Detective Kubu 01; A Carrion Death

by Michael Stanley

  It was Kubu’s turn to surprise Bongani again. “Let me guess,” he said. “BCMC yellow?”

  Bongani looked startled. He had already selected a colour on the screen. It was bright yellow. Neither man said anything for a few minutes. Everyone in Botswana knew vehicles of that colour. Every vehicle of the Botswana Cattle and Mining Company was painted that bright yellow to stand out from the air in the and country. Apparently it stood out well from space also.

  It was Kubu who broke the silence.

  “I think we need a drink, and then I’ll tell you how I knew what you were going to say,” he said. “Let’s go to the bar at the Gaborone Sun.”

  ∨ A Carrion Death ∧

  CHAPTER 26

  First thing the next morning, Kubu plucked up his courage and went to see Mabaku. Miriam waved him in, and Mabaku favoured him with a grunt by way of greeting. Kubu took an unofifered chair.

  “Director,” he said humbly, “I need your advice.”

  “I am delighted you think I have something to contribute to an investigation, Bengu!” Mabaku said sourly. “I hope you haven’t got yourself into some sort of trouble.”

  “No, Director,” Kubu said. “It’s to do with the body that was found near Dale’s Camp.” Briefly he told the director about the fight between the students. Then he got to the real point of the meeting.

  “Remember that young academic from the university, Bongani Sibisi, who was one of the people who discovered the corpse? Well, he phoned me yesterday afternoon and said he believed he had found the vehicle that was used to drop off the body. And he had.” Kubu hesitated. “Well, he has a sort of picture.”

  Mabaku interrupted. “My advice, Bengu, if you are asking for it, is to find the owner of the vehicle and bring him in for questioning! Surely you can work that out for yourself?”

  “It is not quite as simple as that,” Kubu said. “If we could identify the vehicle, we would certainly find the owner and bring him—or her—in.” He added a little emphasis to the ‘her’, remembering his last visit to this office. Mabaku glowered but said nothing.

  “However, the picture is not a normal photograph,” Kubu continued. “Sibisi has a computer-enhanced image of satellite data of the area coincidentally taken a few days before the body was found. He is able to identify objects on the ground in quite an amazing way. The satellite, he thinks, shows that the vehicle that dumped the corpse is owned by BCMC. And there is corroboration of that.” Kubu told the director about the Number One Petrol Station.

  “Shit!” Mabaku spat out.

  “I need your advice on how I should go about trying to find out about the BCMC vehicle, if it is indeed a BCMC vehicle. Where should I start? Who should I speak to? I don’t want to stir up any unnecessary trouble at this stage.”

  Ten minutes later, Kubu left the director’s office with a plan of attack. He was reluctantly impressed with Mabaku’s insistence on pursuing any leads to their conclusion. He can be a bit of an ogre, he thought, but he is thorough and clear-thinking.

  A junior detective would monitor whether Staal confirmed or changed his flight. If nothing had happened by the Thursday morning, Edison Banda would interview Tannenbaum at the Gaborone airport before he left for Germany. He would then return to the airport to check whether Staal took his Saturday flight. If he did, the lead closed. If not, Kubu would contact the Dutch police for help in determining whether Staal was alive.

  In the meantime, Kubu would take Mabaku to meet Bongani. If Mabaku was satisfied, they would set up an appointment with Cecil Hofmeyr. Mabaku did not want to cause problems with BCMC and thought it prudent first to visit his golfing friend, the chairman of BCMC, both to alert him to the investigation and to seek guidance on how to proceed.

  It was close to four a.m. that day when Mabaku and Kubu arrived at Bongani’s office. This was the earliest the three could meet, and Kubu had spent much of the day nervously waiting for the appointed time to arrive. Kubu introduced Bongani and Mabaku, the latter showing surprising civility initially.

  “I have to say I’m very sceptical about what Assistant Superintendent Bengu has told me,” Mabaku said. “Please take me through what you showed him. And keep the jargon to a minimum. I am interested in facts, not a smoke-and-mirrors routine designed to impress me.” Kubu relaxed. That was more like the Mabaku he knew.

  For the next fifteen minutes Bongani made a careful and thorough presentation of what he had found. He was careful to explain terms when he thought it would help Mabaku understand what he was presenting, but otherwise kept to the point. He answered Mabaku’s questions directly and clearly. Kubu was impressed by Bongani’s organisation of his material, as well as the way he handled the senior police officer. When he had finished, Bongani pushed his chair back and turned towards the director.

  “So! What do you think?”

  Mabaku did not respond at first, keeping his eyes on the computer screen with its profusion of small coloured blocks. He shuffled a little in his chair and stood up, still silent. After a few seconds of looking out of the window, he turned towards Bongani and said quietly, “That is quite a show you have there—turning bits of desert into yellow vehicles. I hope your conclusions can stand up to close scrutiny, Dr Sibisi, because they may have to.”

  Mabaku paused for what seemed a long time. “Thank you for your time, Dr Sibisi. Let’s go, Bengu.” He walked to the door.

  Kubu stood up, glanced at Bongani, rolled his eyes, and thanked him again. “I’ll phone you later,” he whispered, hoping that Mabaku didn’t hear. He turned and followed Mabaku back to the car.

  As they drove back to police headquarters, Mabaku was unusually quiet. But as they turned into the parking lot, he said, “I’ll set up a meeting with Cecil Hofmeyr tomorrow, if I can. There is no proof that was a BCMC vehicle, but we need to check it out. I hope BCMC personnel are not involved in any way. That won’t be good for anybody.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Kubu received a call from Miriam telling him that they were to leave for Cecil Hofmeyr’s office just before eight-thirty the next morning. Kubu was surprised and impressed that Mabaku had been able to arrange things so quickly. He wondered about the connection between the two men.

  ∨ A Carrion Death ∧

  CHAPTER 27

  Kubu wasn’t looking forward to the meeting with Cecil Hofmeyr. He had no concern about bearding the lion of BCMC in his den, but he didn’t much like going with Mabaku, who would probably run the interview, cramping Kubu’s style. It was clear that Mabaku had no intention of letting Kubu play this one on his own.

  Actually, Mabaku was in good humour and seemed to be looking forward to seeing Cecil. He was pleased that Cecil had told him to come whenever he liked—he would make time for them. He told Kubu this at least twice. Kubu tried to look properly impressed. They left punctually at eight thirty a.m. Mabaku had opted to go first thing in the morning so as not to break up Cecil’s day.

  BCMC headquarters was a fifteen-minute drive away on Khama Crescent, opposite the Orapa building, where diamonds were sorted for the huge Debswana joint venture between De Beers and the Botswana government. The BCMC building skilfully blended glass and brick, with ponds and fountains outside. Nevertheless, it seemed out of place in the sprawling village that was Gaborone.

  Entering the building, both men stopped for a moment to savour the cool air. Gaborone was over a thousand metres above sea level, but it could still be very hot in March. The lobby was large, occupying almost half the ground floor. The understated colours suggested the heat and dryness of Botswana. Pedestals scattered throughout the lobby displayed beautiful masks and sculptures. They were not from Botswana, but rather the products of the great sculpting tribes to the north, in Zimbabwe, Angola and the Congos. On the walls, faded black-and-white photographs showed large herds of cattle, and bright-coloured ones depicted mines and happy workers. Behind the reception desk hung a large portrait of a suntanned man in an open-necked shirt with eyes a startling shade of blue and a determined ja
wline. This was the late Roland Hofmeyr, founder of the company, and brother to Cecil.

  They checked in at the elegant reception area and were directed to Cecil’s office on the fifth floor. The waiting area offered a beautiful panorama of the northern parts of town, with floor-to-ceiling windows of tinted glass. The seats and sofas boasted upholstery in a colourful fabric with a strong African motif. More historical photographs hung on the walls. The secretary was polite but seemed agitated and surprised, and at once telephoned through to his boss announcing, “The police have arrived.” He then waved them through the impressive double doors of Rhodesian mahogany.

  “Director Mabaku! It wasn’t necessary for you to come yourself. And how did you get here so quickly? Jonny phoned the police a few minutes before I arrived. I’ve only been here about ten minutes.”

  For a few seconds all three men looked at each other, puzzled. It was Cecil who realised what was causing the confusion. “Oh, of course, you’ve come to see me about the other matter you mentioned on the phone yesterday. It’s nothing to do with the break-in, is it?”

  Mabaku hesitated, glanced at Kubu, and turned towards Cecil with a frown. “Did you have a break-in here?”

  “Yes. Last night, we believe.”

  “Well of course we’ll investigate it immediately. It is fortunate we are here. By the way, this is Assistant Superintendent David Bengu. He’s in charge of the other case I mentioned.”

  Kubu muttered that they had already met at the reception for Cecil’s niece and nephew, but Cecil showed no sign of recognition. He shook hands briefly and at once returned his attention to Mabaku.

  “Early this morning one of the security guards discovered that a window on the ground floor was broken, but nothing else seemed to be disturbed. But…here, let me show you.”

  He herded them around his desk and pointed to the top right drawer. The fascia was made from rich golden walnut with a delicate inlay of other woods. It was obvious that the drawer had been forced open. The lock was bent, and there was a chip out of the top of the drawer and a scrape above it on the once perfectly fitting frame.

  “This is an eighteenth-century French antique! You can see for yourself how beautiful it is. It’s very valuable too. Restoration will cost a fortune, and it’ll never be perfect again. I’m absolutely furious about it. Barbarians!”

  “What was in the drawer?” Kubu asked mildly.

  “Well, I keep some petty cash there, for odds and ends, such as staff presents, taxis, whatever.”

  “How much cash was in the drawer last night?”

  “Oh, perhaps a thousand pula. It’ll cost more than that to do the restoration. Look at the way the front panel has different wood pieces inlaid. Those will have to be matched, if it’s even possible to get the right woods.”

  “Who knows about the money?”

  “Well, it’s not a secret. Any one of my staff would know. They aren’t going to be tempted by such a small amount of money, I can assure you.”

  “Was anything else taken?”

  Cecil hesitated and glanced down at the damaged desk again. “Not as far as we can tell. The cupboards over there”—he waved at the built-in fittings along the opposite wall, but kept his eyes on the desk—“have a lot of sensitive and important company information. But how can we tell if anything’s been taken—or copied?”

  Mabaku interrupted. He had been on his mobile phone to the station telling them not to send an investigating officer but rather a forensics team.

  “It’s a very serious matter,” he said rather pompously. “This is one of Botswana’s flagship companies. There is no telling what it would do to our investment rating in the international community if confidence in our security is lost.”

  “Indeed. I’d be grateful if we could keep the whole matter low-key, for exactly that reason.” Cecil seemed almost to regret that his secretary had called the police in the first place. “I know this is way below your level, Director, but I’m grateful that you are here. You’ve put your finger on the key issue right away. We don’t want any hysteria. Not over some petty thief after a few pula, for God’s sake.”

  Kubu was still thinking about the burglary rather than international finance. “Do you lock your door when you leave the office?”

  “Yes, always.”

  “Does anyone else have a key?”

  “Oh yes. My secretary, Jonny, has a spare key. He’s always in and out.”

  “And who would know about that?”

  “Well, again, all the senior staff. But it rather misses the point, doesn’t it, Superintendent Bengu? Someone broke in through the window in the men’s toilet on the ground floor. None of the staff would have to do that.”

  “That’s true.” Kubu nodded, appearing to indicate that this was a good point. After a moment’s pause he asked, “What time did you leave last night?”

  “About six o’clock, I think.”

  “And this morning you came in only a little before we did?”

  “Yes, I’ve already said that.”

  “Was your secretary here when you left?”

  Cecil thought about this. “He wasn’t at his desk, but I didn’t see him leave. Sometimes he goes to our gym. He often works late too.”

  “You are sure nothing else was taken from the desk drawer?”

  Cecil shook his head. “I keep only the money in there.”

  Kubu looked disappointed. He turned to Mabaku.

  “Perhaps we should talk about the other case, Director? Then I want to interview the secretary and the security guard, look at the broken window, and check who else was around. But I don’t think we should waste too much of Mr Hofmeyr’s time, do you?”

  Mabaku had to agree. He looked enquiringly at Cecil.

  “By all means, gentlemen. Please sit down.” Cecil, already seated behind his precious desk, obviously expected the policemen to sit opposite him. He had a conference table, but he was making it clear that this was not to be an extended meeting. He was not in the mood for socialising. Kubu looked at the desk’s matching eighteenth-century chairs with their spindly legs and wondered if they would hold him. He sat gingerly, but the chair felt sturdy despite its delicate appearance. Eighteenth-century Frenchmen who could afford furniture of this quality probably overindulged in foie gras and Bordeaux wines. They would have had weight problems of their own.

  Kubu looked around. On the wall hung another portrait of Roland. This time it was of Roland and Cecil together on horses, somewhere in the African veld. Kubu thought Roland looked like the one with drive and energy, while Cecil looked deferential. Another painting reminded Kubu of a Skotnes. There was a magnificent Walter Battiss, whom Kubu regarded as an honourary Motswana because of his knowledge and love of the Bushman people and their art. This particular painting gave the impression of sand dunes in the haze. It was made up of thousands of meticulously rendered calligraphic figures resembling the forms seen in Bushman art. Another Battiss, from a different period, an abstract with bright, contrasting colours, was apparently of flowers and animals. Whatever it was, Kubu thought, he would like it on his own wall.

  Mabaku got to the issue at once. “Cecil, I mentioned the body we found at a waterhole in the southern part of the Central Kalahari Game Reserve, not too far from Letlhakeng. Gruesome. Eaten beyond recognition by scavengers. Well, we believe that the vehicle that was used to take the victim there—or to take the body there, if the victim was already dead—may have been a BCMC vehicle.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  Before Mabaku could answer, Kubu broke in. “A sensor picked up the colour of the vehicle. It seems it was BCMC yellow.”

  “Of course,” Mabaku hastened to add, “it might have been stolen. Have you had any stolen vehicles reported, Cecil?”

  “Not as far as I know. But after about five years we sell our vehicles and upgrade. Maintenance costs start getting high, and it works out cheaper to renew them. Obviously we sell them without repainting them. It’s hardly a regi
stered trademark, you know.”

  Neither Kubu nor Mabuku had thought of this embarrassingly obvious explanation. Kubu was the first to recover.

  “Yes, of course, I see that. It would be very helpful, though, to check the records of sales as well as current records. We’re quite short of leads.”

  “Yes. Well. We’ll be happy to help with any of your inquiries. I’ll tell Jonny to make sure you are given every assistance. Now, if there is nothing more?”

  Neither policeman could think of anything else, so they accepted Cecil’s rising as a dismissal and finished with formal handshakes.

  Once out of the inner sanctum, Mabaku went off to meet the forensic team, Kubu to speak to Cecil’s personal assistant. The personal assistant could add nothing to what they already knew. As part of his general information-gathering, Kubu asked her to get him a copy of the previous week’s appointment book, and then went to look at the broken window. After about half an hour they reconvened to interview the secretary. He showed them to a meeting room and went off to arrange for coffee.

  “What did you discover downstairs?” Mabaku asked.

  “A small window was broken in the toilet. Nothing subtle. Probably hit with a crowbar. The intruder didn’t bother to clear out the glass shards at the bottom. He or she would probably have got cut climbing through. He or she did remember to break it from the outside and to choose a window facing the tarred road so there would be no footprints out there. The window was above the toilet itself, so you would expect footprints on the lid, but there was nothing like that. It’s all obvious nonsense. This is an inside job. No petty thief would break into BCMC headquarters, go straight to the chairman’s suite, open it with a key from the secretary’s drawer, break into an antique desk and get out with a thousand pula and a feeling of a job well done. And that’s leaving aside the issue of getting past the outside security on the way both in and out.”