Detective Kubu 01; A Carrion Death

by Michael Stanley

  “You’re talking about a new company with broad Batswana and perhaps Bushman shareholding and a serious stake in running BCMC? It would be hard to find appropriately skilled and knowledgeable people to form and run such a company.” Finally some light dawned. “Unless the two of you would be willing to add to what must already be demanding duties?”

  Nama looked at him without smiling. “This will be a matter for the minister to look into,” he said. “What I’m asking is this. Would you be willing to support such an unbundling and the restructuring of the shareholding? The rest is details.”

  Cecil was as surprised by the use of the singular pronoun as by the authority in Nama’s tone. Was Rabafana after all the junior partner? I misjudged them too, Cecil thought. I thought they were civil servants who could be kept happy with a few perks and nice treatment. But they were after much bigger fish all along, and they can see large ripples on the surface of the pond.

  “The minister would have my full support in this matter,” he declared firmly. “Even if it means reducing my own shareholding somewhat. Of course, I can’t speak for Dianna.”

  He had no hesitation about throwing in his lot with T&T; with Angus gone, Dianna had all the trump cards. What did he have to lose? “Should I talk to Dianna about this proposal when she gets back to Botswana?” he asked.

  Nama shook his head. “That won’t be necessary. We’ll handle that aspect ourselves.”

  Now it was Rabafana’s turn. “There is another matter, Cecil. The minister is most concerned about the Thembu Kobedi affair. There are insinuations, unpleasant innuendos, talk of certain materials.”

  Cecil’s heart sank. Would he never be free of the wretched pimp? And why on earth was the Minister of Trade and Industry involved?

  “The minister is clearing the issue up as quietly and quickly as possible with the police,” Rabafana continued. “It’s my responsibility to take care of the whole matter. I want your assurance that you had nothing to do with it and that you will report anything that you find out directly to me. Is that clear? Of course I will pass any information on to the police immediately.”

  “What sort of materials?”

  “There are some tapes—probably faked—with compromising material. It doesn’t matter. Do I have your word?” Cecil gave it.

  Suddenly all was good humour again. There were handshakes all round, and Cecil heard himself inviting them to join him at the club for lunch and them regretting that they had another appointment, but they would all get together soon. They were looking forward to golf on Friday. They could discuss strategy for the new structure of the company. They would see if the minister could join them for an informal lunch afterwards. Then they left.

  Cecil needed a small celebration. Somewhere in the world, the sun was below the yardarm. He selected a favourite Scotch, added half a dozen drops of water and relaxed in an armchair while he decided where he wanted to go for lunch.

  ∨ A Carrion Death ∧

  CHAPTER 58

  Kubu had failed to reach Swanepoel, but left a message. The South African police inspector had not phoned back by lunchtime, and Kubu had tried to put the matter aside. But his case was stalled. A decent lunch at the Fig Tree might change his luck.

  When he returned, the phone was ringing. He had to rush to reach it before it cut off. “Yes?” he said irritably.

  “Hello. Is that Superintendent Bengu?”

  “Assistant Superintendent Bengu. Can I help you?”

  “Yes, well, this is Detective Inspector Johannes Swanepoel speaking from the CID in Knysna, South Africa. But my friends all call me ‘Bakkies’. I’m quite a big ‘oke’, you see. A bakkie is a pick·up truck in South Africa,” he finished almost apologetically.

  Kubu laughed, the ice broken. “Well, Bakkies, you can call me Kubu—that means hippopotamus in my language. I’m also quite a big ‘oke’, you see!”

  Now it was Swanepoel’s turn to laugh. “Kubu. I like that. Well, you’re the person I need to talk to all right. I spoke to your boss—Director Mabaku—when I returned your call at lunchtime. He said I’d better hear it from the hippo’s mouth. I didn’t understand that then, but it’s clear now.” He laughed again. “Well, how can I help, Kubu?”

  Faced with explaining it aloud, Kubu felt at a loss. He told Bakkies about the Kamissa body and the odd reflected symmetry between it and Angus’s accident. He had a skeleton missing the left arm from the elbow. Bakkies had nothing but a lower left arm. The Kamissa body had been carefully stripped and hacked to disguise its identity. Bakkies had a hand that came complete with signature rings. But the bodies were separated inconveniently in time and space. Perhaps because his story sounded so lame, Kubu came up with an idea as he spoke.

  “Is it possible that someone’s pulling a scam? Killed someone here, hacked off the arm and used it with Angus’s rings to fake his death?”

  Bakkies considered this for a few moments. “Well, I don’t know, Kubu. First of all, what’s the point? The point of a fraud like that is to claim on insurance or to disappear from the police. Neither would apply to Angus Hofmeyr. He didn’t need extra money, from what I hear. And why go to the trouble of getting body parts in Botswana? We have plenty of murders right here.” He gave a wry laugh. “But there’s more. We ran an expedited DNA test. The comparison with Dianna Hofmeyr and her mother indicates that the arm was more than likely Angus’s.”

  Kubu didn’t know what to say. He felt like a fool.

  “Now here’s a thought,” Bakkies offered. “Suppose your body is Angus Hofmeyr? Murdered in Botswana, and now they are trying to cover up the crime by planting evidence of a shark attack here?”

  Kubu shook his head. “No, that doesn’t wash. His sister would have to be lying about him being at Plettenberg Bay with her. What could she gain by killing him? He has just handed her one of Botswana’s premier companies on a platter. And he spoke at the board meeting and to who knows how many other people—including me—long after we found the Kamissa body.”

  That interested Bakkies. “Did he say anything to make you suspicious when you spoke to him?” Kubu had to admit that Angus had been relaxed and confident of his plans. Bakkies thanked Kubu for his input, made an inevitable hippo joke, and said goodbye. He had obviously come to the conclusion that they were wasting their time.

  But Kubu couldn’t let it go. He didn’t know why. All he knew was that when his subconscious was this insistent, he’d better listen to it. Every successful detective harbours a spark of the mystic. He phoned Ian MacGregor.

  “Hello, Ian. How’s your head?”

  “Fine,” came the slightly puzzled response. “Why shouldn’t it be?”

  Mabaku was right, as usual. “Ian, I keep thinking about these two bodies. The one in the sea off Plettenberg Bay with a missing forearm, and the one in the desert with the same forearm missing. But they’re mirror images. In the desert we see the body; on the beach we see the arm.”

  “Yes, we talked about this yesterday, didn’t we? I thought we put it to rest with that bottle of Laphroaig.”

  “I don’t know. It’s the arm. The missing arm and the missing body. I don’t believe in coincidences.”

  “Suppose they find some more body parts on their fancy beach?”

  “Then it’s a coincidence.”

  Ian waited for Kubu to continue.

  “I spoke to an Inspector Swanepoel of the South African Police. They’ve done a DNA analysis on the arm, and it seems likely that it is from Angus Hofmeyr. I want to compare it with the DNA from the body here. Could you get a sample to them for comparison? It seems to take forever to get a DNA test done here. Confidentially? I’m not sure why, but I really need to check this.”

  “And you don’t think Director Mabaku would sanction this hunch of yours?” said Ian shrewdly. “So the mad Scotsman can take the blame?” Kubu felt ashamed and started to apologise, but Ian interrupted him. “Oh, of course I’ll do it. It may take a while, though; I don’t have as good contacts down th
ere as I have here. I’ll get back to you.”

  Kubu looked out of his window. I’ve made an idiot of myself to an inspector from the South African police. I’ve asked my friend to do something inappropriate that I can’t justify in any logical way. And I now have six bodies, or parts of bodies, and missing persons—count them, six—and I don’t know why or who or what is going on. But I’m going home to the wife I love, and my dog, and my dinner. I think I’ll treat us to a decent shiraz. So the hell with all of them!

  He locked his office and left.

  ∨ A Carrion Death ∧

  CHAPTER 59

  Cecil crossed the parking lot to his car, his head full of ideas. Angus’s death left Dianna as the chairman of the Trust and therefore firmly in control of BCMC. But Tweedledum and Tweedledee had suggested otherwise. Was there a way he could wrangle a strategic advantage between the competing parties now gathering around BCMC like vultures around a stricken beast?

  His mind was on these matters as he climbed into his Mercedes. In that vulnerable instant, the passenger-side door opened, and a heavy-set man wearing a leather jacket and a hat pulled low over his head slid in next to him. The man had a scarf wrapped around his lower face and neck, but Cecil could see the rest of a tanned face, green eyes, and the escaped parts of a thick ginger beard. He was certain he had never seen this man before. The man wore latex gloves and held a pistol in his right hand. Cecil had a few hundred pula with him in cash. He was afraid it wouldn’t be enough.

  “Drive out gate, wave to guard like usual, turn left like heading home,” said Red Beard. He’d done his homework. Cecil didn’t argue and followed the instructions.

  “Now just drive straight out of town, nice and slow. We talk.”

  “What do you want? Money?”

  “Oh, I want money all right, Friend! Or should I call you Mr Daniel? I want the money you owe me. Job’s done, some problems, yes, but all sorted now, not so, as you say?” Red Beard smiled. He was enjoying outsmarting Cecil Hofmeyr—chairman of Botswana’s largest company—who had thought he could hide behind an anonymous phone and a silly false name. “But let’s talk, Mr Daniel. Good friends should get to know each other.”

  Cecil’s heart raced. Whoever this man was, he obviously had the wrong victim. Cecil didn’t give himself a high probability of survival when this thug realised his mistake. He wondered if he could throw himself out of the vehicle.

  Red Beard read his thoughts and shook his head. “Not good idea,” he said, prodding Cecil in the ribs with his gun. “And anyway, what for? I know who you are and where I find you. You not going anywhere.”

  “Look, I don’t know who you think I am, but you’re wrong. My name is Cecil Hofmeyr, and I work for BCMC. I don’t know a Daniel. I don’t know you. I have some money I can give you. Cash.”

  Red Beard laughed. “Oh, Cecil Hofmeyr, all right. And you the boss at BCMC! I take the money, but I want two hundred and fifty thousand US dollars. Do you have that with you? Cash?”

  Cecil almost drove into the gutter. “Of course not.” His voice was a whisper. “Why would I have that sort of money with me?”

  “Then we better talk about when you have that money and when I get it. Otherwise we not friends after all.” All the ironic pleasantness left Red Beard’s voice. He had won the cat-and-mouse game and wanted Cecil to acknowledge that.

  “Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about! Who the hell are you, anyway? I have friends very high up in the police, you’d better—” Red Beard hit him hard across the face. Cecil swung the car, which hit the kerb and stalled.

  “Look, no games!” Red Beard shouted at him. “You’re Daniel. You the one with the plan. You think I’m stupid? I know you get BCMC! Get the company away from Angus Hofmeyr. You got Ferraz to set that up for you, not sot But then you had better idea, didn’t you, Mr Big Knob? You wanted him out the way permanent. Well, you got what you want. Now pay me the rest of my money!”

  Blood dripped from Cecil’s upper lip. He started to reach for a handkerchief, but Red Beard stopped him with a look, so he wiped his mouth on his hand.

  “Angus was murdered? He didn’t just drown in the Cape?”

  Red Beard experienced a moment of doubt. Was Hofmeyr such a good actor? But he had been a good actor all along, hadn’t he? And the aristocratic English voice was right.

  “Shall I tell you whole story, Mr Daniel? Waste time. You know it already. And if you don’t, I have to kill you afterwards.” He didn’t recognise this as the punchline of a stale joke.

  Cecil’s voice quivered. “You killed him, didn’t you? You killed him, and you think I hired you to do that? But it’s crazy. I had nothing to gain from Angus’s death. I had already lost everything. His sister took over the company at the board meeting while Angus was in hospital. She kicked me out. I’m just her manager now.”

  Red Beard ground his teeth. “Drive,” he said. Several people walking on the pavement near them were noticing the odd couple.

  Cecil pulled into the traffic. A loud hoot from a passing minibus taxi emphasised that his mind was not on the driving. “Look, Dianna Hofmeyr became the boss of BCMC! Somehow she persuaded her brother to let her have a go at running the company. Perhaps he was still on drugs? I don’t know. But that’s not like him. He would’ve wanted it back. Perhaps they had a fight about it at the beach house? How the hell should I know? That’s probably when she got this Daniel to hire you.”

  “Just drive! Shut up!” A note of doubt had crept into Red Beard’s voice; also a hint of panic, which Cecil found more frightening. His only chance of surviving was to persuade his captor that he wasn’t the mystery Daniel. But what would happen after that?

  “How do you know it wasn’t Dianna all along? Did you ever meet this Daniel?”

  Red Beard shook his head. “Spoke on phone. Several times. Man with a fancy accent, just like yours, Mr Big Shot.” He tried to sound confident, but he was no longer sure. Perhaps Cecil Hofmeyr really didn’t know what had happened. Was it possible that Daniel was working for the Hofmeyr woman? Now he had a problem with Cecil. Shit! He didn’t need more police activity at the moment. And Cecil was very high-profile and probably did have senior friends in the police.

  It was Cecil’s turn to surmise what Red Beard was thinking. He knew he was fighting now for his life. “It must have been Dianna who was behind it. She was the only one who benefited. She and that Jason Ferraz character she liked. She got control of the whole company. Angus would never have given it to her. Never! Probably Ferraz was your Daniel.” But without explaining why not, Red Beard shook his head firmly.

  Then a brilliant idea struck Cecil. Suddenly he saw things clearly. Nothing focuses the mind like a hanging, he thought wryly. He drove for a few minutes in silence, almost ignoring Red Beard while he thought it through. The outskirts of Gaborone slid past as they drove down the busy road to Molepolole. Cecil felt relatively safe in the traffic. At last he spoke. “I know how it was done. All of it. I could never understand why Angus would hand over the company to her. It was the last thing I expected. It threw me completely. Now it finally makes sense. I can tell you who Daniel is, too.” Quickly and confidently he explained to Red Beard what he thought had actually happened.

  Red Beard listened and then turned it all over in his mind. Without enthusiasm he decided that Cecil was probably right. So he had been wrong all along. He had been cheated and played for a fool! “Drive!” was all he said. He smashed his fist on to the dashboard.

  Cecil jumped. But his fear was now mixed with anger. He, too, had been cheated. And robbed of his company. Now he was going to be killed by the monster hired to achieve that. He wanted to live. And he wanted revenge. He had to get Red Beard on his side.

  “Turn in to that dirt track to the left up ahead,” Red Beard said, gesturing with the gun.

  Cecil knew he was going to die unless he could offer Red Beard two critical things—money and safety.

  “I think we can help each other,” he said urge
ntly. “BCMC is my company. I earned it, and I killed for it. It used to belong to my brother, but he cared more for his own pleasures than the company. I had him killed. Blew up his plane.” God forgive me, he thought. “Now we’ve both been double-crossed, haven’t we? I lose the company I’ve worked years to build, and you don’t even get the money you’ve earned for all the risks you’ve taken. We get nothing. But it doesn’t have to be like that.” He glanced at Red Beard as he drove. He said nothing, and the gun still pointed at Cecil’s chest. But Red Beard looked thoughtful. He ignored the fact that Cecil had kept on driving past the turnoff. He was listening.

  When Cecil got home, he was shaking so badly that he could hardly open the door. The reaction had set in as soon as he dropped Red Beard at a minibus taxi rank. He told the staff he had had a nasty fall at work and had come straight home. They were alarmed by the blood on his face and shirt. He’d started bleeding again in the car, he explained. No, he wasn’t hungry. He would have a couple of drinks and go to bed. No, he would fix the drinks himself.

  At last they left him alone. He poured a double Lagavulin (more like a triple) and settled into an armchair. I’ll drink this to steady myself, he thought. Then I’ll phone Mabaku. He’ll believe me. He’ll go after this red-bearded devil. They’ll catch him. I’ll be safe. I’ll tell him the rest of it too.

  He’ll believe me. Or will he? Now he regretted all the lies about Aron’s stupid letter. My God, how the stakes have changed, he thought. He refilled the empty whisky glass and went through all the possibilities in his head. Would there be enough evidence? Or would he be left high and dry with no money and this bloodthirsty maniac after him?

  At last he stood up and walked to his desk. He knew what he had to do; he had to stop Red Beard before he carried out his side of their deal—the deal with the devil that he’d made to save his life. He looked up Mabaku’s home number in his address book. Mabaku had given it to him when their relationship was that of friends. He dialled the number. It rang three times, and then Mabaku answered. “Hello, Mabaku speaking. Who’s there?”