Detective Kubu 01; A Carrion Death

by Michael Stanley

  “That’s too bad. I’m sure he was looking forward to this board meeting—taking control and all that. Does he have a mobile phone, by any chance? I’d like to talk to him.”

  “He does, but I’m not sure he has it with him.” She waited, but when Kubu said nothing she continued, “I think I have his South African mobile number. Please hold for a minute.” Kubu again waited patiently. When Dianna returned, she was in a chattier mood. “I found the number. How do you know Angus, Superintendent?”

  “Well, we were both passionate about cricket. He was the school’s star batsman, and I was the school’s star supporter. He gave me my nickname.”

  “Oh! You were Angus’s cricket friend, weren’t you? You didn’t play, but knew everything there was to know about the game. Angus called you the Hippo! I thought it was a bit cruel.”

  Kubu laughed. “Everyone calls me Kubu now. It’s a trademark. I don’t like being called anything else.”

  “Well, perhaps you can cheer him up with cricket stories.” Dianna gave him the number. He thanked her for her help, and she wished him luck with the case.

  The interview had ended on a pleasant note, but Kubu realised he was no closer to finding Jason. It looked like another blank. He sighed just as Edison came in.

  Edison took one look at Kubu’s face and said, “She doesn’t know where he is either, eh?”

  “So she says. I’m not sure that she’s telling the truth, though. She seemed to know about Frankental’s disappearance. Who told her about that?” Kubu frowned. Edison wished he had better news. He had pulled some strings and used some contacts to get the Gaborone and Lobatse border posts to check whether Jason Ferraz had crossed to South Africa by car. But it was to no avail. There was no evidence that Jason had ever crossed the border. And Johannesburg International had no record of him on any of their flights either. Jason Ferraz had disappeared.

  ∨ A Carrion Death ∧

  PART SEVEN

  Dumb Jewels

  “Dumb jewels often in their silent kind.

  More than quick words do move a woman’s mind.”

  Shakespeare, The Two Gentlemen of Verona, Act III, Scene 1

  ∨ A Carrion Death ∧

  CHAPTER 42

  Bongani left his class with a spring to his step. He’d enjoyed teaching it and thought that the students had enjoyed it too. He’d carefully prepared the lecture on a predator-prey model for the area around the Kamissa waterhole, planning where he would draw them into debate. For the first time he’d kept their attention until the end of the period. In the past he’d always known when the period was nearing its end by the rustling of books as the early packers prepared for the dash to the canteen or the next lecture. However, this time it was he who had to keep an eye on the clock.

  As he climbed the two floors from the ground-floor lecture theatre to his office, he was going over the environmental model in his head, thinking of the attraction of Kamissa. Suddenly, he wondered how Kubu was getting on with the case. Since the hospital visit, he’d not thought of it. For some reason that made him feel guilty, as though he had forgotten to remember a friend who had recently died.

  When he unlocked his door, the pile of unmarked test papers sitting accusingly on his desk threatened to spoil his mood. I’ll mark twenty, he thought, and then, to reward myself, I’ll phone Kubu to see if he would like a drink after work at the Staff Club. With regained enthusiasm, he opened the first paper.

  Unannounced, his office door opens. He looks up ready with a rebuke, expecting one of his ruder students. But the man standing in the doorway looks too old even for a mature student. He wears polished black shoes, a dark blue suit, shiny with use but clean and nicely pressed, and a tie. He is carrying a small brown hardboard suitcase, such as children in primary school might use for their sandwiches and homework. But when Bongani looks at the face and the deep, dark eyes, he recognises the witchdoctor. He feels a shock of surprise mixed with concern, fear, and even a touch of humour. There is something comical in the witchdoctor’s formal Western clothing, as though he is disguised or attending a fancy-dress party.

  The Old Man closes the door and seats himself opposite Bongani. He nods in terse greeting. Then he puts the suitcase on the desk, opens it, rummages, and to Bongani’s horror withdraws the lion-skin pouch, placing it halfway between them. Bongani recognises it at once from the Gathering. Then the Old Man closes the suitcase and puts it neatly at his feet. He says nothing, looking at Bongani expectantly.

  “What do you want, Old Man?” whispers Bongani in Setswana.

  The witchdoctor shakes his head. Bongani repeats himself using the appropriate honorific. The witchdoctor doesn’t reply. Suddenly he takes the pouch in his right hand and, before Bongani can pull back, grasps his right hand with it. The Old Man’s hand feels dry, leathery, not unlike the scratchiness of the lion-skin pouch now pressed into Bongani’s palm. At last the Old Man speaks. This time he has no need of Peter Tshukudu’s translation; he speaks in clear Setswana.

  “This hand belongs to Desert. First Hyena takes it, chews it, and chips and pieces fall, and Jackal has some of those. Blood runs into Sand, and Ant has that. And other small creatures clean the pieces. Spider eats some of those insects. There are clean, white small pieces left, and Wind buries those. Desert has it all—all but this. I see these things.” Bongani stares at the Old Man’s hand. It feels like dry bone, warmed by the sun.

  Then the Old Man reaches across with his left hand and takes Bongani’s left, their arms crossed over the desk. “ This hand Desert never had. It is in another place. It waits.” And Bongani feels the hand, suddenly cold as death. Colder. As though the witchdoctor has been carrying something frozen. The chill spreads to Bongani. With a small cry he jerks both his hands free, jumps up. The test papers slide off the desk in a cascade of ignored pages.

  The Old Man nods, retrieves his suitcase, and puts away the pouch. As he stands, he says again, “It waits. Remember. It waits.” Then he leaves. A few seconds later, while Bongani is still shocked, the door swings open. He tenses, thinking that the Old Man has returned. But this time it is a student.

  “I wanted to ask about the test…”

  “Did you see the Old Man?”

  “What old man?”

  “He just left. You must have seen him in the passage.”

  “No, sir, the passage was empty. I just saw that your door was open, and I thought…”

  But Bongani has brushed past him and is looking in both directions down the empty corridor. How long has he stood frozen behind the desk? Can the witchdoctor be hiding behind one of the refrigeration cabinets lining the corridor? Has he imagined it all? He returns to the student.

  “I’m sorry. I was expecting someone. And I’m a bit late. And I’m feeling unwell. Can we meet tomorrow?” The student looks at his face, readily agrees, and quickly leaves.

  Bongani picks up the dropped papers, sits down at his desk, takes a deep breath, and dials Kubu’s number. He cannot think of anything else to do. Kubu is busy, but recognises panic in Bongani’s voice. He agrees to come to the University Staff Club as quickly as he can.

  Outside the university, the Old Man stands on the street corner and waits for a minibus taxi. There are plenty, because many of the students ride the communal minibuses from their homes or rented accommodation to the campus. He holds up the forefinger of his right hand, a sign that he wants to go to the central bus depot.

  A bright red Toyota minibus heads in his direction. It is battered and bruised with dents from a variety of closer-than-close shaves, and on the back is painted in cheerful letters, ‘Uncle Is Uncle, Never Let U Down’. No evidence supports this motto, but it gives the passengers a sense of comfort. Uncle cuts in front of a truck, which is itself breaking the speed limit, and accelerates through a traffic light recently turned red. Then, on a roll, it cuts off a Mercedes trying to change lanes. The minibus is full of students talking loudly and laughing at each other’s jokes. Some older passengers are chat
ting to each other and ignoring the taxi’s frenetic progress. One couple, travelling by minibus taxi for the first time, are absorbed in prayer.

  Uncle’s driver spots the customer, pulls across the road from the fast lane in front of another car, ignores the resulting invective, and stops with a jerk next to the man. He puts on his hazard lights to alert the unfortunate cars behind that he will now be stationary for some period. They have the option of waiting until he is ready to move on, or of trying to make their way into the busy fast lane. They know it will be a waste of time to hoot.

  Several of the students pile out, still talking and laughing, but they carefully avoid jostling the well-dressed old man waiting his turn to board. He nods, climbs into the minibus, and pays the fare that the driver asks. The other passengers respectfully move over to give him plenty of room. He greets them and then sits upright on his seat with his little suitcase on his lap. Uncle accelerates and resumes its roller-coaster progress. After a while the chatter in the taxi starts again, but several times people glance at the suitcase when they think that the owner won’t notice.

  The Gaborone Central Bus Station is on the verge of the city centre. It is a large, more or less rectangular open lot bordered by major roads on two sides and the railway line on the third. On the fourth side is the Gaborone Hotel and pub. Although past its prime, it remains popular with visiting businesspeople who cannot afford the prices or stomach the ostentation of the casino hotels.

  A mixture of vehicles of various shapes and sizes fills the lot. Minibus taxis crowd the narrow entrance, shouting at each other good-naturedly and hooting at the pedestrians in the street. Larger transport buses are parked towards the back of the lot. The ones from Botswana and South Africa look reasonably well maintained, and follow a schedule of sorts. In contrast, the ones from Zimbabwe are old, broken-down hulks. They travel when they are full, or when the driver feels like leaving. Their roof carriers are crowded with items that look like junk but are unobtainable in Zimbabwe—used tyres, reconditioned car engines and other old and dusty mechanical parts from scrap yards, bags bulging with the nondescript treasures of their owners. Probably the passengers have come to visit relatives working in Gaborone. Perhaps they have been lucky enough to find short-term work themselves. They undercut the locals and are exploited by their employers. They make few friends. Many Batswana have lost sympathy for their desperate neighbours to the northeast.

  Everyone walks in the street. Flea-market stalls and hawkers overflow the sidewalks. Foodstuffs, cooked and raw, adult and children’s clothing, blankets, trinkets, mirrors, even household appliances, are crowded into small, collapsible stalls. Much discussion precedes each sale. The merchandise changes according to circumstance. When a thunderstorm is brewing, everyone sells umbrellas; when it is hot, bottled water and soft drinks in buckets of cold water appear. At nightfall, all stock disappears into battered old vans.

  The Old Man weaves his way through the flea-market crowd. Despite confusion, shouting and hooting, he knows exactly where he is going. He moves out of the main shopping area and back off the street. Here stalls sell other sorts of items. Only a few people show serious interest in these goods. Some walk past slowly with the furtive curiosity that a conservative Westerner might show for a newly opened sex shop, but most walk past quickly. The witchdoctor makes a few enquiries and soon finds what he wants. He pays the price asked, and places the items carefully in his suitcase.

  Then he makes his way towards the intercity buses.

  Kubu looked at his young friend with disappointment.

  “Why didn’t you tell me all this before, Bongani? You’re a first-rate scientist. Surely you don’t believe in witchdoctors and evil eyes and spirits who steal people’s names and souls? And that finger bone was evidence, possibly important evidence. You’ve placed yourself in the position of concealing evidence from the police.”

  “Yes, I know it was stupid. I don’t know why I didn’t tell you. I don’t know. I was scared, but I don’t know what I was scared of.”

  “I remember you were more upset than I expected the first time I met you. But I still don’t understand.” He lifted himself out of his easy chair. “I’ll get us another gin and tonic. For medicinal purposes. And some nuts. It’s not good to drink on an empty stomach.” He headed off to the bar, leaving Bongani alone for a few minutes to search for enlightenment in his empty glass with its melting ice and flaccid lemon wedge.

  When Kubu returned, Bongani had pulled himself together. “His right hand felt like dry bone,” he said. “The feeling was all wrong; it was warm, but dry warmth, like a piece of stone left lying in the sun, not the warmth of live flesh and blood.”

  “Listen, Bongani, witchdoctors do have powers. They have remarkable control of their bodies. They can trance. Some can go into a state of suspended animation.”

  “But the other hand was quite different. It was as cold as ice. So cold that my hand felt chilled! No one has that sort of control.”

  “No, I suppose not. But they are often skilled in hypnosis too. Are you sure that these things weren’t just in your mind? Carefully placed there by the witchdoctor? You admit you were almost hysterical by the time he disappeared.”

  “But what would be the point? He didn’t ask for money.”

  “He could be reeling you in with his lion-skin pouch and your emotional reaction to the murder. You don’t know what else he has in mind for you once you’re taken in by this charade. You don’t even know what was in that pouch. It could be a piece of carved cow bone, anything.”

  Bongani concentrated on his drink, saying nothing. Kubu finished the nuts, using a finger to mop up the salt on the side of the dish. He expected an argument, but instead Bongani changed tack.

  “Did you ever find any parts of the hands? They weren’t attached to the body when we found it.”

  “A few pieces were identified as being part of a hand. The pathologist determined that. But nothing that would help to identify the victim.”

  “Was it possible to tell which hand they came from?”

  Kubu shook his head. “I didn’t ask, but it seems unlikely. Apart from orientation, the two hands will be pretty similar. Why?” Bongani didn’t answer, and an uncomfortable silence ensued while Kubu wondered if he should tell Bongani what the pathologist suspected. He decided that it was only fair to do so.

  “There was one thing, though. One arm was missing below the elbow, but there were marks on the left humerus that looked as though it had been hacked at by something like a cleaver. They thought that the man might have been attacked and lifted his arm in front of his face to defend himself. Didn’t do any good, though. Perhaps his throat was slashed before they hit him from behind. The hyenas would have eaten any evidence of that.”

  Despite Kubu’s clinical tone, Bongani was glad he hadn’t eaten any of the nuts. “Which arm was it?” he asked quietly.

  “It was the left arm. If the assailant was right-handed, the victim would defend with his left.”

  “But it’s unlikely that a blow would hit the upper arm. It would be more likely to hit the forearm. Suppose I attacked you with a knife, and you wanted to protect your face with your arm. What would you do?”

  Kubu raised his arm to block the hypothetical blow and immediately took Bongani’s point. The forearm would face the blow.

  Bongani nodded. “You see? The radius bone would be hit and probably broken with a heavy blow. The humerus wouldn’t be damaged. But suppose the arm was hacked off after he was killed, not before? Maybe it wasn’t taken to the desert. Maybe it is ‘waiting’; the devil knows what for.”

  Kubu considered his glass and the empty peanut bowl, then looked at his watch. “I have to go home to dinner, or Joy will be upset,” he said, getting up. “I’ll try to track down your witchdoctor friend, though. He’s up to something, and I’d like to know exactly what.”

  ∨ A Carrion Death ∧

  CHAPTER 43

  Before the meeting started, while tea and c
offee were served, Cecil took Dianna around, introducing her to each of the BCMC directors, starting with the most senior. He made a point of introducing her as his niece in order to emphasise the family connection. He was surprised to discover that many of the directors recognised her at once, but supposed they remembered her from the reception he had held for her and Angus when they first returned to Botswana more than a month ago. Dianna handled it well, remembering names and making a few pleasant and appropriate comments to each.

  At last they settled to their positions around the massive rectangular yellowwood boardroom table. Cecil sat at one end with a large portrait of his brother behind him. Roland had been painted with a formal and somewhat stern aspect. The artist had captured the strength of Roland’s face, and the hardness. But the most striking feature was the intensity of the blue eyes that, Mona Lisa-like, seemed to look at each person around the table. When he’d been chairman, Roland had always sat at the far end, facing his portrait; Cecil had taken the opposite seat, saying with apparent modesty that he didn’t feel comfortable usurping the founder’s chair. But some of the older directors believed that he didn’t want those stern eyes watching him. It had become tradition that Roland’s chair remained empty.

  Cecil seated Dianna on his right, and the other members of the board assumed their usual seats. An overgrown telephone sat in the centre of the table, with a spread of cables leading to strategically placed microphones. Cecil disliked it. It reminded him of a fat black spider in the middle of a messy web. He hoped it would work. He had experience in managing and manipulating people, but was uncomfortable dealing with a person while physically separated from him by technology. He’d made a point of being on hand when the technician installed the system earlier that morning, but had received small comfort for his trouble. He’d tried yet again to reach Angus at the hospital without success, being told curtly that he wasn’t available. He’d had to settle for testing it on a conference call with his personal assistant.