Detective Kubu 01; A Carrion Death

by Michael Stanley

  “Dumela,” he replied, alert for an attack. “My name is Happy. Some of the women call me Sethunya, but I don’t like that.”

  “The old women call you Sethunya because you light up their day like a flower. I will call you Happy.” Tiro paused. “How old are you?”

  Happy relaxed a little. “Thirteen,” he said with a smile.

  Tiro shook his head, knowing full well that this was at least two years too high. Ten was closer to the mark. “Where is your mother?” he asked.

  Happy’s smile disappeared. “I have no mother. All those ladies are my mothers,” he said, pointing at the street vendors.

  “Where do you live?” Tiro’s voice was soft.

  Happy pointed at an alley.

  “Would you like something to eat?” Tiro asked, pointing at a small shop that provided inexpensive takeouts.

  Immediately, Happy was suspicious. Tiro continued, “You look hungry, and I need to eat too. Let’s go.” He walked over to the counter and ordered two hamburgers and two Coca-Colas. When they were ready, he took them over to a bench and gestured to Happy, who had stayed some distance away. Happy didn’t move. “Come on, Happy,” Tiro shouted. “I’m hungry.”

  Cautiously, Happy came over and wolfed the food down. Tiro watched with pain in his heart. How can we let children live like this? he asked himself.

  When Happy had finished a second burger and was sucking large gulps of Coke through a straw, Tiro asked him how long he had been living in the area. Happy was not sure, but it was a long time. Before that he had lived in a very poor area whose name he did not remember. Tiro asked him about his friends, where he slept when it rained, where he found his food, and so on. Soon Happy was talking freely. Even though he was by nature very cautious when dealing with adults, he felt safe with this man who had bought him food. The man asked lots of questions and teased Happy, making him laugh. The man also laughed, but quietly. It was his eyes that laughed rather than his mouth.

  After half an hour, Tiro said that he had read in the paper that someone had been killed on the Mall a few days before. He wondered whether Happy had seen or heard anything.

  “Oh, yes!” Happy said. “I saw him and his friend. They were talking.”

  Tiro asked, “Weren’t you scared? I would have been.”

  “No,” answered Happy. “It was dark, and they didn’t see me. If they saw me, I’d hide. Know plenty of places to hide.”

  Now Tiro had to make a decision. Happy might be a witness, or at least able to provide information about the two people. He had to handle this carefully. Happy could disappear for ever if he felt the slightest threat.

  “Will you come with me to my house? I want my wife to meet you. She likes little boys with big smiles. I think you will like her. If you want to, you can spend the night in my son’s room. He’s away.”

  At once Happy looked anxious. But he liked this quiet man, so he said he would, hoping that the man’s woman had more food. Perhaps he could take something while they were not looking and sell it.

  Later that evening, Happy was unrecognisable. He was clean and wore clothes that had no holes or tatters. He was still barefoot because he said the shoes the Tiros had given him hurt his toes. Mma Tiro was not quiet like her husband. She was large and always laughing. She had taken one look at him, and helped him take a bath—his first. Then she threw away his rags. When he was dry, she gave him beautiful clothes from the cupboard in a big room that had pictures on the wall of people he did not know. He was overwhelmed by this lady and by all the money they must have to own such a mansion.

  When Tiro opened the door to the bedroom early next morning, he found Happy curled up on the floor. He had been uncomfortable with the soft bed and sheets over him and couldn’t sleep. Eventually he had crawled out of bed and slept on the floor with a blanket pulled over him.

  Happy got a fright when the door opened. He didn’t remember where he was, but when he saw Tiro, he remembered the kindness of the previous night. He smiled his glorious smile.

  “Come and have some breakfast, Happy,” Tiro said gently. “I have to go to work, and I want you to come with me.”

  Happy jumped up and went with Tiro to the kitchen. Tiro’s wife pointed to a chair and asked how he had slept. Happy told them how he had slept on the floor, a story that made the Tiros smile. Mma Tiro put a plate of bread covered with butter and jam in front of Happy, and told him to eat up. She also gave him a bag with fruit for later in the day.

  As he was eating, Happy asked Tiro what work he did. Tiro hesitated a moment and said, “I am a policeman.” Fear crossed Happy’s face. Tiro continued, “I am a detective. That’s a person who tries to find the bad. people who commit crimes. Remember you told me about the man who was killed on the Mall the other night?” Happy nodded suspiciously. “Well,” Tiro continued, “my job is to find out who killed him. But it is very difficult because nobody knows who it is. Nobody saw him; nobody knows where he is.”

  “But I saw him! I told you I saw him.”

  Tiro pretended to be startled and surprised. “I forgot! You did tell me.” He paused for a moment and then asked, “Will you help me find that man? I need your help.” He looked directly at Happy.

  “What do you want me to do?” Happy asked cautiously.

  “Nothing much,” Tiro said. “Can I ask you some questions about it?” Happy nodded. “Tell me what you saw.” Tiro poured another glass of milk and gave it to the boy.

  “The man who was dead was a big black man. He was with a white man,” Happy said. “I saw them walking.”

  “Where did they come from?” Tiro interrupted.

  “They walked from the side of the football field.”

  That must be the National Stadium, Tiro thought.

  “I saw them,” Happy continued. “They stood under a big tree. I hear them talking. Then there was a big noise like a gun, and the white man walks back.” He paused. “I looked for the black man. I find him on the ground. Blood all over his face. I run and tell the man who cleans the street. Then the police come, and I hide.”

  “What did the white man look like? Did you see him?”

  “It was dark. All I know is he had a beard.”

  “How tall was the man?” Tiro asked.

  “Bigger than you.”

  “This big?” Tiro raised his hand ten centimetres above his head. Happy shook his head. Tiro raised his hand even farther. “This big?” Happy shook his head. “You show me how big,” Tiro said. Happy just shook his head.

  “I don’t remember,” he said.

  “Did you hear what they were talking about? We’re trying to find the white man, so anything will help us.”

  “I hear them speak, but didn’t understand anything. Funny words. Never heard them before. Not English. Not Afrikaans. Not Setswana. Funny words. The white man was shouting.”

  Half an hour later, Tiro and Happy were sitting under a tree in the Mall. Tiro had tried to persuade Happy to go with him to the police station where he worked. He wanted Happy to listen to some tapes in the hope of recognising what language the two had been speaking. Happy had refused, saying it was ‘bad place’ for him. Eventually, Tiro located a portable tape player and took it to the mall. Tiro had been thinking about a black man and a white man speaking to each other in funny words that were not English or Afrikaans. Thinking of the European languages spoken in the neighbouring countries, he would bet it was one of three: German was still widely spoken in Namibia, French was common to the north, and Portuguese was the official language of nearby Angola.

  “Listen to this one,” Tiro said, putting a German tape in the player. He pressed PLAY, and Happy heard a strange language that sounded rather like Afrikaans. He shook his head. Next Tiro tried French, but Happy shook his head again. But when Tiro played the Portuguese tape, Happy picked up his head. “Sh. Sh.” He made some sounds as though he was telling someone to be quiet. Tiro realised that Happy was trying to imitate the frequent ‘sh’ sound at the end of many Portug
uese words.

  Happy smiled and jumped off the chair. “Sounds like that. Funny words.”

  ∨ A Carrion Death ∧

  CHAPTER 45

  In sheer frustration at his lack of progress, Kubu set off for his office at six a.m. “I can’t sleep. My mind is racing. I’m upset. I might as well go to work!” he said to Joy as he leant over the bed to kiss her goodbye. She grunted, muttered something about taking a piece of fruit or a yoghurt for his breakfast, rolled over and went back to sleep.

  As he left the house, he felt the familiar urge associated with frustration: the urge that had welled up throughout his life; the urge he had never been able to resist. And that was hunger. Less than ten minutes later, he was sitting at the Wimpy at Game City. He despised fast-food joints, but the Delta Cafe upstairs didn’t open this early. Nor did Botsalo Books, where he could succumb to the alternative temptation to browse the shelves. Anyway, Wimpy did a good job of a steak-and-eggs breakfast.

  Waiting for his order to be delivered, Kubu took advantage of a benefit that Wimpy offered—plenty of copies of the Daily News. His eye was drawn to a front-page headline, ‘BCMC Control Changes Hands’. The article outlined what had happened at the board meeting. Dianna Hofmeyr had become the new chairman—chairperson, he thought, for the politically correct. Angus Hofmeyr, her brother, who had become the majority stockholder on his thirtieth birthday, had proposed that his sister run the company that their father had started. Cecil Hofmeyr, the brother of founder Roland Hofmeyr, would step aside as chairman, but would fill the new position of CEO. Board member Roger Mpau told reporters this was the beginning of a new era for the company, enabling it to build on the strong foundation prepared by Roland and Cecil Hofmeyr.

  “The world is changing,” he said. “The company needs to help guide that change, at least in Botswana. I think you will see the company embrace the community to a greater extent than in the past. BCMC will grow internationally and become more Botswanan at the same time.” Kubu snorted. He had seen those sorts of promises before.

  The article then provided such scant background information about Dianna that the reporter must have been caught off guard by her appointment. There was much more detail about Angus, whom the reporter had obviously thought would take over.

  Kubu was lost in thought. He, too, was surprised. It was hard to believe that Angus would give up control. Angus always wanted to be in charge, and at the centre of things. This was a different Angus from the one Kubu had known at school. Even more surprising, the recipient of Angus’s largesse was his sister. Angus had never seemed close to her. Why hadn’t he let Cecil stay on for a few more years, if he wasn’t ready to take over himself? Very strange. At this point the aroma of his breakfast approaching claimed his attention. He hastily folded up the newspaper and cleared space. He hated cold eggs.

  When he arrived at his desk, Kubu immediately left phone messages for Edison and Zanele to meet him at eight-thirty in the conference room. He needed help in brainstorming. He needed a lead, an insight, even an intuition. He had nothing other than a growing number of bodies, all linked in some obscure way to BCMC.

  Edison and Zanele both arrived early. Everyone poured a cup of tea or coffee and settled in the conference room. After a minimum of social chatter, Kubu briefly summarised what they knew. They had three bodies. The first, an unidentified white male, had been found at Kamissa on Monday, 27 February.

  The second was a black male, Thembu Kobedi, thief, blackmailer and pornographer, beaten and shot on the afternoon of Friday, 10 March. Kobedi had recently stolen a letter from Cecil Hofmeyr, who had paid five thousand pula to retrieve it. The police had the letter, written by a BCMC geologist, Aron Frankental, critical of the abilities of his boss, Jason Ferraz, as manager of a BCMC mine, suggesting something about diamonds being stolen from the mine. The letter hardly seemed grounds for either blackmail or murder. Part of a copy of one page of the letter was found near Kobedi’s body.

  The third body was that of a black man, also unidentified, but a prime suspect in Kobedi’s murder. He was shot in the head late in the evening of 10 March or early in the morning of the 11th.

  They had one missing person—the same Aron Frankental who had written to Hofmeyr. Meanwhile Ferraz had disappeared. Everyone thought he was in Europe on business, followed by a vacation. However, the police had not been able to contact him, trace him, or even verify that he had left the country.

  Finally, Kubu had been assaulted by the now-deceased black man.

  “So that’s where we stand,” Kubu concluded. “We need to make some progress.” He paused for a moment before continuing. “Zanele, I know you haven’t had much time to process all the stuff you got from the mine, but I need to know whether you have anything at all at this stage.”

  “I do have some information, but not as much as I’d hoped,” she said. “I did find enough material at both sites to run DNA tests. There were a few hairs with follicles in Frankental’s bathroom, trapped in the shower drain. He also left a hairbrush, which had a few hairs on it. We found plenty of hairs in the farmhouse, some curly and some straight. Then there was the blood in the bathroom and in the yellow Landy. It’s definitely human blood. Unfortunately, none of the DNA reports are back yet. I’ve told the lab it’s a high-priority job, but they have a backlog, and it’s going to take a while.”

  Kubu nodded, but looked despondent. “Zanele. I need some good news. Please have some!”

  Zanele pulled a brown envelope from her briefcase. “I do have some positive information. We found some fingerprints in Frankental’s room. Some were from the person who cleaned it—I’ve his name here somewhere. Some were Jason’s, and the others were Frankental’s—at least we’re pretty sure they are his. They matched some found on his resume in his file. I would say we can be ninety per cent certain. The strange thing is that there were no prints on the hairbrush. It had obviously been cleaned. Someone tried to clean up at the farmhouse too. But we found a variety of prints there anyway. We found several matches with those of the third victim—the huge black man. We also found one that’s a perfect match for Jason Ferraz. But none of Frankental’s prints. There were also other prints we haven’t been able to identify, including some in the upstairs room—the one with the heavy lock. We got a clear thumbprint on a bent five-thebe coin we found in the bathroom and some partials on the underside of the table. We were lucky there—most of the room had been wiped clean.”

  All three sat silently, digesting this new information.

  Again Zanele checked her report. “The vehicle we found abandoned near the farmhouse was Frankental’s, though. The engine numbers matched.” She paused.

  “Personally, I think Frankental is dead. But what happened to his body? There wouldn’t be a lot of predators or scavengers in the area around the mine, but it might be buried somewhere nearby. We’ve done a careful search around the farmhouse itself and around the area where we found the car, but we’ve found nothing. Yet I’m not convinced he is the Kamissa body.”

  Kubu raised his eyebrows. “Why do you think the Kamissa body is not Frankental’s? Nobody else seems to be missing.”

  “It is my intuition,” Zanele replied. “Why didn’t we find any of his prints at the farmhouse? And it doesn’t make sense to drive Frankental’s body all the way to Kamissa, but hide his Landy near the farmhouse. It seems too much work. It would’ve made more sense to hide the Landy somewhere else and bury the body nearby.”

  Kubu nodded. “Well, I think we all rely on intuition to some extent. So we’ll keep that in mind. Now, let’s narrow the focus. Disentangle what we know. Keep the issues separate. First, the Kamissa body. We don’t really know who the person is. We’re certain he was murdered. We’re also sure that the murderers used a yellow vehicle—which Zanele’s report suggests is the one we found at the farmhouse. Ferraz was definitely at the farmhouse. In my interviews with him, I sensed he knew more than he was saying, but my intuition is that he isn’t a cold-blooded murderer.�
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  He paused, took a deep breath, and continued. “Second, Frankental is missing. His vehicle is found burnt out in a riverbed and then camouflaged. It had been at the farmhouse. Frankental had criticised Ferraz in a letter to Cecil Hofmeyr and said that he thought diamonds were being stolen from the mine. Ferraz had been at the farmhouse. So, Ferraz has to be our main suspect, even though we don’t actually know Frankental is dead. Now we can’t find Ferraz.” Kubu paused once again.

  “Third, Kobedi is murdered. That much we know. We think he was blackmailing Cecil Hofmeyr, using the letter Frankental wrote to Hofmeyr. If the letter we have is genuine, it’s difficult to understand how it could be used for blackmail. Nothing really sensitive in it. We’re pretty sure Kobedi was murdered by the large man, who was subsequently also killed. When I spoke to Ferraz, I was sure that he knew who the black man was. But I don’t think he knew about the murders. He seemed shocked.” Kubu took a deep breath. “Three bodies. One missing person, who may also be dead. One missing suspect.” He paused as a new thought struck him. “I wonder if he’s also dead?”

  Edison pulled some notes from a folder. “There is a small lead on the murder of the big black man. Last night one of the detectives, Peter Tiro, talked to a homeless boy who lives between some of the stalls on the Mall. He told Tiro that he saw a big black man and a white man together on the night of the murder. He said the white man sounded angry, but he didn’t understand what they were saying. It was a strange language he couldn’t understand. A little later the white man came back along the Mall—walking fast. He was alone. And he had a beard.” Edison referred to his notes. “Tiro’s still talking to the boy.”

  Kubu lifted himself a little in his chair. “Were you able to locate the safe deposit boxes for the keys we found in Kobedi’s safe, Edison?”

  “Yes. Yesterday afternoon I found both. The first was in his name at the Barclays bank on Luthuli Road—that was easy to find. Nothing much of interest in it. Paperwork for his house and car. About eight thousand pula and five thousand US dollars in cash. Some other innocuous papers. The second was more difficult to find, since it was not in his name—it ended up being in the name of a fictitious company, Pink Flamingo Enterprises. It was in the industrial area branch of the Stanbic bank on Old Lobatse Road. Finding the bank wasn’t too difficult, because they use a different type of key from Barclays. However, the director had to get a court order to persuade the bank to open the box. They were reluctant, and it took some time to match the key with its box. They keep the key numbers separate for security reasons.”