Death of the Mantis

by Michael Stanley

  The Endabeni Guest House was on the outskirts of Hukuntsi. Guests were welcomed by a concrete and plaster gemsbok mounted in a patch of sand. But it had no legs—perhaps they’d broken, or the sculptor had lost interest at that point—so it appeared to have been sucked in by quicksand.

  The rooms were small and the furniture rudimentary. After washing his hands and face, Kubu went to eat. The restaurant was clean and boasted half a dozen Formica tables with stainless steel legs. A reed mat decorated with a small Botswana flag hung between the doors marked Gents and Ladies, and a couple of wooden carvings were scattered around the room. A glance at the other tables reassured Kubu that the portions were generous. Kubu ordered a rump steak—rare—and, in the absence of wine on the menu, two cans of Coke Zero. Lerako ordered goat stew and a glass of water.

  “Tau has probably already been in touch with Windhoek,” Lerako said. “He says they’re pretty good. He’s dealt with them before.”

  Kubu grunted, looking hopefully toward the kitchen door.

  Lerako continued. “You have to admit now that letting the Bushmen go was a mistake.”

  “And you have to admit,” Kubu retorted, “that you didn’t have enough hard evidence to convict them! What was the motive? Everything was circumstantial. A murder weapon with no prints. No signs of a struggle. And what about the boot prints? Is it really likely that a group of nomadic Bushmen would carry a pair of heavy walking boots around the desert in case they wanted to commit a murder or two? Come on, Lerako.”

  He again turned to look at the kitchen door. If it takes much longer, I’m going to have to go in and get the food myself. “Look, Lerako, I would arrest them in a minute if I thought they’d done it.”

  Now it was Lerako’s turn to grunt.

  At that point Kubu’s cell phone rang. It was his friend Ian MacGregor, the pathologist, calling from Gaborone.

  “Kubu, good you’re back in one piece. I got your message about the murder down there. Sounds intriguing, but I’m glad you didn’t need me to come out. I love the peace and quiet of the Kalahari, but I prefer to paint my watercolors in winter, not February.”

  Kubu didn’t need to be reminded of the heat. “The body is probably in Gaborone already. They drove it there this morning. We think the man was hit from behind and collapsed forward—we took pictures, which we’ve sent you too—and the murder weapon was conveniently nearby. A big chunk of calcrete.”

  Kubu paused, waiting for Ian’s off-the-cuff reaction.

  “Calcrete. Wasn’t that what was used in the other case? The game ranger?”

  “So it seems.”

  “I suppose it’s easy to find in the Kalahari. All those ridges.”

  “When will you have a chance to look at the body?”

  “Not too busy at the moment. I’ll call you as soon as I’ve examined it.”

  “Thanks. I must warn you that the body was in the sun for two days. It stinks!”

  “I’m used to it. I’ve worked with worse than that. Anyway, I’ll soak my mask in Scotch before I start!”

  Kubu laughed and, after a few more pleasantries, hung up and turned his attention back to Lerako. Fortunately, at that moment, the waitress brought two large plates piled high with food, and the two men turned their attention to eating.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The next morning, after a good night’s sleep and a decent breakfast, Kubu felt much better. And the large coffee in his hand was palatable.

  “So where do we go from here?” he asked Lerako as he settled on one of the uncomfortable chairs in Tau’s office. “You’re in charge.”

  Lerako turned to Tau, who was sitting behind his desk, a little in awe of the other two, and still eager to please.

  “Have you heard anything from Windhoek yet?”

  “Yes, but not much.” Tau pulled out his notebook. “Krige lived in Windhoek. The police have an address for him. The vehicle he was driving was his own.”

  “Anything else?”

  “He’s not married. He’s divorced, but no children. The policeman I spoke to—a Detective Sergeant Helu—suggests we send someone to Windhoek and go through Krige’s place with them. They’re not sure what to look for.”

  Kubu interjected. “I can’t believe that it’s a coincidence he was found by Haake.”

  “What do you mean?” Tau asked, puzzled.

  Kubu helped him. “Doesn’t it seem a bit strange that one Namibian finds the body of another Namibian, far from anywhere, in the middle of Botswana?”

  “I suppose so. That’s why I should have asked Rra Haake to stay here until you arrived, right?”

  Kubu nodded. “What do you think the next steps should be?”

  “Umm. We should find Haake and question him?”

  “Right. And before that?” Kubu glanced at Lerako, who was showing signs of impatience, and motioned him to relax.

  Tau was quiet for several moments. “Maybe someone in Tshane or Hukuntsi saw Rra Krige before he headed to the desert?”

  “Good. And?”

  Another silence. Kubu was pleased that Lerako didn’t interrupt.

  “Maybe someone saw Rra Haake?”

  “Good. And?”

  Tau smiled. “And maybe someone saw them together!”

  “Well done. You see detective work is not very difficult. You just have to think logically. Now, let’s take it a step further. There are too many people in this area to ask everyone. So where would you start?”

  Tau scratched his head. “Well, if you’ve driven a long way, and you’re going south into the desert, you probably would spend the night. So I’d check all the accommodation and the campgrounds.”

  Kubu nodded.

  Tau started to feel more confident. “And everyone stops for gas at the filling station in Hukuntsi. So I’d go there too.”

  “He’s learning fast, isn’t he, Lerako?” Kubu asked and was pleasantly surprised to see Lerako nodding.

  “Okay,” Lerako said sitting up straight in his chair. “Let’s get organized. Tau, after this meeting, you go and see whether anyone has seen Krige or Haake. Report back to me this evening. I should be back in Tsabong by supper.

  “Kubu, could you follow up with Forensics about Krige’s GPS? Then let me know if there is anything of interest there.” Kubu nodded in agreement.

  “Then I think you should go to Windhoek. See if you can speak to Haake and work with the Namibian police. You’ve got more experience than me sifting through files and papers. Most of the cases in Kgalagadi are fairly straightforward. One man steals another’s cow. Or wife. Or girlfriend. Has too much to drink—if he can afford it these days—and revenge seems sweet. One ends up dead or in hospital.”

  Kubu was surprised that Lerako would hand over the case so easily. He was soon set straight.

  “While you’re in Windhoek enjoying fine German beer and sausages, I’m going to find those Bushmen.”

  Before he could retort, Kubu’s cell phone rang. It was Ian MacGregor.

  “Ian! Don’t tell me you’ve done the autopsy already! It’s only ten thirty.”

  “I was awake early so I thought I’d get it over with. Anyway, I’ve some interesting news for you. Krige wasn’t killed with the stone you found. The indentation in the skull wasn’t consistent with its shape. It was more like a crater. More consistent with a blow from a knobkierie. You know the ones I mean—hard wood with a long handle and a round knob at the end. If you hit someone hard enough, it can crush the skull. The person who did it must have rubbed the rock in the wound or perhaps even hit the skull with it after Krige was unconscious, but the blow wasn’t hard enough to change the shape of the fracture.”

  “Ian, think back to Monzo’s death. You were sure that he was hit with the rock then, weren’t you?”

  “Yes. I double-checked because I knew you’d ask. Monzo’s injury looks different. Doesn’t have the same shape. But it’s possible that the murderer knocked Monzo out and then bashed his head with the stone, changing the shape o
f the original wound. Anyway, it certainly looks like the murderer tried to make this killing look like the first. Who knew about Monzo’s wounds?”

  “The police, the park rangers, the Bushmen. We didn’t try to keep it a secret. A comment or two over a beer, and anyone could’ve known.” Kubu thought for a moment. “Was there any indication of a struggle?”

  “No. There were no scratches or contusions anywhere. Nothing under his fingernails. I think he was hit from behind while sitting or standing. More likely sitting, from the location of the wound. It was just off center at the top of the skull—to the right. That may indicate a right-handed person hit him. Same as with Monzo. I also don’t think he died immediately because there was a lot of blood around the wound and on his face. More likely he died shortly afterwards. But I suspect he never regained consciousness.”

  “If the assailant rubbed the rock in the wound, could he have left any fingerprints in the blood, or something we could get DNA from?”

  “Hmm. I didn’t see any fingerprints, but then I wasn’t really looking for them. And the only likely source of DNA would be a hair, and I didn’t see any that were different from Krige’s. No black curly ones, for example, if you’re thinking of the Bushmen.”

  “Time of death?”

  “Pretty hard to say with any accuracy. Probably the night before the body was discovered, but it could have been a bit earlier even.”

  Kubu could see that Lerako was getting impatient, so he thanked Ian and asked him to fax a copy of the report to the Tshane police station.

  “That was Dr. MacGregor, the pathologist.” Kubu brought Lerako and Tau up to date with what Ian had told him. “So it seems the rock was misdirection as I suspected all along. Krige was probably killed with something like a knobkierie.”

  “The sort of thing a Bushman would use,” Lerako said, nodding.

  Kubu lifted himself with some difficulty out of the uncomfortable chair.

  “Well, I’ll have to persuade the director that a trip to Windhoek is necessary. And he’ll have to send someone up here with my passport. And then I’ll have to placate my wife!”

  Tau was pleased to have such an important role. He enlarged the photocopies he had made of Haake’s passport. The pictures were grainy, but recognizable. And he made similar copies of Krige’s passport and driver’s license.

  His first stop was the only accommodation in the immediate area—the Endabeni Guest House, where Kubu and Lerako had been staying. The Guest House was very small, and Tau was confident that the manager would remember all the guests who had recently stayed in its six rooms. If he learned nothing there, he’d have to make a trip to Kang, on the Trans-Kalahari Highway, where there were several places travelers could stay.

  After the important introductory pleasantries, in which the two men shared information about mutual acquaintances, Tau showed the manager the photocopies.

  “Rra, have either of these men stayed here in the past few weeks?”

  The manager scrutinized the photos and pointed to the one of Haake.

  “Yes, he was here about five or six days ago. He’s stayed here several times before. I’ll get the details for you. But I’ve not seen the other man. Why do you want to know?”

  Tau gave an abbreviated account of what had happened, while the manager dug out the information.

  “Here it is! Wolfgang Haake from Namibia. Didn’t put any address other than that. And he didn’t put down his license plate number either. I’ll have to speak to the staff. Tell them to always make sure the forms are filled out properly.”

  “And you’re sure that you haven’t seen the other man?”

  The manager nodded. “I remember all my guests.”

  Next Tau went to the gas station in Hukuntsi. It was the only place to refuel between Kang and Tsabong. Everyone filled up there before going into the desert.

  As soon as he pulled in, an attendant with the slight build of a Bushman ran up, eager to be of service, eager for a tip. Tau recognized him.

  “Fill up? Diesel? Clean windscreen?”

  Tau shook his head. “Take a look at these, Willie. Have you seen either of these men?”

  The attendant glanced at the policeman, and then looked at the pictures carefully. “This one,” he said pointing to Haake, “is Rra Haake. He’s from Namibia.” He nodded to emphasize that. “The other one I haven’t seen.” He passed the pictures back to Tau.

  “When did you see Haake?” Tau was excited.

  Willie hesitated. “Maybe a week ago? He comes through here sometimes. That’s why I know him. I don’t know the other man.” He shook his head firmly.

  Tau thanked him and then asked each of the other attendants the same question. No one else recognized either Haake or Krige. Finally Tau went to the cashier inside. “Have you seen either of these men, Mma?” he asked. Again he was unsuccessful.

  Tau felt deflated. After his success at the guest house, he’d been optimistic that his job would be over quickly. But then he had another thought.

  “Mma,” he asked, “how many cashiers are there?”

  “Four or five,” she answered. “We are open every day for sixteen hours.”

  “Do you have a list of when they will be here?”

  She handed him a roster from behind the counter. “Do you have a copier?” he asked. She shook her head, so Tau copied the list into his notebook. He thanked her and left. He was going to have to come back several times over the next few days.

  He drove back to the police station to call Lerako, who was on his way back to Tsabong. Tau knew he’d have to wait several hours, but wait he would. He wanted Lerako to notice how well he was doing.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Kubu decided to split the trip to Windhoek over two days. He only received his passport at midday on Saturday, and he wasn’t keen to drive at night. Cattle and game often wandered onto the road and became transfixed by oncoming headlights, resulting in serious accidents and even deaths—of drivers as well as animals. So he would spend the night in Ghanzi and drive to Windhoek the next day.

  The sun was dropping through a purple haze as Kubu pulled into the Kalahari Arms Hotel in Ghanzi. He quickly checked in, asking for a chalet as far from the raucous swimming pool as possible. He dropped off his luggage in the room and returned for food and drink. He settled himself on the terrace under the cloudless sky and ordered a beer, instead of his normal chilled white wine. A beer seemed the remedy to wash the dust from his mouth; the wine would come afterward.

  An hour and a half later, Kubu felt better. The steak had been very tasty and cooked as he’d requested—rare, of course. The vegetables were not overcooked, and he was delighted to find that the merlot he’d ordered had been slightly chilled to ward off the desert heat. He was impressed.

  After ten minutes in a cool shower, Kubu went to bed and didn’t wake until sunlight pushed its way through the thin curtains.

  It was mid-afternoon by the time Kubu reached the Namibian police headquarters in Windhoek. When he arrived at the building, he was escorted to the office of Detective Sergeant Helu, one of the detectives in the Namibian Crime Investigation Department. Helu shook Kubu’s hand and welcomed him to Namibia.

  “Coffee, Assistant Superintendent?”

  “Please. Thank you for meeting me on a Sunday when you should be with your family.”

  For several minutes Kubu described in detail all he knew about the deaths of Monzo and Krige. Helu listened carefully, taking detailed notes, and let Kubu finish before asking questions.

  “Now, the man who found Krige’s body—Haake—is also from Namibia?”

  Kubu nodded.

  “And you don’t suspect him?”

  “Well, there’s nothing else linking the two of them at the moment. The only thing that worries me is the coincidence of one Namibian finding another Namibian dead in the middle of the Kalahari Desert. Coincidences always worry me.” Now it was Helu’s turn to nod. “Anyway, I want to talk to him while I’m in Namibia if I
can.”

  “I’ve already set it up. Your man Tau gave me his cell phone number. He’s coming in tomorrow morning at nine.”

  “I thought he lived in Luderitz?”

  “I asked him about that—he owns a house there and has rented part of it out ever since he moved to Windhoek three years ago. Never bothered to change his address.”

  “Thanks for arranging that. I don’t expect to learn much, but you can never tell.”

  “No problem.” Helu shrugged. “Your detective sergeant in, uh—what is the name of the town?”

  “Tsabong.”

  “So, it looks as though he may be right about the Bushmen?”

  Kubu shook his head. “My intuition tells me they aren’t involved. There’s almost no evidence they did it. But, I have to admit, there is no evidence at all that there was anyone else at the scene of Monzo’s murder. It’s a real puzzle.”

  The two men sat in silence for a few moments.

  “Thank you for your quick response to our query about Krige,” Kubu continued. “What else have you found out? I really need your help to dig into his affairs. Maybe something will pop out that will help us.”

  “We traced his mother. His father is dead apparently. Anyway, we called her and gave her the bad news. She was very upset, of course. I said we’d call her back after we got more information. She wants to know what’s happened to her son’s body. She wants to bury him here in Windhoek.”

  “I’ll contact the pathologist,” Kubu responded. “I’ll let you know when he’s likely to be finished with the body.”

  “We asked her about her son. All she said was that he had his own business. Wasn’t sure what it was. Anyway, his apartment isn’t far. Why don’t I drive you over there and we can take a look?”

  After picking up the keys from the caretaker, Helu opened the security gate and then the door to Krige’s apartment. “We have some petty crime in this area,” he commented.

  The apartment had two small bedrooms, one of which was used as an office. The dining room and lounge were in a single area, bounded on one side by a tiny kitchen and on the other by sliding glass doors opening onto a small balcony. Kubu looked at the contents of a glass-fronted cabinet—family photographs, pewter tankards, decorative saucers, a large tankard with the letters HB in blue, and some medals with ribbons. On one wall hung a faded print of a castle in a forest and two tatty photographs of gemsbok in the desert. Not an art lover, thought Kubu. And not married, given the very masculine flavor of the living area.