A Carrion Death & The 2nd Death of Goodluck Tinubu

by Michael Stanley

  Well, he thought, let’s see if Jason’s boss knows where he is. Rather to his surprise, Cecil Hofmeyr’s secretary put him through promptly.

  “Superintendent Bengu? Still after our secondhand Land Rovers, are you?”

  Kubu had forgotten that embarrassing matter. But now he felt the boot was on the other foot. “Well, actually, we rather think we’ve found that vehicle, Mr. Hofmeyr. On one of your properties, as a matter of fact.” Kubu gave Cecil a sketch of the events of the past two days. He was pleased to find the captain of industry at a loss for words.

  “This is terrible. Director Mabaku told me you believed Frankental had been murdered. Do you really think that he was murdered on a BCMC property near the mine?”

  “Once we have the forensic evidence, I’ll need to ask you more questions about Aron and that letter. Please let us know if you expect to leave town.” Kubu was surprised that Cecil didn’t react to his insulting tone. “What I really need to know,” he went on, “is whether you know where Jason Ferraz is right now.”

  “I presume he’s at the mine.”

  “They say he’s gone on a trip.”

  “Oh, yes, of course. I’d forgotten about that. He’s on a combination business and pleasure trip to Europe. It’s been arranged for some time. I think he left a few days ago.”

  “Do you have an itinerary for the trip?”

  “I don’t. Perhaps my secretary does. I can’t keep tabs on the whereabouts of all my employees personally, you know.” Cecil was recovering some of his arrogance.

  “Would you ask her? Now, please?”

  A pause, as Kubu was put on hold. Then a click, and Cecil was back. He sounded a bit puzzled. “Actually, she didn’t know he was going away. She expects the mine will have his itinerary. Try them.”

  “I already have. They don’t know where he is.” Kubu paused. “Where can I find your niece, Dianna Hofmeyr?”

  “Why would you want her?” Cecil asked. “Anyway, she’s at the Grand Palm Hotel.”

  The door opened, and Edison came in. “That’ll be all for the moment, Mr. Hofmeyr. I’ll get back to you as soon as we know something more. Good-bye.” Without waiting for a response, Kubu hung up. He raised his eyebrows at Edison.

  “He wasn’t on any flight out of Gaborone yesterday, Kubu. And he’s not booked on any flight out today. I’ve asked the border posts to check their exit forms, but that could take a while. I guess we should check with Johannesburg directly; that’s probably the best chance.”

  Kubu nodded. Then he saw the figure in the doorway. His heart sank. He had completely forgotten about Mabaku in the rush of events.

  “Ah, Bengu,” said his boss sweetly. “I’m so sorry to disturb you. I can see how involved you are. I was wondering if you could spare a minute or two to brief me on what’s been happening with the Frankental case.” He held up his hand as Kubu started to apologize. “Of course, if you’re too busy, I can wait until the Daily News comes out tomorrow. I’ve had a chat with one of their reporters already. He seemed to think I might know something about what’s going on here. Perhaps because it is my department? These newspaper chaps have odd ideas, you know. Anyway, why don’t you just pop in when it’s convenient?” He headed back to his office. They heard the door slam.

  “I think you have a problem,” Edison said, trying unsuccessfully to suppress a smile.

  “How on earth are the papers on to this already?” Kubu wondered.

  “Oh, that’s easy. Your Bushman translator—Mahongo—makes a bit on the side with tip-offs to the press. Used him myself once or twice when I wanted to get stuff to the public. Didn’t you know?”

  Kubu’s heart sank. Mabaku had every right to tear a strip off him, which he did with enthusiasm even when he didn’t have a cause. He heaved himself out of his chair and headed for Mabaku’s office. Even though he closed the director’s door behind him, the secretary and Edison could hear all of Mabaku’s side of the conversation. It was rather embarrassing.

  Detective Mogani was proud to be leading the relief team to the murder scene. Gaborone CID called the shots; Molepolole was out of the mainstream, so he didn’t get much opportunity to work on high-profile cases. Although he carefully followed the directions he had been given, he took a few wrong turns. It was late morning by the time he reached the old farmhouse.

  Zanele was delighted to see him. She and her team had finished their work, and she was keen to get back to headquarters and start analyzing the evidence. After showing him around the house, she took him out to the shed and told him Kubu’s theory. Mogani also noted the oil on the right-hand side of the shed and the tire tracks leading out to the road. He saw immediately that they couldn’t have been made by the yellow Land Rover. He had to agree with Kubu. He thanked Zanele and went to fetch his vehicle.

  Mogani was not a tracker, but anyone who has grown up in the Kalahari has a feeling for it. He expected it would be easy to find where the vehicle had turned off the road. Even so, wind can do strange things to tracks, and he almost missed it. Not far from the house, he came to a dry riverbed with a rocky bottom where the road crossed it. He stopped and looked around carefully in case his quarry had driven up the river. But it seemed undisturbed. Just after the river the land rose. On the higher ground he spotted what looked like a track turning off the road. The dirt road verge had been repaired, so the track was difficult to spot.

  He pulled over and followed the tire marks on foot. They led back to the river, and here there was a steep drop to its bed. From this vantage point he could see what looked like boulders at the side of the river, which had trapped a few logs in the last flood. But as soon as he took a second look, he realized he was looking at a smashed vehicle with dry logs propped against it. It was cleverly done. It would be almost impossible to spot from the air.

  He clambered down into the riverbed. When he reached the vehicle, he saw it was scorched. It must have been doused with gasoline and then set alight. He looked inside, careful not to touch anything. The seats were burned too. With relief, and a touch of disappointment, he decided that the vehicle had not been occupied when it was torched. He walked rapidly back to the track. He wanted to catch Zanele before she left for Gaborone.

  Kubu was not his usual self for the rest of the day and complained about his head hurting again. He was not even cheered by the news that—as he had predicted—an old diesel Land Cruiser had been found in a riverbed near the BCMC house. It was out of sight from the road and had been burned. The hope was to check that it was Aron’s vehicle by the engine number. The number plates had been removed.

  With a sigh, Kubu picked up the phone and called the Grand Palm Hotel. He was pleasantly surprised that Dianna was in her room. The way things had been going, he had expected that she would be impossible to find.

  “Ms. Hofmeyr, this is Assistant Superintendent Bengu from the Botswana CID. I apologize for calling you at your hotel, but your uncle, Cecil Hofmeyr, suggested I might find you there.”

  “How may I help you?” Dianna said, a touch of uncertainty in her voice. “Is there a problem?”

  “Ms. Hofmeyr, do you happen to know where Jason Ferraz is? I believe you know him quite well.”

  Dianna hesitated, assessing how much the policeman could know of their friendship. “No, I don’t. He is somewhere in Europe, I believe. He was planning to take a vacation and attend some conference or other. Why do you ask?”

  Kubu decided not to reveal too much. After all, she was Ferraz’s lover, as far as he knew. “We have some information about an employee of his whom he reported missing. We need to verify some details.”

  “Well, I can’t help you with Jason. What did you find out about Frankental? Has he turned up?” Dianna asked.

  Again, Kubu ignored her question. “Do you have any idea how we can contact Mr. Ferraz? Do you know when he is expected back in the country?”

  Again, a slight hesitation. “No, Superintendent. I don’t know exactly when he will be back. In about three weeks, I
think. Have you tried his mobile phone? He said he was taking it with him.”

  “Do you have that number, Ms. Hofmeyr?”

  Once more a hesitation. “I think I have it. Please hold for a minute.” Kubu waited patiently. “Yes, here is the number. Do you have a pen?”

  Kubu wrote down the number, checking it against the one the mine had given him. It was the same. “Thank you, Ms. Hofmeyr. Please let him know that we need to speak to him. I will leave a message on his phone if I can’t reach him. Please take my number.” Kubu gave both his office and mobile numbers. “It’s really important that I speak to him. Please let him know that, if he contacts you.”

  “May I give him some more information than that?” Dianna asked. “What have you found out?”

  “I think it would be better if I explained it directly to him. Thank you for your concern, Ms. Hofmeyr. I appreciate your help.” He hesitated, and then said, “By the way, is your brother in town for the board meeting? I would like to contact him if possible. We were quite friendly when we were at school. Is he also staying at the Grand Palm?”

  This time the delay was longer, like those on some overseas calls, as though the voice were traveling through the air. “Unfortunately he is not in town,” Dianna replied at last. “He contracted malaria on one of his jaunts and is laid low in South Africa. He’ll be back here in a few weeks, when he has recovered.”

  “That’s too bad. I’m sure he was looking forward to this board meeting—taking control and all that. Does he have a mobile phone, by any chance? I’d like to talk to him.”

  “He does, but I’m not sure he has it with him.” She waited, but when Kubu said nothing she continued, “I think I have his South African mobile number. Please hold for a minute.” Kubu again waited patiently. When Dianna returned, she was in a chattier mood. “I found the number. How do you know Angus, Superintendent?”

  “Well, we were both passionate about cricket. He was the school’s star batsman, and I was the school’s star supporter. He gave me my nickname.”

  “Oh! You were Angus’s cricket friend, weren’t you? You didn’t play, but knew everything there was to know about the game. Angus called you the Hippo! I thought it was a bit cruel.”

  Kubu laughed. “Everyone calls me Kubu now. It’s a trademark. I don’t like being called anything else.”

  “Well, perhaps you can cheer him up with cricket stories.” Dianna gave him the number. He thanked her for her help, and she wished him luck with the case.

  The interview had ended on a pleasant note, but Kubu realized he was no closer to finding Jason. It looked like another blank. He sighed just as Edison came in.

  Edison took one look at Kubu’s face and said, “She doesn’t know where he is, either, eh?”

  “So she says. I’m not sure that she’s telling the truth, though. She seemed to know about Frankental’s disappearance. Who told her about that?” Kubu frowned. Edison wished he had better news. He had pulled some strings and used some contacts to get the Gaborone and Lobatse border posts to check whether Jason Ferraz had crossed to South Africa by car. But it was to no avail. There was no evidence that Jason had ever crossed the border. And Johannesburg International had no record of him on any of their flights either. Jason Ferraz had disappeared.

  Part Seven

  DUMB JEWELS

  Dumb jewels often in their silent kind More than quick words do move a woman’s mind.

  —SHAKESPEARE, THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA, ACT 3, SCENE 1

  March

  Chapter 42

  Bongani left his class with a spring to his step. He’d enjoyed teaching it and thought that the students had enjoyed it too. He’d carefully prepared the lecture on a predator-prey model for the area around the Kamissa waterhole, planning where he would draw them into debate. For the first time he’d kept their attention until the end of the period. In the past he’d always known when the period was nearing its end by the rustling of books as the early packers prepared for the dash to the canteen or the next lecture. However, this time it was he who had to keep an eye on the clock.

  As he climbed the three floors from the ground-floor lecture theater to his office, he was going over the environmental model in his head, thinking of the attraction of Kamissa. Suddenly, he wondered how Kubu was getting on with the case. Since the hospital visit, he’d not thought of it. For some reason that made him feel guilty, as though he had forgotten to remember a friend who had recently died.

  When he unlocked his door, the pile of unmarked test papers sitting accusingly on his desk threatened to spoil his mood. I’ll mark twenty, he thought, and then, to reward myself, I’ll phone Kubu to see if he would like a drink after work at the Staff Club. With regained enthusiasm, he opened the first paper.

  Now and Then

  Unannounced, his office door opens. He looks up ready with a rebuke, expecting one of his ruder students. But the man standing in the doorway looks too old even for a mature student. He wears polished black shoes, a dark blue suit, shiny with use but clean and nicely pressed, and a tie. He is carrying a small brown hardboard suitcase, such as children in primary school might use for their sandwiches and homework. But when Bongani looks at the face and the deep, dark eyes, he recognizes the witch doctor. He feels a shock of surprise mixed with concern, fear, and even a touch of humor. There is something comical in the witch doctor’s formal Western clothing, as though he is disguised or attending a fancy-dress party.

  The Old Man closes the door and seats himself opposite Bongani. He nods in terse greeting. Then he puts the suitcase on the desk, opens it, rummages, and to Bongani’s horror withdraws the lion-skin pouch, placing it halfway between them. Bongani recognizes it at once from the Gathering. Then he closes the suitcase and puts it neatly at his feet. He says nothing, looking at Bongani expectantly.

  “What do you want, Old Man?” whispers Bongani in Setswana.

  The witch doctor shakes his head. Bongani repeats himself using the appropriate honorific. The witch doctor doesn’t reply. Suddenly he takes the pouch in his right hand and, before Bongani can pull back, grasps his right hand. The Old Man’s hand feels dry, leathery, not unlike the scratchiness of the lion-skin pouch now pressed into Bongani’s palm. At last the Old Man speaks. This time he has no need of Peter Tshukudu’s translation; he speaks in clear Setswana.

  “This hand belongs to Desert. First Hyena takes it, chews it, and chips and pieces fall, and Jackal has some of those. Blood runs into Sand, and Ant has that. And other small creatures clean the pieces. Spider eats some of those insects. There are clean, white small pieces left, and Wind buries those. Desert has it all—all but this. I see these things.” Bongani stares at the Old Man’s hand. It feels like dry bone, warmed by the sun.

  Then the Old Man reaches across with his left hand and takes Bongani’s left, their arms crossed over the desk. “This hand Desert never had. It is in another place. It waits.” And Bongani feels the hand, suddenly cold as death. Colder. As though the witch doctor has been carrying something frozen. The chill spreads to Bongani. With a small cry he jerks both his hands free, jumps up. The test papers slide off the desk in a cascade of ignored pages.

  The Old Man nods, retrieves his suitcase, and puts away the pouch. As he stands, he says again, “It waits. Remember. It waits.” Then he leaves. A few seconds later, while Bongani is still shocked, the door swings open. He tenses, thinking that the Old Man has returned. But this time it is a student.

  “I wanted to ask about the test—”

  “Did you see the Old Man?”

  “What old man?”

  “He just left. You must have seen him in the passage.”

  “No, sir, the passage was empty. I just saw that your door was open, and I thought—”

  But Bongani has brushed past him and is looking in both directions down the empty corridor. How long has he stood frozen behind the desk? Can the witch doctor be hiding behind one of the refrigeration cabinets lining the corridor? Has he imagined it all?
He returns to the student.

  “I’m sorry. I was expecting someone. And I’m a bit late. And I’m feeling unwell. Can we meet tomorrow?” The student looks at his face, readily agrees, and quickly leaves.

  Bongani picks up the dropped papers, sits down at his desk, takes a deep breath, and dials Kubu’s number. He cannot think of anything else to do. Kubu is busy, but recognizes panic in Bongani’s voice. He agrees to come to the University Staff Club as quickly as he can.

  Outside the university, the Old Man stands on the street corner and waits for a minibus taxi. There are plenty, because many of the students ride the communal minibuses from their homes or rented accommodation to the campus. He holds up the forefinger of his right hand, a sign that he wants to go to the central bus depot.

  A bright red Toyota minibus heads in his direction. It is battered and bruised with dents from a variety of closer-than-close shaves, and on the back is painted in cheerful letters, “Uncle Is Uncle, Never Let U Down.” No evidence supports this motto, but it gives the passengers a sense of comfort. Uncle cuts in front of a truck, which is itself breaking the speed limit, and accelerates through a traffic light recently turned red. Then, on a roll, it cuts off a Mercedes trying to change lanes. The minibus is full of students talking loudly and laughing at each other’s jokes. Some older passengers are chatting to each other and ignoring the taxi’s frenetic progress. One couple, traveling by minibus taxi for the first time, is absorbed in prayer.

  Uncle’s driver spots the customer, pulls across the road from the fast lane in front of another car, ignores the resulting invective, and stops with a jerk next to the man. He puts on his hazard lights to alert the unfortunate cars behind that he will now be stationary for some period. They have the option of waiting until he is ready to move on, or of trying to make their way into the busy fast lane. They know it will be a waste of time to hoot.

  Several of the students pile out, still talking and laughing, but they carefully avoid jostling the well-dressed old man waiting his turn to board. He nods, climbs into the minibus, and pays the fare that the driver asks. The other passengers respectfully move over to give him plenty of room. He greets them and then sits upright on his seat with his little suitcase on his lap. Uncle accelerates and resumes its roller-coaster progress. After a while the chatter in the taxi starts again, but several times people glance at the suitcase when they think that the owner won’t notice.