Detective Kubu 01; A Carrion Death

by Michael Stanley

  He realises that someone is speaking to him. It is Peter Tshukudu, his unpleasant visitor of the night before. “The Old Man is ready now,” he says.

  Again Bongani wonders why he has allowed himself to be involved in this charade. He knows what is in the lion-skin pouch—Tshukudu’s trophy, the desiccated finger—and also knows how inappropriate it is for the witchdoctor to have it.

  Tshukudu walks to the camping table, selects the lion-skin pouch, and gives it to the Old Man, who clenches it tightly in his right hand. He starts to move rhythmically, this time to some internal beat only he can hear, and his trance deepens. After a while he starts to speak to Bongani, who only understands a few of the words. But Tshukudu is there to interpret.

  “He says this person was murdered. He says that animals were not the killers.” It isn’t common knowledge that the police suspect foul play, but Bongani is not surprised that rumours move fast in this small community. “He says that they stole from this person. He says that they stole his mowa.”

  Bongani recognises this last word. It means ‘breath’, but also much more; it means identity, soul. With a shock he is swamped by an old horror he thought long forgotten. There are said to be evil spirits that will steal mowa and take it for purposes that should not be imagined lest that in itself attracts their attention. The body left behind will continue to function behind vacant eyes, going through its daily routine, but with no guiding force within. These are tales from childhood. They are deliciously scary at the time, but you don’t really believe them. Nevertheless, they stay in your subconscious waiting to emerge when they are least wanted. The sudden shock on top of the drink leaves him nauseous.

  The Old Man stops talking and swaying and is now standing rigid. He holds out his right hand towards Bongani and opens the fingers. Defying gravity, the pouch flies towards Bongani, who watches, frozen. It falls among the other men to his left, who scramble away, knocking over chairs in their haste not to be touched by this thing. There is no more laughter or talk now. Bongani’s head pounds as adrenalin fights with alcohol and calabash drugs. He has to escape. Even as he tells himself not to be stupid, not to panic about sleight of hand or obvious deductions from common knowledge, he lurches to his feet. Bongani walks with clenched jaw, but does not run, from the circle into the night. The derisive laughter of the Old Man follows him, soon joined by comments and laughter from the men as their tension drains away.

  The next morning Bongani woke up headachy and drained. He could hardly believe his reaction to the events of the night before. Things that leave their victims drained of identity have no need to smash jaws and scatter teeth to obviate dental records. He had made a fool of himself and been laughed at, and deservedly so. Now it was time to put the matter behind him and get back to work. He was impressed by Kubu. It was the detective’s business to find out who this man was, to restore to him his identity, and to punish his killers. Nothing more was possible.

  But if Bongani believed that his involvement with the grisly murder was over, he was going to be sorely disappointed.

  ∨ A Carrion Death ∧

  PART TWO

  Nature’s Needs

  “Allow not nature more than nature needs, Man’s life is cheap as beast’s.”

  Shakespeare, King Lear, Act II, Scene 4

  SIX WEEKS EARLIER: JANUARY 2006

  ∨ A Carrion Death ∧

  CHAPTER 8

  The dream was always the same. He was flying his brother’s Cap 10, and he loved it. He had never flown a plane, but in the dream it felt like an extension of his body. Without conscious thought he could move his muscles and control the plane. He rocketed to two thousand feet, levelled off, rolled the plane on to its back, and pulled back sharply, causing it to dive backwards towards the ground—a perfect split S. He levelled off at fifty feet and did a leisurely barrel roll, then climbed to cruise at a thousand feet, exhilarated. Below him he saw a group of Bushman people staring up at the plane. He waved and called to them, telling of his joy in their own language, but as always, there was no response.

  Suddenly the cockpit filled with flames. He felt the heat and inhaled smoke and fire. There was searing pain, and he blacked out. Then the perspective changed and, to his temporary relief, he stood on the ground with the Bushmen, watching the plane gently dive with smoke pouring out of the cockpit. He thought he heard screams. He called out to the Bushmen, “It’s not me! It wasn’t me! It wasn’t me!” But they only stared into the sky, watching the plane descend, turn slowly on to its back, and eventually hit the ground. There was a moment of silence. Then there was an explosion; fire engulfed the plane and spread inexorably and inexplicably across the sand towards them. He stood frozen, not daring to look at the Bushmen; knowing that if he did, he would find them changed into other creatures. Then the fire reached him, melting the ground beneath his feet, and they descended together into the deathless flames.

  Cecil Hofmeyr woke drenched with sweat, a scream of horror petrified in his throat. He shook with feverish spasms, drawing his legs into a foetal position as if to save them from the fire. At last his breathing became calmer. He got out of bed and walked to the window, pulled the curtains apart, and threw open the window as though the Botswana night air could cool him when the air conditioning could not. The near-full moon was directly overhead, and he could see the garden clearly in monochrome. That cold light comforted him.

  In the bush, prey animals—antelope, zebra, wildebeest, giraffe—would be glad, too, of that extra visibility, extra safety. In Africa the full moon is a blessing; it has none of the bad connotations of Western legend. Six weeks later, two rangers would long for its support as they faced a gruelling night guarding a corpse from hyenas by starlight alone. However, Cecil knew nothing of these things as he gulped the cool air and felt reality return.

  He collapsed into an easy chair near the bed, trying to relax, but not daring to go back to sleep. It’s Kobedi, he thought. That’s why I’m having the dream again after all these months. It’s him. It is always him. His mind returned to the meeting of the previous afternoon—Kobedi’s unwelcome visit.

  Kobedi had insisted on the meeting, and eventually Cecil had reluctantly agreed. Kobedi pretended to be an agricultural consultant—an expert on cattle grazing requirements. It was a simple way of gaining access to Cecil at the office without raising anyone’s suspicions. He arrived punctually for his appointment at four o’clock. Cecil’s secretary showed him in, but pointedly reminded Cecil of another appointment at half past four.

  “What do you want?” Cecil asked, neither rising from his chair nor offering Kobedi a seat. Kobedi just laughed and settled himself into a chair in front of the desk. He still had a touch of animal magnetism, with fine facial features and a good build. However, his face was puffed by alcohol and loose living, and fat blurred the once muscle-sharp outlines of his body. A blown rose, Cecil thought. How did I ever find this snake attractive?

  “I think that you need some more consulting help, Cecil. Things aren’t going too well around here from what I hear. Should we say twenty thousand pulas’ worth?” Kobedi smiled. He still had teeth like pearls.

  “We had an arrangement,” Cecil said. “A final arrangement. It didn’t involve any more consulting. I’ll be seeing my nephew shortly. Once he’s thirty he will have the shares to call the shots in the company, and the Trust will be his and his sister’s. I will need their support to continue running the business. I can’t afford any more consulting.”

  “Cecil, I expect that my input will be of great value. I think they’d be very disappointed to hear about the things we have worked so hard to conceal.”

  Cecil abandoned all pretence of politeness. “Look, you filthy scum, I’ve paid and paid for what happened all those years ago. I won’t give you another thebe. Now get out of here.”

  Kobedi gave the knife a twist. “You’re forgetting how much I did for you, Cecil. Everything you’ve got is because of that. I’ll be very disappointed if you forget how mu
ch you owe me.”

  Cecil’s voice rose. “You did nothing for me, Kobedi. You did it for yourself. Roland saw right through you from the start. You were finished. If you hadn’t killed him, he would have seen to it that you rotted in jail. Roland knew what your so-called consulting involved. You were dead.”

  “Oh, yes, Cecil, we were both dead. That’s why you wanted him out of the way. You told me that. That’s why I did it. Because you told me so.” He gestured at the luxurious office. “And you ended up the main man as a bonus. Did you think you could pay for all this with a handful of pulas and have a few fucks thrown in? You make me sick, you ungrateful bastard. You’re worried about your nephew? I’ll deal with him for you. Why not? I’ve done it for you before. You should be worrying about me. Accidents happen, you know. Not only to planes.”

  Cecil was so angry he stood up. “I never want to see you again, you stinking blackmailer! I’m warning you, accidents don’t only happen to Hofmeyrs. Now get out of here.”

  Kobedi just laughed. “You’re threatening me? You haven’t got the guts, Cecil, or your nephew and I would have been history long ago. Leave that sort of thing to me. It’ll cost you, but so what? Money is no object, is it?”

  He got up. “It’s nice to see you again, Cecil. Still a good-looking guy, even at—what is it now?—fiftyish? Maybe we could have a drink together some time? What do you think? No extra charge. Just make sure the cheque for the twenty’s in the mail, as the saying goes.” He walked towards the door. Before he opened it, he turned back to Cecil.

  “I think you’ll be needing quite a bit more of my services actually. We may have to negotiate an increased rate. Inflation’s bad, you know. And the lousy exchange rate! You’ve no idea what decent Scotch costs in town these days.” Without waiting for a reply, he opened the office door, left it open, and waved cheerfully to the secretary on his way out.

  His recollection of the meeting brought the anger rushing back to Cecil.

  “I’ll see you in hell first,” he said aloud to himself, the anger giving him courage to get back into bed and face sleep. He no longer thought of himself as a religious man, but he instantly regretted the phrase. With a sudden chill, he thought it might yet turn out to be literally true.

  ∨ A Carrion Death ∧

  CHAPTER 9

  Cecil came down to breakfast at nine o’clock. He still felt tired, although the rest of the night had been undisturbed by nightmares. He always took breakfast on the patio next to the pool unless the weather was bad, which was seldom. There was toast and croissants with various accompaniments, and scrambled eggs and bacon on a covered hot tray.

  Dianna was already sitting in the sun on a recliner next to the pool, her white one-piece swimsuit showing off a respectable tan. Her skin seems to remember the Botswana sun after all the years in England, Cecil thought. But of course it had had the sun of the Riviera and the Adriatic to remind it, as well as her occasional hunting trips back to Botswana. She sat with her legs crossed, a plate on her lap. On the plate were a fruit knife and a green apple peel carefully removed in one long spiral. She was eating the crisp white fruit.

  She had a good figure, which she worked at—she’d probably been in the basement gym before her swim—and an interesting rather than pretty face, the planes and features of Roland’s face softened to a feminine incarnation. Very much her father’s daughter, Cecil thought. Not much evidence of her prissy society mother.

  “Hello, Uncle Cecil,” she said. “You’re up late this morning.”

  “I didn’t sleep very well. How are you today? Was the bed comfortable? Didn’t miss your fancy hotel suite? Where’s Angus?”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I slept very well. Glad I didn’t battle back to the hotel after the party. Angus left early to pack up at the Grand Palm and catch a plane to South Africa. He’s attending that Botswana trade seminar in Cape Town. It seems he doesn’t expect to find it too demanding—he took his golf clubs and tennis racquet. Talked about going diving too.” She said this with a mixture of anger and irony. “He’ll be back just before the cocktail party next week.”

  “Oh yes, I’d forgotten about that.” Cecil helped himself to some toast and covered it first with butter and then jam. “I thought he wanted to visit the Maboane mine again?” he added carefully.

  “Yes, I think he was impressed with the manager, Jason.”

  “Jason Ferraz.”

  Dianna nodded. “They got on well together when Jason took him around. Jason promised to show him some of the archaeological sites in the area and to take him hunting gemsbok if he came again. I suppose he’ll fit that in after he gets back from the coast.”

  Cecil didn’t reply, but took a bite of his toast.

  “You know, Uncle Cecil,” Dianna continued, “I need to get my brain engaged again.” She put the plate carefully on the side table next to her and turned towards Cecil, leaning slightly forward. “The whole world changes in about six weeks when Angus and I turn thirty, and he takes control of the Trust. I think I should get to understand BCMC’s businesses better. I’m particularly interested in the resources side of the business. Did I tell you that one of my masters projects was on the role mineral resources will play in African development? And that when I worked as an analyst, it was in the resources area?”

  Cecil digested this with another mouthful of toast, chewing slowly. He wasn’t quite sure how to react to this approach. Dianna was obviously a bright young woman—her success at the London School of Economics was proof of that—but she had never shown any direct interest in the company nor in the Trust. In fact, this was the first time that their thirtieth birthday had come up in conversation. His instincts told him to tread warily, but he felt this could be an opportunity to sense which way the wind was blowing. The office could wait.

  “How do you think Angus feels about the company and the future? Which way will he want it to go, do you think?”

  For a moment Dianna said nothing, concentrating on the last scraps of fruit around the apple core. “You’re actually just like Dad, aren’t you, Uncle Cecil? I’m the one with an MSC in economics at LSE, but it’s Angus’s opinion you care about. He read Arts at Oxford, majoring in rugby and rowing.”

  She has flashes of Roland’s temperament too, Cecil thought, hearing the bitterness in her voice. “Actually, I care much more about your opinion than I do his,” he said, trying to make it sound sincere. “You know that I’ve been in charge up to now, but your father’s wish was that Angus would take over when he turned thirty. It’s Angus who’ll have control of the Trust. After his birthday, he’ll be able to say how the trust votes its forty per cent of the BCMC stock. The government always votes its ten per cent with the Trust. So, with fifty per cent of the company stock in his pocket, Angus will be able to do what he wants.”

  “Aren’t you hurt that Daddy left you only twelve and a half per cent of the Trust, Uncle Cecil?” she asked, still ignoring his original question. “After all, you’ve managed it for fifteen years for us all, and you’ve been chairman of BCMC for almost as long.”

  Cecil was quiet for a few moments. Careful to keep his voice neutral he said, “When your father set up the Trust, he expected to be alive when Angus turned thirty. He was generous to include me at all.”

  She shrugged. “You want to know how Angus will react? Angus doesn’t really care about any of this. He cares about his sports and his friends and, of course, his women—of which there are plenty, by the way. He’ll be more than happy to leave you to run BCMC, provided the money keeps flowing. What do you want to see happen?”

  “I thought the two of you should be appointed as non-executive directors. I could carry on as executive chairman for the next few years until Angus knows the ropes and is ready to take over. I thought you might be interested in an executive position, perhaps the financial director’s job, in due course.” He watched to see how she reacted to this carrot. God knew that someone smart would have to keep financial control with Angus running t
he show, if he were really as casual about it as she suggested.

  “I’ve been accepted for an MBA at Harvard. That’s one possibility I’m considering. But I think it would be good to have hands-on experience here before I go.”

  Cecil helped himself to fresh coffee. Could it really be this easy? If Roland’s heirs were willing to keep out of his hair for, say, five years, he was sure he could repay his loans from the Trust and turn the business over to them in good shape. By then the diamond-mine situation would be resolved as well, leaving him extremely wealthy, if Jason knew what he was talking about. He could retire as the faithful steward who had husbanded BCMC for the next generation. With an impressive pension and the block of equity he’d get from the Trust, he could enjoy himself for the rest of his life. And after all, why should Dianna and Angus care about their father’s company? Roland had been dead for fifteen years, and their mother had taken both of them back to England to be educated and have the roughness of what she called ‘the colonies’ polished away. Dianna had returned often because she loved the African bush, but Angus had not been back until a few weeks ago. Even with its recent setbacks, as Cecil preferred to call them, the Trust would generate more than enough money to satisfy them.

  Dianna watched him while he poured coffee and selected a chocolate croissant. “That’s what you want, isn’t it, Uncle? You want us to get on with our lives and leave running BCMC to you, don’t you? It’s your baby now, isn’t it? You really are just like my father. Control is what it’s all about.”