Detective Kubu 01; A Carrion Death

by Michael Stanley

  He looked enquiringly at the Walrus, who nodded and said, “The point is, you are not talking about a few stones scattered around to fool some novice junior exploration company. Over the last year, a substantial portion of the mine’s income came from these stones. And it all started after we’d pulled out of the JV—the joint venture, that is.”

  Kubu digested this. “Did Aron know any of this? Did you suggest he send some diamonds for fingerprinting?”

  The Walrus looked shocked. “That would have been most improper. Different now that it’s a police matter, of course.” Not a lot of comfort to Aron, Kubu thought. He turned instead to the most useful question in any investigation. “Who would gain from all this?”

  Afrika shrugged. “Basically everyone. Whoever has the diamonds in the first place gets to sell them. The smuggler gets his money. Ferraz gets more money from the mine and a higher profile for his exploration areas. The workers on a marginal mine get to keep their jobs. Even the Botswana government gets extra taxes! No one will be in a hurry to rat on this one. Somehow Aron got in the way.”

  Kubu helped himself to another sandwich. They were tasty, and he wanted to think, not talk, for a moment. “It’s Ferraz and the smuggler from Angola,” he said at last. “It’s small potatoes for BCMC, and it couldn’t have been happening under Ferraz’s nose without him knowing about it. But how did he get the money back to the smuggler? Afrika, did you check their books?”

  Afrika nodded. “Nothing obvious. They’re spending a fortune on exploration—more than their profits. We haven’t had time to check exactly who’s been paid and why, but we will. I think we’ll find that a lot of that money is finding its way to paying for the blood diamonds, and probably back to Ferraz also. Not to any of his local accounts, though. He’s not that stupid. We’ve already checked. By the way, it’s not a BCMC company at all. The partners are Ferraz, Cecil Hofmeyr, and the Roland Hofmeyr Trust.”

  Kubu digested this unexpected information.

  “The mine’s a front,” he said quietly. “It’s used to launder the diamonds and build a high profile for those exploration areas. Cash in hand by laundering the diamonds, or a rich sale to a major mining company. Probably BCMC, since Debswana wouldn’t fall for it. Fifty thebe each way—win or place! Gentlemen, thank you very much. I think I’m starting to understand this case at last.”

  ∨ A Carrion Death ∧

  CHAPTER 52

  It was after five-thirty a.m. before Mabaku could see Kubu. Although it was late, and he would displease Joy once again, Kubu was happy with an evening meeting. He needed the time to organise his thoughts.

  “Come in, Kubu. Sit down. I hope that this won’t take too long. I’ve had a hell of a day, what with that spate of robberies here and in Lobatse. We aren’t making any progress, but I think it may be a South African gang. They’re most probably across the border, enjoying their pickings.”

  “If they have to cross the border each time,” Kubu said, “they’ll make a mistake somewhere. Tell the wrong person what they are up to; get a bit cocky after a few successes; spend too much money; something like that. I bet you’ll have them under lock and key within a week or two. Do you have any undercover contacts in Zeerust or Mafikeng?”

  “No,” replied Mabaku. “But we’re working with the South African police. They’re interested too because of similar robberies on their side of the border. Of course, they think it is a Botswanan gang!”

  Kubu snorted, and then got down to business. “I learnt some very interesting information today.”

  Mabaku nodded for Kubu to tell his story.

  “I was briefed by Afrika Modise of the Diamond Branch and by a Dr Waskowski from Debswana. Apparently De Beers has developed a technique for fingerprinting diamonds, meaning that they’re able to tell quite reliably where a diamond comes from by analysing the trace elements in it. More to the point, they can tell where it does not come from.”

  Kubu stood up, walked to the window. The sun was spreading reds and purples into the clouds as it sank. Today is the equinox, Kubu thought. Winter’s on its way.

  “Anyway,” he continued, “the first revelation was that the big diamonds they’ve been finding at Maboane are not from Maboane at all. Most probably from Angola. So the theory that they were stealing diamonds from the mine is wrong. Just the opposite. They were salting the mine with valuable stones. Everyone benefited. Some diamond grubber in Angola had a buyer, albeit at a price far lower than the legal market. The person smuggling them in was making a nice profit. And the owners of the mine stood to benefit, not just from the sale of these illicit stones, but ultimately from the sale of an apparently profitable mine with big prospects.”

  Mabaku grunted. “Never heard of a scam quite like that. I can’t believe BCMC would be involved with it. Is Afrika sure of his facts?”

  “Just what I thought,” replied Kubu. “Yes, Afrika is certain he’s right. Anyway, BCMC has nothing to do with the mine.”

  “Nothing to do with it?” Mabaku asked with surprise. “Cecil Hofmeyr told me that BCMC was the owner.”

  “I also thought that, Director, because that’s what I understood from Ferraz. However, it’s not true. The mine’s owned by Ferraz, Cecil Hofmeyr, and the Roland Hofmeyr Trust. It only looks like BCMC owns it because Cecil Hofmeyr is involved, but BCMC has no interest at all.”

  Mabaku was silent. He was looking straight at Kubu, his eyes unwavering. Kubu tried to match the gaze, but eventually looked out of the window instead.

  “What makes no sense now is why Cecil Hofmeyr went to such great lengths to keep that letter secret—the one Kobedi had when he was killed. Aron was wrong about diamonds being stolen from the mine, and his criticisms of Jason were hardly dynamite. Cecil said that he didn’t tell us about it because it was so sensitive for BCMC. But BCMC is not involved. Why would he lie to us? The letter is innocuous. I can’t figure it out.”

  Mabaku stood up and joined Kubu at the window. “All along I’ve been convinced that Cecil Hofmeyr couldn’t be involved in any of these goings-on. I know him quite well. But now I’m not so sure. From what you say, he stood to gain a lot from this blood-diamond scheme.” He grimaced as though the idea of Cecil’s involvement in such a scam was physically painful.

  “We still have no proof he knew what was going on,” Kubu said. “It’s possible Ferraz was playing him along. Getting his money for exploration and so on. Window-dressing the mine for a sale—perhaps to BCMC itself. Cecil would profit enormously from that, as would the Trust. So would Ferraz, of course. Maybe safer all round if Cecil was kept in the dark.”

  For a moment, Kubu thought Mabaku would grasp this straw to save his friend, but he was wrong. “Cecil must have known something, if not everything. He’s too smart to be fooled by the figures Ferraz must have shown him.” Mabaku paused and gazed out at Kgale Hill. “So how’s this connected to the murders?” he asked. “They must be linked.”

  “Here’s my current theory,” Kubu said, crossing the room. He eased his frame into one of the chairs. Mabaku remained standing.

  “When De Beers pulled out of the mine at Maboane, Ferraz saw a chance of making a lot of money. People thought De Beers had been in it with BCMC, but they were wrong. Cecil had put trust money into the initial venture. I’m not sure why. It’s not the sort of thing trusts usually get involved with. Maybe he used the Trust’s money to finance his own interest. Anyway, De Beers thought the mine would be unprofitable and backed out. This happens more often than not, I believe. Few prospects survive the scrutiny of a joint venture with a major player. Ferraz had been involved in the joint venture and might have thought the mine could still be profitable. But pretty soon he saw how a remote diamond mine like Maboane could be used for other purposes.” Kubu paused, then continued.

  “Ferraz had worked on diamond mines in Angola before coming to Botswana. By the way, his previous employers there were quite dubious about him. When De Beers pulled out, he contacted old friends in Angola and set up a beau
tiful scam. He bought, or stole, gem-quality diamonds from Angola—blood diamonds—that couldn’t be sold anywhere in the world because they had no pedigree papers. Because they were essentially impossible to sell, he’d get them very cheaply. A plane would bring them close to the mine once every few weeks, literally under the radar. That was the plane that the Bushmen heard from time to time.”

  Mabaku didn’t say a word, but sat down behind his desk.

  “Ferraz then salted the mine with the quality diamonds from Angola,” Kubu continued, “making it look as though De Beers had made a mistake. They issued Kimberley Process certificates for them, claiming they were legitimately mined in Botswana, even paid the taxes, and sold them at a tidy profit. So overall the mine looked appealing. Ferraz must have persuaded Cecil that it was worth a bigger investment.” Kubu stopped to gather his thoughts. “It was beautiful. Everyone benefited and no one got hurt—”

  “Except the kids who were killed in Angola by guns financed by the blood diamonds!” Mabaku interjected.

  Kubu nodded. “Yes, but everyone directly involved benefited. The ultimate goal was to make the mine look like a great prospect and sell it off at a big profit. Grab the money and run. The problem arose when an honest, smart geologist showed up—that’s Aron Frankental. Somehow he stumbled on to the scam. Ferraz and his friends had to get rid of him. I thought I’d figured out why they dumped the body so far away. I thought it was because they knew of the high concentration of game at Kamissa. So there would be lots of predators, particularly hyenas. They expected the body to be completely destroyed. Frankental could simply vanish. No body, no crime.” Kubu paused for breath. Uncharacteristically Mabaku waited patiently.

  “However, I was wrong. The Kamissa body is not Frankental’s. His parents confirmed that he’d never broken his arms. The Kamissa body had both arms broken a long time ago. We now suspect that Frankental may be buried near the farmhouse.” Kubu paused. “The farmhouse seems to be the centre of all this. The plane from Angola landed there, that’s where we found Frankental’s Landy, and that’s where we also found the yellow Landy Bongani spotted from his satellite.”

  Mabaku shook his head. “How does the letter fit in?”

  “Somehow Ferraz learnt about the letter. Maybe Frankental left a copy in his room, or maybe it was with his missing notebooks. Perhaps Ferraz thought it exposed the scam, so he contacted someone who could get to Cecil. I’ve no idea how he found Kobedi, but he definitely found the right man. Kobedi organised the theft of the letter from Cecil, but must have tried to double-cross Ferraz by giving him a colour copy. As a result Kobedi got himself killed. And nearly me too.” Without thinking, Kubu gently rubbed his head. “By the way, it’s a point in Cecil’s defence. If he was in on the scam, why did he keep the letter at all? He knew Jason was shady, but not that he was stealing the diamonds. I’m not sure why the hit man was killed—he’s called Sculo, by the way. Perhaps because he got a copy instead of the original letter, perhaps just to remove a link to Jason and the bearded smuggler. So Ferraz and his red-bearded Angolan friend are responsible for three murders—Frankental, Kobedi and Sculo.”

  “So who’s the Kamissa body? Is that a separate case?”

  Kubu shook his head. “No, I’m sure it’s all connected somehow. I’ll bet the yellow Landy at the farmhouse was the one used to transport the body.

  “Also, the garage attendant noticed the driver’s heavy beard and got a valueless tip in Angolan coins. But who the victim is, and why they went to so much trouble to hide his identity, remains a mystery.”

  Kubu looked at Mabaku, who stared at him without saying a word. “That’s my current theory, Director. The problem is that most of the evidence is circumstantial. Even if I found Ferraz, I’m not sure I could charge him, let alone put together a compelling case. Depressing.”

  At last Mabaku spoke. “I think your theory is plausible. You’d better find both Ferraz and the Angolan and bring them in. Otherwise, you’re right. We don’t have a case.” Mabaku stared at the rapidly darkening sky. “If I understand your theory, Cecil was not involved. He was just a source of money, although he would’ve made a lot of money if the scam had worked. Is that right?”

  “Yes,” Kubu replied. “Originally I thought he was involved—perhaps even the kingpin—but now I don’t think so. When I met him, he didn’t seem the sort to get involved in murder. Funny things with money and contracts, perhaps—but not murder. I think you were right all along about that, Mr Director.”

  “Thank you, Kubu.” Mabaku said. “It seems we may even have changed sides about Cecil. Anyway, good work. I’ll be talking to Cecil again very soon. Give my regards to Joy.”

  Kubu left the office once more surprised by Mabaku. He wouldn’t have predicted Mabaku would abandon his friendship with Cecil so readily. He might enjoy the benefits of knowing some of Botswana’s rich men, Kubu thought, but at the core he does what is right.

  Kubu packed his briefcase, turned off his computer, and set off home for his dinner.

  ∨ A Carrion Death ∧

  PART EIGHT

  Rank Offence

  “O, my oflfence is rank, it smells to heaven; It has the primal eldest curse upon’t.”

  Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act III, Scene 3

  ∨ A Carrion Death ∧

  CHAPTER 53

  Knysna is a jewel set on South African’s Indian Ocean coast. The town encircles a wide lagoon, which itself bounds several small islands. The sea enters through a passage guarded by the Heads, one packed with luxury homes facing northwards to the Outeniqua Mountains and the other a private nature reserve, a metaphor for the country’s uneasy balance between development pressure and unspoilt beauty. Lush coastal forest jostles homes and escapes to the gorges running into the foothills from the Knysna River.

  The sun warmed Inspector Johannes ‘Bakkies’ Swanepoel in his office in the central Knysna police station. He appeared to be studying a report, his chair carefully positioned to catch the sunlight and to afford his great frame maximum comfort. His rugby-playing days way behind him, he still had shoulders that made him turn sideways to pass through a narrow doorway. Hands that could crack Brazil nuts rested on the desk, and his head leant on the back of his office chair. His eyes were slightly open—a trick he had learnt in enforced periods in the South African army during the worst days of apartheid—but he was peacefully asleep.

  The office phone rang. With a sigh, Bakkies leant forward and scooped up the handset. “Swanepoel,” he said.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Inspector.” It was the desk sergeant, sounding genuinely sorry. Perhaps he knew how Bakkies was spending a quiet summer morning. “I have a lady on the line. She wants to report a missing person. He’s only been missing for a few hours, though. I’ve explained our procedures, but she’s very insistent. She demands to speak to a senior officer.” There was a pause. “I thought perhaps you weren’t too busy,” he finished lamely.

  Bakkies grunted disbelief, but his mood was relaxed. How often was he disturbed only by a report of a missing person? No rape? No violent robbery? The day was continuing quite well. “Put her through,” he said.

  The sergeant, who had expected anything from a ticking-off to an argument, obliged with alacrity.

  “This is Inspector Swanepoel speaking.” Bakkies had a bass voice from the middle of his enormous chest and an Afrikaans accent from the middle of the Boer heartland.

  “Inspector, my name is Dianna Hofmeyr.” There was a pause as though this was supposed to mean something to Bakkies, but it didn’t, and he waited. “I want to report Angus Hofmeyr missing, and I want something done about it immediately. He is an extremely important person in Botswana—head of the country’s most important company. I want this treated as an emergency. Your subordinates seem to think it’s a joke.”

  Bakkies sighed. The woman sounded more angry than upset. But she didn’t sound hysterical. “Mrs Hofmeyr, how long has your husband been missing? Was there an argument, anything like
that?”

  “It’s Ms Hofmeyr, and he’s my brother, not my husband. He’s been missing all morning. There was no argument. Don’t treat me like a fool, Inspector.”

  “Of course not, Ms Hofmeyr. Please give me your address and the telephone number.” She did so, and Bakkies whistled under his breath. She wasn’t calling from Knysna at all but from Plettenberg Bay, the fashionable beach town up the coast, and her house was in the beachfront road often referred to as Millionaires’ Row. “Perhaps you could tell me the circumstances in detail?”

  Dianna’s voice calmed. “He must have left early this morning. I was up about seven. I thought he was still asleep. I looked in about nine, and he wasn’t in his bedroom. I guessed he had gone for an early swim or jog. He’s very into sports. He does that sort of stuff. But he hasn’t come back.”

  Bakkies glanced at his watch. It was near noon. “Did you look for him?”

  “Of course. I went down to the beach. But there’s no sign of him. And he didn’t take the car,” she concluded, anticipating the next question.

  “Could he have gone to visit a friend? Maybe pop into the Beacon Island Hotel for a coffee or whatever?”

  She hesitated. “He would have phoned me.”

  “Does he have a mobile phone?”

  “Yes, I tried that but it rang in his room. He would hardly take it with him for a swim.”

  Bakkies changed tack. “When did you last see him?”

  “At dinner last night. We chatted a bit afterwards, had coffee and Calvados, and went to bed. He said he might go for a swim in the morning if the weather was good.”