Deadly Harvest

by Michael Stanley

  The worst of them was the briefcase. Rampa claimed the witch doctor had given it to him, claimed it contained something important. He’d refused to say what, and Samantha had contemptuously dismissed his story as another of his web of lies.

  But how had he obtained the briefcase?

  Kubu rolled over, wishing he could put it out of his mind and fall sleep. Instead, he tried to track the briefcase from Marumo to Rampa. Marumo’s assistant had seen him leave with it, and he’d had no time to take it anywhere on his way home. So it was with him when he was murdered. Although Rampa had no alibi for that night, all the forensic and circumstantial evidence pointed to Witness Maleng, none to the undertaker.

  So who could have taken the briefcase? Jubjub? There was a thought. Perhaps she, not Marumo, was in league with the witch doctor? Perhaps the muti was for her, to help snare the politician. Maybe the dog’s head was also involved somehow. Yet she didn’t strike Kubu as smart enough to set up that misdirection. He shook his head and pulled up the blankets to better cover his substantial girth. Joy grunted and snuggled closer to him.

  Of course, there was the sergeant in charge of the crime scene. But Kubu knew him. He was old-­school and as straight as they come. Even if that were not the case, why would he take the briefcase? No one had suggested anything in it was valuable.

  The only other person at the scene was the neighbor, Dr. Pilane. What possible use could he have for Marumo’s political papers?

  Kubu’s musings were disturbed by a scratching noise in the ceiling. Could it be the wind? It sounded more like a creature—­maybe a rat or a mongoose. He sighed. That would be bad news. He didn’t like poison and traps with Ilia and the girls around. He lay still and concentrated, but the noise didn’t come again.

  None of it made sense. Maleng must have taken the briefcase, and somehow the witch doctor—­Rampa or whoever it was—­got it from him. Had Maleng made another visit to Mma Gondo? A visit that she hadn’t mentioned? Another loose end.

  He rolled over again and wondered if there was any more of Joy’s excellent melktert that they’d had for dessert. Perhaps a mouthful or two would settle him down. He climbed out of bed, careful not to disturb Joy, and decided to check on the girls on his way to the kitchen.

  Tumi and Nono were fast asleep in their room, breathing softly; two little angels. Kubu stood and watched them, smiling. Then they triggered a thought and his face fell. The two children murdered for muti had known their abductor. Why would they know the undertaker? Were funerals that common? He shook his head. He felt that somewhere during the case Nono had given him a clue. Was it that Nono knew Rampa because of Seloi’s funeral? He shook his head. It was something else . . .

  Suddenly he heard the scrabbling sound in the ceiling again. Almost certainly a rat. Maybe a nest of rats. He sighed. There was nothing he could do about it tonight.

  He found one piece of melktert left and polished it off. I’m missing something, he thought. With the rats and the girls and the melktert, I’m missing something. I must put it aside and let my subconscious work on it.

  After that he went back to bed and was soon asleep.

  THE NEXT MORNING HE woke with no new insights. After the disturbed night, he was grateful that it was Sunday, so he didn’t need to rush. It took him a while to get going, but a shower woke him up. At breakfast he told Joy about the noises in the ceiling and promised to look into it, adding that it was probably the tasteless unsweetened muesli she was making him eat that attracted the vermin. Joy replied that he should stop talking nonsense and finish his coffee or else they’d be late for their visit to his parents.

  Nevertheless, they were there in good time and, as usual, the girls were the center of attention and spoiled by everyone. It was a relaxed day, and Kubu found that he was beginning to accept his father’s inevitable decline, and that he could still enjoy his company. He was glad of the pleasure Wilmon clearly took in both girls, and no longer corrected him when he referred to Nono as “your daughter.”

  And he managed to keep the mystery of the muti murders in the back of his mind.

  FIFTY-SIX

  JOSHUA GOBEY SAT IN the study of his elegant home in Phakalane and sweated. The air-­conditioning isn’t set low enough, he thought. But he knew that wasn’t the real problem. The real problem was the witch doctor sitting in jail being grilled by Mabaku and his men. How long would it take before he broke? If he couldn’t save himself with his powers, he wasn’t going to save Joshua.

  He’d practiced his response to the inevitable questions. He’d deny everything. He’d claim that the CID was trying to discredit him in order to smooth its director’s path to the deputy commissionership. He’d be scandalized by the suggestions of his involvement and go straight to the commissioner with his grievances.

  After all, nothing linked him to Owido or to the witch doctor. He’d been so careful about that. But he worried about what surprises Forensics might have in store. In fact, he was sure Mabaku would find incriminating evidence whether it was there or not. It was certainly what he would do if their roles were reversed. He cursed under his breath and wiped at the dampness on his brow.

  So when his cell phone rang, and he didn’t recognize the number, he was curt.

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “Joshua, it’s me. Listen very carefully.”

  Joshua felt the blood drain from his face as he recognized the witch doctor’s voice.

  “Where are you? Why’re you calling me? Did they let you go?” His voice was a croak. Suppose the man was calling from the CID, and the call was being recorded? His hand shook so badly that he nearly dropped the phone.

  The response was laughter, the witch doctor’s unpleasant laugh that was all sarcasm and no humor.

  “Let me go? Do you think I would allow the police to catch me? Do you think my powers are worth nothing?”

  “But I read . . .”

  “You read about a man who’s my servant. He does what I say. He knows nothing about me—­as little as you do. He disposed of bodies when I’d finished with them, that’s all.”

  Joshua felt a wave of relief mixed with something else. Elation? Yes. His faith in the witch doctor’s promises and powers was restored.

  “That’s fantastic!”

  “Joshua, you seem to forget. I’m invisible unless I choose to take human form.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course.”

  “Now we want the police to tie up this case and move on to something else. So that we can get back to what’s important.”

  “What if they discover that this undertaker—­what’s his name—­isn’t you?”

  “Then we could have a problem. I don’t want any more interference, any more delay. You must make sure that doesn’t happen.”

  “Me? What can I do? That isn’t my department! The CID is under a man called Mabaku.” Joshua paused and closed the door in case his wife walked past. “Can’t you get rid of him? That would solve all our problems.”

  “I’m not going to do everything by myself. You’re senior in the police and have the ear of the commissioner. Make sure Rampa is charged with the killings.”

  “How can I do that? I know nothing about it.”

  “Here’s something that should help you. The police either know already or soon will: Rampa has Marumo’s briefcase. The one that disappeared the night he was murdered. So he’s implicated there, too.”

  “Marumo? The politician?”

  The witch doctor sighed. “Remember you’re headed for the top, Joshua, just as long as you do precisely what I tell you.” The line went dead.

  Joshua leaned back in his chair and swallowed. For the first time he consciously realized what he’d done. He’d put himself in the witch doctor’s power. A deal with the Devil, he thought. I made a deal with the Devil. Those stories always end badly. The Devil always wins. He felt the dampness on his forehe
ad again. This time it was cold.

  Part Seven

  POISONED CHALICE

  “Commends th’ ingredience of our poison’d chalice

  To our own lips.”

  MACBETH, ACT 1, SCENE 7

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  ON MONDAY MORNING JACOB Mabaku was at the CID early, as was his habit. He liked to be on top of his work, not let it pile up on him. He checked e-­mail, but not much had come in over the weekend, so he sat back in his chair and gazed out at Kgale Hill.

  I’ll miss it, he thought. The view of the hill; working with Kubu, despite all his foibles; the satisfaction of solving a hard case and bringing the felons to justice. And in many ways I have more freedom here than I’ll have in the administration and management role of deputy commissioner. He sighed. But I’m not getting any younger, and I’ve been in this position for ten years. It’s time to move ahead if I can.

  There was a knock on the door, and Miriam came in.

  “Director, Mma Maria Gobey is here. She says it’s a personal matter, and can you spare her a few minutes.” Miriam looked uncertain. She liked the director’s office to run like clockwork, and Mma Gobey’s visit was unexpected.

  “Of course,” Mabaku said, rising. He went into the outer office to welcome Mma Gobey personally. He persuaded her to have tea and asked for coffee for himself. While they waited for the refreshments, he asked her about her family and how they were all coping with the loss of her husband. She was polite, but not very forthcoming. Her mind was obviously elsewhere.

  At last the refreshments had been served, and the office door was closed.

  “Director Mabaku, I’m sorry to take your time. But a certain matter has been weighing on my mind. I keep asking myself what Tebogo would’ve wanted me to do. I relied on him so much. I never had to make a decision on my own in all the time we were together. But that’s past now.”

  Mabaku nodded but said nothing, allowing her to take the time she needed to get to the point.

  “Your assistant superintendent said that Tebogo would have wanted me to do what I can to help you. I’ve thought about it, and I believe that’s true. So I want to tell you what Tebogo said to me; then perhaps I can forget about it.”

  Still Mabaku waited. He had a feeling that what she wanted to tell him was important, but that she might change her mind if pushed. In the end, she blurted it out.

  “It’s Joshua. My nephew. Tebogo found evidence that he’s corrupt. And somehow he knew that Joshua was seeing a witch doctor. One of the really bad ones, he said. I think it may well be this man Rampa you have in custody.”

  “Did he tell you anything else? How he knew about your nephew seeing a witch doctor? Why he thought he was corrupt?”

  “Not about the witch doctor, no. But Tebogo said Joshua had bought expensive things—­the house and the car—­and paid cash for them. Cash he shouldn’t have had.”

  She told Mabaku what details she could remember, but there was little more to add. Finally she said, “I think you’re an honest man, Director Mabaku. Tebogo wanted an honest man to succeed him.”

  When she’d left with his thanks, Mabaku returned to the contemplation of Kgale Hill. Mma Gobey had offered him a powerful weapon against her nephew. Any evidence of impropriety would sink Joshua’s chances of the deputy commissioner job. But it would be a challenge to find that evidence: Joshua certainly wasn’t stupid. As for the witch doctor, Mabaku didn’t want to pursue that aspect at all. He wanted to avoid anything that would link the witch doctor to Tebogo Gobey. And, anyway, Rampa was safely in his cell.

  THE JOSHUA GOBEY WHO walked into the commissioner’s office on Monday morning was a different man from the one who’d sweated through Sunday. He’d pulled himself together, realizing that his interests and those of the witch doctor were irrevocably aligned. His confidence restored, he felt able to deal with whatever was thrown at him. He shook the commissioner’s hand firmly and accepted his offer of coffee.

  The commissioner asked about his aunt, and Joshua assured him that she was doing well under the circumstances. He had no idea if that was true, but he sounded convincing. When the coffee came, they turned to business.

  “Commissioner, I’m the last person to criticize how things are done in another man’s department. You know that I like to delegate authority, give ­people room to develop.” He paused and was pleased to receive an encouraging nod.

  “I just think the Rampa case should move a little faster. There’s a lot of anger out there.”

  “I think Mabaku and his ­people have done a pretty impressive job,” the commissioner retorted, “grabbing that undertaker and spotting the swapped bodies.”

  “Absolutely. But now we must get it tied up. Rampa has been murdering little girls and using their body parts for muti! ­People out there are very angry and suspicious. There must be no hint of a cover-­up. You remember the Mogomotsi case.”

  The commissioner nodded. Many senior ­people had been embarrassed over that one.

  “A quick indictment, no suggestion of uncertainty. That’s what we need.” Joshua paused. “Perhaps a little pressure could be applied to get a confession.”

  The commissioner frowned. “What do you mean by pressure?”

  “I was thinking of offering a deal if he confesses—­maybe an insanity plea. Otherwise we let him go.”

  “Let him go?” The commissioner’s jaw dropped.

  “He wouldn’t last five minutes on the street. He knows that. I think he’s very grateful to be in custody at the moment.” Joshua paused again, as the commissioner nodded slowly.

  Joshua changed tack. “You know about the briefcase, of course?”

  “Certainly. How do you know about it?”

  “From a friend in Forensics. Anyway, it seems Rampa was involved in Marumo’s murder, too. I’d charge him with that as well—­that he and Maleng did it together. It probably won’t stick in court, but so what? By that time the focus will be on the murdered kids. Maleng can hang on his own for Marumo.”

  In spite of himself, the commissioner was impressed. While he was a solid policeman first and foremost, he appreciated the political skills needed to handle tricky cases like this one. Perhaps he’d been a bit premature in leaning toward Mabaku for his deputy. Mabaku understood politics but would always follow the book. He’d see how Mabaku reacted to this less conventional approach.

  “You certainly have some good points, Joshua. I’ll have a word with Mabaku and the prosecutor.” He nodded, thoughtful.

  Then they turned to other matters until the commissioner had to move on to his next meeting.

  KUBU POURED HIMSELF A cup of tea and then settled down in his office. He wanted to review all the evidence in the cases from scratch, but, instead, he stared out of the window and thought.

  A memory of Nono. His subconscious was trying to tell him something, but the message was getting lost in translation. Perhaps he should drop it, he thought, frustrated. In any case he was the only person in the CID who wasn’t convinced that Rampa was the killer.

  Suddenly a memory popped into his mind. For a moment it seemed to make sense, but then he shook his head. The idea was completely ridiculous. But he couldn’t push it back to the oblivion from which it had emerged. It niggled at him, offering some answers but raising new questions.

  He picked up the phone and asked Samantha to bring all the case materials for the muti murder investigations and join him in the meeting room.

  She arrived with her arms full of files, and he helped her set them down on the table. After a distracted greeting, Kubu started sorting through the files, but he couldn’t find the one he wanted.

  “The rental cars,” Kubu said. “Did you check the rental cars again?”

  Samantha shook her head. “Rampa has a white Toyota, so that would fit the Tombi abduction. He was running a funeral at the time Lesego disappeared,
so couldn’t have been in Mochudi. Probably Molefe kidnapped her.” She paused. “I was just going to come to tell you about him when you phoned. I brought him in yesterday and told him that now both Rampa and Demene had implicated him. He eventually confessed to abducting Owido, but insisted he knew nothing about the reason. He thought it was a bad joke.”

  “Good work. That’s three confessions. But none to the murders.”

  Samantha was a bit disappointed with his reaction; Kubu was clearly distracted. She could only guess at what was bothering him.

  “Can you get the Marumo stuff? I want to—­” Kubu was interrupted by his cell phone. He glanced at the caller ID, frowned, and answered it. After listening for a few moments, he said, “I’ll be right there.” He disconnected, then turned to Samantha.

  “Rampa’s been screaming in his cell. They went to look, and his body’s covered with wheals as though he’s been lashed. We’d better go and check what’s going on.”

  WHEN KUBU AND SAMANTHA arrived, a doctor was examining Rampa.

  “What happened?” Kubu asked. “Did someone attack him?”

  The doctor shook his head. “It looks more like a rash. I’ve treated it with a cortisone cream and something to soothe the pain. I think he’ll be okay.”

  “Any idea what caused it?”

  “He won’t talk to me, but it could be an allergic reaction to something he ate.”

  Kubu turned his attention to the undertaker. He was lying on his bed at the angle that caused the least of his body to be in contact with the mattress. Angry red streaks, slightly raised, crisscrossed his body. He was moaning softly.

  “Rra Rampa, do you want to tell me what happened? Did someone do this to you?”

  Rampa looked up and nodded. “I told you. His spells and curses aren’t stopped by walls. He knows I helped you. I’m finished now. I’m finished.”

  “Rra Rampa, this is all in your head! He can’t do anything to you here. You’re doing this to yourself.”