Detective Kubu 01; A Carrion Death

by Michael Stanley

  Cecil cleared his throat. He thought about how he had been cheated. How they had made a fool of him.

  “Who’s there?” Mabaku repeated, sounding irritated now.

  Cecil saw the faces at the board meeting watching him slink away defeated from the company he had built.

  “Hello. Who is this? What do you want?”

  Cecil thought of Angus being kidnapped and murdered in cold blood. And that made him think back to his conversation with Nama and Rabafana that morning. Was it possible that this was what they actually wanted?

  He knew he should stop Red Beard. But suddenly he knew he wasn’t going to. Very deliberately, he hung up.

  ∨ A Carrion Death ∧

  CHAPTER 60

  The next morning Kubu sat in his office, totally distracted. No Mozart passed his lips. When anyone spoke to him, it was obviously difficult for him to focus on what they were saying. His mind was on puzzles.

  He had loved jigsaw puzzles as a child. His father had bought him a used one from a street vendor, and they had solved it together. It had become almost a craving for them. Whenever he could afford a pula or two, Wilmon brought one home. They became experts, finishing the puzzles almost too quickly. But once the box had contained two puzzles with their pieces mixed up. One was the rightful inhabitant of the box, the other something quite different. It had been really hard to do either puzzle until they realised what had happened.

  Of course, Kubu thought. That’s why I can’t make the Kamissa body fit. Because it’s not part of the Frankental puzzle at all. It’s part of the other puzzle. The Hofmeyr puzzle. Despite all the missing pieces, it suddenly started to make sense. The pieces are all on the table, he thought. I just have to match them to the right puzzle. To do that, I’m going to have to pay Bakkies a visit.

  After several minutes of reverie, Kubu shook his head, picked up the phone, and called Swanepoel.

  “Bakkies? This is Kubu. There’s been a turn in the case that we need to discuss face to face. We’re pretty certain that Angus Hofmeyr was murdered and that the murder took place in Botswana.”

  “Jislike! How’s that then?”

  “I can’t go into details now, but I’ll see you tomorrow, or Thursday at the latest, and explain everything. You’ll help me, won’t you? I’ll need to interview a few people, and pick your brains, and see what you’ve found out. I hope that’s okay?”

  “Ja, Kubu. Come on down. I’ll be pleased to hand the case over to you. We don’t really have anything to go on here.”

  “See you soon, then.”

  “Good,” Bakkies responded, making it sound like the Afrikaans ‘goed’ with the G like a smoker clearing his throat. “Be careful, Kubu. See you soon.”

  Next Kubu phoned Pleasant. “I have to go to a place called…” He hesitated. “Not sure how to say it. It’s spelt KNYSNA. It’s in the Western Cape. I’d like to leave tomorrow if possible.”

  “It is pronounced with no K and the S sounds like a Z,” Pleasant said. “The flight actually goes to George, which is about fifty or sixty kilometres away. Then you’ll have to rent a car and drive.”

  That suited Kubu admirably, because he wanted to visit a certain private hospital nearby. He made the arrangements and asked Pleasant to have the tickets delivered to him. “I’ll bring them to the house this evening,” she said. “Joy and I have lots to catch up on.”

  There was still a big hurdle to cross. Somehow he had to convince Mabaku to let him play his hunch. And a costly one it would be. He headed for the directors office. Mabaku seemed in a good mood, waved Kubu to a chair and looked encouraging. “Well, Kubu, how’s the case progressing?”

  “You know, Director, I think there were two different cases all along. What confused us, and made us think it was one case, was that the same people were involved in both.”

  “I don’t understand. Doesn’t that make it one case?”

  Kubu shook his head. “Let’s take the mine. That was one case. Red Beard was using it as a laundry for blood diamonds. He was in it with Jason.” Kubu looked down at the floor. “I don’t know if Cecil Hofmeyr was involved or not.” He waited, but Mabaku didn’t comment, so he continued.

  “Aron caught on to what they were doing, and they had to shut him up. So they killed him. Somehow disposed of his body. Then Red Beard discovered that Aron had written that letter. Perhaps Aron tried to use it as a lever to talk them out of killing him. Anyway, Red Beard had to get it back. So he commissioned Kobedi to do so. But Cecil guessed what had happened. He didn’t want that letter floating around either. Kobedi thought he was smarter than everyone else, and he was greedy. So he double-crossed Red Beard and tried to fob him off with a colour photocopy. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Then Red Beard tied off the loose ends and bumped off Sculo, whom I had seen. All neat and tidy.”

  Mabaku nodded. It all made sense. “But that doesn’t explain the Kamissa murder.”

  Kubu nodded. “That’s the other case, you see.”

  Mabaku waited, but Kubu didn’t continue. At last Mabaku lost patience.

  “Yes? And that is?”

  “Well, I’ve got some ideas on that.” He crossed his fingers and pushed on. “Inspector Swanepoel thinks the Angus Hofmeyr death and the Kamissa body are connected, but I’m not really sure. I need to follow up some things. In South Africa.” He slid the travel requisition across the desk to his boss.

  “Why do you need to go to South Africa? What’s wrong with their police? We work together these days, you know.”

  Kubu had expected this. He tried to look put out. “Director, this is our case. Our reputation is at stake. We can’t let the South Africans come in and make fools of us. I suppose I have a personal stake in this too. After all, Angus Hofmeyr was my friend.”

  “But what do you hope to find out? You should be after this red-bearded maniac.”

  “Director, Angus Hofmeyr came here to inherit a massive company. He dies a matter of days after taking control of BCMC. Kobedi dies, leaving a treasure trove of blackmail tapes. Jason Ferraz disappears although he doesn’t know we’re after him. Do you really think all this is coincidence?”

  “You think that something much bigger is going on? That someone much bigger is behind this so-called second case?”

  Kubu said nothing, but he met Mabaku’s eyes.

  “Shit!” Mabaku signed the travel requisition and shoved it back to Kubu. “You work strictly with the South Africans. We don’t want an international incident. And be careful. If you are wrong, you’ll have me to answer to. But if you are right…be careful.”

  Kubu thanked him and headed for the door.

  “Bengu!” the director called out as he got there. “See if you can find it in my secretary’s office.”

  “Find what, Director Mabaku?”

  “The printing press. The one that does the hundred-pula notes that you all seem to think I have an inexhaustible supply of.”

  Kubu grinned. “I’ll look,” he said.

  ∨ A Carrion Death ∧

  CHAPTER 61

  Jason’s body was aching with overexertion. It had been a long time since he’d spent countless hours surfing on the beaches of Mussulo Island off Luanda. Then he was fit and hard. Botswana had softened him.

  Nevertheless, he’d thoroughly enjoyed the afternoon testing the waves of the Inferno, one of the Lisbon area’s famous beaches. He shouldered his board and walked up to the rental kiosk. The attendant looked the board over and returned Jason’s deposit.

  “Will we see you tomorrow?” he asked in Portuguese.

  Jason smiled. “Yes, if I can get out of bed! It’s been a long time since I surfed like that.”

  “Take a hot shower this evening, then stretch until you hurt. Tomorrow you’ll be fine.”

  Jason waved and set off for his apartment in the centre of Cascais, an upscale town just outside Lisbon. He walked down the Avenida Rei Humberto II de Italia towards the marina, enjoying the views of the Atlantic. Yachts were
heading back for the night, their sails glowing in the sun. He was pleased that he had spent the money for the lovely twelfth-floor apartment overlooking the bay towards Estoril. The views were spectacular, and he looked forward to enjoying the sunset with a bottle of chilled Dao wine. Soon, he believed, he would be able to afford the best anywhere in the world.

  He walked down the Avenida Vasco da Gama, turned on to the Avenida Emidio Navarro, where his building was situated. He nodded to the receptionist and took the elevator to his apartment. He opened all the windows, took cheese out of the fridge to warm up, and headed for the shower.

  Twenty minutes later he settled on the balcony with his wine and sighed with content. This was the life. All that was missing was Dianna. As he thought of her, he felt a stirring in his loins. She was a different person when it came to sex. All the British reserve dissolved, and she turned into an uninhibited animal with a deft touch and an insatiable appetite. He smiled at the thought of a life with a woman like that. And if not her, he would settle for the money. He would find other women.

  Half an hour later, the bottle of wine empty and only a small portion of cheese left, the doorbell rang. Puzzled as to whom it could be, Jason went to the door and peered through the security peephole. An attractive young woman was making faces at the door. Wrong apartment, Jason thought. But maybe she would like a glass of wine. He would certainly enjoy some female company.

  He opened the door with a smile. Before he could say a word, a man who had been out of sight jumped forward and knocked Jason back into the apartment. The girl followed, shutting the door behind her.

  “Not a sound,” the man hissed, holding the sharp blade of a flick knife hard against Jason’s neck. “Turn around!” Jason complied, terrified.

  “Take everything,” he whispered, scarcely able to breathe. “There’s some money in my wallet. I’m just a tourist. My camera is on the table.”

  “Where’s your wallet?”

  Jason pointed to the kitchen table. The girl flipped through the wallet and shook her head. She dropped it in her handbag, as well as the camera.

  “Where’s your passport?” The man increased the pressure on the knife at Jason’s throat.

  “In the safe,” Jason gasped, pointing to the bedroom. The man pushed him into the bedroom. “Open it!”

  Jason swung the cupboard door open and punched in his code. The bolt purred back. The man pulled Jason back while the girl rifled through the safe.

  “Got them,” she said, holding up two passports. She grabbed the rest of the contents—traveller’s cheques, a few hundred pula, some pounds and dollars, a bunch of receipts, a mobile phone, and an old·fashioned paper airline ticket. They joined the wallet in her handbag.

  Still holding him from behind, the man pushed Jason towards the bed.

  “Please don’t kill me.” Jason’s voice was barely loud enough to hear. “I can get you more money. Lots more money!”

  As they reached the bed, the man jerked the knife into Jason’s throat and slid it sideways. Blood spurted out as he pushed Jason on to the bed. Jason grabbed at his throat, gargling sounds coming from his mouth.

  Seconds later he was motionless. Blood continued to pump on to the sheets. The man and the girl watched until it stopped. Satisfied, the man wiped his knife on the bed, closed it, and slipped it into his trouser pocket. The girl opened the door, holding the handle through her dress. They headed for the elevators, hand in hand, letting the door close behind them.

  ∨ A Carrion Death ∧

  CHAPTER 62

  Kubu left home early on Wednesday morning, giving himself plenty of time. At the airport, he checked in his overnight bag and got his boarding pass. With directions from the reception desk, he walked firmly through the swing doors marked ‘Authorised Personnel Only’. No one tried to stop him. Once on the tarmac outside, he followed the directions to the BCMC hangars. And indeed, a sleek Learjet was sunning itself on the apron. A man in a khaki uniform was fussing around it and giving instructions to the maintenance crew. He turned out to be the pilot who had flown Dianna down to the Cape coast. Kubu felt that his luck was turning. He showed the man his police identification and asked about the flight to Plettenberg Bay. It had been uneventful. Then Kubu asked, as if it was an afterthought, “Did she have a lot of luggage?”

  The pilot looked surprised, and then shrugged. He looked down and kicked a loose piece of tar out of the way. “Not specially.”

  “Anything like a Coleman cooler or one of those camping fridges?”

  The man looked up sharply. “Ja, as a matter of fact she did. How did you know that? One of those little freezers you can run on gas or twelve volts. It was off, of course. But tied up tight with rope.” He grimaced. “Seemed hellishly cold,” he added with unintended irony. “Water condensed on the outside.”

  “Did you ask what was in it?”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t. Not my business. But she told me anyway. Said the meat in South Africa isn’t as good as ours. Liked to take her own from here. Just volunteered it. Odd. She wasn’t very chatty otherwise.”

  Kubu realised that he should be getting ready to board his flight. He thanked the man for his help. But the pilot’s attention was already elsewhere. He was shouting at the attendent fueling his plane. The earthing cable hadn’t been connected. He waved to Kubu over his shoulder as he ran back to the jet.

  At George airport Kubu rented the cheapest car available. It was quite a way to the Fairwaters clinic, and the drive was uncomfortable. The seat was too narrow for his frame, and his legs touched the steering wheel even with the seat pushed back. He had given up on the pathetic air-conditioner and lowered the windows. The clinic was off the beaten track, and he was surprised that he hadn’t got lost.

  At the imposing gates, a polite but firm security guard insisted on phoning to confirm his appointment. He parked next to a Mercedes convertible, and tried not to touch its virginal whiteness with the brick red of his door as he squeezed his bulk out.

  Nearly half an hour early, instead of heading straight to reception, he walked around the side of the building. He wanted to get a feeling for this high-class clinic. Lawns ran down from the front of the main building to a large ‘infinity’ swimming pool. It wasn’t crowded, but a variety of patients were tanning or chatting in the pool. The only black faces were those of waiters rushing fanciful drinks to the clients. Alcohol-free, no doubt, Kubu thought sourly.

  “Excuse me, sir, can I help you?” One of the waiters was at his side.

  “Umm, yes, I was looking for reception.”

  “It’s at the front of the building. Allow me to show you.” He shepherded Kubu back to the front entrance and took him inside. He didn’t leave Kubu until a woman came to take charge of him.

  “I’m Superintendent David Bengu. I have an appointment with the manager, Ms Kew?”

  The receptionist nodded and phoned through. “She’ll see you now, Superintendent.”

  Kubu was taken to a large office, formally furnished, with a magnificent view across the lawns to the Outeniqua Mountains.

  “Wonderful!” he said to the strait-laced Ms Kew. She nodded but seemed disinclined to chat.

  “You said you were from the CID, Superintendent. Do you have some identification?”

  He handed his identification card to her, which she examined carefully. When he had made the appointment, he hadn’t mentioned that his CID was in Botswana, not South Africa. He held his breath. She might refuse to talk to him; if she did, he could do nothing about it. He was out of line being here without a host from the SAP. But she seemed satisfied and passed the ID back to him.

  “You understand, Assistant Superintendent, that I can’t discuss anything about my patients. There is the usual doctor—patient privilege, and our patients are particularly concerned about their privacy. That’s why they come here. It’s hardly a public facility.”

  Kubu nodded. He had checked the rates. At around two thousand US dollars a day, he could well believe h
er. “As I told your secretary when I phoned, Ms Kew, it’s all quite routine. I need to check on someone’s movements, that’s all. I don’t want to know anything about his illness.”

  “I’ll try to help you, Mr Bengu. But even that may be difficult. Many of our clients use assumed names. We don’t mind; it’s all part of the confidential nature of our work here.”

  Kubu nodded. “I’m interested in the dates Mr Angus Hofmeyr was here. I don’t think he used an assumed name.”

  Ms Kew seemed to soften. “Such an awful business. He was a very nice person, you know. Not at all the standoffish prima-donna type. A gentleman, and very cooperative.”

  “He was a friend of mine, actually. We were at school together.”

  “I’m sorry.” She sounded as though she actually was.

  Kubu nodded. “Can you confirm that he was here from Wednesday, the fifteenth of March to Tuesday the twenty-first?”

  She consulted a file in front of her. “Yes, that’s correct. He left on Tuesday morning.”

  “While he was here, he made a contribution to a meeting in Gaborone by phone. Did you know about that?”

  “Oh yes. He brought his own equipment with him. Earphones, tape recorder, fancy phone set. We discourage patients from carrying on their usual business commitments, but we made an exception in this case.”

  “What was the tape recorder for?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose he wanted to tape the conversation so that he would have his own record of it.”

  Kubu nodded. “That’s probably right.” He hesitated. “Under the circumstances, I don’t suppose you could tell me why he checked into the hospital?”

  “I’m afraid not, Mr Bengu,” Ms Kew said defensively. “Mr Hofmeyr’s death doesn’t change our commitment to confidentiality.” She checked her watch. “I have a staff meeting shortly. Is there anything else?”