “Yes. Dumela.”

  “Can you tell me a bit about this computer?”

  “Um, I just use it every now and again. To do e-­mail.”

  Kubu nodded. “So, it’s connected to the Internet?”

  The man nodded, still embarrassed.

  “Is it used a lot?”

  The man nodded. “Yes, it’s the only Internet café nearby.”

  “Anyway, sorry to disturb you. Please get back to your e-­mail.” Kubu gave the man a big smile and winked. He walked back to the table where Samantha was still sitting.

  “Shebeens have certainly changed since I used to go to them.” Kubu smiled. “And that was a long time ago and not very often. Then they were just rooms where you could buy beer and a few spirits. Now they look like entertainment centers.”

  “Should we talk to the owner?”

  “Of course, but after I’ve finished my drink.”

  IT TURNED OUT THAT the owner rarely visited the premises, but the establishment was run by a manager, who was behind the counter, chatting to customers. When Kubu and Samantha asked to talk to him privately, he took them into a back room that served as an office.

  “We have a very mixed crowd here. On the one hand, we have businessmen, and a few doctors and nurses because there’s a clinic nearby, and we also have construction workers and ­people who only work occasionally. They’re the ones who seem to spend most of what they earn on beer.”

  “Over the past month or two, have you noticed anyone unusual? Someone who seems nervous or keeps checking his watch as though expecting an appointment?”

  The man shook his head. “The most unusual thing around here is how many of the professional guys use the computer to access porn sites or Facebook. They must be chatting to someone they don’t want their wives to know about.” Kubu nodded knowingly.

  Kubu thought about what Gobey had said about leaving a message on a website. It would certainly be easy for the witch doctor in normal dress to check any website in complete privacy right here in the shebeen.

  “Do you have a pay phone anywhere?”

  The man shook his head. “No, but there’s one a block down the road on the corner.”

  Kubu turned to Samantha. “Samantha, please could you go and get the number of the phone and check that it’s working.” Samantha nodded and left.

  “And do you have a landline?”

  The man nodded.

  “Can I get its number, please? Do you ever let customers use it?”

  “Occasionally, but I charge them five pula for a local call.”

  “That’s a lot,” Kubu exclaimed.

  “I know, but I don’t want to encourage it.”

  The manager gave Kubu the shebeen’s number. Kubu wrote it down and handed the man his card.

  “Please call me if you hear or see anyone who you think is suspicious. Unfortunately that’s all I can
tell you.”

  “What’s this all about?” the man asked with a frown.

  “We’re trying to find a murderer.”

  “A murderer!” the manager gasped. “In here?”

  “No, no,” Kubu replied. “We don’t know if he’s ever been here, but he was seen a few weeks ago near here. So we’re just trying to see if something will turn up.”

  “What does he look like?”

  Kubu shook his head. “We don’t know that, either. All we know is that he’s probably in his forties and of medium height. Not much to go on, unfortunately.”

  “Well, that’s not much help, but I’ll keep my eyes open.”

  “Thank you, rra.” Kubu shook the man’s hand and walked out.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  KUBU HAD SET UP one of the meeting rooms for the coordination of the muti cases. Two walls had whiteboards displaying mind maps. Two outlined the hypothetical connections between Lesego and Tombi and their abductors; another dealt with Bill Marumo; and in the center was the witch doctor with tentative connections to the others.

  Half an hour after Kubu and Samantha returned to the CID headquarters, they met Mabaku in the meeting room.

  “I need to remind you of our promise, Kubu,” he said, nodding at Samantha.

  “There’s nothing that I’m going to say that will breach that promise, Director.” Mabaku scowled and sat down. Kubu went to the whiteboard and drew.

  “This morning we visited a shebeen only a ­couple of blocks from the house the witch doctor used. We learned a few very interesting things. The most important piece of information is that there’s a pay phone nearby—­on Eland Street. We cross-­checked its number with the list our informant gave us. The witch doctor phoned him once from it. Second, the shebeen doubles as an Internet café. I’m speculating, but it looks to me that the witch doctor could use the computer to pick up messages, and the pay phone for making calls. It’s plausible. Then, when an appointment was set up, he could visit the shebeen in ordinary clothes and walk around the neighborhood to check that his client hadn’t been followed. Only when satisfied it was safe, he would go to the house and change into his baboon outfit.”

  Mabaku took in this information. “Does the barman have any suspicions as to who it could be?” Mabaku asked.

  “No, but I’d like to have the IT ­people in Forensics take a look at the computer. I’m told there’s so much information on every computer that they can tell the color of the underwear users had on.”

  Samantha rolled her eyes.

  “I’d like to leave a computer in the shebeen while we look at the one there,” Kubu continued. “That’ll make the manager more likely to let us take a look without formalities. Also, if the witch doctor does return, which I think is unlikely, it won’t be so obvious we’re snooping around.”

  “What do you expect to find?” Mabaku asked.

  Samantha couldn’t contain her excitement. “We’ll be able to see if the website we were told about has been accessed and, if so, when,” she said. “We’ll also then be able to see what other websites and webmail sites were accessed around the same time. That may give us additional clues. I really think there’s a chance we’ll find something.”

  Mabaku sat quietly for a few moments. “Very well. Follow up on the computer, but don’t do anything without checking with me.” He stood up and headed for the door. He opened it, then turned. “Tomorrow is Marumo’s funeral, Kubu. You need to be there.” Then he was gone.

  “He’s given us the go-­ahead!” Samantha exclaimed.

  Kubu smiled weakly. He was pleased to have Mabaku’s support but concerned about what the witch doctor would do as they closed in on him.

  Then he groaned. The last thing he wanted was to spend an afternoon at the funeral of a politician he didn’t respect.

  THIRTY-SIX

  LOOKING AROUND THE CROWD packing the cemetery, Kubu wondered if every supporter of the Freedom Party had turned up. It was more like a political rally than a funeral. Whether they’d come to bid farewell to their old leader or to offer support to Jacob Pitso, the new one, he couldn’t say. The only reason he could see and hear what was going on at all was that a platform had been erected at the graveside and a portable public address system had been installed. The coffin, draped in a Botswana flag, rested at the front of the platform in silent witness to the dignitaries’ speeches.

  Marumo’s brother gave a dignified eulogy on Bill’s life, but the speech given by Pitso was, in Kubu’s opinion, more of a political diatribe than a tribute, and he found it in poor taste. Kubu suspected that Marumo’s brother felt the same way, because when Pitso called for all to cry out against the injustice of the government and its tardiness in bringing Bill’s murderer to justice, he remained unmoved in his seat with his arms folded. But the crowd erupted into angry cries and waved fists. Pitso waited for several moments with obvious satisfaction before he raised both arms to quiet the mourners so that he could continue.

  Kubu wondered why he’d bothered to come. It was thought important for the police to attend a victim’s funeral to show their concern to the family, but also to keep an eye open for unexpected mourners or peculiar behavior. However, Kubu had been unable to speak to Jubjub or any of Marumo’s relatives. Their sorrow was out of reach—­on display only from the platform.

  Several hours had passed, and afternoon was turning to evening. Kubu was exhausted. He was hot, his feet were killing him from standing all afternoon, and he was irritated by the crush of sweaty ­people around him. The last words had been spoken, and ­people were starting to drift away. Although he was tempted to join them, he decided he’d better try to have a few words with the family. As the crowd thinned, he made his way forward.

  Pitso and the relatives were still surrounded by well-­wishers and friends. Also, Kubu noticed, they were attended by a small contingent of uniformed police. Pitso complained about the undemocratic government and questioned its handling of the murder, Kubu mused, but at the same time expected its protection.

  Eventually Kubu was close enough to see Jubjub. She was sobbing on the shoulder of Dr. Pilane. Obviously the stress of the funeral, the heat, and the crowd had proved too much for her guarded composure. It was interesting that it was her neighbor to whom she’d turned. Perhaps her relationship with Bill’s family hadn’t been particularly close.

  Kubu stepped back, not wanting to intrude, and walked around the group to the grave itself and looked around. He realized he was being watched by the undertaker and, not wanting to appear rude, walked over and greeted the man.

  “Dumela, Rra Rampa, a very ornate affair today.”

  The man nodded. “Indeed, Assistant Superintendent Bengu. Very different from the last occasion when we met.”

  Both men smiled, each surprised that the other had remembered his name from their meeting at Nono’s sister’s funeral a month before.

  “Obviously you manage a wide variety of funerals.”

  “Indeed. As I told you then, I direct funerals of distinction. But not all ­people can afford them. Then I do what I can to provide an appropriate farewell on a limited budget—­sometimes on my own with volunteers from the deceased’s family.” Kubu was not altogether convinced about the altruism; these days, funerals seemed to be a growth industry in Botswana.

  At that moment Pitso called to the undertaker, who made his apologies and hurried away. Jubjub also seemed to be in a better state, and Kubu offered condolences.

  “Detective Bengu. Thank you. I read that you’ve caught Bill’s murderer. You said you would.”

  “We have a suspect in custody.”

  “But not much has been said about why he killed Bill. Rra Pitso isn’t convinced you’ve got to the bottom of this.”

  “Mma, we have good evidence, and we’re confident that the man in custody is guilty. But I can’t say more than that at the moment.”
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br />   “I see,” she said and abruptly turned away.

  There seemed little point in staying longer, but as Kubu turned to go, he saw Jacob Pitso moving purposefully toward him.

  “Detective? I understand from Mma Jubjub Oteng that you’re the person in charge of the Bill Marumo murder case.”

  “That is correct, Rra Pitso. I am Assistant Superintendent Bengu of the CID.” He offered his hand, but Pitso ignored it.

  “I demand that the police make a full disclosure of the case. Not here to me, but publicly to the ­people of Botswana. You saw for yourself this afternoon how angry the ­people are. It was only with great difficulty that I restrained them.”

  “I saw how hard you tried.”

  Pitso nodded, missing the irony. “I must warn you, Detective, we don’t buy the story of some madman taking it into his head to murder Bill. That’s simply not good enough.”

  “Rra Pitso, I’m not sure where you got that information. We’ve arrested a suspect. We haven’t established his motivation at the moment. We’re still building the case. Everything will be out in the open when he comes to trial.”

  “If he comes to trial. I’ve heard that he may be declared unfit to stand trial. How convenient for the government.”

  Kubu sighed. The man wasn’t as stupid as he appeared, and he had more information than had been given to the press. It seemed as though Mabaku’s fears might be realized.

  “I think it would be improper to speculate on the case, Rra Pitso. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

  “I’m warning you, Detective, we won’t wait too long.” Pitso turned on his heel and stalked away.

  Kubu sighed again. The whole afternoon had been wasted, and now he was also late for supper. He’d achieved nothing except upsetting Jubjub and being upset by Pitso.

  He took a last look at the remaining group. Pitso was talking animatedly to Jubjub and Marumo’s family—­no doubt telling them of the police’s incompetence or worse. Workmen were dismantling the platform, taking down the loudspeakers, and packing up. And off to one side, Dr. Pilane was talking to the undertaker.