A Death in the Family

by Michael Stanley

  Kubu thought about it. “He would’ve needed an accomplice to get him back to his apartment from the dam. It’s quite a way. I must admit that I didn’t like Newsom, but I don’t think he’s the murderer. He was adamant Kunene wouldn’t commit suicide.”

  Mabaku brooded about that. “We should check the bars along the route from Newsom’s apartment to the dam. Maybe he did have a few drinks along the way. And maybe he met up with someone else there.”

  That was another good point, and one that Kubu had already thought about. Another job for Edison.

  “I’m going to tell the commissioner and the reporters we’re covering every possibility,” Mabaku continued, “although we still regard the death as suicide at this point. Still, we may as well make a virtue of this necessity. I’ll also ask them to call on people to come forward if they saw Kunene that evening or anything unusual around the dam.”

  With that he headed for the door.

  Kubu’s mind returned to the phone records and bank statements, thinking about the Skype calls and the often coincident payments. If he couldn’t discover what was behind that, he had a suspicion about how this case would end. The commissioner would be happy to declare it a suicide. No scandal, no embarrassing revelations. A man unhappy at home, who decided to end it all in a painless way. Case closed. However, Kubu was sure that Goodman Kunene had been murdered, and he wasn’t going to allow that to go unpunished. And right now there was only one person who could help him with that. He needed another meeting with Peter Newsom.

  CHAPTER 27

  Newsom had no problem with another meeting. “Of course, Assistant Superintendent. Look, I’m heading out to Mahalapye for an important meeting with one of my clients this afternoon, and it’s already nearly lunchtime. There’s a nice Chinese place in Africa Mall. Let’s meet there. I’ll buy you lunch.”

  Kubu wasn’t really keen to have lunch with Newsom; he wanted a more formal context. On the other hand, it was going on for midday, and he had to eat.

  “Okay, Mr. Newsom. I’ll meet you there, but I’ll buy my own lunch.”

  “As you like, Assistant Superintendent. See you in half an hour?”

  * * *

  KUBU EASILY FOUND the Hong Long restaurant. Dusty red banners with Chinese characters hung outside, and a red dragon with gilded teeth straddled the door. Many of the customers were Chinese, shoveling their food with chopsticks at impressive speed, but there were also Batswana clients and even a few white people. Newsom was already there, nursing a Tsingtao beer. Kubu joined him and waved for a waiter. Asking for a steelworks would be hopeless, so he ordered green tea.

  “Amazing how the Chinese population has grown in Gaborone,” Newsom said. “Look at all these people. And this restaurant is quite good. They have more and more genuine ingredients these days.”

  Kubu had noticed the Chinese presence increasing. The debacle, where a Chinese company had half built the new Gaborone airport and then infuriated President Khama by walking away, didn’t seem to have slowed them down. They were doing all sorts of business. One of Joy’s friends was going to Shanghai next month to select a container full of doors, windows, tiles, carpets, and plumbing fixtures—in fact a whole new prefabricated house—apparently at much less cost than building locally. Kubu was a bit uncomfortable about the growing Chinese influence, but they seemed to mind their own business and not cause trouble.

  “I recommend the sweet-and-sour pork. That’s what I’m going to have.”

  Kubu ordered the chicken with cashews and got down to business.

  “I’m curious about your work, Mr. Newsom,” Kubu began. “What is it that you actually do here?”

  Newsom hesitated and took a sip of beer before answering. “My background is in mining engineering, Assistant Superintendent. But I’ve found that mining nowadays is as much about knowing the country where you operate and how to manage the political context as it is about the mine design. A good relationship with the government, the workers, the local people, the environment is what really counts. They’re all critical. I advise clients on that sort of thing.”

  Kubu wasn’t sure that he knew much more than before. “You said you were seeing a client in Mahalapye. The only mine up that way is the one near Shoshong, isn’t it?”

  Newsom nodded. “But there are a lot of new prospects in the area. I’m working with an American company that’s trying to develop a new mine—and having some problems, but that’s another story.”

  “Is this what you discussed with Mr. Kunene?”

  “Only in very general terms. Our meetings were mainly social.”

  Kubu sipped his tea. “I have a few points I’d like to clarify about your social meetings with Mr. Kunene.” He took out his notebook. “When Mr. Kunene came to see you last Thursday, was he driving his own car?”

  Newsom looked surprised. “I suppose so. We met at my apartment. I already told you that.”

  Kubu nodded. “And the previous time you met? When was that and where did you meet?”

  Newsom hesitated. “It was the Saturday two weeks before. We played golf.”

  “And did he use his own car that time also?”

  “I presume so.”

  “You can’t be sure?”

  Newsom shook his head, looking confused.

  “I’m wondering why we found your fingerprints on his car then.”

  Newsom thought about that, then nodded. “Oh, yes, we sat in his car after golf for a few minutes discussing an issue about his work. He didn’t want to do that in public.”

  He recovers quickly, Kubu thought. He would check that they’d been at Phakalane that day, but he was sure it was true. He suspected Newsom was too smart to set himself up to be caught in a lie.

  He changed tack.

  “Did you always phone him from Skype on your computer?”

  Newsom hesitated and then shrugged. “I can’t really recall. It’s possible. I don’t get good reception at my apartment. But if I was driving or something, I’d use my cell phone.”

  “You always phoned him?”

  “No, he’d contact me sometimes. By phone or send me an e-mail.”

  “Strange. There is no call from him to you listed on his phone records.”

  “Maybe he called from the office. Why is this important, Assistant Superintendent?”

  “I’m just following up on everything.” Kubu thought for a moment, wondering what Newsom would do if offered an easy way out. “Actually, it seems quite likely that he did kill himself after all. Some of the issues that worried us before can be explained in other ways. We’ll keep digging, but I suspect his death will eventually be declared suicide at the inquest.”

  “And what would have been his motivation?”

  “Things weren’t always smooth at home. You told me that yourself.”

  “It wasn’t that bad! And he doted on his boys. He’d never desert them that way. Never.”

  “Maybe money was an issue. That’s another thing I want to ask you about. About six months ago, he started getting fairly regular cash payments. Sometimes around the times he spoke to you. Can you explain that?”

  Newsom put his glass down firmly on the table. “Absolutely not. Are you suggesting I was bribing him? I’d no reason to do that and wouldn’t in any case. And if you’d known Goodman at all, you wouldn’t even suggest it.”

  “I didn’t suggest anything. He told his wife he’d received a promotion, but that wasn’t true. However, he did receive this extra money, which he paid into his account in cash. He also took out a large life insurance policy at about the same time. And you say you mentored him, helped him with his career decisions. I’m asking you what that money was about.” Kubu waited, but Newsom refused to be drawn out.

  “I told you. I know nothing about it,” he said.

  Kubu had had enough. “Mr. Newsom, I don’t think you’re telling me all you know. You and I both think I’m dealing with a murder here. The victim was found drugged and drunk in his car. As far as we kno
w, you were the last person he saw. You admit he was drinking with you. You had the opportunity to administer the drug. Your fingerprints are on his car. Money was changing hands. I advise you very strongly to tell me the whole story.”

  Newsom didn’t flinch. “I’ve told you everything I can. I’ve got nothing more to say.”

  The food arrived, and they ate in silence. Newsom seemed comfortable with chopsticks, but Kubu used a knife and fork. He was certain the man knew a lot more than he was letting on. Yet it would have been easy for him to say that Kunene had been depressed, upset, and spoken of suicide. Instead he’d reacted strongly against the suggestion that the death was self-inflicted. What game was he playing?

  Kubu found the chicken quite good and enjoyed the Chinese cabbage, which was new to him, but he ate slowly, playing with the food.

  Newsom shook his head at the mention of dessert and asked the waiter for his bill. “I have to get on the road, Assistant Superintendent. So, if there’s nothing more?”

  Kubu took his time replying, but he couldn’t see how to press the man further. “Not for the moment. No.”

  Newsom headed for the cash register, where a harried Chinese lady was dealing with waiters and payments. Kubu watched Newsom pay and leave without a backward glance. Either he was offended, or he was making a good show of it. A man, who had been sitting by himself drinking tea, also went to the desk, dropped his bill and a handful of pula notes, and left. Kubu took no notice. He was forcing himself to finish the chicken.

  * * *

  IT WAS AFTER ten when Newsom returned, weary from the long drive to Mahalapye and back. He was worried that his efforts to persuade the police that Kunene had been murdered had backfired; their focus was now on him as a suspect. The large, lumbering detective was much sharper than he appeared. And his meeting with Uranium and Nickel Exploration had not gone well. They saw their big discovery slipping away between obfuscation and bureaucratic delays. They wanted action. He’d explained that his key contact was gone, murdered, but they hadn’t been satisfied.

  When he pulled his car up in front of his apartment building, he was tired, and so he was careless. He used the remote car lock and walked toward the main door of the complex without checking the street. His only warning of the attack was the slightest sound behind him, only heard at all because of his combat training. He started to turn, and the kick to the back of his knee that would have dropped him hit it on the side instead. He staggered backward, but managed to maintain his balance and swing around to face the assailant. The man was already on top of him, and his right hand held a knife aimed to strike upward into the chest cavity. Newsom twisted away and felt a searing pain as the knife sliced into his stomach muscles. He screamed, lashing out with his right leg while going for the knife arm with his left hand. The attacker easily avoided the kick, dancing out of reach.

  Newsom knew he was in trouble. He was losing blood from the stomach wound, and although his assailant was shorter than he was, the man was obviously trained in martial arts, and he had a knife. All Newsom could see of his face were dark eyes watching through the slits in the ski mask covering his head. Newsom absorbed all this in the instant before the man was at him again, slashing with the knife to keep Newsom occupied, while he aimed a vicious kick to the groin. Newsom, punching the knife arm away, twisted, and the kick took him on the thigh. He bellowed and staggered back, feeling the knife slash his right arm. His training took over, and his left hand shot out for the knife arm, and against the odds, he felt his fingers close on the wrist. He grabbed at the man’s other hand, but it was too quick for him, snatching the knife from the imprisoned hand and digging the blade into Newsom’s bicep. Newsom yelled again, and this time he heard an answering shout and the sound of someone running toward them. The attacker heard it too and was distracted for the split second it took for Newsom to slam his fist into the man’s head. He staggered back and wrenched his hand free, avoiding Newsom’s kick aimed between his legs. Then he started to run down the street away from the approaching shouts. Newsom took a few steps after him, but the pain was too much, and he sank to his knees. Blood soaked his trousers. He pressed his right hand against his stomach, trying to stanch the bleeding.

  A moment later a young Motswana man ran up to him. “Rra! What’s happened to you? I heard the shouts…” But Newsom was slumped on the ground and didn’t reply.

  PART 5

  CHAPTER 28

  “You tell me you make problem go way.” The man behind the desk showed no emotion, but his eyes signaled his anger. “But problem still problem. What you do?”

  “I’m sure the chief will approve the mine expansion,” the young black man said. “I’ve been working very hard to make sure of that.”

  The man sitting at the side of the room translated. The man behind the desk didn’t react, didn’t say anything. It was impossible to read what he was thinking.

  Julius wasn’t used to silence and began to sweat. “And I have a plan if he doesn’t. But I think he’ll accept your offer, because it’s very generous. There are many people who want it.”

  Again a translation. Again no reaction.

  “Mr. Hong, the chief is going to tell us at a kgotla on Saturday—that’s a meeting of the village. I think he’ll do what the young people want. They want jobs. He’ll accept your offer.”

  Julius swallowed, his throat dry. There was still no response after the translation.

  “There’ll be trouble if the chief says no,” he continued. “The young people will be very angry and won’t listen to the chief. Then he’ll be gone, and I’ll be the new chief, and I’ll do what you want.”

  This time the translator spoke for some time—more than a translation would have required. Julius wondered what he was saying. Hong frowned. “The chief is your father. You must agree with his decision,” he stated.

  Julius shook his head. “He does not understand his people anymore. But I think I’ve persuaded him. It’s only the elders who don’t want change because of what happened last time.”

  “When will the village give an answer?” the translator asked.

  Julius looked at him. “On Saturday, Mr. Shonhu, if the chief agrees. Another week if he says no,” he said quietly.

  “Sure?”

  Julius nodded nervously. “Yes. I promise. By the end of next week you will have permission. Then you must move quickly to provide the money for moving and building the new houses. That’s what we’ve promised.”

  There was no immediate response from Hong after the translation. Eventually, he spoke. “Go with Shonhu.”

  “Come,” Shonhu said to Julius, pointing at the door.

  Julius stood up and started to leave. Then he turned to the man behind the desk. “I promise.”

  * * *

  A FEW MINUTES later, Shonhu returned to the office and stood in front of the manager’s desk.

  “The chief’s son is scared,” he said in Chinese. “I don’t think he’s tough enough to get us the right answer.”

  Hong nodded. “We’ll see by the end of the week. Until then there is nothing we can do. We must be patient. In China it would be easy. But here? These black people…” His voice trailed off without finishing the sentence.

  “But what if the chief says no?” Shonhu asked.

  Hong shrugged.

  “The chief’s son says he can fix the problem,” Shonhu said. “We will see, but I don’t think he can. So we’ll make our own plan.”

  He turned to the door. “I will take you back to the village.”

  * * *

  HONG SAT IN the back of his Gilan car as Shonhu drove from the mine toward Mahalapye. After about ten minutes, they turned off the main road toward a high barbed-wire fence that encircled a large cluster of prefabricated homes, most of which had Chinese flags fluttering above them or red pictographs on their walls. Here the road was unpaved and corrugated. The manager wished he had a Toyota Land Cruiser rather than a Chinese vehicle totally unsuited to rough roads, but he co
uldn’t be seen in a vehicle made outside his homeland.

  They turned under an ornate arch that sported a pair of heavy gates. A guard walked over, peered into the car, nodded, and pressed a remote. The gates slid back, letting the manager’s car enter. The manager was pleased. The guard’s firearm was not visible. It wouldn’t be good for the locals to see the man was armed.

  * * *

  JULIUS WAS NOT a happy man when he left the mine. Despite what he’d told the manager, he wasn’t confident that his father was going to accept the offer. And if the mine didn’t expand, he wouldn’t be paid his consulting fee—a sum that was the equivalent of several years’ salary in the area.

  He decided it was time to buy some insurance, to make sure that the village accepted the mine’s offer. He headed to the shebeen in the center of Shoshong, where he knew a large group of unemployed young men would be drinking.

  “Dumela, dumela,” he said as he walked in. Heads nodded in response. “The next round’s on me,” he shouted. “Get a drink; then come over here.” He walked to the corner of the room and sat down at one of the tables. There was a rush for the bar as the men took advantage of the offer, switching from cheap Shake Shake beer to whisky or brandy. It was the chief’s son, after all, who had made the offer.

  When most of the men had gathered around, Julius raised his hand to quiet the group. “I’m worried about the kgotla on Saturday,” he said. “I’m not sure that my father, the chief, will listen to us and accept the mine’s offer.” The men listened intently.

  “As you know, I think that’s the wrong decision,” he continued. “It’s the decision of old men with their eyes and ears closed to your needs.” There was a murmur from the crowd. “It’s the decision in favor of the past rather than your future.” The crowd murmured again, showing signs of restlessness.

  “We must show my father and the elders that the future is with us, not with tradition. We must show them that their way is wrong.”