Detective Kubu 01; A Carrion Death

by Michael Stanley

  Jonny looked away from him. “The money. About a thousand pula. I don’t have it any more.”

  “Of course not. And what else did you take?”

  “Nothing.”

  Kubu spread himself further over the couch. It creaked again. Looking at Jonny, he waited.

  “I took the money. I needed it for a fix. I was desperate. You don’t understand…”

  Kubu sighed and looked at his watch. “It’s getting close to lunchtime. I’m hungry and don’t really want to waste too much time on this. Let’s finish up, and I’ll buy you something at the pizza place down the road. Otherwise its back to HQ, and I’ll eat my lettuce and tomato sandwiches. I don’t know what you’ll get, though.” Kubu realised that he really was getting hungry. Good, he thought, it will make me irritable.

  Jonny didn’t want lunch, but he knew that if he went to HQ, he wouldn’t get what he did want. “There was a letter. I took that,” he said quickly. Kubu nodded encouragingly as if he’d known this all along. “Yes. And who did you take it to?” Jonny said nothing, so Kubu changed tack. “How much did he pay you for it?”

  “Five thousand pula.” Kubu looked disbelieving but said nothing.

  “And he wrote off my debts. My other debts…”

  “Who?”

  “I’m not answering any more questions. I want a lawyer.”

  “Oh, come on! You’ve already admitted to stealing a thousand pula as well as a valuable document belonging to BCMC, which you then sold for an unspecified sum to a dope pusher. What do you want a lawyer for? You say Mr Hofmeyr is willing to drop the charges, and why should I care? But I want to know who paid you.”

  “I can’t tell you that.” Jonny sounded genuinely scared.

  Kubu’s stomach grumbled again. A calzone, he thought. With anchovies and mozzarella cheese and tomato sauce. Perhaps only a medium, since he was on a diet. He looked at Jonny hopefully. “Why did this person want the letter?”

  Jonny shook his head. “I don’t know. I only glanced at it. It was all about the geology of a diamond mine. Perhaps he wanted to buy shares? Or sell it to a competitor? That might be it.”

  “Very likely,” said Kubu. Perhaps with olives also, he thought. Olives go well with anchovies. He checked his watch again.

  “You know, I don’t think Mr Hofmeyr is going to call. I think he’s had another idea about all this. That leaves you on your own, doesn’t it? I’m getting really hungry,” he added almost wistfully. He took out his notebook and tore out the back page. “I’ll tell you what you should do,” he said. “Just write down the name on this piece of paper and leave it on the table. Then we’ll go out and get some lunch.” He passed the paper to Jonny with his pen. Both were now keen to leave, but Jonny was getting desperate. He quickly scribbled down a name and put the paper and pen on the table. As they left, without apparent interest Kubu scooped them up and into his pocket.

  He let Jonny go his own way, and went to the restaurant alone. Thembu Kobedi, he said to himself. That rings a bell. Where have I heard that name? He puzzled over this for a few minutes before he remembered. He’d seen Kobedi’s name on the copy of Cecil Hofmeyr’s appointment book he had taken from BCMC. His mind flooded with questions. Who is Kobedi, and what has he done? Why does he want the letter? What’s in the letter? Why did Cecil keep it a secret? Was Kobedi’s appointment with Cecil Hofmeyr linked to the letter? He decided the best way to find answers was to pay Mr Kobedi a visit.

  That decision made, he focused on more immediate matters and ordered a steelworks and a calzone with all the trimmings. A large calzone.

  ∨ A Carrion Death ∧

  CHAPTER 30

  After lunch, Kubu set out to discover where Kobedi lived and whether he had a police record. It didn’t take long. There was a long list of arrests, but few convictions. The arrests were mainly for drug- and prostitution-related offences, but none had stuck, and he hadn’t even been charged for most of them. There were a few convictions for minor offences, including shoplifting (as a teenager), a suspended sentence for knocking an assailant unconscious and then maliciously breaking all the fingers on both his hands. The assailant had attacked him with a lead pipe, but appeared to be no match for Kobedi, who retaliated in self-defence. Sounds like a drug-related affair, thought Kubu.

  Kubu asked Edison about Kobedi and was surprised that he knew a good deal about him. “Thembu Kobedi,” Edison said, “is no good. He’s into drugs, both use and sale. He’s known to be both a prostitute, swinging both ways, and a pimp. We think he uses force when people get in his way, but have never been able to prove it. He has a vicious streak, capable of anything.”

  “Where would I find him?”

  Edison shrugged. “Who knows? You could try the Highflyer later on.”

  “The Highflyer?”

  “On Kaunda Road. It’s a nightclub. We think the name’s not entirely inappropriate.”

  Kubu grunted his thanks. He had to be in court that afternoon on another matter. But he would try Highflying after his dinner.

  The Highflyer was an ostentatious nightclub, overdecorated in a pseudo-African style that seemed hardly necessary in real Africa. It was smoky, but not so noisy that you couldn’t hear the person next to you shout. A long, elegant bar, surfaced in what used to be called Rhodesian teak, protected the barman from thirsty customers, and a variety of tables were scattered around the edge of the dance floor. A small band was taking its ease while the disc jockey chose a selection of harmless music.

  Kobedi was sitting at a small table, chatting to a girl who was dressed to attract male attention, preferably of the paying kind. She was wearing a miniskirt that displayed all of her legs—which she crossed and uncrossed from time to time to emphasise the point. For his part, Kobedi was wearing tight jeans—a couple of sizes too young for him—and a garish short-sleeved shirt.

  Eventually the girl got up with an artificial smile, handed Kobedi an envelope, and drifted away. Kobedi gave her a wave and counted the money. This is so easy, he thought. Fifty per cent, and she does all the work. And she takes the risks. Kobedi made a mental note to remind her to have her monthly AIDS test. It must be hard to insist that a paying client uses a condom, he mused. Especially if they are willing to pay extra for ‘flesh on flesh’. He wondered if he was getting his half of that extra.

  Kobedi finished his Scotch and was about to signal the barman for another when he noticed a large man in a crumpled suit pushing through the swinging doors. Not the usual clientele, unless he was looking for a high-class call girl. Kobedi thought not. He could smell a policeman across the Kalahari, so he sat back to watch. The man walked to the bar and spoke to the barman, who pointed at Kobedi. The man nodded and walked over.

  “How are you doing, Kobedi?” asked Kubu in a chatty way. “Can I buy you a drink?” Kobedi looked him over, wondering what this was all about.

  “Sure, why not? I’ll have a double Chivas on the rocks.” Kubu waved to the bartender and ordered the same for himself. Kobedi wondered whether this was an official meeting, given that the man was drinking.

  “Can we talk?” Kubu asked.

  “Sure, fire away. As long as I’ve got this drink, we can talk. You don’t get much of my time for one drink, though,” he said cheerfully.

  “I understand you do some work at BCMC,” Kubu said. “In the cattle business, are you?”

  “I’m over there occasionally,” Kobedi said warily, wondering why the policeman hadn’t introduced himself. He actually thinks I don’t know he’s a cop! “Do some consulting for them.”

  Kubu looked interested. “What sort of consulting would that be?”

  “Some specialist animal husbandry,” Kobedi replied with a broad and attractive smile, thinking of the good old days in bed with Cecil. Cecil’s first big mistake.

  “Include practical demonstrations, does it?” Kubu asked.

  Kobedi stared at the man for a moment, wondering whether to rise to the bait. Instead, he laughed out loud, but didn’t r
eply. They drank in silence for a few minutes. Kobedi had decided to let the policeman make the moves.

  Kubu broke the silence. “I heard you might be selling something—for them, of course.”

  “Did you indeed?” Kobedi replied blandly.

  “So who’s your principal up at BCMC?” Kubu asked casually, as though he was only looking for something to fill the conversation gap. But Kobedi didn’t like that at all. He wanted to keep his dealings with Cecil strictly between the two of them. He decided he had had enough of the game. He leant forward and glared at the man.

  “What business is it of yours, friend? Who the hell are you anyway?”

  Kubu pulled out his police identification and tossed it to Kobedi. “A fucking cop,” Kobedi said with exaggerated disgust. “Assistant Superintendent David Bengu! What the fuck do you want?”

  Kubu stared back with matching dislike. “Well, I met a young man at BCMC this morning that you might know. Jonny Molefe. Someone you are slowly killing with drugs. Ring a bell?”

  Kobedi tensed. He wondered how much Jonny had spilt.

  “Can’t say it does,” he replied dismissively.

  “Quite a well-placed young man. Access to important documents and such. You sure you don’t know him?”

  Kobedi looked into his drink. So Jonny had fingered him as being behind the theft of the letter. Jonny’s good as dead, he thought. He decided not to respond.

  “And you wouldn’t know anything about a letter that was stolen from BCMC headquarters last night either, I suppose?” the detective asked.

  Kobedi shook his head and drained his drink. He was surprised that Cecil had mentioned the letter. He had gone to a lot of trouble to get it back. And locked himself still more firmly into Kobedi’s cage in the process.

  “Have you finished your stupid fishing expedition?” he asked insultingly. “Anything else you’d like to know?”

  “Well, I know you visited Cecil Hofmeyr last week,” the detective said.

  “I was wondering what you were selling. I know that animal husbandry isn’t your strong suit. Did the letter come up in that conversation? I can’t imagine you have anything else to talk about to a man like Cecil Hofmeyr. Different class of person, I’d say.”

  Kobedi thought about Cecil. He had played the chairman of BCMC like a minnow for all these years. Fool! Cecil’s second mistake. Pillow talk expressing a wish that Roland were out of the way! If Cecil only knew that the bars of his cage didn’t really exist! It was lucky that nobody had witnessed the accident. The brilliant idea of telling Cecil that he, Kobedi, had sabotaged the plane to get Roland out of Cecil’s ambitious path was a stroke of genius. He had milked Cecil for so long, so easily.

  “Why are you smiling like that?” Kubu asked.

  Kobedi’s mind snapped to the present.

  “Piss off, fat man!” he snarled. “If you have something on me, contact my lawyer. Peter Vermeulen at Vermeulen, Siphile and Botma. He’s the best. Otherwise, keep the fuck out of my business.” He stood up, lifting his side of the table so the detective’s glass slid on to his lap. He stalked through the swinging doors, leaving Kubu to muse about Kobedi’s strange reaction to the question about Cecil. And to mop his suit.

  ∨ A Carrion Death ∧

  CHAPTER 31

  The next morning, Mabaku summoned Kubu.

  “I had a call from Cecil Hofmeyr yesterday afternoon,” he began, getting straight to the point. “Wants to drop all the charges. Seemed Jonny confessed to taking the money. He’s a drug addict, as you suspected. Cecil’s going to help him kick the habit. Quite decent of him actually, I’d say.”

  Kubu nodded. He knew all this was coming. “But Jonny took more than the money,” he said. “There was another item in that drawer.”

  “Well, Cecil made it quite clear that he wants to put the matter behind him. Charges dropped, no publicity. Case closed.”

  “The only thing is, Jonny sold the letter he stole to one Thembu Kobedi.” That got Mabaku’s eyebrows moving upwards. “There’s got to be more to it than a junkie needing a quick fix.”

  But Mabaku had already reverted to his previous expression. “Bengu, the case is closed. It is clear what Cecil Hofmeyr wants in this matter—clear to me, anyway. Drop it. And keep away from Kobedi. He has the contacts to cause trouble, if you understand me.” Since there was no response, he repeated, “You do understand me, don’t you, David?” The unaccustomed use of his first name made Kubu realise that he should not pursue the matter.

  “I understand very clearly, Director,” he said. “I’d better get back to my other case.” Mabaku nodded; yet he didn’t look entirely satisfied.

  When Kubu got back to his office, Edison waved to him from across the hall. “I picked up a call for you from the station in Letlhakeng. It’s about your hyena murder.” Kubu frowned. He didn’t like the nickname his case had acquired. He didn’t see anything amusing about a hyena eating a naked human corpse in the middle of the Kalahari.

  “They saw your memo about the Kamissa body,” Edison went on.

  “Apparently they received a call a few days ago about a white mine-worker going missing. They asked you to phone them back.”

  Ten minutes later, Kubu had discovered that a Jason Ferraz from a diamond mine near Maboane had reported that one of his geologists had been missing for a week. Ferraz did not appear to be overly worried, according to the Letlhakeng constable, but had said that it was unusual for the geologist not to check in.

  Kubu dialled the mine’s phone number and was quickly transferred to Ferraz’s office.

  “Is that Mr Jason Ferraz?” Kubu asked.

  “Yes, it is,” came the response.

  “This is Assistant Superintendent Bengu speaking, from the Gaborone CID. Apparently you phoned the station at Letlhakeng to report one of your staff missing.”

  “That’s right,” Ferraz replied. “Chap called Aron Frankental. Hasn’t been seen for a couple of weeks.”

  Kubu’s ears pricked up. “Could you give me some details about this person?”

  “He’s a geologist working here on the mine. Works for me, actually. Really bright chap. German, with a first-rate academic background. We were lucky to get him, but then again, there aren’t too many diamond mines in Germany! He’s just disappeared.”

  Kubu was already confused. “Can we start from the beginning, please? Where actually is the mine?”

  “It’s between the towns of Maboane and Ditshegwane. The nearest real town is Letlhakeng. We’re in the middle of nowhere. But that’s where the diamonds are.” Kubu realised that would be less than a hundred kilometres from Dale’s Camp as the crow flies. On the other hand, few roads in Botswana had been designed with crows in mind. He’d have to check a map. It might be a long way as the Land Rover drives.

  “And how long has Frankental been at the mine?”

  “He’s been here for about eight months. We employed him when we decided to drop the De Beers joint venture and go it alone. This was his first real job.”

  “Was he happy at the mine?”

  “Seemed to love it. Real geologist’s geologist, if you know what I mean.” Kubu didn’t. “Really keen on the rock structures. He’s been doing great work with geophysics too. Could be responsible for a major upgrade of the mine’s diamond resources. We’re very excited about it.”

  “So he was doing a really good job? You were pleased with his work? He would have had no reason to do a duck?”

  “No, absolutely not. If the new kimberlites had worked out, we would have given him some shares.”

  That made Kubu ask, “Who owns the mine now?”

  “Well, I own a minority interest. The rest is basically BCMC.”

  Kubu sat up at his desk. BCMC again. It kept coming up from nowhere. Of course, it was such a big deal in this part of Botswana that any step you took might trip over it.

  “Have you checked his living quarters?”

  “Superintendent Bengu, this is a small operation. He’s not
in his bungalow.”

  “No, I realise that. I was wondering if he had packed anything, if there were any signs of something unusual, at worst a body.”

  “Oh, I see. I’m sorry. Yes, we did look inside, but there was nothing unusual. Of course we knew he’d be away because he was going off on a field trip. Some more geophysics work. And he wanted to visit a group of Bushmen he’d made friends with. So his vehicle is gone, and we expected him to be away for about a week, camping.”

  “Was it a BCMC vehicle?” Kubu was starting to feel excited. And the Bushmen had come into the story again, and with another German. Could this all be coincidence?

  “No, we aren’t formally part of their group. It was an old Toyota Land Cruiser diesel. We try to keep costs down.”

  “Does he go on these trips on his own?”

  “Not always, but he did this time. He had a radio, though. But we didn’t get any word from him. He should have checked in from time to time, so we thought perhaps it had broken down.”

  “Did you try to look for him?”

  “Yes—once he was overdue, we got a plane to fly around over the area where he was supposed to be working. Nothing.”

  “And the Bushmen?”

  “No sign of them either. That was very strange. But they are a peaceful lot. They wouldn’t attack a friendly person like Aron. And they wouldn’t have any idea what to do with the vehicle and wouldn’t want it. That’s when we reported the matter to the police.”

  “And when was that?”

  “Three days ago. They seemed to think people disappear on unscheduled bush trips all the time, and that he will turn up in a week or so.”

  “Well, that begins to seem a bit unlikely, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes. I have to say it does,” Jason said quietly.

  Kubu sighed, but felt that Aron’s connection with the Bushmen had to be checked out. That, at least, was a real lead, and more promising than the missing tourist.

  “Mr Ferraz, you’ve been very helpful. I think I’ll need to come down to the mine, interview the other staff, look around. Probably tomorrow. Will that be okay?”