The highlights were the reports from Forensics and from Ian MacGregor. Forensics concluded that based on the casts made of the tire tracks, the tires were Yokohama Geolandars—a common bush tire in Botswana. The boot prints were inconclusive because the soles were too worn and the outlines indistinct. Not much to go on here, Kubu reflected.
Kubu turned to the pathology report from Ian MacGregor. He took out his notebook and settled down to read it carefully.
The first paragraph described the remains, their condition, and where they had been found. The second paragraph stated that some of the conclusions needed to be regarded as speculative, given the fact that so much of the body was missing.
The deceased was a white male, between twenty-five and thirty-five years old, who had been dead between four and eight days. The victim’s estimated height was between five feet six and five feet nine. It was not possible to estimate his weight. The deceased had brown hair. It was likely that death had been caused by a hard blow to the back of the head that had severely damaged the skull and broken the deceased’s neck. It was not possible to identify the type of weapon that had been used. The left arm appeared to have been struck by a sharp instrument and broken off at the elbow. The humerus showed signs of blows. The elbow did not have the teeth marks expected if a hyena had chewed the arm off. That lower left arm was not with the remains the pathologist had received. X rays showed that the deceased had at some stage in his life broken both arms, the left above the elbow and the right close to the wrist. Both fractures had healed well. It was not possible to tell when the breaks had occurred. The separated leg belonged to the rest of the body; there was no evidence of the other leg.
As Kubu had surmised, the teeth had been knocked out. Great force had been used because many of the teeth had sheared off, leaving the roots in the skull. In fact, fifteen of the roots were still embedded in the jawbone. None of the teeth had been recovered. For such damage to occur, it was likely that an implement such as a screwdriver or crowbar had been used.
With respect to the sample of stained sand that Kubu had brought back, the coloration was due to human blood. The sample had been sent to the lab for DNA testing against samples from the corpse, even though they were not sure whether it would be usable. However, no results had come back yet.
MacGregor ended by saying that there was nothing to provide a positive identification of the deceased. The only hope was to check the medical records of any potential victim to determine whether there was a match on breaks in the arms. The X rays were on file, as would be the DNA tests.
“Not much help there,” Kubu said to himself despondently.
He sat for a few minutes going over everything he knew. He had nothing of substance except the long shot that the corpse was one of the backpackers who had been fighting at Rucksack Resort. He wondered whether it was worth putting in any effort to find Staal and Tannenbaum. Eventually he reluctantly decided he would have to. So he asked one of the junior detectives to check with the airlines to see whether either of the two men had changed or confirmed their reservations.
“Well,” he said out loud, “there’s nothing else I can do at the moment. It’s Saturday, and I have a date with my wife.” He slipped the case file into his briefcase and headed for home.
Chapter 18
Kubu turned into Acacia Street and drove the block and a half to his home. He stopped in front of his wrought-iron gate covered with mesh, and climbed out of the car to open it. Immediately a fox terrier threw itself at the gate, yapping hysterically. Kubu sighed. “Ilia. Good girl. Down, baby. Down.” He lifted the metal latch and swung one half of the gate open. Ilia now jumped up and down, bouncing off Kubu. “Down, girl!” Kubu wondered why he ever said anything, because it never had any effect.
He leaned over to pat the dog, which immediately set off a frenzied bout of licking. Kubu swung open the second half of the gate and climbed back in the car. Ilia jumped in and sat upright in the passenger’s seat, panting loudly, stumpy tail wagging furiously. Kubu drove into the garage.
Kubu was proud of the garage, because he had designed it himself. He and some friends had built it about three years ago. At least, that was his story. Deep in the recesses of his mind, he would occasionally acknowledge—only to himself—that his friends had built the garage, while he directed. The garage was typical of this part of the world, with brick walls, corrugated iron roof, two little windows, and a small lockup room on one side—his workshop, he called it, even though he had never used it to build or work on anything. The garage door was metal and could be manually raised or lowered. For the most part, the door remained open day and night, all year round. Not only was it a little awkward to open and close, but it made a screeching sound as it moved along its tracks. Kubu had promised Joy at least nine months earlier to grease it, but kept putting it off because he knew he would have to do the work himself. Standing on a ladder with his hands covered in grease did not fit Kubu’s image of himself.
Kubu and Ilia got out of the car. Ilia’s exit was dramatic and accomplished by jumping out of the passenger-side window; Kubu’s was laborious as he heaved himself once again out of the car. Before he had one foot on the ground, Ilia was jumping up and down with her tongue dripping onto the concrete floor and his shoes. Kubu retrieved his briefcase from the backseat and walked toward the door on the front veranda. He climbed the three steps onto the veranda’s concrete floor, lovingly treated with red floor polish. The canvas blinds on each side of the steps were rolled up, allowing the late-afternoon sun to stretch across the floor.
There were four easy chairs with seats and backs made from a lattice of riempie. Kubu found such chairs quite comfortable, but preferred to have cushions both under him and behind his back. One of the chairs had a stack of such cushions, covered in a relatively subdued pattern. Next to the door was a table on which food and drinks could be placed. Kubu glanced at the table and shouted, “I love you, my darling. I love you.” He put down his briefcase and walked over toward a large glass of steelworks. He took a couple of sips, savoring each, and then drained the rest in noisy gulps.
“Would you like another one, my dear?”
Kubu turned toward the door, where Joy stood with another glass in her hand. She had a naughty smile on her face as she walked over and kissed him. “It’s been a long day,” she said. “I’m sure you could do with another.”
Kubu took that glass in his other hand. For a moment he was nonplussed; he had no way to embrace her. He put the empty glass down and hugged her. “I am the luckiest man in Botswana,” he said. “No one else has a wife like mine.”
“Don’t you ever forget that,” she responded, trying hard to scowl, wagging her finger in front of his face. She, too, felt blessed that she had met and married as warm and unusual a person as Kubu.
She thought back to when they had met, shortly after she joined the police as an administrator. She worked in Records and had helped the big detective to find some information from past cases. They had hit it off, and he had asked her out. A year later they were married. She shook her head at the memories. The whole relationship had been such a surprise.
After they married, Joy resigned from her job because she did not want to be in the same building as Kubu.
“As much as I love you, dear,” she had said, “I am not sure I could stand being around you twenty-four hours a day!” Although he feigned pain, Kubu secretly agreed. Since she was an independent person, he said, she should do what she thought best. So Joy went to work full time at a day-care center for AIDS orphans and other underprivileged children.
Half an hour later, Kubu and Joy strolled around their small garden. Kubu had showered and wore short pants. He was barefoot—his preferred fashion. The garden did not meet the standards of Home and Garden, but the two thought that trying to emulate an English garden in the parched earth of Gaborone was ludicrous. It was like the ex-pats trying to imitate a snowy English Christmas even though they were in the middle of summer. He had e
ven seen them spraying Christmas trees with fake snow and eating traditional Christmas dinners, complete with plum puddings and brandy sauce, even though the temperature outside might be over a hundred degrees Fahrenheit. It was far more enjoyable, Kubu thought, to go with the flow and eat cool fruits next to a friend’s swimming pool, while sipping an excellent chilled South African sauvignon blanc.
Kubu looked at his house—a typical middle-class home, made from brick with red interlocking tiles on the roof. It was designed for outdoor living, with large front and back verandas, where they spent most of their free time. He was very proud of his home, particularly when he thought of how he had grown up in far more modest surroundings. He was forever indebted to his parents’ foresight and patience in supporting his education, and yet he had also noticed a growing gulf between him and them, not because they had experienced any change in affection, but rather because his life had become incomprehensible to them. A house with a garden, a car, a refrigerator stocked with ginger beer and occasionally a fine wine—these were all mysteries to Kubu’s parents, a world they could not comprehend.
Kubu looked at his garden and felt content with its embrace of the semi-desert conditions of Gaborone. Even though his favorite plants—the living stones or lithops—were not prolific in Botswana, they had about twenty species in their garden. They were remarkable plants, masters of camouflage, their shape, size, and color causing them to resemble small stones in their natural surroundings. To minimize any evaporation, their leaves had become so truncated that they had lost the appearance of a normal leaf and had become rounded like a pebble.
They also had several types of other succulents, such as the tall aloes that were particularly prolific around Molepolole. Privately he thought of the garden as a tribute to his old Bushman friend, Khumanego, who had opened his eyes to seeing. There was no grass in the garden, and pebbled paths separated the beds. Two large umbrella thorn trees, with their flat tops, provided some relief from the sun, and a single jacaranda struggled to provide its beautiful lavender flowers each October and November. Although hardy, it was generally too dry for it to thrive. Kubu thought it might be pining for its native Brazil.
Joy and Kubu returned to the veranda, where Ilia lay panting on the cool concrete. Kubu said he would get the wine. Ilia didn’t move, but her eyes followed him. A few minutes later he returned with a large ice bucket, in which he had put a bottle of Moët. Although champagne was normally well out of his price range, he had bought the bottle a few years ago to keep for a special occasion. He thought he would make this evening fit that description. Kubu stripped off the metal foil and untwisted the wire retainer. Why did all champagne bottles have exactly the same number of twists? he wondered. Why three, not two or four? He walked down the steps to the garden and slowly pried out the cork. It suddenly separated from the bottle and exploded out, flying high and far into the garden. Ilia yelped, and several startled birds flew out of the acacia tree. Rramorutiakole, red-eyed bulbul, he thought, but did not really pay attention. Like a little boy, Kubu loved the sound of an unhindered cork and the sight of its majestic flight. He pitied those who opened the bottle with restraint, keeping the cork in their hands.
Before the pale liquid frothed out of the bottle, Kubu deftly started pouring it into a champagne flute. As it fizzed up, he poured the second glass. A few seconds later, he topped up both glasses and handed one to Joy.
“My dear, a toast to us and the good fortune that brought us together. Every day I give thanks that you are my wife. I am a lucky man.”
“To us,” Joy responded, her eyes moist. “I am the lucky one, Kubu. Thank you.” She paused a moment. “What is the occasion we are celebrating?”
Kubu didn’t want to admit that the evening had started as a joke with Pleasant, so he just smiled.
They sat down and said nothing for a few minutes, each enjoying the fine wine, lost in their respective thoughts about luck, love, and companionship.
After a while, Kubu stood up, took the bottle from the bucket, and refilled their glasses.
“What have I done to deserve such a treat?” Joy eventually asked, with a twinkle in her eye. Kubu just smiled, took her hands in his, kissed her, and led her into the cool darkness of the house.
It was over an hour later when they emerged onto the veranda again, this time carrying large sandwiches and glasses of white wine. They sat down at the table. Joy lit a candle and turned off the light.
“Again, my dear, to us!” Kubu murmured. Again they touched glasses. For the next ten minutes, they said little, but enjoyed the sandwiches—brown bread, sharp mustard, thick chunks of ham, lettuce, thinly sliced onions, slivers of avocado smothered with fresh coriander leaves, all covered with freshly ground pepper and coriander seeds. What a feast, he thought, as he took a large sip of wine—can’t get much better than this.
“Pleasant asked me what you are investigating. You know how curious she is about other people’s business. I told her you were trying to solve a murder, but that I didn’t know much about it.” Joy looked at Kubu inquiringly. She sipped the wine and leaned back to listen.
“Well, it’s a real puzzle,” Kubu said quietly. “A white man is found murdered at a waterhole in the middle of the Kalahari. He is left there, we think, for the hyenas, to get rid of the evidence. To make sure he can’t be identified, the murderers take his clothes and shoes and knock out his teeth so that we can’t trace the dental records. One leg is missing, and one of his arms has been broken off at the elbow. Ian MacGregor thinks it was broken on purpose and not gnawed off by the hyenas.”
Kubu paused, and Joy said, “Perhaps it was removed because it had some special feature that would allow the man to be identified. What about a very pronounced scar or a tattoo?”
Kubu thought about that. “But the surface of the arm would be the first meat eaten by the scavengers. And a human lower arm would be embarrassing to get rid of. What would they do with it? Feed it to the dog?” Without thinking, he tossed a crust from the sandwich to Ilia, who chewed and swallowed it with wide-mouthed relish. Joy grimaced, but Kubu didn’t notice. Another novel idea occurred to her. “Well,” she said, recovering, “perhaps he had a false arm. They wouldn’t want to leave that.”
Kubu at once realized where this idea had come from and started to smile. A few weeks ago they had seen an American film on television about a man who had been erroneously found guilty of his wife’s murder. He had managed to escape and wandered about looking for a one-armed man whom he believed was the real culprit. Kubu had been most unimpressed by the police, who had not only arrested and convicted the wrong man, but seemed unable to recapture him despite all their resources. Now he visualized Dr. Richard Kimble catching up with his elusive quarry in the Kalahari, killing his nemesis in a fight and knocking out his teeth in the process, and taking the wooden arm as a souvenir. By this time he was chuckling out loud.
“Why are you laughing?” asked Joy.
Kubu tried to explain, reminding her of the movie. But Joy didn’t find it funny. “You’re laughing at my idea,” she said flatly.
Kubu tried to rescue the situation. “No, no,” he said, “A wooden arm is a very interesting idea. I was just laughing because—” But Joy interrupted, “A prosthetic arm. And you’re laughing because you never take my ideas seriously, David.” Using his real name was a bad sign. She pointedly started to clear up the plates. Even Ilia got a dirty look when she begged for the scraps.
Kubu realized that he had carelessly hurt her feelings and tried to change the subject. “You may well be right about why they removed the arm,” he said quickly. “There are really no clues to the identity of the body. The coroner found old healed breaks in both arms, but what’s the use of that? We’ll never be able to trace the records of all injuries like that.”
Joy was looking at him, still holding the plates, but she no longer seemed angry. “But, Kubu,” she said, “those breaks are exactly the same as having the teeth. You wouldn’t have found his id
entity by asking all the dentists to give you their records. You would use them to check, or prove, a tentative identification once you had one. Nowadays most injuries involving a full break in an arm would be X-rayed. Once you have a theory, you can obtain those medical records and match the exact position of the two breaks. That should be as diagnostic as having the teeth and the dental records.”
Kubu saw the opening and took it. “I hadn’t thought of it that way,” he said glibly. “That makes a lot of sense.” He gave her a big hug. This caused the scraps to drop—much to Ilia’s approval. The issue of the false arm was completely forgotten.
Joy asked if he had any ideas who the victim could be. She seemed ready to go after the medical records herself.
“There are no missing person reports, as far as we know.”
“Who found the body?”
“The manager at Dale’s Camp—that’s close to the waterhole—and a guy who does ecological research at the university. They saw vultures circling and went to find a lion kill. Instead they found a mutilated body. The ecologist is a really sharp guy—picked up a lot of the clues and put them together very quickly. I enjoyed meeting him, even though he seemed very nervous around me—can you imagine that?” Kubu smiled. “When the case is closed, I may invite him around for dinner. You’ll like him, I think.”
“What’s his name? How old is he?” Joy asked.
Kubu sighed, knowing exactly where this was going.
“His name is Bongani Sibisi. I would guess he’s about twenty-eight or so. Has a PhD in ecology. And no, I don’t know whether he is single, or whether Pleasant would approve of him!”
A Carrion Death & The 2nd Death of Goodluck Tinubu Page 10
