A Death in the Family

by Michael Stanley

  “I wonder what he was up to there,” Mabaku said. “I don’t trust him.”

  “I made blowups of pictures of all Batswana who visited the building and showed them to the suspects to see if they could pick out who paid them. It seemed like a good idea, but they haven’t identified anyone yet. But we’re sticking with it.”

  “I see a few scenarios,” Mabaku said. “Now that we know the sort of things the mine is up to, I think it’s likely that they arranged for the men to stir up trouble and for the chief to be shot. In that case, forget about finding the gun or the guy walking into the admin building and making an appointment to see Shonhu. But there’s also a chance that Julius was behind it. Then the question is where did he get the gun? We should follow up on people who we know or suspect might be selling illegal weapons.”

  Kubu thought it was a long shot, but he didn’t object. He didn’t have a better idea. He took a deep breath and changed the subject cautiously. “I said my father’s murder was also wrapped up in this somehow. I’m just guessing, but I do have a theory.” He glanced at the director to see how this was being received. “My uncle told me that he thought my father had inherited something to do with land. When Julius came to see him, he told him about it. Suppose it was some sort of right over the area the mine wants or even an ancient mining lease? If so, my father would have been able to block the expansion if he’d wanted to. These people didn’t know my father and wanted to make sure he didn’t cause any problems. So they tried to get the document, if there was one. When they didn’t succeed, they killed him.” He paused. “Some of his papers, including his will, are missing. My mother and I believe they were stolen during the break-in after his murder.”

  “Have you done anything about this?” There was a growl in Mabaku’s voice.

  Kubu shook his head. “No. It’s only an idea. I’ve been thinking it through since I learned about the rare-earth possibility. Suddenly, all the stakes are much higher.”

  Mabaku mulled it over. “I think it’s a very long shot, but we’ll look into it. It’s not the way mineral titles work here, certainly not anymore. But if such a document existed, then there must be a record of it somewhere.”

  “I can check,” said Edison. He liked ferreting out information.

  Mabaku looked around, but no one else had anything to contribute. “I have a hunch Kubu is right about the mine being at the center of all these issues. But I’ve no idea what the connection is.” He shrugged. “Okay, let’s get to work.”

  * * *

  HOWEVER, THE DAYS passed, and no breakthrough occurred. There was a feeling that the case was slipping away from them. At any time, Shonhu might vanish back to China, and the common link with Newsom and Mopati would be gone. Eventually, Kubu couldn’t take it anymore. He went to see the director.

  “Director,” Kubu said as he sat down, “what has Edison come up with? He was going to follow up on all sorts of things. Has he done that?”

  Mabaku nodded. “He did, but there’s nothing there,” he growled. “The Nigerian bank was a dead end. We need to put a request to the Nigerian police through Interpol. That will take forever. We don’t have that much time. He checked the bars along Kunene’s route. Nothing. And the big disappointment is the phone tap. Nothing more of any use. Just Mopati informing the Chinese that the decision about the new mining concession has been delayed a couple of weeks. The Chinaman didn’t make a single call since the one last Friday.”

  They sat in silence for a few moments. Then Kubu asked, “What about my father’s case. Is anyone doing anything about it?”

  Mabaku took a deep breath. “Kubu, at the moment we have nothing new to go on. I know you think all the cases are connected, but we’ve no idea how.”

  “Edison was going to look for land records. Did he do that? I could—”

  “You’ll do nothing! Edison has spoken to officials in the Department of Lands and talked to several elders in the area by phone. Nobody knows anything about a document your father may have had. In fact, only one of the elders had even heard of a Bengu family from Tobela. I never believed that idea would go anywhere.” He shook his head.

  Kubu was silent again. He still felt he should be more involved. Edison worked hard, but he might miss things—especially about his father. “Damn it, Jacob. We can’t let them get away with this!”

  “And what do you suggest we do, Kubu? Tell me where I’m going wrong.” The sarcasm wasn’t wasted on Kubu. He sighed.

  “I’m sorry, Director. I know everyone’s doing their best. But we need something soon, or everything we’ve done will be wasted.”

  Mabaku nodded. They needed a break. But how were they going to get one?

  * * *

  MABAKU CALLED A meeting for Friday afternoon. He wanted a report back from everyone and hoped a little pressure might get things moving.

  “Well?” he growled. “Has anybody got anything more?”

  Nobody answered.

  “Edison. The phone tap?” Edison shook his head.

  Mabaku turned to Samantha. “Any progress on who paid the men to incite violence? Or who may have sold the handgun?”

  “There’s quite a long list of people who we suspect of being able to supply firearms of different sorts. I’ve spoken to over half of them, threatening them with all sorts of bad things. They all deny it, and the bad news is that I believe them. To be certain, I’ve shown the two men who say they were paid to cause trouble photographs of everyone I’ve spoken to. But they haven’t recognized anyone. I’ll keep on it, but I’m not really optimistic we’ll find the man.”

  Mabaku turned to Zanele. “If we start from the assumption that Shonhu was the murderer of Kunene, what can we get from the forensic evidence?”

  “We got a partial fingerprint from the hose that was put in the exhaust pipe. If that matched Shonhu’s prints, we’d have strong evidence.”

  “I presume we tried the database?” Mabaku asked.

  Zanele nodded. “Nothing. But you often don’t get matches to a partial anyway.”

  Kubu looked thoughtful. “We know he’ll be at the kgotla next Sunday, Director. Can’t we make an excuse to give him something to look at or something? Maybe a vendor asks him to hold a curio or something?”

  Zanele looked glum. “It won’t work with a partial,” she said. We really need a decent set of prints for comparison.”

  Mabaku frowned. “What about the bullet that killed the chief?”

  “It’s badly fragmented and distorted from hitting the spine. We won’t be able to match it to the gun.” She shrugged.

  “Zanele, didn’t you find a hair in the car?” Samantha asked.

  “Yes, I did. It could’ve been from someone from the East. Possibly a Chinaman.”

  “How can we get one of Shonhu’s hairs?” Edison asked.

  There was a silence in the room.

  “If we had a search warrant for his house, we’d find one easily enough,” Kubu said. “But I don’t think we’d get one just yet.”

  Mabaku shook his head. “Definitely not.”

  He looked around the table, but no one had anything more to contribute. “Well, there’s not much more we can do at the moment,” he said. “We’ll just have to be patient. That’s what this business is—paying attention to detail and patience. If we’re lucky something will break.”

  “Director, are you sure we can’t go after the Chinese with what we have now?” Samantha asked.

  “I’m sure, and the prosecutor is sure. All we’d do is alert them, and we’d not be able to stop them heading back to China. Then we’d have nothing. No, we must be patient, as hard as that is.”

  “And so, if nothing breaks, they walk away?” Samantha’s voice was husky with anger. “That’s not right!”

  “Right or not,” Mabaku responded, “that’s the way it is. It’s not easy to swallow seeing people you know are guilty getting away with what they’ve done. Unfortunately, it happens all the time. But what’s worse is when they get off
because the police have screwed up. So we just have to keep plugging away and hope we find something or someone that helps us.”

  He looked around the table. “Kubu and I are going to Shoshong on Sunday for the president’s visit. We know that the mine officials will be there, and I’m told the Chinese ambassador will be too. That’s how important this is. Normally, he wouldn’t go to a thing like this, but obviously he has pressure from above in China. If you find anything new before I leave, absolutely anything, phone me on my cell phone. I’d love an excuse to talk to them.”

  He stood up. “Kubu, I’ll pick you up at your house at one on Sunday. There’s no way I’m driving that far in your Land Rover.”

  “Yes, Director,” Kubu said. “I’ll be ready.”

  As Kubu and Samantha walked back to their offices, Kubu remarked that Samantha must look forward to having a weekend off at last.

  “I am,” she replied. “I’m way behind on my volunteering at the women’s shelter. They need all the help they can get.”

  Kubu looked at her. “You really believe that women are treated badly in Botswana, don’t you?”

  She stopped. “Don’t you?” she snapped, and walked off.

  Kubu stared after her. What an unusual woman, he thought.

  CHAPTER 47

  Kubu was delighted that Mabaku wanted to drive. The trip to Shoshong was long and boring, and Kubu was beginning to lose count of the number of times he’d done it recently. Better still, Mabaku drove a relatively new Toyota Camry with air-conditioning—something that Kubu’s Land Rover didn’t have. Kubu wasn’t sure why the commissioner wanted Mabaku there when the president addressed the kgotla, and he didn’t know why Mabaku had insisted on Kubu joining him. Perhaps it was no reason other than for company on the five-hour round-trip.

  For the first half hour or so, the two detectives talked about the various unsolved cases they had before them, but they made no progress in figuring out how they could move the cases forward other than methodically following up every potential lead. They were already doing that. Then they lapsed into the relaxed silence of two people who knew each other well.

  At last Kubu said, “I wonder if the president is worried about another riot today if he doesn’t give the mine the go-ahead.”

  “I don’t think so,” Mabaku replied as he slowed down for cows that had wandered onto the road. “I’m sure he’s confident that he can calm things down. Anyway, the army will be out in force, I’m sure, and no alcohol or weapons of any sort will be allowed. If anyone so much as thinks about disrupting proceedings, they’ll be hauled off.”

  * * *

  A MILE BEFORE they reached Shoshong, they were stopped by a military roadblock. After examining their credentials, the sergeant told them where to park, just a few blocks from where the president was going to speak, which was not at the kgotla itself, because it had too many bad memories, but on the primary school’s soccer field.

  “Everyone who’s not from here must sit in a reserved area to the right of the stage,” the sergeant said. “It’ll be cordoned off, and my men will be there to make sure nothing happens to you.”

  Even though it was still an hour before the president was scheduled to speak, the roads were packed with people. To Kubu’s eye, the atmosphere was subdued—few were talking, and there was a noticeable lack of laughing and singing that typically accompanied groups of Batswana going to a meeting.

  “At least no one is carrying a knobkierie,” Mabaku said. “The army must be doing its job.”

  “I hope nobody has a gun in his pocket,” Kubu muttered.

  * * *

  AFTER THEY PARKED, Mabaku and Kubu were escorted to the visitor enclosure, which had space for about forty people and was roped off from the rest of the seats. A rioting mob wouldn’t even notice the ropes, Kubu thought, but the presence of at least a platoon of armed soldiers gave him confidence. Mabaku led the way to the back row. “We can keep an eye on things better from here,” he said.

  Kubu recognized some of the other people nearby, mainly journalists, and Mabaku pointed out representatives from several foreign embassies, South Africa, the UK, Australia, and the United States among them. Countries with mining interests, Kubu thought. There were also a few people from a variety of human rights NGOs. The Chinese ambassador was also there with an older and a younger companion. The older, Kubu assumed to be the mine manager, Hong, and the younger to be their man of interest, Shonhu.

  Kubu gazed at him. He was stocky, looked to be in good shape, and was constantly scanning the crowd. Suddenly, he turned around, and their eyes locked. Then Shonhu turned and whispered something in Hong’s ear. Hong turned, looked at Kubu, and turned away. There was another whispered discussion.

  Julius must have told them about me, Kubu thought. Probably nothing true. But they’re soon going to find out what sort of person I really am.

  A few minutes later, the director of mines arrived. As he walked to his seat, he acknowledged the three Chinese. Then he noticed Mabaku and Kubu and nodded a greeting. Little does he know what is ahead for him, Kubu thought. He’s probably feeling pretty good right now.

  * * *

  AT QUARTER PAST four, the presidential helicopter flew overhead and landed in a field at the edge of the village, sending a cloud of red sand billowing into the air.

  When the president arrived at the meeting a few minutes later, Kubu was surprised to see who climbed the steps to the platform. He could understand a couple of elders being there, including Nwako, the fortunate elder who had missed the ill-fated kgotla. He’d also expected the commissioner. But he did not expect Julius. But there he was, looking appropriately somber, as he followed the president up the stairs.

  Kubu was even more surprised when Julius stood in front of the microphone and told the gathering that he was acting chief and there on behalf of the people. He introduced the president and welcomed him to the kgotla. At least he showed good taste and didn’t make a speech, Kubu thought.

  For the next fifteen minutes, the president extolled the virtues of the kgotla system, saying that it had stood the test of time and served Botswana well. Then he admonished the people of Shoshong for reacting to the old chief’s decision in the way they had.

  “It is not the way we do things in Botswana,” the president said. “Even if you disagree, there are established ways of handling that.”

  This didn’t go down well with the younger crowd, and Kubu heard a number of very disgruntled comments.

  “At the same time,” the president continued, “I fully understand that you want to work, and there is little or no work for you here. Expanding the mine would have provided several hundred jobs, which is what Shoshong needs. I can’t guarantee how many jobs there will be in the future, but I will tell you that whatever company gets the mining lease, it will provide a lot of jobs. I will direct the minister of Minerals, Energy, and Water Resources to make that a prerequisite for getting any lease.”

  For the first time since he stood up, there was an approving murmur from the crowd. Kubu glanced at Mopati, who sat with a big grin on his face.

  “In addition, because it is necessary to delay the decision on granting the lease for a couple of weeks, I have instructed that the road between Mahalapye and Shoshong be upgraded immediately. The Department of Roads will start work sometime this week and will need at least fifty strong men to help.” There was another murmur of approval.

  “I know it is not enough, but it is a good start.” He looked at the crowd. “And finally, I have instructed the Department of Tourism to make Shoshong a priority cultural tourist destination—after all, it is one of the most prominent towns in our country’s history. This will entail training several of you to be tour guides, as well as hiring some of you to upgrade the cemetery and other historical places.” He paused. “Please be patient as we implement these initiatives. We will do whatever is possible to get you work. Finally, I want to extend my deepest sympathies to all who lost loved ones in the troubles. And th
at includes the police who died in the line of duty. Thank you.”

  This time the crowd applauded warmly. The president had the reputation for keeping his word, so there was optimism that jobs would start becoming available quite soon.

  Julius jumped up and thanked the president. “Thank you, Mr. President. Thank you. We need the jobs badly.” He turned to the crowd. “The president has kindly agreed to take your questions. If you have one, please come to the microphone next to the stage, say your name, and ask your question.”

  He looked around expectantly.

  For a few moments, nobody moved. Then a young man in a dirty T-shirt came forward.

  “Kgosi,” he said. “My name is Dume. I thank you for coming to Shoshong to help us. I listened carefully to you this afternoon and how you thought the kgotla was a good system. The problems we had last time were because the chief didn’t understand what was happening. He was living in the past. So my question is this: because things change so quickly these days, wouldn’t it be better to run the kgotla in a democratic way? The chief and elders would still provide their wisdom, but decisions would be made by democratic vote. Thank you.”

  Mabaku leaned over to Kubu and whispered, “I bet he wasn’t prepared for that question! I wonder what he’ll say.”

  The president took his time moving to the microphone. “Rra Dume, thank you for your question. It shows me that the community here is thinking about how we, as a country, best govern ourselves.”

  “He’s stalling!” Kubu said.

  “For the first time since I have been president, I am beginning to hear people say that we should think about the system we have now, which is different from most democratic countries. They want the same as America or Germany or the United Kingdom. They want to get rid of a system that made Botswana strong.”

  He picked up a glass of water and took a deep drink.

  “As you know, we have two systems working at the same time—the national legal system, based on English law, and the traditional system such as we have here today. If we were to be totally based on the English system, all crimes would be tried in court, often nowhere near where the people live. The court wouldn’t know them, their families, or their histories. The traditional system attempts to operate as a family, where everyone knows everyone else. It is not perfect, but it generally works well.”