Detective Kubu 03; The Death of the Mantis

by Michael Stanley

  She was large and busty and had a basket of provisions balanced on her head. She was watching him with disapproval, and she didn’t look friendly.

  “What are you doing there, hey? You people are always sneaking around here. What do you want?”

  Khumanego sighed with relief. She didn’t recognise him. Perhaps she was the woman who lived nearby, who always gave Willie trouble. Willie was scared of her.

  “I was looking for Willie. You know him? The Bushman? He lives here.”

  “And who are you?”

  “My name’s Piscoaghu.” It would’ve been better to tell her something else, Khumanego realised, but he wouldn’t back down in front of this overbearing woman.

  “Willie’s not here. The police took him away,” she told him with satisfaction.

  “The police? Why? Where did they take him?”

  “He’s in Tsabong. Good riddance. He was involved with killing that policeman in the desert.” She stared at him. “Perhaps you were involved too. Your face looks familiar.”

  Khumanego knew it was time to move on, but he was intrigued. He wanted to hear the details of how his work had played out. “What happened to the policemen in the desert?” he asked.

  “It was Detective Tau from right here! From the Tshane police station. He was a good man. I knew him myself. A Bushman left him to die in the desert. Horrible. A Bushman! Like you.” She looked angry now, her anger directed at him.

  “And the other policeman?”

  “The other one? How do you know there was another one?”

  Khumanego stood his ground. “I heard two policemen died in the desert.”

  “You heard wrong. They took the other to hospital. I don’t know what happened to him after that.” She gave a small shrug of her shoulders. “Go away! Get out of here! I’ve got no more time to waste on you.” She turned and stalked off with the basket effortlessly balanced in sync with the movement of her walk.

  Khumanego stared at her back. “He’s not alive,” he shouted after her. “He’s dead! He must be dead. You understand?” But the woman ignored him and kept on walking.

  ♦

  Khumanego had to know for sure. He walked through the dusk to the edge of town, to the corrugated-iron shack he sometimes used when he was in Hukuntsi. His motorbike was inside, locked to a heavy U-bolt that protruded from the wall. He unlocked the bike and, ignoring the risk, rode to the Kgalagadi Filling Station. He approached the man serving there. A man he knew, and who knew him.

  “Piscoaghu! We haven’t seen you for a long time…” The man stepped back, his voice scared.

  “Where’s Willie?”

  “The police took him away. They said he was involved with murdering Detective Tau.”

  “The detective died?”

  The man nodded.

  “And the other one?” Khumanego’s voice rose.

  “The other policeman? They found him and took him to the hospital.”

  “But he died there!” Now Khumanego was almost shouting.

  “No, no, he was okay. He came to Detective Tau’s funeral. He cried.”

  Khumanego lost control. “You lie! You lie!” he screamed.

  “No, it’s true…” The man backed further away, now terrified of the mad Bushman.

  Khumanego was breathing hard, but he realised the man was telling the truth. He pulled himself together. He had very little time. He needed to move quickly and disappear. Soon the police would be searching for him in the town and nearby.

  But he wasn’t really worried. Disappearing was something he did well.

  ∨ The Death of the Mantis ∧

  Forty-Five

  Kubu sat in his office, frustrated and angry. Somehow he felt that if he’d been with the team that had gone to Haake’s koppies the previous week, things might have worked out differently. They had needed to look beyond the obvious, to see as a Bushman saw. Maybe he wouldn’t have been good enough to do that either, but at least he could have tried. What chance did a SWAT team have? They’d never look beyond the obvious threats, noisily attacking empty caves. Khumanego would never let himself be trapped that way. Now he was sure that Khumanego had linked up with a Bushman group and was living perfectly camouflaged among them in the Kalahari. There had been no trace of him since he had driven off in the Land Rover, leaving Kubu and Tau to the sun and thirst of the Kalahari. He thumped his desk with his fist, and noted with approval that the telephone jumped. More impressive, it actually started to ring. He grabbed it.

  “Assistant Superintendent Bengu.”

  “Kubu, it’s Mabaku. Get up here right away.”

  No questions were to be answered; Kubu was left with the dialling tone. But Mabaku had sounded excited. Kubu lost no time heading to his office.

  Mabaku wasted no time on pleasantries. He waved Kubu to a chair and said: “Khumanego’s been spotted in Hukuntsi. Hukuntsi! Amazing, after all these weeks. Not a trace of him, and then he’s in Hukuntsi bold as you please, pretending to be Piscoaghu and pushing people around.”

  Kubu leant forward, excited. “Did they catch him?”

  Mabaku shook his head. “He questioned a garage attendant – not Willie; we’re still holding him. He wanted to know about you. He seemed upset that you made it.” Mabaku grimaced. He knew this news would hurt Kubu to the quick. “Then he disappeared. The local police are scouring the area. But one of them was smart. He asked about motorbikes. Sure enough, a man on a bike was seen heading out of town to the north. The witness didn’t think it was a Bushman, but he was wearing a heavy jacket and helmet. So it could have been anyone. I’m pretty sure it was Khumanego.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “This afternoon. Lerako phoned through a few minutes ago. They’re still searching, but they won’t find him.”

  Kubu nodded. Now Khumanego had disguised himself as a cross-country biker. A leather jacket and helmet. No one would realise he was a Bushman. But where would he go? Back to his people in the desert? Probably, but they couldn’t take the chance.

  “We should set up roadblocks. Reinforce the border post alert. He might make a run for it now. He must know how close we are.”

  Mabaku nodded. “Get on to it right away. I want him behind bars, the bastard. I won’t forget Tau’s parents breaking down at the funeral. They deserve revenge for this. I want them to have it.”

  Kubu was silent. Revenge was a harsh word and shouldn’t be in a policeman’s vocabulary. But he had spent an anguished time with Tau’s family describing the young man’s last days. He had told them that Tau had set off to get help, knowing that Kubu wouldn’t be able to keep up. That he had taken the best chance. That bad luck had prevented him finding the others, but that he was a hero. Kubu hoped he’d been convincing.

  “I’ll do it at once, Director,” he said, climbing to his feet.

  ♦

  As expected, they found nothing. A man on an off-road bike had bought fuel in Kang. Had he been a Bushman? The fuel attendant doubted that, because Bushmen didn’t ride nice motorbikes.

  Kubu stared at the topographic map he had used to link the murders with the koppies, thinking of Mabaku’s pictures of the gems, the paintings and the funeral sites. One day I must go there, he thought. Then perhaps I’ll understand. But I’ll never understand Khumanego. These murders don’t make sense. He sighed. They don’t make sense to me, but they must to him. That’s the tragedy.

  He glanced at his watch. It was getting late. Perhaps he would just check if Mabaku had heard anything and then head home. To supper with Joy and Tumi. That thought made him feel better.

  But Mabaku seemed in a mood to chat. He invited Kubu to sit, and asked after the family. He commented on his wife’s interminable shopping. Clearly there was something he wanted to say, but he was taking a long time to get round to it. Kubu felt uncomfortable. He didn’t want to be late for dinner. At last Mabaku came to the point.

  “I share your concerns about the Bushman cultures, Kubu. You know that. And those koppies w
ere absolutely spectacular. Unbelievable. But there’s a problem. Perhaps Khumanego was living mere. Maybe protecting them even, in a strange sort of way? But now there’s no one. And that gem I picked up was an amethyst. If someone unscrupulous gets wind of those…” He let his voice trail off. “It’s a human treasure, Kubu. Those paintings weren’t made by today’s Bushmen, who, I admit, do some interesting work, but it’s modern art. Nothing like what I saw. We have to save it for everyone. Not just a few Bushmen who know about it and venerate it as a relic of the past.”

  “You spoke to the museum people.”

  “Yes, I told them about it, and I showed them some of the pictures. They were amazed and wanted to know all about it. I told them it was a police crime scene. I didn’t tell them where it was. So no one is going there any time soon. And I suggested that they tell the Minister of Youth, Sports and Culture about it. That he should make a plan to protect the place and preserve it. Not turn it into another tourist attraction. They agreed. I said I’d let them know when someone could go there. Let’s see what they come up with.”

  Kubu sighed. Perhaps this was the only way. Preserve the past, do your best for the present, ignore the future. “I think you had no option, Director. I hope one day I can see it for myself.”

  Mabaku looked relieved. “Yes, I hope so too. Once Khumanego is safely behind bars.”

  But first we have to catch him, Kubu thought.

  Mabaku checked his watch. “Well, we best be getting home. It’s late.”

  Kubu nodded, and said good night. It was late, and he was hungry.

  ∨ The Death of the Mantis ∧

  Forty-Six

  It was nearly dark when Kubu drove up to his gate. He was tired and discouraged. He knew how easy it would be for Khumanego to hide in a nomadic Bushman band. After all, that was how he’d grown up. Unless they got lucky, the police might never find him.

  As he swung the gate open, he was surprised that Ilia wasn’t there to greet him. But that happened sometimes these days. Whether her sensitive ears couldn’t pick up his arrival over Tumi’s crying, or whether she stayed with Joy to provide moral support, Kubu couldn’t say. Or perhaps she was just having her supper. Kubu hoped the latter was the explanation.

  However, when he wasn’t greeted by the police guard, who was normally at the gate, Kubu stopped. He’s probably having coffee with Joy, he thought. But I’d better make sure. He pulled out his mobile phone and called his own landline. After a few seconds, he could hear the phone ringing inside the house. It rang and rang, but no one answered. Then he tried Joy’s mobile phone. It went straight through to voicemail.

  A chill spread through Kubu. Something was wrong. Had Khumanego returned to finish his work? He dialled Mabaku’s mobile number. It, too, went through to voicemail. Kubu left a message explaining the situation and asked Mabaku to phone him back as soon as possible. Then he tried Edison, who answered immediately.

  “Edison, I’m outside my house. The police guard isn’t here. Ilia hasn’t come out to welcome me and Joy doesn’t answer my phone calls.”

  “Could they be visiting one of your neighbours?”

  “I’m sure Joy would’ve let me know, and she wouldn’t have taken Ilia. I’ve tried phoning the director, but he’s not answering. I have, to check what’s going on, so I’m going into the house. If I haven’t phoned you in five minutes, get hold of him immediately. No matter where he is, whatever he’s doing. Tell him what’s going on.”

  “Are you armed?”

  “No.”

  “I think you should wait until I find him.”

  “I can’t do that,” Kubu snapped. “Joy and Tumi may be in danger.” With that he hung up and walked towards the house.

  “I’m home, my darling,” he called, trying hard to sound unconcerned. “I’m home. Where are you?” Then he heard Tumi crying. At least she was alive. He took a deep breath and went in.

  He found them in the dining room. Joy was sitting at one corner of the table, rocking the baby, who surprisingly stopped crying when she saw her father. Ilia was next to them, standing aggressively on guard. And they were not alone. Khumanego was sitting at the far end of the table, his hands crossed on the surface. In front of him was a hunting knife, the blade partly covered by a yellowish stain. The back of Kubu’s neck tingled.

  “Hello, David,” Khumanego said. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

  ♦

  Kubu put his briefcase on the floor and sat down at the table between Khumanego and his family.

  Khumanego picked up the knife and pointed it at Kubu. “David,” he said. “Put your handgun and mobile phone on the table. I don’t want you trying something stupid.”

  “I’m unarmed,” Kubu responded, as he slid his phone towards Khumanego.

  “Stand up.”

  Kubu did so, and Khumanego patted him down.

  “Sit.”

  Kubu complied. Khumanego picked up the phone and turned it off.

  “What do you want, Khumanego?” Kubu asked quietly. “Why have you come here?”

  Khumanego frowned, but it was Joy who replied.

  “He said he’d kill us if we tried to stop him. Kill Tumi… with the knife with Bushman poison. I called off Ilia…” She was battling to keep her voice under control. She and Ilia had seen off a man with a gun in their time, but the horror of the slow-death poison was more than she could handle. And there was the baby now. Kubu nodded, but he kept his eyes fixed on the Bushman.

  “What do you want?” he repeated.

  “What do I want?” Khumanego mimicked derisively. “I want my people to have their lands back, to have their dignity back, to have their sacred places respected. I want the elderly to lead decent lives – free in their traditional culture – not herded into camps to die of disease and hopelessness. I want respect. I don’t want to be laughed at. I want to be treated with dignity.” He met Kubu’s stare. “That’s what I want.”

  “I’ve always respected you, Khumanego. Why do you come here and threaten my family? Of all places outside the desert, it’s here you get the things you want.”

  Khumanego shook his head. “There’s a line. A line you hold and defend, that no one is allowed to cross. My line is The Place. No one goes there. No one desecrates it. It belongs to me, and I guard it for my people.” He hesitated. “I’m the Guardian. That’s what I am. The Guardian of The Place.”

  Kubu was worried that he was losing the drift of what the Bushman was saying, and it was vital to keep Khumanego engaged.

  “What place is this, Khumanego? Tell me about it.”

  “It’s not a place. It’s The Place. The home of the ancestors and the gods and the Mantis. I am its guardian.”

  Suddenly Kubu understood. “It’s the koppies, isn’t it? That Haake found? That we searched for together in the desert?”

  Khumanego shook his head. “We didn’t search for it together. I was there to stop you. I had to stop you. I’m sorry about that, David. Because you’re not a bad man, and you were once my friend. But you can’t go to The Place. It’s not permitted. I don’t permit it.”

  “And that’s why you left us to die of thirst in the desert? I wasn’t looking for a place, Khumanego. I was looking for a murderer.”

  “You didn’t need to go so far to find him.”

  No, thought Kubu. I didn’t.

  There was a silence for a few moments. I must keep him talking, Kubu thought. “Explain to me, Khumanego. I don’t understand. You know I respect your people, that I’d do nothing to hurt them or insult them. What did I do wrong?”

  “The Place is sacred. No one goes there and lives, unless I permit it. People must learn that The Place is cursed. They will learn to keep away. Otherwise they too will die.”

  “Why didn’t you explain this to me before?”

  “Explain? Then you would go there. Like the team you sent there last week! They desecrated that sacred ground! I watched them: firing bombs, insulting the ancestors, angering the gods! You wan
ted me to explain that this shouldn’t be done?” His voice was raised in anger.

  Kubu tried to calm him. “I thought you would go back to the desert. Back to your people who still follow the old ways. I thought we would never find you.”

  “They have also been corrupted. All of them! They get water and food from the towns, then pretend they live from the desert. They are not worthy of the Mantis! Not worthy of me!”

  “So why did you come here?”

  “It was you who led the defilers to The Place. You were responsible. And you were meant to die in the desert. To be a sacrifice for The Place. But they found you too soon.”

  “So you have come to finish what you started? Is that how it is?”

  Khumanego said nothing.

  “Let Joy and Tumi go, my friend. They have nothing to do with this.”

  Khumanego hesitated, and for a moment Kubu thought he might agree. But he shook his head sharply. “They stay. But if you co-operate, I promise I won’t harm them when it’s over.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  Again Khumanego didn’t answer, and Kubu felt a surge of hope. He has come to kill me, but he cannot say it. He doesn’t really want to do it. How long since he had phoned Edison? Fifteen minutes? Twenty minutes? Longer?

  “They found nothing at The Place, Khumanego. And nothing was damaged permanently. It can become a national heritage site – like Tsodilo – preserved forever for your people and your culture. We can do this together. I’d like to help. To make amends.”

  “Like Tsodilo? Become a place of amusement for gawking tourists with their digital cameras? And of research for academics who’ve never even met a real Bushman?” Khumanego shook his head. “You don’t understand, David. This is real. It is not about culture. The gods are real. The ancestors are real. You remember Gobiwasi?”