Detective Kubu 01; A Carrion Death

by Michael Stanley

  Angus tried to recover the situation. “Look, Di, we’re having a party. We can sort this out later. Have a glass of champagne.”

  “You’ll just get on with your playboy lifestyle, won’t you, Angus? Let Cecil go on calling the shots and pulling the strings? Well, I count too. And it’s not going to be like that. Believe me.”

  Angus’s ears reddened, partly in anger and partly in embarrassment at this inappropriate exchange in front of Kubu and Joy.

  “Di, you’re not running the show here. I’ll decide what’s best for the company and the Trust, and for you, for that matter. That’s the way Dad wanted it, and that’s the way it is.”

  “Don’t you dare talk to me like that,” she said through clenched teeth. She turned away from Angus and muttered something. Then she cursed in a deep, bitter voice. At first Kubu thought she was talking to him, but she was looking somewhat to his right, and her eyes were focused behind him. He looked round but there was no one there. When he turned back, she seemed to see him for the first time. She stared at him for a moment and then walked away without a word. After a moment’s hesitation, Angus said he’d better go after her, and followed.

  “What did you make of that?” Kubu asked Joy. “Was she talking to us?”

  Joy shook her head. “I don’t think so. She seemed to be looking past you. She was upset with Cecil Hofmeyr. Was he standing in that direction?”

  Kubu shook his head. “He’s on the other side of the room.”

  As the conversation around them picked up again, Mabaku came over with his wife, Marie.

  “What was that all about?”

  “Brother-and-sister spat, I’d say,” said Kubu, helping himself to a couple of mini pizzas with caviar from a passing tray. “I’m sure it’s not important.”

  Joy didn’t agree. Her instincts told her otherwise. And in the long run, she would turn out to be right.

  ∨ A Carrion Death ∧

  PART THREE

  Reading the Writing

  “A carrion Death, within whose empty eye There is a written scroll! I’ll read the writing.”

  Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice, Act II, Scene 7

  MARCH 2006

  ∨ A Carrion Death ∧

  CHAPTER 14

  The morning after he’d returned from Dale’s Camp, Kubu arrived at his desk a little later than usual. He put down his briefcase and went to the canteen for a cup of tea. As Kubu poured milk into his cup, Edison Banda appeared on a similar mission. He was an immigrant from Malawi, and also a detective. Kubu told Edison about the Kamissa murder and asked him to watch for reports of missing white people. Then Edison filled Kubu in on some of his recent cases—an attempted robbery of a bottle store and a few break-ins at private residences. Kubu nodded sympathetically, because he knew how much time such cases took, usually with no glamour and little likelihood of success.

  As Kubu turned to go back to his desk, Edison said, “Did you hear that Ms BCMC has found herself a man?” He was referring to Dianna Hofmeyr. “He’s developing a mine near the Central Kalahari Game Reserve. Apparently they met about six months ago. She’s been down to his mine a couple of times since then. Then one of the guys saw them go up to her room at the Grand Palm a few weeks ago. He was back in town over the past weekend, and the same thing happened. Probably he’s just her local entertainment while she’s here.”

  “Interesting,” Kubu murmured. “Thanks for the news.” He wondered how this kind of gossip managed to spread so quickly. We’re a social species, he reminded himself. We are interested in other people, especially if we know them or know of them. He recalled Dianna’s strange behaviour a couple of months earlier at the cocktail party the Botswana Cattle and Mining Company had thrown for her and her brother Angus, who was expected soon to take control of the company. Angus and Kubu had been together at Maru-a-Pula school, and even though there was four years’ difference in age, they had become quite friendly because they passionately shared certain interests, such as cricket. Angus had been a fine all-rounder, already playing for the First XI even though he was only fifteen. Although Kubu loved the game, he was too big and uncoordinated to play, but was the official scorer for the team. By the nature of cricket, there was a lot of time for the two to get to know each other. But then Angus’s father died in a terrible plane crash. As soon as they finished the school year, Angus and Dianna were whipped off to England by their mother, who made no pretence of liking Africa in general, or Gaborone in particular.

  After Angus left, he and Kubu had kept up a correspondence for about three years. Angus complained about the British, about the weather, and about the fact that he had to study hard to keep up at school. He never mentioned either his mother or his sister in any of his letters. In the years after that, the two exchanged no more than Christmas greetings. Kubu felt that too would soon end. He had very fond feelings for Angus, for it was he who had given Kubu his nickname. “You’re David?” Angus had exclaimed in disbelief when they first met. “David Bengu? That’s not right. You aren’t a David. Not even a Goliath! You’re Kubu. That’s what you are—a big friendly Kubu!” Kubu is the Setswana word for hippopotamus. Kubu remembered being upset at first, but he came to like the special familiarity of the name. It made him feel closer to Angus. The other kids had laughed, of course, but soon Kubu was his name. He was sure some of his friends didn’t even know his real name.

  Back at his desk, Kubu telephoned his wife’s sister, Pleasant Serome, at the Gaborone Travel Agency, to get names and contacts for all resorts within a hundred kilometres of Kamissa to check for missing persons. Some of the more upscale resorts had telephone numbers and e·mail addresses, while the others could only be contacted via radio. He suspected, of course, that even these had satellite phones for emergencies, but did not want to give those numbers out because of the costs. Typically, the travel agent acted as their point of contact.

  An hour later Pleasant called back and told him that she had faxed through contact information for five resorts. She asked after Joy, which Kubu thought was amusing, since the two spoke about five times a day. He told her that Joy had promised him that Saturday would be a night to remember. He smiled broadly as he wondered how Joy would react when Pleasant shared this news.

  Kubu picked up the fax and started calling the resorts. Most of my time is spent on dull, routine activities, he thought, as he worked his way through the numbers with no success. As much as he disliked it, routine often did more to solve cases than did flashes of inspiration. The last camp on his list was the Rucksack Resort, a popular stop for many of the trans-Africa safaris. A woman answered, and he explained what he wanted. After a brief pause, she told him that a German group had come through about a week before on its way to the Central Kalahari Game Reserve. When the driver came back several days later, he was irritated because one of his passengers had decided to leave the tour and spend extra time in the Khutse game reserve. He was cross because the man had not bothered to inform him directly, but had just sent a message with another passenger. Kubu asked if she knew who the missing person was, but she did not. He then asked for the name of the tour group and the name of the driver. After a minute or two, she came back with the information. Kubu thanked her and hung up.

  Kubu phoned Pleasant again. “Ever heard of the Munchener Reisegruppe tour group?” he asked.

  She knew of the group. “It’s based in Munich. Occasionally they contact us for add-ons for their clients, but not often. I’ve a contact number in Munich, if that would be useful.” Kubu thanked her and wrote down the number. “Anything else I can do for the police?”

  “You never know,” he said. “I may need more information late on Saturday. Bye, and thanks.”

  “Kubu,” Pleasant said, “Joy didn’t know anything about what you said she had planned for Saturday!”

  “Oh, she wouldn’t admit to something like that, would she? She’d be embarrassed. Where is a good place to buy champagne?” Now she was sure he was teasing, because Kubu was
Gaborone’s self-proclaimed expert at finding good wines at good prices. “I’ve got to go now,” he said, giving her no chance to comment. “Thanks again.”

  At about three thirty that afternoon, a messenger delivered an envelope from Forensics. It contained the cash slip Kubu had found with Bongani at Kamissa. Apparently it was standard issue and came in preprinted books. The paper had been dusted for fingerprints. They had found a number, most of which were smudged and indecipherable. One, however, was clear and well formed. They had run it through the computer, but there was no match to any known criminal. Kubu had been given a high-resolution copy of the slip. He looked at it carefully. It was from the Number One Petrol Station in the town of Letlhakeng. Probably the only petrol station there, Kubu thought, and snorted. It was for two hundred and fifty pula and a volume of petrol he couldn’t make out. There was an illegible signature, but the date was clear—the twenty-third of February, four days before Andries and Bongani had discovered the body.

  He dialled the number on the slip and waited.

  “Yes?” said a voice at the other end.

  “Is that the Number One Petrol Station?”

  “Yes. What do you want?”

  “Good afternoon. This is Assistant Superintendent Bengu from the CID in Gaborone. I would like to ask a few questions to help me with a case that I’m working on.”

  “Okay.” The voice seemed to think that telephone calls were charged by the word rather than by the minute. Kubu sighed.

  “Could you tell me who I’m speaking to?”

  “Noko.”

  “And you are?”

  “The manager.”

  Deciding that this was as good as it was going to get, Kubu plunged ahead.

  “Well, Mr Noko, we found a cash slip for petrol sales from your garage at the scene of a crime. We think that the criminals may have bought the petrol on the way there. We’d be grateful if you could tell us anything about the sale.”

  “What’s the number on the slip, and the date?”

  Kubu told him. He was rewarded by a crisp “Wait.”

  After a few minutes Noko returned. “We keep records,” he said, as if Kubu had challenged this. “The sale was made on the Thursday-night shift. We don’t keep the car registration numbers for cash sales.”

  “Who made the sale?”

  “It was Mashu. He was on duty on that day, and you can see his signature on the slip.”

  “May I speak to him?”

  “No. He’s not here.”

  Kubu took a breath. Noko was not unhelpful; he was just not helpful. “Where is he?” he asked, and then, guessing the response, he added, “And when will he be back?”

  “He’s off. He’ll be here during the day tomorrow.”

  “Fine. I’ll call tomorrow then.”

  “Okay, Mr Superintendent.” And without waiting for any acknowledgement, the line went dead, leaving Kubu to contemplate the dial tone.

  It was nearly four o’clock before Kubu tracked down the tour-bus driver, who confirmed that Tjeerd Staal, a student from the Netherlands, had deserted the tour at Khutse Camp. The driver asked Kubu why the police were interested. Kubu told him and then asked, “When did you last see him? Did you see or hear anything that seemed as though he was in trouble in any way?”

  “Ag, no. When we were at Rucksack Resort, he and another student, from Germany, had a big argument in the bar the last evening—something about how the Botswana government is treating the Bushmen. The German’s first name was Joachim, but I don’t remember his last name. I can get it for you if you want.”

  “Was that the last time you saw Staal?”

  “Ag, no. They both were on the bus the next day, at opposite ends. Funny! When Staal didn’t show up for the trip back, it was the German who said that Staal had met a girl who was with a camping group and decided to stay on at Khutse, and then she would give him a lift back to Gabs. I thought it was strange that he would know what Staal was doing. Still, I didn’t worry because that sort of thing happens the whole time. Young people are always changing their plans.”

  Kubu paused, thinking through what he had heard. “Do you make the return-flight arrangements back to Germany?” he asked.

  “Usually. Wait a minute; I’ve found the trip schedule. Both of them are going back at the end of next week. Both leaving from Gabs and going via Johannesburg. Staal is on the KLM flight to Amsterdam from Johannesburg on Saturday. Tannenbaum—that was the German’s surname—leaves on Thursday to Joburg, then via Lufthansa to Frankfurt. Tannenbaum leaves Gabs at four in the afternoon on Thursday’s Air Botswana flight 123; Staal leaves on the same flight on Saturday.”

  “You have been very helpful, Mr van der Merwe. I assume you have no idea how to contact either of them?”

  “No way. They are on their own now.”

  “Anyway, if you hear from either of them before they leave, please let me know.” Kubu gave him his telephone number and hung up. “Oh no!” he exclaimed out loud. He knew another long trip was in his future.

  He telephoned the car pool to arrange a vehicle and, just before he went home, told Director Mabaku’s assistant, Miriam, that he was leaving for the Rucksack Resort in the morning. He prayed she wouldn’t suggest he tell Mabaku directly, and sighed with relief when she said she would pass on the message.

  ∨ A Carrion Death ∧

  CHAPTER 15

  This time Kubu chose Don Giovanni for his long drive. He felt in need of the Don’s advice. Joy had held him to the story he had told Pleasant and was now expecting a special event. He had a grin you couldn’t kick off his face, and he sang with zest and enthusiasm.

  Deciding to kill two sandgrouse with one stone, he made a detour to Letlhakeng but struggled to find the Number One Petrol Station. The main road was under construction, and the detours were very confusing—in many places appearing to be any piece of open land near the road. Eventually Kubu asked directions from a group of youngsters who were sitting on a wall and watching with amusement as drivers passed, only to return several minutes later, desperately trying to make sense of the maze. They told him that the petrol station, or garage as they called it, was off the main road to Khutse. Kubu wasn’t particularly happy with this information because he had been on that road before and had not seen it. When questioned further, they told him the garage was actually not on the Khutse road, but behind a high security fence a hundred metres or so away. They pointed out a mobile telephone tower in the distance and said the garage was right next to it.

  Arriving at the Number One Petrol Station, Kubu found a seedy establishment with a variety of broken-down vehicles on the apron, and the pumps in need of paint. One seemed to have had an altercation with a truck—which the truck had won—and leant crazily. He pulled up at one of the other pumps and waited. A bored attendant sauntered out and looked at him enquiringly.

  “Hello. Are you Mashu?” The man nodded. “I’m Assistant Superintendent Bengu from the police. I’d like to ask you a few questions. You may be able to help me.”

  Mashu didn’t look happy. “I’m on duty,” he said.

  “I can see how busy you are,” Kubu commented, looking at the derelict cars and empty petrol bays. “It won’t take long. Noko knows about it.”

  “Okay. You’d better come into the office, Rra.”

  The office turned out to be an annex to an area that was misnamed the workshop. Little work was taking place. One man was doing some accounts; he nodded but said nothing. Kubu wondered if this was the terse Noko.

  Mashu offered Kubu some coffee, which he accepted to break the ice. When it arrived, it had some nondescript creature floating in it. Things are pretty bad when the flies go for black coffee, Kubu thought, placing the cup at a respectable distance.

  He told Mashu the background to his questions and was pleasantly surprised to find that Mashu remembered the sale quite well.

  “Yes, I remember them, Rra,” he said. “I was asleep. No one comes through Letlhakeng at night. Why should t
hey?” He paused, but Kubu correctly assumed that the question was rhetorical. “They woke me up. Hooted loudly. I was dreaming about my Maggie. Yes, well anyway, they hooted so I woke up and came out. I gave them the petrol, and they left.” He smiled, pleased to have concluded his contribution.

  “What time was it?”

  “Near dawn. Must have been around four o’clock.”

  “Can you describe the car and the people in it?”

  “Well, the car was a BCMC Land Rover—bright yellow. There were two men in the front. They were in the dark, so I couldn’t see them well. The driver was a white man with a beard.” He paused. “It was red. I didn’t see the other guy very well, but I’m sure he was black.”

  “Was it an open truck or a station wagon? Two-door or four-door? Did it have a BCMC logo on it? Do you recall anything about the licence number?”

  Mashu was trying to remember. At last he said, “It was a station wagon—four doors, I think, Rra. I don’t know if it had a BCMC logo, but it was their yellow, all right.”

  “Did you look in the back of the vehicle while you put in the petrol?” Mashu shook his head.

  “Can you describe anything else about the men?”

  “Well, it was dark. I was half asleep, Rra. I’m sorry.”

  Kubu thought about the cash slip. “Did they ask you for a receipt?” It seemed very unlikely that a couple of murderers would put in expense claims. Mashu shook his head yet again.

  “The man with the red beard gave me three one-hundred-pula notes, and I gave him fifty pula back with the cash slip. We always give a cash slip with the change. It’s Rra Noko’s rule.” Kubu nodded, satisfied.

  “Can you describe anything else at all about the men?”

  Mashu shook his head. “It was dark,” he said for the third time. “And white men all look the same anyway,” he added with a shrug. “Just the driver’s beard—very thick. I didn’t like the look of him much. I tried to clean the windscreen, but he just waved me away and gave me a few coins as a tip. Turned out it wasn’t even real money!” He gave a wry grin. “He cheated me, Rra!”