Detective Kubu 01; A Carrion Death

by Michael Stanley

  Wilmon always enjoyed a cup of tea after church while waiting for his lunch, and Kubu made it for him. His father liked his tea strong with plenty of milk and three full teaspoons of sugar, well stirred. Kubu would join him on the veranda with a cup of tea (weak and black, if sugar and milk were forbidden by his current diet), and they talked. They were father and son for half an hour.

  This Sunday Kubu had a mission. He wanted his father’s help. But he wasn’t sure if he could get it.

  “Did you see the Sunday newspaper, Father? Do you remember Angus Hofmeyr, who used to be my friend at school?” He held up the Sunday Standard. The front page screamed: “Angus Hofmeyr—Grisly Find on the Beach’ over a blurred aerial picture of a luxury house with a beach below it. Because Kubu’s father read slowly, Kubu read the story aloud: ”

  Residents of the luxury Plettenberg Bay Millionaires’ Row were shocked today by the grisly discovery of the severed arm of Angus Hofmeyr. It washed up on the beach about half a kilometre from where he went for an early-morning swim two days ago. Police have warned the public that other body parts may be found along the coast. There seems little doubt now that Angus Hofmeyr, heir to the Botswana Cattle and Mining Company empire, was attacked and killed by a great white shark. The hand evidently wore distinctive rings that, police confirmed, Angus’s sister, Ms Dianna Hofmeyr, identified. Ms Hofmeyr was too distraught to speak to the press.

  Wilmon sipped his tea, looking with distaste at the newspaper.

  “Father, this death reminds me of the Kamissa murder I’m investigating. The body was cut up. A forearm was missing, and some limbs were separated. Then the body was left for the hyenas to destroy. Perhaps Angus’s body was also cut up. Perhaps it was left for the sharks to eat. The story feels wrong. You know about traditional things, the Old Ways. I wonder what you think.”

  His father was expert with herbal medicines and knew the secrets of desert plants. People regarded him as a traditional healer, but he wasn’t a witchdoctor. He was a deeply Christian man, so his medicines never came with a spell or incantation, only a modest blessing. If appropriate, he would say a short prayer. But Wilmon knew about witchdoctors and their deeds, both good and evil.

  “You think that your friend was killed? Was murdered?”

  “I think perhaps both men were murdered. I’m wondering if their bodies were destroyed so that certain parts taken away would not be noticed. Parts taken for dipheko.”

  His father winced at the word and the things it conjured. “This isn’t a proper conversation for your home,” Wilmon said firmly. “Especially not on the Sabbath with your family around you. These men are wicked. They do the devil’s work. It’s best not to be curious about it.”

  “Father, I’m a policeman. It’s my job to catch these people. To stop them, and put them in prison.”

  But his father shook his head. “You can’t stop them. You are just a man. They have the power of their victims as well as their Master. Only the love of God can protect us from them.”

  “Father, help me with this. Would these men murder my friend?”

  His father said nothing while he finished his tea. Kubu thought perhaps Wilmon was offended. At last he said, “David, you do not understand these things. You have been to university, and you’re an important man now, even though you’re young. I’m very proud of you. But the witchdoctors work in another world. A world of fear and of control. Every part of any animal has power, and the most powerful animals have the most power. Humans most of all. Evil witchdoctors suck that power from their victims. But they need the victims to believe, even to accept. The victims are usually children, usually girl children, who can be controlled easily by their power. Not grown white men who don’t believe.” The older man shook his head. He seemed to regret he had said so much. They sat uncomfortably for some minutes, far apart. They were both relieved when Joy cheerfully called them for lunch, and the tension broke.

  After lunch Kubu took his parents back to their home, kissed his mother, and received his father’s blessing. He had left Joy and Pleasant to deal with the aftermath of lunch and to enjoy each other’s company. His depressed mood would only spoil their afternoon. He had told them he would spend some time at the office to finish a report.

  When he got to the CID headquarters, he discovered that the baboons had come down from Kgale Hill and were clambering all over the buildings. They were climbing on the wall around the complex, rummaging in the gardens, and even balancing on the edges of the metal barrels holding water at the neighbouring building site. Kubu liked the baboons. They cheered him up. Where else, he thought with satisfaction, would you find the CID headquarters of a respected police force used as a Sunday playground for baboons?

  But once in his office, he couldn’t work. He reread the story in the Sunday Standard. He checked his e·mail. Nothing was worth reading. He took out the files but didn’t read them. Eventually he gave up. He punched out a mobile phone number.

  “MacGregor,” said the voice with the irrepressible Scottish burr. “Can I help you?”

  “Ian. It’s Kubu. How are you today?”

  “I’m reasonable, Kubu. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure? Not another in your epidemic of dead bodies, I trust?”

  “No, Ian, nothing like that. Would you have time to talk? I know it’s Sunday, but it may be important.”

  “Oh, that’s fine, Kubu. Come on over. I’m at the office, actually, writing up some stuff. Nothing urgent. See you in a quarter of an hour?”

  Almost exactly fifteen minutes later, Kubu knocked on the door of Ian’s office, which was a humble affair in a prefabricated building near the prison. MacGregor spent most of his time at the hospital or in the field.

  Ian bellowed, “Come in.” Kubu entered and shook hands with the grizzled Scotsman. MacGregor settled himself behind his desk and started sucking on his briar. He had stopped smoking about fifteen years earlier after a stormy interview with a lung specialist, but it still supplied visceral comfort and another thread in the Scottish tapestry. Ian would go to a formal dinner wearing a kilt, Kubu thought, just to keep up appearances.

  “So, young David, what can I do for you?”

  David spread the Sunday newspaper on the desk. “Did you read this, Ian?”

  Ian nodded. “Very nasty business. They would have been forced to cut the rings off, you know. Swelling, d’you ken.”

  Kubu put down the newspaper. “He was my friend, Ian. At school we were close. Odd match, wasn’t it? The mega-rich white boy and the son of a black share farmer. Two cricket buffs. Maybe cricket attracted me so much because it came from this other world that was opening up to me. Like opera. I fell for it as soon as I met it. Angus gave me my nickname, you know. “Kubu. You’re Kubu,” he said. And then I was Kubu. Just like that.”

  “Och, I had no idea you had even met him. I’m most dreadfully sorry. You need a drink. I keep something here for emergencies. This qualifies. No, don’t argue.” Kubu had not argued and had no intention of doing so. He watched while Ian opened a new bottle and poured two half-tumblers of neat Scotch. It was a whisky Kubu had never heard of, but it was good. Trust Ian.

  “Laphroaig. Single malt from Islay. Taste the peat. Do you like it?”

  Kubu did. After a while he said, “I didn’t actually come to cry on your shoulder, Ian. There’s something else. It struck me when I read the newspaper article. It’s another body of a white man, apparently dismembered. This body eaten by sharks instead of hyenas. It’s somehow a mirror image of the Kamissa murder.” Kubu paused as if this would mean something to MacGregor. Ian nodded sagely and drained the rest of the tumbler. He was beginning to think that one whisky might not be enough to put Kubu right.

  “You know coincidences happen in real life, Kubu. It’s only people who write detective stories who aren’t allowed that sort of thing.” He took a few reflective draws on the empty pipe. “You’re looking fragile, Kubu, under that rough black exterior. Drink up. You need another.”

 
“Ian, what I’m wondering is, what did they do to those bodies that made it necessary to destroy them so completely?”

  MacGregor looked interested. He knew Kubu was as sharp as they came and had intuition to go with it. “You think they were both murdered, do you? Perhaps by the same people? Or a copycat crime?”

  Kubu nodded. “Does this idea make any sense? You’ve been around a long time, Ian. You’ve seen pretty much what there is to see. Could these murders be ritual murders? For human organs?”

  Ian flinched, remembering several infamous cases of such ritual killings of humans. After a few moments he replied. “Kubu, I can’t recall any example of adults being the victims, let alone white men. I don’t think it’s likely. That’s my professional opinion.”

  Kubu nodded and rose to go. “Oh no you don’t.” Ian waved him back to his chair. “You’ve spoken of unspeakable things here, Kubu. We need to put them to rest. You must join me in another drink. To your friend. To Angus. Good Scottish name, Angus. Does the family have a Scottish background?”

  Kubu shrugged. “Western Cape, I think.” He ostentatiously checked that his glass was empty.

  By the time they went home, neither man should have been driving, Ian called it a ‘private wake’, which was only terminated by the emptying of the bottle. As they left the building, they attempted the Anvil Chorus from Il Trovatore. Fortunately, it was Sunday and the area was deserted. When he got home, Joy accepted Kubu’s drunken and maudlin state without comment and put him to bed. “Wonderful wife,” he told her not very clearly. “Don’t even mind if I get drunk.” He tried to say ‘wonderful’ again but it came out all wrong. He was still struggling with it when he fell asleep.

  ∨ A Carrion Death ∧

  CHAPTER 57

  Mabaku looked at Kubu unsympathetically. “You should know better than to drink whisky with a Scot! They get it with their mother’s milk. lan’s probably as bright as a bird this morning, and look at you!”

  Kubu had to admit that he wasn’t at his best. It had been decidedly difficult to get out of bed, and his head hurt again—almost as much as it had after being knocked out at Kobedi’s. At least he wasn’t in hospital.

  “You’re probably right,” he conceded. “But I wanted to talk about Angus Hofmeyr. I’m worried about his death. Why did they just find bits of the left arm? One of the pieces we did not find with the Kamissa body.”

  “Kubu, I know Hofmeyr was an old schoolfriend of yours.” How does he know these things? Kubu wondered for the hundredth time. “When did you last speak to him?”

  “Last week.” It seemed ages ago.

  “Did the call suggest he was concerned about his safety? Anything that sounded a warning?”

  Kubu shook his head. From the perspective of a few days, the fact that Angus had forgotten Lesley Davis after all these years didn’t seem worth mentioning.

  “Well, the South African police are looking into the matter,” Mabaku said. “I phoned them as soon as I heard about it. An Inspector Swanepoel is handling the case. There’ll be an inquest. Give him a call if it will make you feel better.”

  Kubu said he’d do that. “There can’t be any connection with our case, can there?” he added. But Mabaku was already concentrating on a document.

  Tweedledum and Tweedledee, Cecil thought. T&T—his private nickname for the two BCMC directors appointed by the government. Both heavily built and overweight, they wore good quality suits that, if they didn’t match, at least never clashed, as though they compared notes in the morning before getting dressed. Today they were both wearing navy pinstripes. Their contributions at meetings were always consistent, as though each was carefully planned in advance—which it probably was. He had only seen them nonplussed once; they had not known how to react to Angus’s speech and Dianna’s putsch at the last board meeting.

  T&T had served since BCMC had become a public company. They obviously had good connections in both the party and the government, as this job was a plum. They probably kept their generous directors’ fees. They certainly pocketed their side bets on their weekly golf games with Cecil, and enjoyed their luxury game-lodge trips with contrived side stops to inspect mines or cattle ranches. They had reciprocated by representing BCMC’s interests to the government and by firmly supporting Cecil on the board—until Dianna’s play. But as far as he could recall, they had never asked for a private meeting in his office. Instead they usually reserved some time on the nineteenth hole to discuss upcoming business.

  He rose, crossed the office, and greeted them warmly with a firm handshake. “Nama! Rabafana! What a pleasure to see you both. Do come in. Sit down. I’ll have my secretary send in some coffee. Unless you’d prefer something stronger?” Both smiled, returned his greetings, and said they would love a cup of coffee. They regretfully turned down the selection of single malts in the drinks cabinet. It was only eleven in the morning, and they were on business, after all.

  “Cecil, we wanted to come personally to express our condolences concerning your nephew. A horrible shock. Such an awful death for someone so young and promising. And I’m sure a great personal disappointment. He was your heir apparent, after all.” Nama summed up their feelings while Rabafana nodded continually, in case there was any doubt that he fully agreed.

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” Cecil said with as much graciousness as he could muster. “It was devastating news. I was shocked beyond belief. One questions the existence of God when such a tragedy happens.” He turned away and blew his nose. Nama and Rabafana shook their heads sympathetically.

  But Cecil wasn’t interested in sympathy. He was wondering whether they had already forgotten how his ‘heir apparent’ had helped Dianna stab him in the back. Everyone loved Angus, no matter what. They always had. He allowed the words to ripple past him until the coffee appeared, and they were settled at his conference table. The purpose of this meeting lay ahead; they could have phoned their condolences, perhaps on a conference line so that they could do it together, Cecil thought wryly.

  They ran out of consolation and coffee at about the same time. Nama clasped his hands, signalling to Rabafana. “Cecil,” Rabafana began, “we know this is an inappropriate time to raise business matters. But you know that we have a joint responsibility to the board, our minister, and, indeed, all the citizens of Botswana.” Nama nodded. He couldn’t have put it better himself. “We really want to discuss the future management of the company. We accepted the model of you continuing to run the company while Dianna concentrated on what the South Africans like to call transformation issues.” Cecil thought this a rather charitable interpretation of what had actually happened, but didn’t comment.

  “Mind you,” Rabafana added, “I must say that our minister was rather taken aback by some of Angus’s comments. Not really appropriate when we have been so successful at integrating the Bushmen and protecting their rights. And embarrassing with this UN issue going on. Still, the board was impressed with his passion and commitment.”

  Nama nodded with appreciation and took up the narrative. “Frankly, Cecil, we are wondering how things stand now. Angus voted the Trust, and we regarded Dianna as his frontperson.” Cecil winced at the political correctness. “But where do we go from here?” Rabafana added.

  “Are you asking what the situation is for the Trust and the company now that Angus is dead?” T&T nodded in unison, looking serious. “Well, I have a copy of the trust deed here somewhere.” He fussed about and eventually extracted it from the appropriate filing cabinet, although he knew it by heart.

  Returning to his seat, he opened the document. “Pretty straightforward. Angus’s share of the Trust—and so control of it and thus of BCMC—goes to his heirs. In other words it goes into his estate. I haven’t seen a copy of the will, but I’m informed that apart from a number of bequests, the estate goes to Dianna. She’ll have nearly three-quarters of the Trust. So back where we started, I suppose. No longer a frontperson, though.” Neither of his visitors looked pleased. “Looks like the mi
nister will have to learn to live with her,” Cecil added, unable to resist a small dig. But Rabafana’s next question took him by surprise.

  “What would have been the situation if Angus had died before his thirtieth birthday? That was when he became entitled to his share of the Trust, was it not?”

  Cecil searched through the trust deed. At last he said, “If he’d died without children—which I presume is the case—his fifty per cent would have gone to various charities. I would have been the executor with an increased share myself. Why do you ask that? Rather academic, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose so,” Rabafana agreed.

  “Yes, academic,” said Nama. Then, as if an afterthought but deliberately, he asked, “What if something happens to Dianna now? Is it the same?”

  Cecil gave him a sharp look and consulted the document again. “It doesn’t spell it out,” he replied eventually. “Probably goes into her estate. We’d need a lawyer to look at all this. But why do we care?”

  Neither said anything for a few moments. Then Nama changed the subject.

  “Cecil, the minister is very concerned about the disruption that has occurred over this issue. First Dianna taking over the chairpersonship without consultation with us, then the issue of Angus’s unexpected accident, and now uncertainty around your position and that of Dianna. We can’t afford any instability in this company It is too central to Botswana’s economic well-being.”

  Rabafana took up the thrust. “The minister feels it would be better if the people of Botswana had a larger say in the company, more ownership. We feel it is time to restructure the ownership of the company and make things more transparent, more democratic. How would you react to that?”

  Cecil shrugged. “Angus seemed sympathetic to that sort of approach. You should ask Dianna rather than me.”

  “Perhaps we will. For the moment, we are asking you.” Nama’s voice held no trace of obsequiousness. This wasn’t window-dressing. He wanted a straight answer.