A Death in the Family

by Michael Stanley

  Another thought struck him as he sifted through the papers. “Mother, did Father have a will?”

  Amantle stopped sewing. “Yes, he did. I remember he got one of the elders to help him with it when you turned twenty-one. He said it needed to be changed. That seems a long time ago now.”

  Kubu knew it was a long time, over fifteen years. “Do you know where he kept it?”

  Without a word, Amantle put aside the cushion and walked to the bedroom. He heard her open the cupboard and pull something out. “They are gone!” she exclaimed. “All his papers!”

  She returned to the lounge carrying a metal lockbox with rust around the hinges. “He kept his private papers in here, like his will and his identity document and his savings book from the bank. It is all gone! These skelms have stolen it. They kill him and then they come and steal his things…” She collapsed into a chair and started to weep.

  Kubu went to comfort her. “Mother, that may not be it. I found his identity card on the table with the other papers. Maybe the detectives just picked the things off the floor and put them here for us to sort out. Don’t worry. I’ll go through everything.” But Amantle shook her head and continued to cry.

  Kubu returned to the table and sorted the papers. “Ah!” he said, pleased. “Here’s the savings book! I’m sure the will is here too.”

  But it wasn’t. And although they searched the whole house, they could find no trace of it.

  I should really let Mabaku know, Kubu thought. But let’s see how long it takes them to ask us if anything’s been taken.

  CHAPTER 12

  The meeting at the CID the next morning was not pretty. Mabaku was in a foul mood because there had been little progress, and Zanele had found nothing at Amantle’s house that she could use.

  “There were no signs of a forced entry,” she said. “I think the murderer must’ve taken the front-door key from Kubu’s father.” She glanced nervously at Mabaku. “We have nothing to go on,” she continued, exasperated. “We’ve picked up a lot of hairs and will start going through them today. But I doubt they’ll be any help. There’ve been dozens of people there over the past few days. And the same goes for fingerprints—lots of them, but we’ll have to eliminate them one by one by checking on everyone who’s been at the house. Even then, it’s unlikely we’ll get a match. Whoever broke in was pretty careful.”

  She looked at her notebook. “We’ve also been trying to identify the maker of the boot that left the partial print near the crime scene. The tread is very unusual and doesn’t match any of our records. We sent a print to Interpol so see if they could help. They responded very quickly for a change. It’s a common boot made in China. I have one of my people going to all the Chinese general stores in Gabs to see if they carry them.”

  Then it was Samantha’s turn. She reported that she had just received information from Mascom about the calls on Wilmon’s phone.

  “The three calls not from Kubu came from pay phones in Mahalapye. Two from the same phone and the third from a different one.”

  “Mahalapye?” Mabaku interjected. “Kubu’s father’s half brother lives there. They didn’t get on apparently. Go on.”

  “I also made a list of Rra Bengu’s closest friends,” Samantha continued. “I’m going back to Mochudi later today to talk to them.”

  She closed her notebook and leaned forward.

  “There is one other thing, though,” she said. All heads turned toward her. “It’s just an idea that I had. When the director, Zanele, and I were going through the house, everything had been searched—cupboards, drawers, pillows and mattresses, you name it. Including books. That got me thinking. If the intruder was looking inside books, he had to be looking for something flat, like a photograph or piece of paper. It couldn’t be something with bulk.”

  There was silence in the room.

  “That’s a very good idea,” Zanele said.

  “I agree,” Mabaku chimed in. “I’m not sure how it helps at the moment, but let’s keep it in mind and see if it leads anywhere. Check with Kubu’s mother if anything like that is missing.”

  He stood up to leave, but Edison put up his hand.

  “Director, I have an update on what I reported yesterday.”

  “Yes, Edison. What is it?”

  “I told you about the unrest in Shoshong. My friend now thinks that there could be real trouble at a kgotla they’re going to have at the end of the week. Apparently, the chief is going to make some people move to another part of town, and they don’t want to.”

  Mabaku grunted. “Well, what the chief decides has nothing to do with us. But give the station in Shoshong a call, Edison, and make sure they’re on top of it. They may want to have some constables at the kgotla. Now, let’s go and find who killed Kubu’s father.”

  CHAPTER 13

  At the same time that the meeting at the CID was in progress, Kubu was finishing a small breakfast of bread and jam accompanied by a cup of strong tea. Not enough, he thought. I’ll have to go into town for a little more.

  His mother was making a list of things to do to ensure her husband’s funeral was a success.

  “I am going to the church, David,” she said. “I have to make sure that the priest is available for the funeral, as well as the church hall for the meal afterward. And I want to use their kitchen on Friday—it will be a big funeral, so we will have a great deal to prepare.”

  “Let me take you, Mother. I’ll drop you off while you talk to the priest; then I’ll come and pick you up afterward. I’m sure you’ll want to visit the butcher too—you’ll have to order a huge amount of meat. I’ll tell him that I will be paying. And the supermarket, of course. And we should have lots of drinks. It will be hot, and people will be thirsty. Will cold drinks, beer, and a little wine be okay?”

  No wonder it takes a week to prepare for a funeral, he thought. So much food to prepare, so many people to socialize with.

  “Thank you, David. That is very kind of you,” Amantle responded. “I will be ready in fifteen minutes.”

  * * *

  KUBU WAS FEELING pleased with himself that he’d finessed a chance for a real breakfast without upsetting his mother. He knew that her visit to the priest would be prolonged, so he’d have time for a substantial portion of eggs, bacon, sausage, and fried tomatoes, followed by toast and marmalade. But when he arrived at the restaurant and considered the menu, he realized that he wasn’t really hungry. The thought of the food had occupied his mind but not whetted his appetite. “I’ll just have a large cappuccino,” he told the waitress.

  To pass the time he read the latest copy of Mmegi but found little of interest. Just as he was about to leave, his phone rang. It was Samantha. A wave of irritation hit him.

  “How are you doing,” she asked softly.

  “I’d be a lot better if I was helping.”

  There was a silence. Then Samantha continued. “Did your mother notice anything missing from her house after the break-in?”

  Kubu hesitated. Part of him wanted to protect his small piece of information—the only thing he knew that Samantha and the others didn’t. Eventually, he realized he had to tell her.

  “As far as she knows, the only thing missing is my father’s will.”

  “His will?” Kubu could hear Samantha’s surprise. “Is she sure that he had one—that’s a very strange thing to steal. There’s usually a copy somewhere, at the lawyer, whatever.”

  “She’s sure. She didn’t know what was in it. Apparently, my father had it drawn up when I turned twenty-one—that’s a long time ago. My mother says he consulted an elder, not a lawyer. Would you like me to try and find out who it was?”

  “I’ll have to speak to the director about that. I’m sorry, Kubu, but you know how it is.”

  There was another silence. At last Kubu asked, “Have you made any progress?”

  It took a few seconds for Samantha to answer. “I know how hard it is for you, Kubu. But I have to do my job. I can’t say anything. Good-by
e.” The line went dead.

  Kubu wanted to crush his phone, he was so angry.

  For the next ten minutes or so, he just sat at the table and tried to calm himself down.

  Eventually, he paid his bill and drove back to the church, where he found his mother and the priest wrapping up the arrangements. Kubu greeted the priest and took him aside.

  “I know you are in charge of the burial, Father. I expect there will be quite a number of people who want to say a few words at the graveside. I want to be last.”

  Before the priest could say anything, Kubu followed up. “I know it’s traditional for me to be the first to speak after your service, but given the circumstances of my father’s death, it’s important for me to have the last word.”

  The priest looked at Kubu, puzzled, but agreed.

  Kubu turned to his mother and said, “Come on, Mother. We have shopping to do.”

  * * *

  THE SHOPPING TOOK much longer than expected, partly because that’s the nature of things and partly because Amantle kept remembering things she’d forgotten to put on her list. So it was early afternoon by the time they had finished. As they pushed the carts to his Land Rover, he was shocked both by the sheer quantity of what they’d bought and, of course, by the cost. He’d probably have to take out a bank loan.

  On the way home, they stopped at the church hall and filled the refrigerator with as much of the meat and marrow bones as would fit. The rest would have to be split between Amantle’s fridge and Mma Ngombe’s. Kubu hoped that his mother knew what she was doing. He’d been told that cooking for three hundred to four hundred people was much more than multiplying the recipe for four by a hundred.

  It didn’t take long for Kubu to decide that he could be most helpful by keeping out of everyone’s way. So he retired to the veranda, where he collapsed on a chair, exhausted by the comings and goings. A quick power nap will do me good, he thought, and closed his eyes. It only took a few moments before he drifted off.

  * * *

  “KUBU, WAKE UP! Wake up!”

  It took a few moments for him to return from his dream, where the boy Kubu and his father were climbing the rough trail on Kgale Hill. “You can see all of Botswana from the top,” his father had said.

  When he opened his eyes, Rra Ngombe was standing over him.

  “Ah, Kubu, my friend,” Ngombe said. “You have a fine set of lungs! I could hear you from my house.”

  Kubu shook his head and rubbed his eyes.

  “Once again, please accept my sympathies for the loss of your father—a great man, so well liked and so humble. I still can’t believe that he died in such a terrible way.”

  Kubu didn’t have the energy to stand, so he gestured to Ngombe to sit down.

  “Do the police have any idea who did it?” Ngombe asked after he’d made himself comfortable.

  Kubu shook his head. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “My boss is keeping me out of the loop. Forbidden me to get involved in any way.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “He thinks if I’m involved, it will give the defense a chance to claim prejudice or whatever, if it ever gets to trial.”

  “Is there anything I can do?” Ngombe asked.

  Kubu perked up. He realized that Ngombe had provided a perfect way to subvert Mabaku’s ban on getting him involved.

  “Actually, there is. I want to invite Father’s friends to the shebeen tomorrow night to have a drink or two—to remember Father and celebrate his life. His murder will certainly come up. I’m not allowed to ask questions, but you can. I’d appreciate it if you could ask if anyone has seen anything unusual over the past few months. You never know in these cases. Sometimes even the smallest thing can be the key.”

  “That should be easy enough. I’ll go and see who I can find. I’m sure they’ll all want to come.” He stood up.

  “What time should we say?”

  “Six would be good.”

  “Excellent. See who you can find, then come back for a beer before supper.”

  Ngombe shook his head. “Aaii! I would like to do that, but I have to see a detective, a woman. I don’t know why she wants to see me. I already told her I don’t know anything when she phoned me.”

  “They’ll talk to everyone,” Kubu said sourly. “Well, go ahead then. Don’t be late.”

  Ngombe nodded. “Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Kubu nodded, disappointed. He needed some male company, and the reminder that Samantha was doing the job he should be doing had soured his already bad mood.

  CHAPTER 14

  Samantha had asked Ngombe to meet her at the church, where she’d already arranged to see Wilmon’s priest. She was having a cup of tea with him when Ngombe arrived. The priest hurried off to fetch another cup and give them privacy.

  “Rra Ngombe,” Samantha began, “we’re trying to find out if Rra Bengu said or did anything out of the ordinary over the past month or two. His wife says his behavior recently was a little strange, so I wonder if you noticed anything.”

  “He seemed a little more impatient lately. He couldn’t sit still, even when we were at the shebeen. He would stand up and walk around a bit, then sit down again. But he never said anything. We all thought it was his Alzheimer’s getting worse.”

  “Have any of your friends mentioned anything? Maybe about something Rra Bengu said to them or something that he did that was unusual?”

  Ngombe thought for a few moments. “Alfred—that’s Alfred Vilikazi—Alfred told me a couple of weeks ago that Wilmon said he was meeting some long-lost relative from Tobela at the shebeen one afternoon. When Alfred asked about it later, Wilmon said it’d been a mistake, and the man wasn’t a relative at all. He never said anything to me though.”

  “Tobela? Where’s that? I’ve never heard of it.”

  “Apparently, it is west of Mahalapye, close to Shoshong.”

  Samantha didn’t show her surprise at hearing of Shoshong again. “I’m seeing Rra Vilikazi in half an hour,” she said, “so I can ask him directly about that. Anything else you can think of?”

  Ngombe shook his head. “No. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”

  “Which shebeen was Rra Bengu going to, to meet his relative?”

  “It’s called the Welcome Bar No. 3, and it’s about eight blocks from Wilmon’s house on Giraffe Street.”

  Samantha made a note of that. “There’s one other thing, Rra Ngombe. It’s very important that Kubu keeps completely out of this investigation. Any involvement could jeopardize the case against the man who killed his father. You are not to discuss any of this with him.”

  Ngombe shifted uncomfortably in his chair, thinking of the arrangement he’d just made with Kubu.

  Samantha noticed his hesitation. “This isn’t my idea, rra. This is an order from my boss. And he’s Kubu’s boss too.”

  Ngombe nodded. “All right,” he said.

  Samantha stood up. “If there’s nothing else, Rra Ngombe, I have to go. I’ve got a number of meetings this afternoon. Thank you for your time, and please remember, you are not to say anything to Kubu.”

  Ngombe nodded. “I hope you find the bastard that did it.”

  * * *

  SAMANTHA LEARNED NOTHING more from Wilmon’s other four friends. Even Alfred Vilikazi couldn’t add to what Ngombe had told her about Wilmon’s supposed relative. “It’s very strange,” she said to him. “It’s as though he had something else in his life that no one knew about—not even his wife. Kubu not knowing, I can understand, but his wife?” She shook her head. “Well, my last stop is the shebeen. Maybe someone there heard something or saw something, but I’m not optimistic.”

  After thanking Vilikazi, she set off for the Welcome Bar No. 3.

  CHAPTER 15

  Wednesday was a frustrating day for Kubu. He had to be polite to all the visitors his mother received, accepting their well-meaning sympathies; he had to contain his anger that he hadn’t heard anything from Mabaku and was nervous about c
alling Samantha for information; and he had to be patient as the clock crawled toward six o’clock and his meeting at the shebeen.

  To pass the time, he walked around the neighborhood but didn’t bump into anyone he knew. Eventually, he decided to visit the museum situated at the top of the hills behind Mochudi.

  It was a steep climb up rough-cut steps from the parking lot, and more than once, he paused to rest under the guise of admiring the view. Once at the top, he clambered over the granite rocks to the edge of the plateau, where all of Mochudi spread out below him. He paused under a rock fig tree, which grasped a boulder with roots like prehensile fingers. On a clear day, I’d be able to see Gaborone’s tall buildings twenty miles south, he thought. This spot has the best view in the country. I just wish I could relax and enjoy it.

  But he couldn’t.

  Why was his father murdered? What had he been up to? Who was he meeting? What could he have done to incite such violence?

  Kubu shook his head. Nothing made sense.

  Can I see his house from here? he wondered. He squeezed between the boulders to look in the right direction, but he couldn’t pick out the house. It was too far away.

  He thought about going into the museum, but he’d been there before, explaining the ancient artifacts and displays to the wide-eyed Nono and Tumi. He wasn’t in the mood; his mind was elsewhere. So after fifteen minutes, he headed back to his mother’s house to sit on the veranda and enjoy a large steelworks.

  * * *

  KUBU HAD HIS eyes closed and was remembering some of the good times he’d enjoyed with his father when his phone rang. He had to heave himself to his feet so he could pull his cell phone from his trouser pocket. It was damned Samantha again.

  “Yes?”

  “Kubu. It’s Samantha.”

  “I know.”

  “How are you doing?” she asked.

  “How do you think?”

  “I’m sorry to disturb you again, but I need some information. Apparently, a few weeks before he died, your father met someone from a village called Tobela. They apparently didn’t agree on whatever they were talking about, and your father lost his temper. He was overheard saying to the man, ‘It’s for my son. It will stay in the family.’ Do you have any idea what he was referring to?”