Julius jumped to his feet. “Father, I’ve spoken to the management at the mine. They say there’ll be trouble if you don’t accept the offer. The young people need jobs. They’ll be very angry if you don’t agree.”
The old man turned toward his son. “And why are you talking to the mine management? That is not your role. It is mine. And why did you not tell me? That weakens my position, and I do not like that.” He cleared his throat. “And what will they do for you if we accept? A new car? A big house? Do not speak to them again.” He turned and walked away.
Julius stared after him, his face hot. He saw the looks on the faces of the elders; they were pleased to see him put down by his father. He felt that they despised him. He turned and walked away without a word of farewell. Then he pulled out his cell phone and punched in a number that he’d recently memorized.
CHAPTER 25
The day was getting old when Kubu had his second afternoon cup of tea and only a single biscuit. He didn’t feel like two. The afternoon had been frustrating. He’d waited impatiently for input from Zanele, but when she’d called he was disappointed.
“The crime scene is a write-off, Kubu,” she’d told him. “The policemen who responded to the callout assumed it was a straightforward suicide, of course, and trampled everywhere. They didn’t even mark the area as a crime scene, so there’ve been newspaper photographers all over it and people gawping. Sometimes I think people don’t have enough to do with their time!”
“What about the car?” That was where Kubu hoped to find some clues.
“Well, we’ve got lots of fingerprints, but most are from Kunene and his family. There are some others, but Edison discovered from Kunene’s wife that the car was at the garage for service a few weeks ago. We’ll have to check them against the mechanics’. Then there are soil and dust samples, but nothing special there. They could come from anywhere around here. And lots of hair, most from the family pet.” She’d sounded irritated about that. “But obviously some human hair also. We’ll have to check those too.”
They discussed the situation a bit more, and then Kubu switched to a topic that was more important to him.
“Zanele, have you made any progress with my father’s case?”
There was a pause before Zanele answered. “Not really, Kubu. The print we found in the sand was made by a boot manufactured in China—and they’re sold in a number of shops in Botswana. So that’s not much help. Samantha is following up on the other stuff. You’ll have to speak to her.”
Kubu felt anger welling up, not at Zanele, who he knew was doing her best, but at the total lack of progress. “Thanks, Zanele. You’ll let me know as soon as you find something useful?”
“Of course.”
Reluctantly, Kubu hung up and let her get back to work on all her data.
Then there was the cell phone company. All they could say about the untraced call was that it was from a cell phone with no ID. They said that was impossible, so there must be a mistake. They were looking into the matter. Kubu sighed. He didn’t expect further information anytime soon.
I might as well head home, he thought, cheering up at the thought of supper. I can help Joy with the kids and the food, and I need to talk to my mother. He sighed again. Under protest, Amantle had agreed to spend a few days with them in Gaborone, but Kubu wanted her to stay permanently. He was worried about her in Mochudi alone, even with the constable guarding the house, and he knew the police wouldn’t keep that up for long. Yet they needed a proper room for the girls. They couldn’t sleep in the lounge on a long-term basis.
Just as he was packing up, the phone rang. It was the desk sergeant who told him that there was a man at Reception who wanted to talk about the Kunene case. Kubu told him to bring the man up. A minute later, there was a knock on the door, and the desk sergeant ushered in a white man, who was tall and well built, with a touch of gray in his hair. He looked fit and carried no excess weight.
“How are you, Assistant Superintendent?” he asked with a strong American accent. “My name is Peter Newsom.” He walked up to the desk and shook hands firmly. He took the seat facing the desk without waiting for an invitation.
“I’m sure you’re a busy man, Assistant Superintendent, so I’ll come straight to the point.”
Kubu nodded. He was in favor of that; he wanted to get home.
“I’m a friend of Goodman Kunene, or rather I should say I was a friend of his. We’d known each other for about a year. I believe I may have been the last person to see him alive. I thought I should report that to the police. The desk sergeant told me you were the person to speak to.”
All thoughts of family vanished from Kubu’s head. “When was that exactly?”
“It was on the same evening that he died. Last Thursday.”
“Exactly when did you see him?”
“We met for a couple of drinks at my apartment after work at about seven. We chatted, and then Goodman left to go home. That’s about it. As I said, I don’t want to waste your time.”
“I appreciate your coming forward. Please start at the beginning. How did you know Mr. Kunene in the first place?”
“We met at an embassy function. I’m a mining engineer and consult for a number of US companies interested in working here. I have friends at the embassy, and sometimes I make useful contacts through them.” He presented Kubu with a business card.
Kubu glanced at it and said, “And Mr. Kunene, being a senior person in the Department of Mines, would be a useful contact.”
Newsom nodded. “Yes, it started like that. We were both golf nuts, and the Phakalane course is fantastic. So we arranged to play and had a great afternoon. After that we’d meet occasionally for a coffee or a drink. Just to chat. And we played golf a couple more times.”
“And what did you chat about?”
“Maybe this will sound strange, Assistant Superintendent, but I admired Goodman. He had strong family values and great commitment to his country. But things don’t always go quite the way they should here. Or in the US for that matter.” He gave a rueful chuckle. “I felt it important that he focus his energy and not become cynical. I guess you could say I mentored him. But very informally. When he needed to talk, I made myself available. I know you’re thinking it’s odd for a guy from Botswana to choose a white American as a mentor, but I think that was the whole point. Our different perspectives enabled us to ask each other questions that we might not have thought of otherwise. And it was a two-way street. I learned a lot about the culture here from him. I’m going to miss him a great deal.”
“And what were the issues that bothered him so much?”
Newsom shrugged. “The usual things. Friction with his boss. A feeling that matters could be better managed and that he should have more responsibility. Dissatisfaction that some of his colleagues did their jobs badly and got away with it because they had the right connections.”
“Did he ever discuss personal problems with you?”
Newsom hesitated. “Just once. Everything wasn’t smooth sailing at home. But it wasn’t a crisis.”
“You said you had a couple of drinks. How many is a couple?”
“We had two beers each over about an hour and a half. That was it. Then Goodman went home. Or I thought he did.”
“The problems don’t sound that severe. Did you have any idea that he might commit suicide?”
“Absolutely not,” Newsom said at once. “No, I had no inkling he might do such a thing. In fact, I can’t believe it. When he was feeling down, he talked about getting another position—leaving his work for the government—not killing himself. In fact, that evening he was quite positive. Can there be any doubt about the suicide story? It makes no sense to me.”
Kubu decided to tell Newsom that Kunene had been murdered. They couldn’t keep it a secret much longer. Pretty soon everyone would know. But first he was curious about something else.
“When did you arrange this meeting with Rra Kunene?”
“In the morni
ng. I called him and suggested a drink.”
“From your cell phone?”
“No, I used Skype. I’m on my computer a lot. It’s convenient.”
Kubu wondered if that was the unidentified call. It might add up. “Mr. Newsom, what did you do after Mr. Kunene left?”
“I made some supper and went back to work. I’m a bit of a workaholic.” He gave an easy laugh.
“No one was with you? Did you speak to anyone on the phone?”
Newsom shook his head. “This sounds like a murder inquiry, Assistant Superintendent. You don’t normally need an alibi for a suicide.”
“We’re also finding it hard to believe that he committed suicide. So let’s say it wasn’t that, and it certainly wasn’t an accident. Mr. Kunene spoke to you about his enemies. Were any of them really dangerous?”
Newsom shrugged. “Some of his work colleagues were jealous of him. If they had a chance to show him in a bad light or block a promotion, they’d jump at it. That’s a very long way from wanting him dead, let alone doing something about it.”
Kubu leaned back in his chair. Newsom had the right answer for everything, said with confidence and little hesitation. Was he too confident, too prepared? Normally, someone asked about an alibi would show some reaction however innocent he might be. But it hadn’t phased Newsom one bit.
Kubu had another thought and tried a little fishing. “Did you speak to Ms. Olsen this afternoon?” For a moment Kubu saw a reaction. This was a question Newsom hadn’t expected, but he recovered quickly. “Connie Olsen? At the embassy? This afternoon? No. Why?”
Kubu folded his arms and stared at Newsom. “Mr. Newsom, Mr. Kunene did not commit suicide. He was murdered. I don’t know who did it or why. But as far as I know, you were the last person who saw him alive. Other than the murderer, of course.” He paused and waited for that to sink in. “Now, would you like to add anything to what you’ve told me already? Anything that might throw some light on those questions I have?”
Newsom frowned. “Am I a suspect?”
Kubu didn’t reply.
“I was his friend. I thought very highly of him. If I could help catch his murderer, I’d jump at the chance. But there’s nothing more I can tell you.”
Kubu pushed some more, but Newsom didn’t change any aspect of his story. They met at seven; they each had two beers; they talked about matters related to Kunene’s job and Newsom’s interest in Botswana. Kunene left to go home at around half past eight.
Eventually, Kubu gave up. “Mr. Newsom, I’m grateful that you volunteered to help the police, but I’m not convinced you’re telling me everything you know. It would be very helpful if you did. Do you have plans to leave the country?”
Newsom hesitated. “Not at the moment. I have enough work here for quite some time.”
“Please let me know if you plan to do so.”
“I’ll do that.” Newsom rose to his feet. “Have a good evening, Assistant Superintendent.”
After Newsom had gone, Kubu thought over the interview. Probably Newsom was exactly what he said he was. There were no slips, no hesitations, no concerns. Except for the moment when he’d reacted to Connie Olsen’s name. Kubu gingerly lifted Newsom’s business card by the edge and set it aside. More fingerprints for Zanele to check.
Logic dictated that he owed Newsom an apology or even a beer. But his instincts were telling him something quite different.
CHAPTER 26
The next morning Kubu felt, if anything, more inclined to trust his instincts. He sat at his desk with his chair pushed back and his feet stretched out. He was once more studying Kunene’s telephone records, but this time he was comparing them to the man’s bank records.
There were no calls from the cell phone number that appeared on Newsom’s business card, but over the last three months, there were five calls from unidentified numbers. Was it really likely that Newsom contacted Kunene every few weeks when sitting at his computer rather than using his phone? And then there were the deposits. There were quite large cash deposits within a few days of three of the calls. It could be coincidence; the pattern wasn’t perfect. But it was an odd coincidence, and Kubu didn’t believe in coincidences, although he was willing to admit that sometimes they did happen. However, he wasn’t willing to admit that until he’d checked every other possibility.
Was it possible that Kunene was blackmailing Newsom? That was a good motive for murder. But what could Kunene have on him? Or maybe Newsom had got the information he wanted from Kunene and thought it was time to cover his tracks so he got rid of Kunene. Either way, if Newsom was the murderer, why would he insist that the death wasn’t suicide when he’d carefully set it up to look like that?
With a grunt, he dumped the paperwork on his desk and picked up the phone. It was time to nag Zanele.
“Good morning, Zanele. Any joy on those prints?”
“Well, Kubu, it would’ve helped if you’d given the man a glass of water rather than collecting a business card. At least you didn’t smudge the prints when you picked it up.”
Kubu was disappointed. He’d been rather pleased with himself for thinking of picking up Newsom’s prints from the card. “It was no good?”
“I didn’t say that. I’m pretty sure the thumb print matches one on Kunene’s car.”
“On the car? Where on the car?”
“On the roof.”
Outside the car. That could be explained by Newsom saying good-bye to Kunene.
“Can you tell how old it is?”
Zanele hesitated. “That’s not so easy. The whorls start to thicken after a while, but—”
Kubu interrupted. “What about the service station? Didn’t you say they’d cleaned the car?”
“Yes, three weeks ago.”
“So the prints must be more recent than that.” Kubu quickly checked the records. There had been only two Skype calls in the last three weeks. “Other prints?”
“There are still a few we can’t confirm as belonging to the family or the service station people. But they aren’t very clear. We’re working on it.”
Kubu sighed. “Anything else?”
“The hair. None of the mechanics had straight hair. So there’s no obvious explanation for it.”
Kubu leaned forward. “European? What color?” Newsom had chestnut hair, quite an unusual color.
Zanele hesitated. “It’s black, and we think it’s probably Asian. But we can’t be sure at this point.”
Kubu had already been thinking about how to get a sample of Newsom’s hair. But now this seemed another dead end.
Zanele had nothing else for him at the moment, so he thanked her and went back to the records. Going back six months, the first cash payment coincided with the first debit order for the large life insurance policy. That was around the time Kunene had told his wife that he’d received a promotion. It all seemed to fit. But did it have anything to do with Newsom? That was less clear.
Frustrated, his mind returned to his father’s murder. He wondered if he should phone Samantha and see if any progress had been made in finding the silver Toyota. There can’t be that many, he thought. But his heart sank when he realized that rental agencies used them.
There was a knock on the door, and Mabaku came in. As usual he wasted no time on preliminaries.
“Have you seen this?” He tossed a copy of the Daily News onto Kubu’s desk. Kubu glanced at it. The headline read: KUNENE DEATH—POLICE SUSPICIOUS. Kubu sighed. The CID kept few secrets from the press.
“Kubu, I told you this was sensitive stuff! I’ve had the commissioner on the phone, and he wants to know whether we’re a hundred percent sure about this. He had some questions I need to check with you.” Kubu knew he’d better have the answers.
“You told me that Kunene had been drinking and that he’d taken Rohypnol. Right?”
“Yes, his blood alcohol level indicated that he was intoxicated at the time of his death. And we also found the residue of a strong sedative in his blood. Not ne
cessarily Rohypnol.”
“So maybe it was just Valium? Is Ian certain that it knocked him out? What if he took it after he attached the hose and so on to make his suicide easier?”
Kubu shook his head. “Ian felt that Kunene probably had too much to drink to carry out the careful placement of the duct tape and so on. And there was no bottle in the car—with or without alcohol—and no sedatives. And apart from the forensic evidence, there are other issues. For example, there were no fingerprints on the hose, yet he wasn’t wearing gloves. How could that be explained?”
“Perhaps by the driving gloves we found in the glove compartment,” growled Mabaku. Kubu cursed under his breath. Why hadn’t he checked the list of contents found in the car? Mabaku had.
“But why wear gloves in the first place? Just to confuse us?”
“The exhaust would’ve been hot. He’d driven to the dam. He was being careful.”
“I can’t see someone intent on committing suicide fiddling with gloves. All he had to do was shove the hose into the exhaust. He didn’t need to touch it.” Kubu shook his head. “And what about his cell phone? It’s missing.”
“Maybe he got rid of it. All part of the same behavior. He didn’t want to have a way out at the last minute.” Mabaku shook his head, looking unhappy. “The commissioner isn’t buying it, Kubu. He wants this to go away. And now it’s all over the press!” Mabaku sighed. “Get Edison onto the hardware stores. The hose wasn’t from the house. If Kunene did commit suicide, then he bought that hose and probably the duct tape at the same time. Or maybe someone else did that. How many hardware stores can there be in Gaborone?”
“Unfortunately, there are quite a lot,” Kubu said. “Edison has already visited about half but has come up with nothing so far.” He was pleased someone else was doing the legwork around the city. “Anyway, there’s a development you don’t know about.” He filled Mabaku in on the Newsom interview.
“You realize that Newsom could have slipped him the drug, forced him to drink some alcohol, and driven him to the dam?” Mabaku said.
A Death in the Family Page 10
