A Death in the Family

by Michael Stanley

  Mzi shrugged. “They didn’t care. Why should they? My mother found someone else, and they brought me up. After a fashion. They never got a thebe from my father.”

  Kubu felt the unfairness of that but put it aside and tried to change the subject. “Do I have any cousins?”

  Mzi shrugged. “Probably.” That seemed the end of that discussion.

  Kubu sighed and got back to the point. “Can you think of anything that might have led someone to kill my father? Anything from the past, even long ago?”

  Mzi seemed to consider it, then shrugged again. “I never knew him that well.”

  Kubu sighed again but felt obliged to push on, so he told Mzi about the visitor supposedly from Tobela. As Kubu told the story, the old man looked uncomfortable. He looked down at the table and focused on his empty glass. “I need another brandy,” he said, shoving the glass toward Kubu. Without argument, Kubu bought him another.

  Mzi grabbed it and took a gulp. “There was a man here looking for your father. Said it was a business proposition. I don’t know how he found me, but people know me around here.” He wouldn’t meet Kubu’s eyes.

  “What did you do?”

  “I told him Wilmon lived in Mochudi.”

  “You set up the meeting, didn’t you? You called my father from the pay phone up the road.”

  Mzi nodded. “The man said there’d be something in it for me if the deal went through. That it would be a big windfall for Wilmon. Fuck it. I thought I was helping him!”

  “How much did he pay you?”

  Mzi shrugged. “A few pula. A couple of drinks.”

  “You made two calls to Wilmon to arrange the meeting?”

  Mzi nodded.

  “Why didn’t you tell the police this? It’s vitally important!”

  “That snooty young girl? She only drank water and was rude because we didn’t believe she was a real policeman at first. Why did you send her? Didn’t you care enough about your father to come yourself?”

  Kubu battled to keep his temper. After everything he’d gone through to try to help catch his father’s murderer, this derelict was accusing him of not caring. And out of pique he’d kept information to himself, critical information. Mzi saw the anger on Kubu’s face, pushed his chair back a bit, and swallowed the rest of his drink in one gulp. Without a word, Kubu grabbed the empty glass and headed to the bar. “Another brandy and coke,” he told the bartender. “A single this time. And a brandy for me too.”

  “Single or double?”

  “Single. Neat with ice.”

  By the time he got back, he’d calmed down. He took a sip of the brandy. “Who was this man?”

  Mzi shook his head. “I hadn’t met him before. Someone pointed me out to him.”

  “Did he have a name?”

  “Called himself Rra Tau. Many people call themselves Tau. I don’t think it was his real name.”

  “Would you recognize him again?”

  “Sure. It was only two weeks ago.” Kubu had a shrewd guess about who Mzi’s visitor had been, but he knew it wouldn’t get him any closer to the truth. Julius would just say he was following the chief’s instructions and didn’t want to give his real name in case Mzi tried to get more money. Kubu had to know what it was that Julius had wanted.

  “What did he tell you about the deal?”

  “Nothing. Just that it would be good for Wilmon. That’s why I helped him.”

  “Think. There must have been something!”

  Mzi frowned. “He said something about land for the mine.”

  That was consistent with what Julius had told them.

  “Do you remember exactly what he said?”

  Mzi shook his head.

  “Well, they did meet. My father became very angry and shouted at the man. He said, ‘It’s for my son. It will stay in the family.’ Does that mean anything to you?”

  For many seconds, Mzi sipped at his drink. At last he asked, “Didn’t you check his will?”

  This time Kubu’s frustration got the better of him, and he slammed his glass down on the table. “We can’t find the damn will! My mother’s home was broken into, and we think it was stolen from the house.”

  Again Mzi thought for what seemed a long time. “There was something. I remember my mother was very angry. Wilmon got something from our grandfather. Something to do with land. She felt it should’ve been shared, but of course it went to Wilmon. I didn’t take much notice of what she said, though. When she was angry and she’d had a few drinks, it was best to keep out of her way.”

  Suddenly, Kubu felt sorry for this old man. Bitterness had spoiled his life. Bitterness and jealousy of a brother who’d started with little more than he had but who’d made something of his life.

  Wilmon must have inherited something tangible, Kubu mused. It couldn’t just have been a little money spent long ago on his house or Amantle’s lobola, because in that case there would be nothing left now to “stay in the family.” Mzi’s mother had mentioned land. But not land that could be lived on, or at least his father never had. Could it be something to do with mineral rights? That would tie in with the mine, but all mineral rights belonged to the government of Botswana. And whatever it was, why had Wilmon never mentioned it to his wife or his son? His uncle’s answers had just led to more questions.

  “Mzi, thank you. You’ve helped me a lot. Tomorrow the policewoman will come to see you and take your statement.”

  “I’ve helped you. Why should I help her?”

  “Just do it. Have a glass of water with her.” Kubu offered his right hand, touching it with his left in a gesture of respect to an older person. After a moment Mzi shook Kubu’s hand, and then, without a word, he turned and made his way unsteadily back to his friends.

  Kubu was relieved to see that his car was still where he’d left it, and undamaged. He phoned Samantha, and although she was still cross with him, she promised to find the time the next day to take a statement from Mzi and see if he could identify a picture of Julius.

  Then he sat in the car and puzzled about how mining in Shoshong seemed to be at the center of, or at least connected to, all the cases. It had led to the riot; Newsom worked for a company with mineral interests nearby; Kunene had been a civil servant in the Department of Mines. And his father. His father would have had nothing to do with the mine; he’d used to say that what you take out of the ground ought to be something you can eat. But was it possible that somehow he’d had land rights important to the mine? Rights that would “stay in the family” and be “for his son”? Kubu shook his head. Wilmon had been a humble man—poor in money but rich in everything that mattered. Julius’s story made more sense. It had all been confusion, a mistake. Except for one thing. A week after the meeting, his father was lying in a Mochudi street, murdered.

  Then he phoned Joy to let her know that he was on his way and, with mixed emotions, turned onto the A1 and headed home to Gaborone.

  PART 6

  CHAPTER 36

  “It is going to be cold in America in February, David. You must take a jersey and your winter coat.”

  “Yes, Mother,” Kubu replied. “I’m sure I’ll be fine. Ten million people live in New York, and they survive.”

  “But I am sure they have good coats. And wear gloves too. Do you have any gloves?”

  “The only gloves I have are gardening gloves, Mother. And I’m sure that they wouldn’t be acceptable at an Interpol meeting. I’ll buy some at the airport.”

  “And what about a hat? Everyone in the TV shows wears a hat in winter, or one of those ugly knitted things that they pull down over their ears.”

  “I think they call them stocking hats, Mother. Maybe they’re made from old socks.”

  “And don’t forget to take some boots, in case it snows. You could ruin your shoes if you have to walk in the snow. It can be very wet, I am told.”

  Kubu wondered who had told his mother about snow. And how did she know what people wore in winter in the United States? She didn’
t have a television. He shook his head. Mothers were amazing—they knew everything.

  “Yes, Mother. I agree! I must be prepared for cold weather. I’ll pack properly.”

  “What time do you leave this afternoon?”

  “I catch the five o’clock Air Botswana flight to Johannesburg, then a nonstop flight to New York on South African Airways.”

  “Is South African Airways safe? I have heard that they have been having a lot of crashes since the government fired all the white pilots.”

  Kubu walked over to his mother and put his arm around her. The unexpected display of affection startled her.

  “Mother, South African Airways is as safe as any airline in the world. And they haven’t fired any white pilots. They’re just training more black pilots, just like here in Botswana. Please don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

  “Are you sure your coat is heavy enough?”

  “Yes, Mother. I’m sure. Please would you go and make me a cup of tea.”

  “You must have a big meal, too. You have been eating too little recently, and my friends say that the food on airplanes is not good, and there is very little of it. I will make you something filling.”

  “Please, Mother. I’ll be fine. Just a cup of tea, please.”

  * * *

  AS AMANTLE SHUFFLED into the kitchen, Kubu walked onto the veranda and gazed at the garden of succulents. He didn’t want to go to the Interpol meeting and was angry at Mabaku for sending him. He gritted his teeth. I’m no use ten thousand kilometers away, in freezing weather, talking about something I know nothing about.

  He walked down the steps onto the gravel path that wound through the garden. He kicked at the stones, disturbing a bird from a pawpaw skin that Joy must have put out. In Kubu’s opinion, because of its strange assortment of colors, the bird could have been designed by a committee of detectives from the CID—each having a say but none having a plan. But what sort of bird it was, he had no idea, only that its prolonged trill had awakened him that morning far earlier than he’d planned.

  As he wandered around the garden, he thought about all the cases. There appeared to be little or no progress with the investigation into his father’s murder. And he could not come up with any reason at all why someone would steal his father’s will. What was in it that had attracted such violence? Neither he nor his mother could imagine any scenario that made sense.

  And he was no further along with the murder of Kunene—he was sure it was a murder. And what about Newsom? He was involved with Kunene in some way and perhaps attacked by the same person. And maybe his father was also killed by the same man. He could make no sense of it.

  Kubu stopped. Perhaps there was a silver lining to the unwanted American trip. He could try to contact Newsom. Maybe the person who answered the phone would pass on a message if Kubu was actually in the country. A long shot, perhaps, but worth a try.

  This new possibility lifted Kubu’s spirits a little, and he headed inside for his cup of tea. He might even manage a biscuit, if his mother offered him one.

  * * *

  AFTER THE LAID-BACK security at the Sir Seretse Khama Airport in Gaborone, Kubu was not prepared for the rigorous screening in Johannesburg. He was taken aback when the alarm sounded as he walked through the metal detector.

  “Please go back and take your belt off, sir. Then step through again.”

  “But it didn’t go off in Gaborone!” Kubu exclaimed.

  The security agent shrugged. “Please go back, sir, and take off your belt.”

  Kubu complied, holding his pants to prevent them slipping down, but the alarm went off again.

  Kubu began to feel both embarrassed and irritated.

  “Are you sure you don’t have cash or a cell phone or something else made of metal in your pockets, sir?”

  It took Kubu some time to check his pockets as he could only use one hand at a time.

  “I’m sure there’s nothing. I put my phone and my camera in the tray. And my cash.”

  “Walk through again.”

  Again Kubu went through the detector. Again, the alarm sounded. Kubu heard a groan from the line of people behind him.

  The security guard pointed to a spot away from the X-ray machine. “Please stand over there. Face me and put both hands out to the side.”

  Now Kubu was acutely embarrassed. “Please can I put my belt back on?”

  “When I’ve patted you down.”

  Kubu spread his legs as wide as possible to prevent his pants from slipping all the way to the floor. The security agent ran his hands over Kubu’s arms and chest but couldn’t reach his back, so he had to go behind Kubu to check. Kubu nearly jumped when two hands gripped the top of his thigh, slid down toward his knee, and finished at his ankle. He grimaced as the same procedure was repeated on the other leg.

  “Must be your shoes,” the agent snapped. “Take them off and put them on a tray.”

  “I’m sorry,” Kubu said to the woman still waiting to go through the metal detector. “I haven’t been through security here before. It’s not like this in Botswana.”

  He put his shoes on a tray and pushed it through the X-ray machine. Then he stepped through the metal detector once again, holding his breath. This time the alarm did not go off.

  “It’s your shoes. Where are you going?”

  “To New York.”

  “You’ll have to take them off before you go through security there. They’re much tougher than we are.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Kubu said as he threaded his belt through the loops. He couldn’t imagine anything more intrusive than what he’d just been through. “Thank you for the advice.”

  By the time Kubu had put himself together, gathered his belongings, and negotiated customs and immigration, he was completely frazzled. He ignored the glitzy duty-free shops and went in search of a bar. There was still over an hour before boarding, and after his ordeal at security, he needed a glass or two of wine.

  CHAPTER 37

  Ian McGregor adjusted his protective clothing and left his small office adjoining the morgue at the Princess Marina Hospital. He was deeply depressed, not because of the autopsies ahead—that was his job and he was used to it—but because his faith in the people of the adopted country he loved had been shaken to the core. The Batswana talked problems through, reached consensus, worked together. Ubuntu. How then the horrific blowup that led to the seven corpses chilling in the drawers next door? He wished he could chat to Kubu, who was a friend as well as a colleague. But he assumed Kubu was in Shoshong.

  The bodies had been brought from Mahalapye by two ambulances overnight, so this was his first look. He knew Director Mabaku would want a preliminary report as soon as possible, so he decided to do a quick external examination of the bodies before he started on the autopsies. The two policemen and two old men—two of the elders at the meeting he supposed—had dreadful injuries. They had been battered with blunt objects, probably knobkieries. He would do complete autopsies over the next couple of days to see exactly what had led to their deaths, but he expected no surprises.

  He took out the body of a young man who was not a policeman. One of the rioters, he supposed. There was no surprise here either. A bullet wound in the chest. Fortunately this was the only death from police fire, but he’d been told several people were in hospital also with bullet wounds. He sighed as he closed the drawer—the man had died so young.

  There were two left: Chief Koma and another elder. He left the chief until last; he might as well start the autopsies with him. When he looked at the elder, he was intrigued. He had also been beaten, but not as badly as the others, and the lividity and lack of bleeding indicated that the wounds may have been postmortem. Ian’s professional curiosity was peaked. Here was an issue worth investigating. Probably the old man had died of fright, as a layman might say. Ian would find the physiological cause of that.

  Then he checked Chief Koma. He, too, had been battered, but there was a curious patch of blood on the back of his shirt.
Suspecting a stab wound, Ian cut away the shirt to expose the flesh. Then he realized at once what the wound was.

  * * *

  MABAKU FELT THEY were making progress. Leads were coming together; people were starting to talk. He was hopeful that by the end of the week, they could tell the president that the investigation was essentially complete and the perpetrators of the violence brought to book. His positive mood was interrupted by his cell phone. It took him a moment to fish it out of his pocket, and he answered without checking the caller.

  “Mabaku.”

  “Director, it’s Ian McGregor here. I’ve taken a look at all the bodies. Very preliminary at this stage, but there’s something you should know at once.”

  “Go on.” Mabaku didn’t like the sound of this.

  “From a superficial examination, I would say that the two policemen and two of the elders died from repeated blows from a blunt weapon, possibly a knobkierie or the like. No surprises there. The other elder seems to have been battered after he died. I’m guessing he had a heart attack or a massive stroke. I’ll be able to confirm that later. But Chief Koma…” He paused. “Chief Koma was shot. Shot in the back. The bullet lodged in the spine. That would have killed him. He was also battered, but maybe after he was shot. I can’t be sure at this point, though.”

  For a moment Mabaku was speechless. Suddenly, the whole scenario had changed.

  “Director? Are you there?”

  “Yes, yes. Was it a stray bullet from a police weapon?” Mabaku realized this would be a public-relations nightmare, but at least that wouldn’t be his problem.

  “That’s what I thought at first, but it’s not right. I extracted the bullet. It’s not police issue. The weight is more appropriate for something like a .22.”

  Mabaku sighed. Now it certainly was his problem. He asked Ian for more information, but the pathologist didn’t have anything else to give him.

  “I’ll do a full autopsy on the chief now and try to determine whether the other wounds were postmortem. But I’ll need some time, Director.”