A Carrion Death & The 2nd Death of Goodluck Tinubu

by Michael Stanley

  Jason nodded, but added, “Of course, it was cleaned before your first visit. The rooms are all serviced. And Aron was a stickler for tidiness and cleanliness. German, I suppose. So I doubt there’s much to find.”

  “Probably not, but I don’t want to miss anything,” Kubu replied.

  “Well, anyway, let’s get out of the heat.” No one had any difficulty with that suggestion.

  Zanele began working in Aron’s Spartan bungalow. She started by replacing the filter in the air conditioner—taking the old one for later analysis—and then persuaded the tired machine to bring the temperature down to a sensible level. Kubu remembered that the room had been tidy. Now he noticed that it also was clean except for a fine patina of dust from the last few days. Well, we’ll see about that, he thought. Zanele may look like a model, but she’s damn good at seeing the invisible.

  The men went to Jason’s office. Kubu accepted some coffee and got straight to the point.

  “Mr. Ferraz, did you know that Aron sent a letter to Cecil Hofmeyr, the chairman of BCMC?”

  Jason looked surprised. “Of course I know who Cecil Hofmeyr is. A letter? What sort of letter?”

  “It was a letter about operations here at the mine. Aron was critical of a number of matters—in particular, of your management.”

  Jason shrugged. “You don’t know geologists, do you, Superintendent? They are a very stubborn lot. Get their own ideas, and it’s pretty hard to change them. I respected Aron’s, but I’m the manager here. And I’m also a geologist. Eventually my stubborn ideas trump his stubborn ideas. Maybe Aron didn’t agree with me, but we worked well together. I’m surprised he complained about me to Mr. Hofmeyr.”

  “He also wrote in the letter that he was concerned about theft at the mine. That the best diamonds weren’t always making it out of the mine.”

  “Yes, he raised that with me too. But it’s crazy. We have very tight security here. All diamond mines do. Everything’s accounted for.” He sighed. “Look, Superintendent, I’m a twenty-five-percent shareholder here. Don’t you think I’d be the first to be worried if I thought that I was being robbed?”

  “Then you won’t mind if one of our diamond security branch people comes in to take a look?”

  “By all means. I’d appreciate the input. Maybe he’ll find a secret tunnel from the sorting room.” Kubu had to admit that if Jason was up to something, then either the trail was cold, or Jason was a very good actor. He looked bored, not scared. Kubu tried another tack.

  “The letter implied that Aron had scientific notebooks detailing his theories. Do you know where they might be?”

  Again Jason shrugged. “Perhaps in his bungalow. Perhaps he took them with him. But what has all this got to do with who killed him?”

  Kubu didn’t answer for a few moments. Then he said, “That’s exactly what I’m trying to find out. Someone was killed for that letter, Mr. Ferraz. And I got in the way.” He indicated his bandaged head. “Why would someone want that letter so badly that he would kill for it and attack a policeman too?”

  Kubu was pleased that Jason at last looked shaken. “Killed? Who was killed?”

  “A rather unpleasant character by the name of Thembu Kobedi. An acquaintance of Cecil Hofmeyr, we believe. We think he stole the letter, and somebody wanted it badly enough to kill him for it. But the police have the letter now.”

  “Do you have it with you? How did you get it?”

  Kubu shook his head. He had a copy, but had no intention of showing it to Jason. “Perhaps I can arrange for a copy to be faxed to you,” he said. “These are very nasty people, Mr. Ferraz. The person who we believe killed Kobedi and assaulted me is also dead. He was found in an alley in Gaborone with a bullet through his head. I’m a bit concerned about your safety, to be frank.” Kubu tried to look worried.

  “What did the man look like? Kobedi’s murderer?”

  What an odd question, Kubu thought, for someone who has no idea what this is about. “A huge black man. Looked like an advert for steroids. We don’t know who he is yet, but we’ll find out.” Jason looked shocked. Well, well, thought Kubu, perhaps he’s seen this man or even knows him? Kubu dug in his briefcase and produced the picture of his massive assailant safely stretched out on a trolley in the police morgue. He tossed the picture to Jason. “Recognize him?”

  Jason looked shaken even before he looked at the picture. Then he picked it up and stared at it for about half a minute. “No,” he said quickly. “No, of course not.”

  “I didn’t think so,” said Kubu, satisfied that he did.

  Just then Shirley Devlin came in to announce lunch. “You know what I think?” Kubu asked Jason rhetorically. “I think there is something big going on. And the people behind it are quite nasty, and they don’t like loose ends. I really wouldn’t want to be one of their loose ends.” He shook his head in theatrical sympathy with these endangered loose ends. Then he brightened. “Shall we go in to lunch? We left early, and breakfast was rather curtailed.” He chuckled. “No mopane worms, I hope?”

  After lunch Kubu went back to Aron’s bungalow with Zanele. Jason returned to his office and from memory punched a number on his mobile phone.

  “Sin?” answered the voice with the Portuguese accent. “What you want? Why you phone me?”

  “Did you kill Kobedi? Did you get the letter? What happened to Sculo?”

  There was a moment’s silence, then Red Beard switched to Portuguese. “Look, Ferraz, you take care of your business, I take care of mine. No need to know the answers to those questions. You do your part, and everything’s fine. Anyone ask you about these things, you act surprised. You are surprised. See? I’m just sorting out loose ends, that’s all.”

  Red Beard had no idea of the effect of that inauspicious phrase on Jason. Jason was shaking. He broke the connection at once. I’m an accessory to these murders, he thought. Red Beard is way out of control. And Bengu knows something. Somehow he knows.

  Pulling out the week’s production figures so that he could pretend to be working if anyone came in, he tried to concentrate. But it was several seconds before he realized that the pages were upside down. He threw them on the table and looked at his watch. It was nearly four o’clock. He might as well go to his bungalow and pack. He needed an early start in the morning.

  When the plane returned and buzzed the complex, Dingake drove them out to the airstrip. Jason bade them a cursory farewell, and even the gorgeous Zanele was dismissed with a curt handshake. Jason said that the lunch hadn’t agreed with him. Kubu expressed surprise. He had found it very good.

  The pilot was keen to be off, so Kubu waited until they were airborne before he asked about the aerial search. The pilot shrugged. “Nothing like the vehicle Frankental was supposed to have. We did find a group of Bushmen, though. About twelve miles north of the mine.”

  “Can we land there and talk to them?”

  The pilot shook his head. “It’s quite flat, but I don’t want to make any bush landings if it’s not an emergency. And I need fuel.”

  “Can I get there by road?” Kubu asked, his heart sinking.

  “No. They’ve got themselves out in the middle of nowhere. Why don’t you get a military chopper? That’s the tool for this job.”

  Kubu nodded. He liked that idea. He settled back to enjoy the flight home.

  Mabaku, however, was not impressed. “Should we perhaps get Air Botswana to assist in this case too, Bengu?” he asked sarcastically. “You seem to have commandeered every other aircraft available.”

  Kubu sighed. “Director, there’s little doubt in my mind that Frankental is the victim. We need to know how he was killed and why. And our best chance of doing that is to find where he went—or was taken—when he left the mine.”

  “So you think the murderer left the vehicle conveniently in the middle of the desert for us to find? Presumably with his fingerprints and a forwarding address inside, since he’s being so cooperative?” But Mabaku realized that he couldn’t fault what
Kubu had done. “Well, where do the Bushmen come in?”

  “Aron was friendly with a group of them. They appear to be his only friends, apart from the Devlin woman at the mine. He was obviously quite lonely. Maybe the Bushman group saw him after he left the mine.”

  “Well, go ahead. This better lead somewhere, though, because we will have blown the year’s budget on this case. Anything else that needs to be solved, you’ll have to do on foot for the rest of the year!” He turned his attention to the papers on his desk.

  But as Kubu got up to leave, Mabaku looked up again. “How’s the head, Kubu? Still a hippo with a sore one?” Kubu just smiled and said it was fine.

  Back in his office, he arranged for the next morning’s trip.

  Chapter 40

  They found the Bushman group easily. They had established a camp near a dry watercourse with some shade supplied by acacia trees. The chopper circled a couple of times and then landed a short distance away so as not to startle the people or cover their simple dwellings with dust. By the time the chopper blades had slowed to a floppy whirl, several of the Bushmen were standing around waiting. Kubu heaved himself to the ground, followed by his interpreter, and finally by the pilot. The Bushmen did not look particularly friendly.

  One of the men stepped forward, recognizing Kubu as the leader of the three. “We are allowed to be here,” he said to Kubu in Setswana. “What do you want with us?”

  “Of course,” Kubu responded. “We apologize for the intrusion. We hope that you can help us.”

  “We cannot help the army.”

  “We are from the police, and you do not yet know our request. May we come to your village and tell our story?” Without waiting for a reply, Kubu introduced the others. “This man is Mahongo. He is of your people and speaks your language. I speak very little and would make you laugh with my bad pronunciation.” Actually Kubu had picked up some Bushman words from Khumanego when they were boys together, but it suited him to appear very humble. And indeed his handling of the complicated clicks of the language would be an embarrassment.

  “You speak very good Setswana,” he continued politely, “but perhaps some of your people would be more comfortable speaking in their own language. And this man is Mike, our pilot who flies the helicopter.” Kubu deliberately omitted Mike’s military rank.

  The Bushman unbent a little. It would be inhospitable to turn these people away after the introductions, and he understood Kubu’s attempt to come as a supplicant. “My name is Tchixo,” he said at last. “I am the headman. You may come to the village.”

  They set off across the arid and stony ground to the watercourse a short distance away. When they reached the village, Kubu’s group were introduced to several of the men and invited to sit in a circle with them. The mood could hardly be called welcoming, but at least the Bushmen were willing to listen. Kubu used Mahongo to interpret; he had no idea who might be able to help and didn’t want everything to be filtered through Tchixo.

  “We are searching for a man,” he began. “I believe this man might be a friend of some of you. The man’s name is Aron Frankental. He works at the diamond mine.” He waited for Mahongo to translate, but had already noticed some reaction when he mentioned Aron’s name.

  “Why do you seek this man?” asked Tchixo.

  “He is missing from the mine. He has been missing for some time. His friends are worried about him. The desert is not a friend to those who do not understand it as you do.”

  The Bushmen discussed this among themselves for a few minutes. A very gnarled and little man suddenly started talking animatedly, and Kubu was sure that he recognized the name “Hofmeyr” in what the man said. “What did he say?” he asked Mahongo.

  But the headman interrupted. “Gobiwasi is very old. Sometimes he walks already with his ancestors.” Kubu understood that this was an elegant way of expressing that Gobiwasi’s mind wandered. He was always impressed by the respect these people showed to each other. Mutual support was essential for survival. He bowed his head respectfully.

  One of the younger men said, “Aron visits us sometimes. He is our friend. He talks about the rocks. He brings us small presents, as is the custom.” He looked with disapproval at Kubu’s empty hands. Kubu wished he had thought to bring some cigarettes. Unfortunately, none of the three of them smoked.

  “When did you last see Aron?” he asked, to get over the uncomfortable moment. Once again there was some discussion among the group, but it was the exact date that was in doubt. When the answer came, it turned out to be disappointingly long before Aron’s disappearance. In the midst of the discussion, Gobiwasi said something about “Hofmeyr” again. Kubu managed to understand that he had said that Hofmeyr was also their friend.

  “Who is he talking about?” he asked. Mahongo spoke to Gobiwasi.

  “He is talking about the Hofmeyr who had the cattle farms. He says he was a good friend of the Bushmen and always treated them with respect. Not the way they are sometimes treated today by the farmers. He says this man is dead now.”

  Kubu realized he was talking about Roland Hofmeyr, the founder of BCMC. Was this just another coincidence? Why did the Hofmeyrs always seem to be involved?

  “Does anyone know anything to help us find your friend Aron?” he asked. “Did anyone hear of him or see anything unusual?” He knew the Bushmen would know most, if not all, of what went on in their section of the desert. They considered this question, but eventually heads shook all around.

  Kubu wondered if there was much point in going on with the meeting. It seemed that he would leave empty-handed and have to face Mabaku’s “I told you so.” Suddenly Gobiwasi spoke again. Kubu couldn’t understand, and he queried Mahongo with his eyes.

  Mahongo shrugged. “He says that maybe the big bird took him, as it took Hofmeyr.”

  Kubu was intrigued at once. It sounded nonsense, but perhaps it was not. The “big bird” was probably an airplane; Gobiwasi would know what a plane was, it was just that his language did not have the word for it. Kubu asked the interpreter to get Gobiwasi to explain. The whole group became silent and focused on this wizened man of the desert as he told his story.

  “It was long ago. I was the headman then, although I was already old.” He grinned, revealing hardened gums and the absence of teeth. “Hofmeyr was my friend. We would talk about the desert, and about its animals, and about the cattle. He came in a big bird. But one day the bird killed him. I saw it. It was quite small in the sky, and then it stopped singing. It was sick and started to come down. It made sounds like vomit. It moved from side to side.” He illustrated the motion by swaying jerkily and the engine by making sputtering coughing sounds.

  “I thought it would find a place to settle. But then one wing hit the top of a tree, and the bird spun over and fell hard. It was quiet, and for a moment I thought it would be all right and stand up. I started to run. Then there was a big loud noise, and there was fire everywhere. Even the sand was on fire. How can that be?”

  When Mahongo had finished translating, Kubu said, “It was the fuel from the broken wings burning on the sand.”

  Gobiwasi nodded as though he had understood, but repeated, “Even the sand was on fire.” Kubu remembered the horror of the crash, and the devastating sorrow of his friend Angus, Roland Hofmeyr’s son. He wondered if this unlikely eyewitness had ever been interviewed about the crash. What he had said corroborated the findings of the accident report, but his words might have allayed some of the doubts with which the family had to live. With an effort he pulled himself back to the present.

  “Ask him why he thinks Aron was taken,” he said to Mahongo.

  But it was Tchixo who replied. “We’ve seen a plane flying here. Sometimes late in the day. It comes from there”—he pointed more or less to the north—“and goes there.” He pointed southward.

  Kubu got excited. “How many times? How often?”

  Tchixo thought for a moment and said, “Perhaps three times we’ve seen it. But sometimes we hear it
but do not see it. Perhaps once every two weeks.”

  Of course there could be many explanations. It could be a plane going to the mine, or a well-off cattle rancher flying to and from his property. Kubu relaxed.

  For the first time the pilot spoke. “How high was the plane flying?” This caused discussion, but the answer when it came was consensus. The plane had been flying low, very low. Mike looked at Kubu. “It might be that it was staying below radar. I’ll fetch the sectional map.” He headed back to the chopper.

  After much discussion as to where and when they had seen the plane, they sketched a wedge on the map in which the flight paths appeared to lie. The direction was consistent with flying to the mine, but the mine was fifteen miles away, so that wouldn’t explain why the plane was so low. In fact, if it was flying that low in order to land, the pilot thought that the Bushmen would have heard it doing so. They deduced an area—open to the south, unfortunately—where the plane might have been headed. Kubu badly wanted to have a look at that area, but it rapidly became large as the wedge fanned out. A lateral thought occurred to him, and he turned to Mahongo.

  “Ask Gobiwasi where Hofmeyr slept when he visited the village.”

  Mahongo did so. “Sometimes here in the village in a tent. Sometimes at the farmhouse.”

  “Where is the farmhouse? How far away is it?” But Gobiwasi just shrugged and looked bored. Kubu had a last question for him before they took their leave. “Why,” he asked, “did you think Aron might be on the plane?” But when Mahongo put this question to Gobiwasi, the only response was that they had lost their friend—whether he was speaking of Roland Hofmeyr or Aron Frankental was unclear. After that he would say nothing more.

  When they got back to the helicopter, Mike studied the map again.

  “Look at this,” he said to Kubu. “The survey for this map was done nearly twenty years ago. At that time part of our area of interest was tribal land, but the rest was designated for commercial farming. I think this part of the country was abandoned about ten years ago, though; too little rainfall. There are some tracks marked here, too. But they may be hard to find if unused for all that time. Still, we could try.”