Detective Kubu 01; A Carrion Death

by Michael Stanley

  At his office, Cecil sat at his desk, physically and emotionally drained. He asked his new assistant to bring him a big pot of coffee and drained three cups, one after the other.

  When the caffeine kicked in, he roused himself and began thinking about the upcoming meeting with the government board members. He wondered what Tweedledum and Tweedledee had in mind, and why the urgency. Certainly it had to do with Dianna’s death and the restructuring of the company. The Trust could not be dissolved since it had been set up by Roland. He assumed that Dianna’s shares, which now included Angus’s as well, would go to Pamela. So Pamela now controlled the trust, and through it the company.

  He wondered whether he should approach her and offer to vote her shares—then he could reinstate himself. After a moment, he dismissed that possibility. He had never got on well with Pamela, and she wouldn’t change her opinion now.

  Nama and Rabafana were formal, almost restrained. After they all shook hands, Nama cleared his throat and said, “Mr Hofmeyr—Cecil—once again, on behalf of the government, my wife and family, and myself, I offer our greatest sympathy on your recent losses. Your family has suffered more tragedy than anyone should be asked to endure.”

  “Thank you, Nama,” Cecil murmured.

  “Please accept my deepest sympathies too,” Rabafana added quietly.

  “It has been a very difficult time, not only for me but also for BCMC,” Cecil said. “But the past is the past. Now we have to look to the future, not only for the family but also for the company. We must make it stronger and more profitable than ever before—for the benefit of all Batswana.”

  There was a moment’s silence. Nama and Rabafana looked at each other. Then Nama cleared his throat once again. “Cecil, the government is very grateful for all you have done—guiding the company since the founder died, growing it to where it is now. We know that the changes the board agreed to a few weeks ago must have been very difficult for you.”

  Cecil’s face revealed nothing of the growing excitement he felt. I’m going to get it all back, he thought. He looked down demurely.

  “In consultation with the minister, we now ask you to call a board meeting as soon as possible so we can move the company forward.”

  “I will call one for ten o’clock next Tuesday morning, a week from tomorrow,” Cecil interjected, his voice strong with authority. “That should give everyone enough notice.” He looked at the two officials, who stared impassively back. “What would you like on the agenda?”

  “We believe we should be proactive,” Rabafana answered for the two of them. “We should present a strongly supported set of proposals to the minister for his approval. First, the issue of the ownership of Angus and Dianna’s shares in the Trust. We think control of the company should be more equitably spread. Second, the appointment of Mr Nama and myself to the executive of BCMC. I will be chairman, and Mr Nama will become an executive director. You will, of course, stay on as CEO. We believe the minister will support this if it has the board’s unanimous endorsement. Third, the disbanding of the subcommittee looking at issues of the Bushmen. We need to indicate that BCMC has no intention of interfering with the policies of the government.”

  Cecil stared at Rabafana. “Gentlemen, as we agreed last time, I support your wish for greater involvement by the government and community in the shareholding of BCMC. It will be at the top of the agenda. But a trust has inalienable rights. The issue will need negotiation. Of course you can count on my support. As for the issue of the Bushmen, I agree it should be quietly dropped.”

  Discarding the cloak of acquiescence, Cecil stood up to assert himself.

  “With respect to the management structure of BCMC,” he said more loudly, “it would be best for the company, and hence the government and the country, if I reverted to my previous role of chairman with executive powers. The two of you should assume executive roles, but should work as understudies to experienced personnel for a year or two so that you can pick up the ropes. Running a company such as BCMC is very complex, requiring a variety of technical and personal skills, not to mention personal contacts. You are both very talented, and I can easily see you as my successors in due course.”

  Nama and Rabafana looked at each other uncomfortably. Rabafana said, “Cecil, I don’t think you understand. This is not negotiable. We insist on your support. You don’t have any choice.”

  Cecil felt a chill pass through his body. Despite his anxiety, he smiled and said, “Gentlemen, don’t take this personally. You know how much I admire you, but I have to put the health of BCMC first. Pamela Hofmeyr would never agree to such a move. Believe me!”

  This time Nama spoke. “Cecil, listen to me. You do not have a choice. Believe me.”

  Now Cecil’s anger started to rise. “Listen to me. I have been running BCMC for nearly twenty years, very successfully, I may add. I know what it takes. You just do not have the votes to get this through. You only control ten per cent of the votes on the board. Pamela Hofmeyr and I now have a majority, and we can pass whatever we want.”

  Cecil stared at Tweedledum and Tweedledee. They stared back. After a minute Rabafana opened his briefcase and pulled out a small packet, and handed it to Cecil.

  “Take a look at this videotape before the board meeting, Cecil. I have the original. It was found in Kobedi’s safe. I think you will find it quite graphic. You certainly were much trimmer in those days, Cecil. And quite adventurous too, it seems. I doubt if the board would keep you on in any role if this found its way into the wrong hands. Take a look at the tape, Cecil. Then I’m sure you will persuade Mrs Hofmeyr to vote her shares with yours in support of what we have proposed. We are confident that a man of your experience can do it.”

  The two stood up in unison and walked out.

  ∨ A Carrion Death ∧

  CHAPTER 74

  Kubu’s flight arrived at Kasane’s new international airport just after noon on Tuesday. Kubu remembered the old airport—airstrip was a better description—next to the Chobe River. It was one of those dirt strips that rich South African pilots like to reminisce about and locals detest. Often elephants or buck grazing on the runway had to be shooed off by doing a low pass over the field. One refuelled by using the plane’s radio to call Heather, who ran a transport clearing service and filling station. The fuel arrived in drums on the back of a pickup and was hand-pumped into the plane’s fuel tanks. They would carefully strain the fuel to avoid dirt blocking the lines and causing the engine to cut out. Engine failure was not a pleasant prospect, particularly as the end of the runway was at the edge of the crocodile-infested river.

  The new airport was quite an improvement. Kasane International Airport. What a grandiose name, Kubu thought. The terminal—also a euphemism—could hold about fifty people if they didn’t mind crowding. It did have regular commercial service. However, private charters bringing tourists to the area’s magnificent game parks accounted for most of the air traffic.

  Kubu was met by Robert Dingalo, a detective whom he had known for years. They greeted each other warmly and caught up with each other’s news during the short drive to the police station. It was more attractive than he expected, with the street front lush with multicoloured bougainvilleas. Two massive hundred-year-old baobabs had been spared the axe, and the two-winged red-brick building had been positioned between them. The baobabs were part of Botswana police history. Holes that had been hollowed out in the trees had been used for many years as prison cells—one tree for men, the other for women.

  Upside-down trees, Kubu mused. That’s what the Bushmen call them. They looked as though some wanton giant had grabbed the massive trunk, wrenched the unfortunate tree from the ground, and sunk the foliage back into the earth, leaving the winter-bare roots grasping skyward.

  The new station was large. Dingalo told Kubu they had nearly one hundred offices and a staff to fill them. A major reason for the size was Kasane’s strategic location, close to the borders with Namibia, Zimbabwe and Zambia—borders increas
ingly porous, as the Zimbabwean political and economic crises deepened. More and more, the police were being called on to help stem the flow of illegal immigrants, many of whom had appalling stories to tell of brutality and starvation.

  As they walked through an elegant tiled entrance, spotless and shiny-polished, Kubu nearly slipped. “Watch your step!” Dingalo warned. “The cleaners here are very proud people!”

  After greeting his former colleagues, Kubu sat down in Dingalo’s office to be briefed. A large pot of tea arrived with a plate of biscuits. Things could be worse, he thought.

  “I know you’re eager to see your Mr Red Beard,” Dingalo said. “But let me tell you what we know already.” Dingalo quickly recounted what had happened. He mentioned that Red Beard was in possession of two passports—an Angolan one in the name of Antonio de Vasconcelos, and a Portuguese one in the name of Manuel Fonseca. The Angolan one was well used, with several entries into Botswana. The Portuguese one was almost new, with two entries into Lisbon several months earlier. He also had a Portuguese driver’s licence and about five hundred pula and six thousand new kwanza, but nothing else of interest except for a firearm.

  “Where is it?” Kubu asked.

  Dingalo unlocked a sturdy cupboard behind his desk and handed Kubu a plastic bag. Kubu did not open the bag, but examined the heavy gun in it. “Beretta. Nine-millimetre, semi-automatic. I think it’s called a Mini Cougar because it’s so small. Beretta makes lots of different models.” He paused. “One of our bodies was shot in the head with a nine-millimetre slug. I’d like to take this back for testing, if that’s okay with you?” Dingalo nodded his assent and locked the weapon back in the cupboard.

  “You can pick it up and sign for it when you leave,” Dingalo said. “Let’s go and meet Red Beard.”

  Kubu jumped up, eager to question the man who had caused so much mayhem.

  They walked to the rear of the building to an interrogation room. “I had him moved from the holding cell when we arrived,” Dingalo explained. “I have to warn you that he’s not very cooperative.”

  When they approached, two policemen who had been chatting outside the room stood up and greeted them. Dingalo turned towards Kubu. “Constable Mosime will join us inside. He speaks pretty good Portuguese and may be of help. We’ve read the prisoner his rights in English and Portuguese.”

  Normally Kubu preferred to work without the presence of an armed guard, but decided having a backup would be a good idea, especially one who spoke Portuguese. It wouldn’t bother Red Beard to add a detective to his list of victims. Kubu nodded to the policeman to open the door.

  Red Beard was a stocky bald man about six feet tall. He was shaven, but red stubble was rapidly laying claim to his face. His mouth was small and unfriendly, with thin lips. A small gold ring hung from his left ear.

  The prisoner’s hands were handcuffed and rested on the table in front of him. Kubu glanced down. Red Beard’s legs were strapped to the legs of the chair.

  Kubu and Dingalo sat down opposite Red Beard. Kubu stared into his envy-green eyes. Red Beard stared back. Kubu knew he wouldn’t win this contest, and put his pad on the table. “Mr Antonio de Vasconcelos, or is it Mr Manuel Fonseca? I’m Assistant Superintendent Bengu from the Botswana CID. I’ve been looking for you for some time. I’m delighted to meet you under these circumstances.”

  Kubu took a pen from his jacket pocket. He leant over, turned on the tape recorder, and provided the necessary introductory information for such an interview.

  Kubu looked again into Red Beard’s eyes. “Please give me your full names. Como se chama?” he said, drawing on one of the few phrases he knew in Portuguese. No reply. “You know we will find out all we want to know, given time, so there is no benefit to your silence. In fact, the less you cooperate, the more determined I will get.”

  Silence, with a hint of a sneer on the thin lips.

  “For the purposes of this interview, I will call you Mr Fonseca, which may or may not be your real name. More than likely it is not.”

  Kubu shifted to get more comfortable on the small wooden chair.

  “Fala Ingles?” He tried one of his remaining Portuguese phrases. Red Beard made no indication that he understood. “Fala Portuguese?” Again no response—not the vaguest indication that Red Beard had even heard the question.

  “Mr Fonseca,” Kubu said. “We can and will charge you with assaulting a border official, assaulting the driver of the car you stole yesterday, and hijacking his vehicle. Also various immigration violations, including travelling on false documents and illegal entry into Botswana. I am sure those will keep you in jail in Botswana for ten to twenty years. And that is without the charge I really want to bring—murder. I am quite sure that by this time tomorrow, I will have a match on the bullet that killed a person whose nickname we believe to be Sculo. We think it came from the Beretta you had with you yesterday. Then it’s life inside. If you don’t cooperate, we may decide to push for the death penalty. To some extent, your fate is in your own hands.”

  Red Beard remained impassive, not even blinking. Kubu began to feel the stirrings of anger.

  “Mr Fonseca.” He raised his voice. “Your silence is not helping your case.” He stood up and leant towards Red Beard, his face but a few inches away. “Mr Fonseca, or whatever your names is, you really should cooperate. It will be much easier for you.” Red Beard’s response was unexpected. He spat in Kubu’s face. Kubu’s anger burst into the open, and he raised his fist.

  “Easy, Kubu. Easy!” Dingalo jumped up and grabbed Kubu’s arm. “Don’t do it. He wants you to hit him. He’s playing you.” Kubu struggled for a moment, then relaxed and sat down.

  Kubu looked at Red Beard, who now had the hint of a smile on his face. “You can play games, Mr Fonseca. But I will win in the end. You will wish you had cooperated with me.”

  Kubu leant over the tape recorder. “The time is eleven-thirty a.m. Interview is over.” He turned the recorder off. “Until next time.” He looked once more at Red Beard and walked out of the room.

  “Bastard! Bloody bastard!” Kubu said vehemently. He and Dingalo were sitting in the canteen with cups of coffee steaming in front of them.

  “Bastard!”

  Dingalo said nothing, and both men sipped their coffee.

  “What an animal!” Kubu continued to rant. “He nearly got to me!”

  “Nearly?” Dingalo said quietly and took another sip of his coffee. Kubu didn’t reply for a few moments.

  “You’re right, Dingalo. He did get to me. Spat right in my face, the bastard! Hitting him would have been a huge mistake. Thank you.”

  The two men drank their coffee in silence. After a few minutes Kubu said “Dingalo. I want Red Beard in Gaborone. I want to have an official Angolan embassy translator with me when I interrogate him again. I want to make sure the Angolans see that everything is above board. Would you be willing to release him to us?”

  “I’ll have to talk to my boss about that,” Dingalo replied. “But I don’t think keeping him here is going to move things forward. The paperwork will take a couple of days. Do you want to work on what happened yesterday as well?”

  “No!” Kubu said. “You’re closest to all of that. I’d be happy if you could prepare those cases. Let’s keep in touch.”

  “Of course,” Dingalo said. “I’ll call you when we are ready to ship Red Beard off.” Kubu grunted—his mind already planning his next steps.

  “I’ll give the airport a call,” Dingalo continued. “Let the pilot know you are ready to leave.”

  “Tell him we can leave at three,” Kubu said. “I can’t fly on an empty stomach! Show me what eating establishments Kasane has to offer.”

  ∨ A Carrion Death ∧

  CHAPTER 75

  Red Beard’s break came on Thursday morning at breakfast time. The wife of one of his guards had severe cramps at breakfast, and her husband thought she might be having a miscarriage. It was their first child, and they were understandably anxious.
He took her to the local hospital.

  Meanwhile Dingalo was expecting an army plane from Gaborone. He had sorted out the paperwork, and he wanted the two guards to take Red Beard to meet the plane. When the duty sergeant told him one of them was at the hospital because his wife seemed to be in labour, Dingalo lost his temper.

  “Why can’t the men leave their wives to get on with these things?” he said angrily. “There’s not much they can do, you know. They’ve done their bit already.”

  The sergeant nodded and went on with his paperwork. He had seven children.

  “Well, we can’t hang around. Is anyone else available right now?”

  There wasn’t. The sergeant took some time to explain why this was so.

  “Oh, all right. They’re already getting Fonseca—or whatever his name is—up here. Mosime will have to go by himself. At least he only has a pregnant girlfriend! He can take the van and drive the prisoner to the airport.” But he felt uncomfortable. He would have preferred two men on this job.

  “Ah, Mosime, there you are. I want you to take the prisoner out to the airport. Park at the drop-off area and wait for the guys from Gaborone. Don’t leave the vehicle. I’ll get them to come out to the car and take delivery of our silent friend. Make sure they sign these forms, or we’ll be in big trouble from the boss.”

  Mosime nodded proudly. He was very young, thrilled by the responsibility. He saluted smartly. Dingalo winced and had second thoughts. “Perhaps we should wait for someone to go with you?” he asked.

  The young man’s face fell. He could not have been more wounded if the sergeant had slapped him. Dingalo took a deep breath.

  “No, it should be fine. Check out a firearm. Here’s Fonseca now. Just follow your orders,” he said. He would regret the decision for the rest of his life.

  Red Beard slumped in the passenger seat in shackles and handcuffs. The fight seemed to have gone out of him. He said nothing until the constable had turned the van out of the police station. Then he turned to the young man and spoke to him in Portuguese.