Detective Kubu 01; A Carrion Death

by Michael Stanley

  Red Beard wasn’t worried about the money. Although he would never admit it, he privately felt that Daniel’s attitude was justified. And he did worry about loose ends. All loose ends.

  ∨ A Carrion Death ∧

  CHAPTER 49

  After dinner, Kubu drove to the Zebra bar, not far from the train station. Although not his choice of watering hole, it was where most Portuguese-speakers congregated. He turned off the asphalt on to a dirt road that wound around some palms, past a Chinese restaurant and another bar that had a reputation for being a good source for drugs. He parked on the far side of the road from the Zebra.

  Pushing through swinging doors, Kubu entered a large outdoor area surrounding the bar itself. Cheap African masks decorated the reed walls, and an elephant skull dominated a small platform near the door. Two sets of kudu horns caught his attention. They must have been magnificent beasts, Kubu thought as he admired their size. And three zebra skins hung on the wall behind the bar. Several couples sat at tables sipping Portuguese wines. A boisterous group of young men surrounded a large table to the right of the bar. Several older men occupied stools at the bar itself. Kubu headed towards them.

  At first he didn’t see his quarry. He walked around the bar again. Luiz was not there. Kubu had not talked to him for some time, so perhaps he had left the country or changed his habits. He leant over the bar and spoke to the bartender.

  “Luiz used to be here the whole time. Any idea where I can find him?”

  The bartender stared at him, assessing whether the question warranted an answer. Kubu stared back. Eventually the barman pointed towards the back of the enclosure, behind a small fountain that had run out of water long ago. There was Luiz, sitting by himself at a table. He was drinking something a lot harder than wine. Kubu ordered a Scotch on the rocks, paid for it, and walked over to Luiz’s table. Pulling up a chair, he said, “Luiz, my friend. It’s been a long time!”

  Luiz’s dirty, sweaty face looked up. He didn’t smile.

  “Luiz,” Kubu repeated. “How are you? It’s been a long time.”

  “Okay,” Luiz responded quietly. “Drink too much. Still at garage. But still clean!”

  “That’s wonderful, Luiz. Congratulations.”

  “What you want?” Luiz asked, not smiling. His relationship with the detective had always been ambivalent at best.

  “A favour!” Kubu sat down. “Luiz, have you ever seen this man?” He handed over a picture of the man he believed had killed Kobedi. “We think he’s from Angola. He was murdered last week. We don’t know who he is. Does he ever come in here?”

  Luiz glanced at the photograph, then put it face down on the table. He took a gulp of his tequila. He shook his head slowly. “Don’t know!” But a hint of fear in his eyes made Kubu believe otherwise.

  “Please, Luiz. I need your help.”

  “You always need my help! When I help, I have problems.”

  “I just need to know who this is. Have you seen him before?”

  Luiz stared at Kubu, then at his glass, and shook his head. “You bad for me.” He paused. “Very bad for me!” Again he shook his head. “Don’t know his real name. They call him Sculo. From Angola. Don’t say I tell you. Bad friends.” He glanced around the bar nervously.

  “Bad friends?” Kubu asked. “Who are these bad friends?”

  Luiz shook his head rapidly from side to side. “Bad friends! I tell you—I die. Very bad.” Kubu could feel his fear.

  “Luiz, I need to know. I have three murders, including Sculo. When did you last see him?”

  Luiz continued to shake his head. “Very bad.”

  Kubu stared at Luiz, but said nothing. Luiz looked down, then around, then at Kubu. He examined his glass again. Eventually he said, “Bad man with Sculo. Like me. From Angola. Don’t know name.”

  “I need his name, Luiz. Please.”

  Luiz sat silent.

  “Don’t know name. Promise. Bad man. Don’t like you, you dead.”

  Kubu slipped two hundred pula across the table.

  “Very bad,” said Luiz. But the pula disappeared into his trouser pocket.

  “Do you know where I can find him? Where does he live?”

  “Live in Angola.”

  “How often does he come to his bar? Do you see him often?”

  Luiz again shook his head. “Not often. Four, five times a year.”

  “Luiz. Please help me,” Kubu pleaded. “When did you last see him?”

  Luiz stared into Kubu’s eyes. “Last week,” he whispered. “With Sculo.”

  “When last week? Which day?”

  Luiz’s eyes became fearful again. “Not this week. Last week. Thursday? Friday? Say no more. Bad man. He find out I talk…” He cut his throat with his hand.

  “You’re sure you don’t know his name?”

  “Don’t know name.” He glanced around, swallowed his drink, and stood up. “Don’t know name. But has big red beard.” He turned and almost ran from the room.

  Kubu sat quietly for a moment. Picking up the photo, he walked to the bar. The barman came over and asked if he wanted another Scotch. Kubu declined. Instead he pulled out his police credentials and said, “Assistant Superintendent Bengu. Have you ever seen this man?” He handed over the picture of Sculo. The barman looked at the photo and replied, “Yes. He comes in for a drink sometimes.”

  “Do you know his name?”

  “No. I don’t ever talk to him. He always sits at a table, not at the bar.”

  “Does he have any friends?”

  The barman paused for a moment. “He’s usually by himself. Occasionally he comes in with a man with a red beard. I don’t know his name either.”

  Kubu growled. “This is very important!” He handed the barman a card. “If the man with the red beard ever comes in here, phone me immediately—but don’t let him know. If I find that he’s been here and you haven’t phoned, I will find a reason to close the bar, and I will find a reason to put you in jail.” Kubu hoped that he sounded angry and threatening.

  The barman nodded. “I’ll let you know!”

  Kubu turned and walked out. A little progress, he thought, but not much. He decided to send a fax to all police stations and the immigration people asking them to alert him if they saw a Portuguese-speaking man in his thirties or forties with a heavy red beard. He hoped he was guessing the age correctly.

  ∨ A Carrion Death ∧

  CHAPTER 50

  Dianna paused at the secretary’s desk and asked politely, “Is Mr Hofmeyr available?” Recognising her immediately, the secretary responded, “Of course, Miss Hofmeyr. Go straight in.” She didn’t bother to check with Cecil, assuming that he would now always be available to the new chairman of the company.

  Dianna knocked and opened the door. She took in the palatial extent of Cecil’s office, which had been her father’s. She was still using a modest consultant’s office, but she didn’t care about the office. She had her father’s seat at the head of the boardroom table.

  Cecil glanced at her and returned his attention to the document on his desk.

  “Sit down, Dianna. I’ll be with you in a minute.” Dianna had already helped herself to the French Renaissance chair whose safety had concerned Kubu. It accepted her as to the manner born.

  Cecil pushed the document aside, looked up at her enquiringly and asked, “How is the tour going?” He was referring to her round of meetings with the various executive directors. He had not offered to facilitate these, but left her to find her own way. It seemed she knew most of them already; they were ready with their presentations, although these might originally have been prepared for Angus.

  “Oh, it’s been fine. You’ve run a tight ship.” Cecil nodded, but didn’t acknowledge her compliment. They were like two springbok rams circling. Neither wanted to lock horns, but each held its head down and body ready in case of a confrontation. It was their first private conversation since the board meeting.

  “Uncle Cecil,” Dianna began, emp
hasising the family link, “I hope we can work together. This has been a surprise to me too. Angus, I mean. I need your help.”

  “I’ll be happy to help in any way I can,” said Cecil coldly. “How is Angus, by the way?”

  “Much better. It’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about. I want to spend a few days with him at our holiday place in Plettenberg Bay in South Africa. I think he needs some support at the moment. We can chill out at the beach.” Dianna gave a little laugh—the Cape was in the midst of a heat wave—but Cecil ignored the small offering.

  “I’ve been worried about that clinic where Angus is,” he said. “I’ve been looking into it. Not really the place to go for tropical infections, you know. More for, shall we say, rehabilitation? Very discreet they are, mind you. They wouldn’t even admit to having had a patient called Angus Hofmeyr, until I mentioned the call to the board meeting. Under no circumstances may he be disturbed, it seems.”

  Dianna shrugged. She had expected this. “Angus didn’t have malaria, Uncle. He went for rehab. There was no choice.”

  “That was more important than appearing at the key board meeting?”

  “Would you have preferred him to be there drunk or spaced out? Just the message to send to our investors, not so?” Now she sounded angry.

  “Perhaps not.” Cecil retreated. “Your mother seems fine, anyway. I spoke to her after the meeting. She couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about.”

  Dianna hadn’t expected that. Cecil and her mother couldn’t stand one another. Her mother hated Botswana and despised her brother-in-law with the disapproval of a conventional married woman for a good-looking man whose sexual appetites lay elsewhere. They had had little to do with each other apart from business issues after the family had gone to live in London.

  “Mother’s quite private about these kinds of issues,” she said smoothly.

  “Evidently,” Cecil agreed, unsatisfied.

  She changed the subject. “I want to use the company Learjet.” She knew Cecil regarded the jet as his personal plane, but it wasn’t. It belonged to the company. “I want to meet Angus tomorrow when he leaves the clinic and would like to avoid all the delays and formalities with the airlines. He shouldn’t be left on his own right now. We’ll come back next week. We won’t need the plane in the interim.”

  Cecil didn’t like it, but he couldn’t see any grounds to refuse. “I’m not sure the pilot is available.”

  “He is. I checked.”

  “Very well, then. Is there anything else?”

  At last Dianna did jab at him with her horns. “Just this. I have what I want. I’m happy to leave you with what you want. The diamond mine at Maboane, for example. Just don’t get in my way.” She got up and walked to the door. “I’ll be back in a week, perhaps ten days. Keep the plane on standby.” She closed the door behind her.

  Cecil thought about the conversation and her reactions. She had warned him off, but why was she so tense? She obviously knew something was up at the Maboane mine. But she had decided to use it as a stick rather than to pursue it. And the carrot? Despite the unpleasant discussion, Cecil felt that after all he held some decent cards. Unfortunately, he had no idea what they were.

  ∨ A Carrion Death ∧

  CHAPTER 51

  Kubu arrived at work on Monday morning full of hope that a breakthrough was near at hand. That was not to be. They made no progress at all for two full days. The Angolan embassy knew nothing of Sculo nor his bearded Portuguese friend, and no information had come through on the DNA tests. They had traced the yellow Land Rover found at the farmhouse. It had indeed belonged to BCMC, but they had sold it five years ago, and it had changed hands a few times since then. Now it was registered in a false name at a false address in Gaborone. The second-hand car salesman who last sold it thought the buyer looked like Ferraz, but he was really only interested in proving that he had the correct paperwork.

  By Wednesday, Kubu was despondent again. He sat at his desk doodling on a pad—beetles, birds, meaningless scribbles. He even tried some lateral-thinking techniques he had learnt on a course. Nothing sparked an insight.

  At noon, Kubu’s phone interrupted his reverie. It was Afrika Modise, head of the CID Diamond Branch.

  “Kubu,” he said in his usual gruff and to-the-point way, “I have the report on the Maboane diamond mine here.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “Well, I think you’d better see it for yourself. And there’s someone with me I want you to meet.”

  Kubu looked at his watch. “What about lunch?” he asked hopefully.

  “Oh, grab a sandwich later. Come over.”

  Kubu groaned. Why was he the only person in the building who thought that eating regular meals was important?

  When he arrived at Afrika’s office, he found him with a stout, bleached-looking man with a heavy tan beard and a long handlebar moustache. A scientist from Debswana, Kubu thought. Another one of de Beards from De Beers! Kubu smiled to himself at his unoriginal humour.

  In his self-amusement he missed the man’s name—something Polish-sounding—but he was indeed a scientist with Debswana. He wore small, frameless glasses, and when he focused over the top of them to shake Kubu’s hand, his bushy eyebrows rose, making him look like a surprised walrus.

  “Pleased to meet you, Superintendent,” said the Walrus. He turned to Afrika. “Do you think they could organise something for us to eat? I’ve been here for ages, and it’s past lunchtime.” Kubu warmed to him at once.

  After Afrika had ordered sandwiches and cold drinks, the three settled around his small conference table.

  “Well, Kubu,” Afrika began, “we’re sure no one’s stealing diamonds from the mine. Nothing’s impossible, of course, but just about everyone at the mine would have to be in on it. Doesn’t make sense.”

  “Is that what you called me over to tell me?”

  Afrika held up one hand. “There’s a lot more. Dr Waskowski, perhaps you should fill in Superintendent Bengu.”

  The Walrus made a grunting sound by way of clearing his throat. “Aron Frankental was a scientific colleague, Superintendent. He regarded me as a mentor. He was dubious about Ferraz—understandably—and knew I’d worked on the Maboane joint venture project. So he could bounce ideas off me. Speak to a real scientist rather than an entrepreneur.” It was clear that he didn’t think much of Jason Ferraz.

  “Ah, so you knew Aron well?” Kubu’s interest picked up.

  “Not really well. As I said, we were colleagues. We’d speak on the telephone or meet occasionally if he came down to Gabs.”

  “And Ferraz?”

  The Walrus waggled his sideburns. “Only a few professional meetings. I didn’t like dealing with him. He’s a showman. Before this he managed a small mine in Angola and left there under a bit of a cloud, from what I’ve heard. I told Aron to watch out for him.”

  “So what did you make of Aron’s story about diamonds being stolen?”

  The Walrus shrugged. “Not much. Never made a lot of sense to me. But that wasn’t Aron’s first idea, you know.” Kubu raised an eyebrow. “Oh no, he had a lot of other theories. He thought there might be a second kimberlite that had intruded into the first, bringing the better stones.”

  “Is that possible?”

  “Anything’s possible, but it’s very unlikely. And it would be obvious, when you found the interface. Aron never did. I asked him to look at the kimberlite around the richer diamonds. You know what was remarkable?” The Walrus paused for effect and puffed his cheeks, obviously not expecting an answer. “Aron never found any of the rich stones in situ. He was always chasing the latest area where they were supposed to have been found, but never found gemstones there. Of course, now we know why.” He grunted again and said nothing more.

  “Have you heard of fingerprinting?” Afrika asked Kubu, who looked incredulous. Afrika laughed. “Diamond fingerprinting, that is. It’s a technique originally developed for the gold mines in South Africa. T
he smelted gold contains a variety of trace elements. These vary in type and concentration from mine to mine. If you take a sample of the processed gold, analyse it, and check the results against the database, you’ve a good statistical probability of matching it to its original mine. It can be helpful in tracing stolen gold if you know where it originated. We have a different, but similar, technique for diamonds.”

  Kubu would have been interested in how that worked, but the two men made it clear that the process was secret. “So what does that tell you about the Maboane mine situation?”

  The Walrus pulled on his sideburns and grunted again. “The smaller, industrial-quality diamonds come from that mine. No doubt. It seems likely that the gemstones come from somewhere else. But not from one of the established Botswana mines or, indeed, any De Beers mine. There’s no match to our database. They might be from some other country.”

  “Angola?” Kubu asked quietly.

  The Walrus’s eyebrows shot up. “Yes, quite likely. We’ve got little data from that part of the world. There are a lot of unregistered diamonds there too.”

  “You mean blood diamonds?”

  The Walrus was displeased. “We prefer to call them unregistered. Some of them are perfectly legitimate. Not all finance wars and such. The whole conflict-diamond thing is rather overcooked in my opinion.” He harrumphed and then subsided.

  Kubu had little interest in the diamond industry’s sensitivities. “So are you suggesting that it was all a scam? That the mine was being salted?”

  Afrika was about to reply, but was interrupted by the arrival of lunch. He could get no attention from either Kubu or the Walrus while they attacked the sandwiches. At last, feeling he might be heard above the chewing, he reminded Kubu of his question.

  “Do we think the mine was being salted? Well, yes and no. It is a commercial producing mine. It does make money even though the majority of its diamonds aren’t gem quality. It also has a large exploration lease area, and they have identified several additional potential kimberlites. No one would be excited about a joint venture over that area on the basis of the sort of output they’re getting from the mine. But if you add these high-quality gems to the mix, it’s a different story.”