Detective Kubu 01; A Carrion Death

by Michael Stanley

  “Father, are you well? This was a long journey.” The old man just nods and says nothing. He smiles, takes a small paper packet from his pocket, and adds something white to both their mugs. Extra sugar, Bongani supposes. They both have a sweet tooth. They drink in companionable silence. When the tea is finished, the old man speaks for the first time.

  “My son, I will tell you what I see. Do you want that?”

  “Oh yes! Please, Father!” says Bongani Sibisi, PhD, expecting a story.

  “Will you promise to go straight to sleep after that?” He waits for the nod of acquiescence.

  “This is how it is,” he begins. “You know of the bird serothe?”

  Bongani says he knows it well. “It is the bird all in black with the forked tail. It is drongo in English.” He is proud that he knows this.

  The old man nods and says, “Indeed. Here is a feather to remind you of it.” He produces a black tail feather. Bongani, an eight-year-old boy again, takes it and carefully fixes it upright in a crack in the table.

  “Now this bird is not only pretty, but also very clever. Because he can copy the other birds. He will sit in a tree and make calls that belong to them. Then everybody thinks there is a different bird there because he does it so well. Indeed, that is his magic. You sometimes see the herd boys watching the cattle listen to him. Most of the time the cattle can watch themselves, so the boys get lazy and bored. So they listen to the bird and guess what it is. Then they throw little stones into the tree until it flies out. And most times it is indeed the serothe, which is just teasing them! Lazy boys! So the serothe enjoys being other birds sometimes, and it makes people laugh. And that is how it should be.” Bongani nods quickly, enjoying the tale.

  The old man closes his eyes. His voice deepens, losing inflection, becoming almost a chant. “Now this is what I see,” he says. He grasps something in his pocket and pulls out a closed fist. “This is at the centre, my son. I see one of the serothe birds that is different. It thinks that if it can talk like another bird, it is indeed that bird. Thus it thinks that it can be segodi—a hawk. It flies high, making the calls of the hawk. Other birds are fearful. Indeed, a little part of it becomes a hawk. It thinks it can be ntshu—an eagle. So it flies high against the sun and cries eagle cries and the others believe, perhaps, that it is an eagle. So a little part of it becomes an eagle. Then it is no longer serothe, but neither is it Hawk, nor is it Eagle. It is something else altogether. Something made of three.” The old man takes a deep breath and continues.

  “It doesn’t know what it is, nor where it belongs. It wants to be with eagles, but instead it finds itself with manong—vultures—and wants to share their meat. So it flies very high and follows them down to the dead flesh they are eating. It sits and cries to them in their language and demands flesh. And some are fooled and think it is a vulture, and some are fooled and think it is an eagle.

  “But there is one very evil vulture with its face all on fire. It is kgosi yamanong—the king of the vultures. The dead meat is its find. It is not fooled by the magic. “Why, you are just Serothe!” it says. “How dare you?” This vulture is eating and has a piece of bone in its beak.” The old man opens his fist to reveal a small bone. Now he holds it between his thumb and forefinger, held curved like a beak. But to Bongani it becomes kgosi yamonong—the largest of the vultures—holding a bone in its vicious bill, the feathers on its face stained blood-crimson.

  “He drops it. Thus.” The old man opens his fingers so that the bone clatters to the tabletop and rolls and topples before it is still. Bongani watches, mesmerised. “And NOW he grabs the serothe and bites it dead.” The old man bangs his hand on the table with such force his tea mug falls over. Bongani jumps. Cold tea thick with whitish sludge trickles on to the table.

  The old man says nothing more. Bongani realises that is the end of the story. It has frightened him. Usually his father would add something humorous to take away the sting of a tale with a bad ending, or explain the moral. But tonight there is nothing but silence.

  “But what does it mean, Father?” asks the eight-year-old son at last.

  The old man opens his eyes. “It means what it says. It is its own truth.”

  “I don’t understand it,” says Bongani, a bit testily. He wants to be tucked up in bed and forget about the evil vulture. He feels tired, woozy, unsettled.

  “Now you must go to sleep as you promised.”

  Gratefully Bongani gets up, walks back to the couch, and slumps down. He is really very sleepy. “Good night, Father,” he says. “Thank you for the story,” he adds, remembering his manners. But there is no response.

  ∨ A Carrion Death ∧

  CHAPTER 69

  Bongani jerked awake, disoriented. His head ached a little, and his mouth felt like the Kalahari. The television displayed a test pattern and played some background music. It must be very late, he realised. They’ve already played the national anthem. He checked his watch. It was nearly two o’clock in the morning. I must have fallen asleep on the couch, he thought. The stiffness in his neck testified to that. Then he remembered his vivid dream. An extraordinary visit and story from his beloved father, who had died nearly four years ago. Perhaps the dream was important? He knew how quickly a dream—even one so clear at first—could fade and be lost. So he began writing the outline of the dream and the details he remembered. He used the back of the hapless honours student’s project. Only when he had it all down did his mind turn to other things. He felt the urgent need for bed and the rest of the night’s sleep. But first he needed a big glass of water and some aspirin.

  Turning off the persistent television, he walked towards the kitchen through the dining area. There he stopped, frozen. On the dining table were two empty tea mugs, one knocked over, a black feather, and a small bone. He guessed at once the identity of the bone, and shuddered. He righted the mug, smelling a bitterness not of the tea.

  He checked the front door. It was closed and locked. It locked automatically if the catch was on and the door shut. He checked all the rooms to ensure he was alone. Then he found the card Kubu had given him with the detective’s home number handwritten on the back. His hand shook as he dialled.

  Kubu came at once. Bongani sounded frantic on the phone, and Kubu was concerned. The young man had always seemed highly strung, but this time he sounded close to breaking point. The two sat on the couch while they each drained half a tumbler of Scotch. Kubu poured; Bongani’s hands had been too unsteady. Kubu read the notes about the dream while the young man tried to pull himself together.

  “Do you feel better now?”

  Bongani nodded. His face was still grey and drawn.

  Kubu stood and walked around the room, rubbing his eyes. Bongani’s little house was neat but lacked the feel of a home. You need a woman for that, Kubu thought. He picked up a framed picture from the sideboard. It was a black-and-white photograph showing a younger Bongani. To his right stood a big man, slightly taller than Bongani, with his arm rather charmingly holding a petite, smiling lady. The men looked very formal and a little embarrassed.

  “Are these your parents?”

  “Yes. That was taken about two years before my father died. When I’d been accepted to go to the University of Minnesota.”

  “In your notes you say you looked down at the man at the door. There are no steps up to your house, and your father was taller than you. It couldn’t have been your father. He didn’t look that old, either.”

  “Of course it wasn’t my father! My father is dead. It must have been the Old Man, the witchdoctor. Look at the finger bone on the table, for God’s sake.”

  Kubu was relieved. This sounded more like the rational scientist again. He nodded. “That white sludge will turn out to be some sort of hypnotic drug. You both took it. It made you more open to the suggestion that you were a youngster again hearing a story, and that he was your father. And that you really saw a vulture, for that matter.”

  “Why does he haunt me like this? I can’
t help him. What does he want?”

  Kubu shook his head. “I don’t know. He hasn’t been seen up at the lodge since the Gathering after the body was found. I tried to find him after your last encounter, but he’d vanished. But now he has left the finger bone—if that is what it actually is—so perhaps this is the end of it. He’s never tried to harm you or get money from you.” Kubu wondered why he was giving the benefit of the doubt to this charlatan who was terrorising his young acquaintance.

  Kubu’s mobile phone rang. It made him start; he had forgotten he had it with him. And it was nearly three a.m.! He checked the screen, and his heart sank when he saw it was the director. “It’s my boss,” he whispered to Bongani as he took the call.

  Some minutes passed as he spoke to Mabaku. When he ended the call, he looked as shaken as Bongani. He finished his Scotch in two gulps.

  “I’m sorry, Bongani, I have to go. I’ll send over a constable to stay here until morning and collect the evidence. Don’t touch anything. I’d try to get some sleep if I were you.”

  “What’s happened?”

  Kubu hesitated. “They’ve found Dianna Hofmeyr. She’s been the victim of a hit-and-run. She’s in critical condition, and they’ve taken her to hospital. I need to get to the scene. The place will be crawling with reporters in no time.”

  “When?”

  “When what?” Kubu was already collecting his jacket and car keys.

  “When did it happen? The attack?” Tension was back in Bongani’s voice.

  “We don’t know that it was an attack. Probably a drunk driver. They think it was between eleven and midnight. Why?”

  Bongani shook his head. “I’m going to have another Scotch and wait for your constable.”

  Kubu nodded. “I’ll let myself out.” He was already halfway to the door.

  Bongani stood up and followed him. “Kubu!”

  “Yes?”

  “Please take care of yourself.”

  Kubu glanced back and nodded. Then he was gone.

  Kubu took in the walls of glossy lime-green paint, the worn plastic-covered chairs, and the pervasive smell of disinfectant. The haggard man waiting for him wore a paramedic uniform, stained, faded and smeared with blood.

  Kubu introduced himself. The man said he was Mandla. Humbly he said, “I’m tired, Rra. I’ve been on duty since my shift started at six.” Kubu checked his watch. It was nearly five a.m. now. At least I’ve had four hours’ sleep, he thought. This poor devil must be dead on his feet.

  “I’m sorry you had to wait for me, Mandla. It’s important that we speak while everything is fresh in your mind. I won’t keep you long.”

  Mandla nodded. His look said that if anything was fresh, it would have to be his mind, since no physical part of his body would qualify.

  “Can you tell me about picking up the lady who had been hit by a car?”

  “We got an emergency call and rushed straight there. She was lying in the road, and a motorist had stopped, blocking it so that no one else could hit her. He’d called on his mobile phone. His car was clean; no dents or blood, so it wasn’t him who’d hit her. We always check. She was in a hell of a way and unconscious. But she came round when we tried to move her. The pain, I guess. We gave her drugs to knock her out, but it took a while. Once we got her into the ambulance, we tried to stabilise her. But she was a hell of a mess.”

  “Did she say anything?”

  “She was raving. Like she was having a conversation with herself. I couldn’t hear the words most of the time. But there was one thing. She said it very clearly, a few times. “It was Daniel’s fault. It wasn’t me.” I remembered that because I thought maybe this Daniel had been driving the car. But it was probably some drunk bastard. It usually is.”

  “Did she mention any other names?”

  “I think she said something about Angus. Would that make sense?”

  Kubu nodded. “Anything about a man with a red beard? Or Angola?”

  Mandla shook his head. “Nothing I heard. I wasn’t really listening, you know. A lot was going on once we had her in the ambulance. Finally the drugs knocked her out. The pain must have been really bad. She said, ‘It was Daniel’s fault’ again, and then lost consciousness. I don’t know what happened after we got her here.”

  Kubu sighed. “She never regained consciousness. They tried to operate. She never came out of the anaesthetic.”

  Mandla looked down at the floor. “I hope you get the bastard. You know, he didn’t just knock her down, he actually drove over her, the pig. She was a beautiful lady, too. Young.” He shook his head. “I don’t know why I do this fucking job. Who was she, anyway?”

  Kubu looked at the defeated young man and put a bulky hand on his shoulder. “Her name was Dianna Hofmeyr. But I’m not sure I know who she was.”

  He gave Mandla his card, asked him to phone if he remembered anything else, and told him to go home.

  Then he drove to the CID. He was going to start a manhunt for a Portuguese man with a red beard. A man whose first name might be Daniel.

  ∨ A Carrion Death ∧

  CHAPTER 70

  When he reached his office, Kubu dragged himself to his desk, struggling to keep his eyes open. He found enough energy to put out a highest-priority alert for Red Beard. Then he turned his chair away from the door and stared out of the window for several minutes, watching the other policemen and policewomen coming in to start their day. He hadn’t had breakfast, but he didn’t notice. Was this what depression was like? You stare into space with your mind in neutral.

  What went wrong with that family, with the Hofmeyrs? Was it Roland? Did he care too much about money and not enough about the things that really mattered? Or was it the money itself that spoilt everything? Roland’s death? Cecil’s ambition? Probably no one would ever know.

  Edison bounced in. “Hey, Kubu, you don’t look so good. Did you get any sleep?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Can I get you something? Coffee?”

  “Coffee would be good.”

  “Have you had breakfast?”

  “I’m fine. I’m not hungry.”

  Edison was dumbfounded. “You must take care of yourself, Kubu,” he said seriously.

  That’s what Bongani had said, Kubu thought. His mind went back to the witchdoctor.

  “He knew all along,” he said to Edison. “The witchdoctor knew. How the hell did he know?” He swung his chair round to face his colleague.

  “There were three episodes,” he continued. “All with Bongani. There must be some connection. The first time was right after the body had been found. The witchdoctor told him the murderers had stolen the victim’s name. Bongani thought he meant that it was the soul that had been taken. But they had just stolen the name. Just his name.”

  Edison had no idea what Kubu was talking about. Coffee would be the best option. He beat a retreat. Kubu went on talking, not noticing he was now alone.

  “Then the second time was about the hands. The one warm from the desert. The other cold. Cold as ice. No, colder than that, I’d bet!”

  “And then last night. The little bird and the vulture. The vulture with its face stained with red. Killing the little bird. Last night…” I’m not thinking clearly, Kubu thought. I should go home. Thank God I have a home and a wife who loves me.

  Edison returned with the coffee, and they drank together in silence. Edison had found a pastry somewhere, and Kubu was grateful for it. They chatted.

  “I’m going to the gym,” Kubu said. He laughed when he saw Edison’s astonished face. “Just for a shower. I got up at two this morning to go to Bongani’s house. I need to clean up.”

  ∨ A Carrion Death ∧

  CHAPTER 71

  Mabaku accepted the responsibility of telling Cecil. It was Saturday, so he drove to Cecil’s house. There was a guard on the gate. That’s a new development, thought Mabaku.

  When he heard the news, Cecil put his head in his hands. Mabaku was surprised. He hadn’t thoug
ht Cecil’s relationship with his niece was particularly close. Still, he thought, it comes on top of Angus’s death. A few moments of silence passed before Cecil lifted his head. At last he asked, “Was it an accident? It wasn’t, was it?”

  Mabaku raised his eyebrows. “Hit-and-run. Superintendent Bengu is investigating it. He is suspicious. We’ll have to wait for the pathologist’s report.”

  “Does Pamela know?”

  “We thought that you should tell her. It’s going to be a terrible blow for her, so soon after the death of her son.”

  Cecil stood up behind his desk, balancing himself by leaning forward, his hands pressed on the leather top. “I need a drink. Calm myself. Will you join me? Please?”

  Mabaku shook his head. “I’m on duty, Cecil.” Then he relented. “I’ll have a mineral water. You’ve had a nasty shock. Pour yourself something stronger.”

  Cecil handed Mabaku a Perrier in a crystal tumbler. He walked to the window with his drink and stared out at the garden. “I can’t believe it. I thought he was a madman. It never occured to me that he might be anything but a cheap extortionist.”

  “Who are you talking about, Cecil?”

  Cecil turned to face the CID director, swallowing his drink. “The man who hijacked my car. My God, Mabaku, if I’d taken it seriously, Dianna might still be alive.” He walked to the drinks cupboard and refilled his glass before he collapsed again behind the protection of his desk.

  “Cecil, you’ve lost me completely.”

  Cecil sighed. “I’d better tell you the whole story. I’ve been a fool. Yet again.”