Death of the Mantis

by Michael Stanley

  Kubu looked through the wallet. Driving license, passport, some Namibian dollars and Botswana pula—several hundred of each—and a page of notes giving what looked like GPS coordinates against each of which was a short description of terrain, presumably at that location. What made them special? Why had Krige stopped at each and described it? Presumably the last referred to where they were now.

  “We should check the GPS,” Kubu said to the forensics man. “With luck it will tell us exactly where he’s been on this trip. Better search the bakkie again in the morning; it’s getting too dark now.” He flipped through the passport. Krige had crossed the border at Mamuno three days before.

  “When did Haake cross from Namibia?” he asked Tau.

  “Four days ago.”

  Kubu passed the wallet to Lerako, who made a show of going through it much more thoroughly, studying every page of the passport.

  “Anything else?” Kubu asked the forensics people.

  “We’ve identified the tracks from Krige’s vehicle and where Haake drove out and came back. And the police vehicles, of course. But no other set of vehicle tracks. Of course they could be anywhere out there if the murderer stopped some distance away.”

  “What about footprints?”

  “Well, there are some from the shoes that Krige was wearing—quite distinctive. There are also some others that must be from this Haake person. There are plenty around where he parked his vehicle, but there are a few behind the tent that look similar. Smooth sole, about size ten. Most have been smudged over. Deliberately I’d say.”

  Immediately Kubu was excited. “Let’s take a look.”

  The man from Forensics led them carefully into the scene and pointed out several boot prints. As he had said, most were scuffed but one or two were quite clear. Kubu whistled.

  “What do you think, Lerako?”

  Lerako looked down without expression. “They’re similar to the ones we think are Haake’s. They’re also similar to the ones near where Monzo was killed. More misdirection, I’m sure. It’s those Bushmen all right!”

  Kubu sighed. Turning back to the forensics man, he said, “Can you see where these prints go?”

  The man shook his head. “These are the only ones we found away from the vehicle. The rest must’ve been smudged out.”

  Kubu nodded and stood staring down at the prints.

  At last the forensics man interrupted his thoughts. “What do we do with the body?”

  Kubu turned to Lerako. “We can’t leave the body in the sun for another day, and it won’t be fun guarding it from predators all night. I think they should bag it, and get it down to Gaborone tomorrow. Then we can see what our pathologist can discover in his laboratory.” Lerako nodded, and the forensics team headed off to take care of that unpleasant business.

  Kubu turned back to Tau, trying to integrate the clues. “There’s no direct evidence of a third person here. Tau, what did your people make of the bullet and the bullet holes?”

  Tau shrugged. They didn’t have anyone at Tshane trained in forensics. He thought about the size of the hole in the vehicle, and held his thumb and forefinger close together to indicate the size. “Maybe a thirty-eight or a nine millimeter.”

  “Apart from looking for the bullets, did you search Haake’s vehicle carefully?”

  “We went through it,” Tau replied uncomfortably.

  Kubu grunted. “Let’s eat. I’m ravenous. We skipped lunch.” This wasn’t quite true since Lerako had supplied sandwiches, but Kubu regarded those as a snack at best. Nevertheless, as the others headed toward the campfire, Kubu hung back and called Tau over to him so that they could talk privately as they walked.

  “Our friend Detective Sergeant Lerako believes that the most likely culprit is the person you find at the scene of the crime, Detective Tau. Did that occur to you?”

  Tau looked at Kubu, a little puzzled. “You mean Haake? But he was shot at. There’s no doubt that was a bullet hole in his vehicle . . .”

  “He could have done that himself. He murders Krige, then shoots at his own vehicle, and pretends that there was some third party involved. We haven’t found any traces of anyone else.”

  “But Haake told me he was unarmed, and we didn’t find a gun in his vehicle.”

  Kubu shook his head in frustration. “Don’t you think he could’ve got rid of it before talking to you? And what about the license plate?”

  “I wrote it down,” Tau stammered. “It was also from Namibia.”

  “Didn’t that seem strange to you? He’s from the same place as Haake?”

  Tau bit his lip, waiting, but Kubu said no more. At last he said it himself. “I should’ve kept him in Botswana, Rra. At least until you and Detective Sergeant Lerako arrived.”

  “I’m not saying he is the murderer, just that he’s a possible suspect. So, yes, you should have kept him in Botswana. Tomorrow we’ll scour the scene again for bullets, more evidence, whatever. But we’re going to need a much more detailed interview with Rra Haake as soon as we can arrange it.”

  Then they caught up with the others, queuing for plates of pappa le nama.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “What do you want?” The clerk was surly. It was nearly closing time, and he wanted to cash up. It was drinking time in Windhoek. But the stocky man with the single gold earring, the only remaining customer in the vehicle registration office, took his time.

  “I am selling my bakkie,” Wolfgang Haake told him. “But I have lost the registration papers. I need another copy.”

  “You will need the proper form completed and signed, a receipt for payment, and have your identification. It’s late now. You’d better do it tomorrow.”

  “I have all that.” The man was carrying no papers, but he took out his wallet. He laid a one hundred Namibian dollar note on the counter. “As you see, here is the completed form.” He matched it with another note. “Here I have the receipt you require.” A third hundred joined the others. “And my ID, of course.”

  The clerk glanced around, but no one else was in sight. “It seems to be in order,” he said, quickly gathering the money. “What is the bakkie’s registration number?”

  Haake gave him a scrap of paper with a string of letters and digits written on it. The clerk nodded and searched for that number. After a few moments the printer started to hum. The clerk glanced at the truck owner’s name on the printout and handed it over.

  “Here you are, Mr. Krige.”

  Haake checked it, nodded, and left.

  Haake took a bottle of whisky. It was Ilse’s favorite, and he didn’t mind it himself. People thought that because of his German upbringing he’d like schnapps, but actually he couldn’t stand its motor-spirit harshness. He preferred something that slid comfortably down his throat. Something like a good whisky.

  He let himself into the apartment. He had his own key. Ilse wouldn’t be expecting him, but he didn’t care. And if she was otherwise engaged, Haake wanted to know about it.

  She was sitting on a threadbare sofa watching television in her nightdress. She still had a good figure, firm breasts, and adventurous hips. She watched her weight and walked everywhere for exercise. The door opening startled her, and she jumped to her feet.

  “Oh, Wolfie, you scared me,” she said in German. “I didn’t expect you till next week. You said . . .”

  “Yes, I know. But I came back early. Aren’t you glad to see me?”

  “Of course I am,” she said, and kissed him. She felt the bottle through its paper bag and smiled. “Did you bring me a present? I have cold water and ice.”

  Quickly she cleared away the remains of a cheap take-out supper and turned off the television. Haake liked the way Ilse’s attention focused on him when he was around. He got good value for the rent he paid. And when they weren’t together, they did whatever they liked. It was an arrangement that suited them both.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked. “I have some wurst and some cheese and bread. Or I can cook something.”


  “The bread and stuff will be fine. I’ll pour the Scotch.”

  He made her a tall drink with ice and water and poured himself a whisky on the rocks. She busied herself cutting bread, slicing the sausage and cheese. Moving up behind her, he pressed his body against her back and held her with his hands on her breasts, squeezing gently. She wriggled against him, dropped the knife and turned to kiss him.

  “Shall we eat later, Wolfie? Afterwards?”

  He laughed, liking her eagerness and the feel of her body rubbing against the hardness in his shorts. “No, I’m hungry, and we need to relax and have our drinks.” She laughed too, and kissed him again hard, exploring his mouth and tongue. She pushed her breasts against his chest. Satisfied that he was completely aroused, she let him go and picked up her glass. “Right, eat and drink first,” she said. She grinned and moved away from him.

  Haake watched her appreciatively. She would tease him now, but when they made love she would be very accommodating.

  Ilse flopped on the sofa with her whisky. “Bring the snacks over, Wolfie.”

  He brought his whisky and the plate to the sofa. Then he told her the news that he’d been keeping to himself ever since the trip to Botswana.

  “I’m close, Ilse. I know I’m close. But I ran into some trouble. Had to get out of there in a hurry.”

  “What trouble?” she asked, nervous.

  Wolfgang hesitated. “Someone has been following me. When I was in the bush, and I stopped to explore, on two occasions I heard another vehicle. It must have been following me. I was in the middle of nowhere. No one else would be out there. I think they know what I’m after, and they know I’m close. I’ll be damned if I let them get one cent. I had the guts to stick with this, and no one’s going to take it away from me.”

  “But who was it?”

  “I know who was following me now. And I’ve got a pretty damn good idea who’s behind it, and I’ll find out for sure. But don’t worry. It’s sorted out.”

  “What happened?”

  Wolfgang gave her a hard look. “I said it’s sorted out. I don’t think I’ll have any more trouble. But I’ll be ready for them if they try anything.”

  Ilse sipped her drink. Wolfgang had a short fuse and a nasty temper on occasion. She knew when he didn’t want to be pushed. She said nothing, but he quickly regained momentum.

  “Anyway, it’s all looking good. I know I’m close. Damn close.”

  Ilse tried to look enthusiastic. She’d heard it all before, from this man and from others. The huge schools of fish to be caught at Walvis Bay, the massive uranium deposits hiding under the Namib Desert, the diamonds lying almost exposed on the beaches. The pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Why couldn’t they just be happy with what they had?

  “You don’t believe me. But now I’ve put it all together. Those idiots at the company couldn’t see the forest for the trees.” He laughed. “Hell, they couldn’t even see the trees.” He looked pleased and helped himself to another chunk of sausage. “And the samples I took! I tell you, it’s there. I can almost touch it.”

  Ilse smiled. He’s such a boy, she thought. They’re all the same. Boys chasing their dreams. And if he does find his dream? Then what will become of me?

  “I’m glad, Wolfie,” she said, meaning it. He smiled back and offered her a slice of bread he’d lathered with butter and heaped with cheese. She shook her head and sipped her drink. She’d eaten enough. Her body was her pot of gold. She had to be careful as time went by. She’d put away some of the money he gave her too. Just in case. But Ilse was happy. Happiness comes from things being the same, she thought. Not from hoping things will get better, but from knowing that they won’t get worse.

  When she finished her drink she sat on his lap, licking whisky from his lips and moustache.

  “Do you have to leave early?” she asked. Haake shook his head. She pulled her nightdress over her shoulders, tossed it to the floor. Then she unbuttoned his shirt and ran her hands over his chest, playing with the medal that always hung around his neck. He said it was a present from his paternal grandfather, who had earned it in the Great War, but she knew he’d never met the grandfather. So it must have been given to him by his father, but she’d never asked. No one dared ask him about his father, who had deserted his squat, thickening wife and his son and disappeared with a black woman.

  “I’m glad you can stay,” she said. Then she loosened his belt and started playing in his shorts with clever fingers.

  Ilse woke at about 2:00 a.m. Haake was having a bad dream, talking aloud. He muttered something about a map, then about being followed, and a theft, something about death. Suddenly he sat up. “You can’t have it,” he said clearly. “It belongs to me!”

  “Wolfie, wake up. It’s just a dream. A bad dream. Everything’s all right. Nothing has been stolen.”

  Haake looked at her, but didn’t seem to register her presence. After a moment, he dropped back on the bed and rolled over. A few minutes later he started to snore.

  Ilse tried to get back to sleep too, but she was shaken by the strange event. Nothing like this had happened before with Wolfgang. Something was wrong. She tried to piece together what he’d said. Something about being followed. A map. Death. Someone trying to steal a map? He had never mentioned a map to her.

  It doesn’t concern you, Ilse, she told herself.

  Eventually she abandoned her attempts to get back to sleep. She got up quietly, went to the living area, pulled on her nightdress, and put the kettle on the electric hot plate. Perhaps a cup of tea would help. While the water heated, she cleared up and picked up the rest of the discarded clothes from the floor. She felt the comforting bulk of Haake’s wallet in the back pocket of his shorts. Almost without thinking, she took it out and opened it. Namibian and Botswana banknotes and change. She explored the side pockets. A picture of her! It was cut from a picture someone had taken of them together at a party. A credit card. A picture of his mother. And a folded piece of paper. It looked old, well used. She unfolded it to reveal a map, hand drawn in pencil, with a sketch of what appeared to be three koppies. Small circles dotted the faces of the hills, and one, near the bottom, had an arrow pointing to it with the letter W written next to it. Nearby there was what appeared to be a crack in the koppie face. It had an arrow with an E. On the back of the paper was another sketch, with regions filled in with different shadings and different patterns. Written in heavy letters at the bottom was “Ich habe es hier gefunden! HS.” Who was HS and what had he found?

  “What are you doing?”

  Ilse swung round to see Haake standing naked in the bedroom doorway watching her, frowning, fists clenched. She could see he was furious, and she was very scared.

  “You were talking in your sleep about a map. That someone was stealing it! I came to check that it was all right.” Her voice was unsteady. “I didn’t touch the money.”

  Frowning, Haake walked up to her and took the map. “This is priceless. Do you understand? No one is to know I have it. Do you understand? Tell no one about it.”

  “Yes, of course, Wolfie. I won’t tell anyone. Ever. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.” She took his hand and held it to her breast, moving it so that he could feel the nipple through the silky fabric. He was still frowning, but seemed less angry. She rubbed against his crotch with her hip.

  “Look,” she said pointing. “He wants to play again. Me too. Come, let’s go back to bed.”

  Haake folded the map and returned it to his wallet, which he took with him. He placed his free hand on Ilse’s buttocks and steered her back to the bedroom. Minutes later she rushed out naked, laughing at Haake’s amused protests, to still the whistling kettle.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I may never have to go on another diet if this keeps up, Kubu thought as Lerako stopped the Land Rover in front of the Tshane police station just after 4:00 p.m. Pap and an appalling watery stew for dinner last night, if one could call it dinner. And nothing to wash it down exce
pt warm water or instant coffee with powdered milk. Even a bad red wine would have been better. And if dinner was awful, yesterday’s stale sandwiches for breakfast this morning were even worse. Even the diabolical instant coffee tasted good in comparison. And the final disappointment was that no one had brought anything for lunch.

  “Lerako, I need some decent food! Lots of it and quickly!”

  “Can’t take roughing it in the bush?” Lerako grinned. “You wouldn’t last long out here. I suppose that’s why you have a cushy job in Gaborone. Big desk, paved roads, and lots of restaurants.”

  “You’re right. This would be hell on earth for me. So where’s the nearest restaurant?”

  “It’s where we’re going to stay—the guest house in Hukuntsi. It’s about ten miles away. Nowhere else worth eating at around here. I’ll take you there. We can clean up and then eat. Can’t have you telling the director that the detectives in the Kgalagadi district are inhospitable.”

  The morning had been fruitless. They had spent much of it scouring the area as far as several hundred yards from where Krige’s body had been found. But nothing turned up. The killer had left no trace, not even footprints.

  Kubu and Lerako could conceive of only two possible scenarios for this to happen. First, the killer could have covered his tracks so well that they didn’t find them. Lerako favored this alternative, arguing that only Bushmen had the skills to deal with the desert and disappear without a trace. The second possibility was that Haake himself was the killer, but this seemed unlikely since he had reported the murder and now the police knew who he was. Why hadn’t he simply disappeared back to Namibia?

  Throughout the morning, Tau had worked hard, trying to regain favor. Now back at his office, he contacted the Namibian police in Windhoek, reporting Krige’s death, giving them all the personal information he had. He asked them to locate Haake because Kubu wanted to question him. Tau then turned his attention to preparing a detailed report of the murder and crime scene.