Deadly Harvest: A Detective Kubu Mystery

by Michael Stanley

  “We’re about to go out,” she said. “Let me call my husband. I don’t remember anything special about last Saturday night. But he sometimes stays up late.”

  Samantha called after her that it was the Saturday before last, but the woman had already disappeared into the house. She was replaced by a tall man, conservatively dressed with no floral extras, who proved to be more chatty than his wife. He listened carefully to Samantha, and then slowly shook his head.

  “No disturbance or anything like that. I remember we were watching television. A very long movie about a war somewhere and building a bridge. Kefilwe—that’s my wife—gave it up and went to bed. I went to the kitchen to get a snack and heard Rra Rampa driving out. Our kitchen faces his driveway. It was very late for a visit. I thought maybe someone had died, and he was going to fetch the body. Depressing how busy he is. It’s the AIDS, you know. Well, he has to make a living, too, I suppose. I don’t remember anything else happening that night. This is a quiet part of town. Nothing much ever happens around here. Which is not a bad thing.”

  Samantha controlled her excitement. “Are you sure Rra Rampa went out on Saturday, the fifth of May?”

  The man nodded. “Oh, yes. Because of the movie. The Bridge on the River something.”

  “And are you sure it was Rra Rampa’s car?”

  “Oh, yes. He has to back out from his garage, you see, and his car is a bit loud. Perhaps there is a hole developing in the exhaust?” He looked at her as though she might know the answer to this.

  “But you didn’t actually see it?”

  He shook his head.

  “What time was that?”

  This caused a thoughtful pause. “I think it was after ten. That’s why I thought it was so odd.”

  “Did you hear him return later on?”

  He shook his head. “I must’ve gone to bed by then.”

  “Did you ask Rra Rampa about it?”

  He shook his head again. “None of my business, and we’re neighbors rather than friends. He comes and goes quite a bit with his job. But he doesn’t often go out in the middle of the night.”

  His wife called from inside the house, and he added, “Kefilwe’s always in a rush. Is there anything else?”

  Samantha thanked him and added silent thanks to heaven for nosy neighbors. Kubu would be very interested to learn that after receiving the text message, the undertaker had gone for a drive somewhere.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  THE NEXT MORNING, MABAKU drove the few miles to Joshua Gobey’s office in downtown Gaborone. The PA showed him into Gobey’s comfortably large office.

  “Dumela, Director Mabaku. Please sit down. This is an unexpected pleasure.”

  Mabaku didn’t think that Joshua Gobey’s face mirrored the words of welcome. It was unsmiling, and the man looked tense.

  “Thank you, rra. I know this visit comes at an awkward time. First, your uncle’s untimely death. My wife and I extend our deepest sympathies. And second because I understand that we are both interested in his position. I assure you that my visit has nothing to do with that.”

  Joshua Gobey nodded but said nothing.

  “In fact,” Mabaku continued, “it is only because your uncle has passed away that I am able to be here.”

  Joshua frowned.

  “About a week before he died, he visited me with a strange story. He said an informant, whom he refused to name, had told him of a witch doctor who was going to make muti, using human body parts. The witch doctor was someone whom he himself had visited for traditional medicines. Your uncle was very upset with what this witch doctor was planning to do and wanted to help us apprehend him.”

  Joshua didn’t respond.

  “So I wonder . . .” Mabaku continued. “I wonder if your uncle mentioned anything like this to you? I am told you were very close to him and saw him a couple of days before he passed away.”

  For several moments Joshua didn’t say anything, but just sat staring at Mabaku. Then he shook himself out of his thoughts.

  “No. My uncle did not mention such a thing to me. We spoke of my father and of his illness.”

  “If I may ask, what did he say about his illness?”

  Again Joshua paused before answering, as though weighing each word before delivering it.

  “He was worried by his health. He was having trouble breathing—emphysema, I think. But he was optimistic that his medicine would help him.”

  “Were you surprised that he passed away so soon after you saw him?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” There was a hint of aggression in Joshua’s voice. Mabaku wondered why.

  “Let me put it another way. When you saw him last were you worried that his death was imminent?”

  “No.” Mabaku thought Joshua was beginning to look agitated.

  “Do you have any idea what caused the rapid decline?”

  Joshua shook his head. “No, I don’t.”

  “Rra Gobey, do you have any idea who the witch doctor was that your uncle consulted?”

  “No!” Joshua almost spat out the word. He stood up and hissed, “I don’t know what you are trying to do. Why are you trying to smear my uncle’s memory? Or are you trying to implicate me in some muti scandal? Is that why you’re attacking me? You know you’ll never become deputy commissioner unless you can discredit me! Just wait until I’m in my uncle’s office. Now get out of mine!”

  Mabaku stood up slowly, wondering whether to respond. He decided against it. “Thank you for your time, Rra Gobey. You are reading too much into this visit.” He turned and left.

  Joshua thumped his fist on his desk, causing an empty teacup to rattle in its saucer. He was worried. What does he really know? he wondered. Does he know about my visits to the witch doctor?

  He sat for a few minutes trying to regain his composure. Then he pulled his laptop toward him and opened his browser.

  I need to speak to the witch doctor about this, he thought. And soon.

  AT MUCH THE SAME time, Kubu arrived at the home of the late deputy commissioner. He’d called ahead to ensure he would be welcome to visit. At the ring of the doorbell, Maria Gobey answered the door.

  “Please come in, Assistant Superintendent,” she said.

  After they had settled in the living room, each with a cup of tea, and had completed the mandatory pleasantries, Kubu broached the subject at hand.

  “I know this is very difficult for you, mma, but I wonder if you can shed light on a problem we have.” He paused. “A few weeks ago, on the seventh of May to be exact, your late husband visited my boss, Director Mabaku, and told a story of a witch doctor. He said that an informant, whom he wouldn’t name, had provided information that this witch doctor was going to kill someone for muti. We have reason to believe that the witch doctor has now abducted an albino to do just that.”

  Mma Gobey sat motionless, with a vacant look on her face.

  “Mma, did he ever tell you who the witch doctor was or where he could be found? Or did he perhaps relate all of this to you and tell you who his source of information was?”

  Tears welled up in Maria Gobey’s eyes. She shook her head. “I cannot tell you these things. Tebogo obviously wanted to keep this information confidential. Otherwise he would have told you.” She took a deep breath. “I’m sure he asked you to be very discreet, so why are you now breaking your promise?”

  “Mma Gobey,” Kubu said quietly, “your husband was one of Botswana’s finest policemen. He wanted the witch doctor caught—to prevent further murders. And he could have kept silent. He was about to retire. No one would have faulted him for that. Yet he came forward in an effort to catch this murderer. We can’t let him down now.”

  Mma Gobey let out a big sob and buried her head in her hands. “I can’t say anything. I promised Tebogo.”

  Kubu sat quietly, hoping that Mma Gobey would regain her composure. After several minutes, Kubu stood up. “Mma Gobey, I’m very sorry to have intruded at this very sad and difficult time for you.”
He walked toward the door. Before he left, he turned. “Last Christmas, a young girl called Lesego disappeared in Mochudi. We are convinced she was killed for muti. Just a few months ago, another young girl, Tombi, disappeared on her way home after school, not far from here. We think she was also taken for muti. There have been others.” He paused. “And about a week ago, a visitor to our country, an albino from Tanzania, disappeared. From what your husband said, he too was to be killed so some politician or businessman would find new strength or good fortune. We think all of these people were killed by the same man. How many more are there going to be?”

  He walked out the door. Before he closed it, he added, “If you know anything that could help us, you should say so. I truly believe your husband would want you to do that.”

  He closed the door and left.

  BACK AT THE CID, Kubu briefed the director. “Gobey’s wife knows something but won’t tell us. She thinks that she would be breaking his trust if she says anything.”

  “And his nephew wasn’t happy to see me,” Mabaku responded. “He told me to leave because I was trying to tarnish the Gobey name so I’d get the deputy commissioner position. I couldn’t persuade him that the purpose of the visit was strictly police work.”

  “We didn’t learn much, did we?”

  Mabaku shook his head. “No, we didn’t.”

  There was a knock on the door, and Miriam let Samantha in. She’d asked the director’s PA to let her know when Kubu and the director returned, so that she could tell them about the undertaker’s neighbor. When she finished her story, there was a moment of silence as the men digested the implications.

  “Rampa could be the ‘invisible’ witch doctor,” Kubu said at last. “From an opportunity point of view, he’s very well placed to get body parts and dispose of bodies afterward.” He reminded them of Seloi’s funeral and his suspicions about the contents of her coffin. “The only real connection we have, though, is his use of the Welcome Bar No. 2’s computer, the text message from Molefe, and now the evidence of the neighbor that he went out somewhere after he received it.”

  “It would never stand up in court,” said Mabaku.

  “Can’t we trace his movements around the abductions? Maybe through his cell phone?” Samantha asked.

  Mabaku shrugged. “Suppose—best case—we discover he was more or less in the right area on each occasion. He got a text message from Molefe, which he says was a wrong number, the neighbor heard a car that night, and he used a public computer. Then Kubu is suspicious of undertakers because they can get and dispose of bodies. That’s not a case. It’s not even close to a case.”

  “Is there some way we can connect him with Marumo? He did do the funeral.”

  “Yes, he did,” Mabaku said sarcastically. “He’s an undertaker, Samantha.”

  “Well, we can go door-to-door and show his picture,” Samantha responded, chastened.

  This time it was Kubu who shook his head. “He works near where Tombi was abducted, so it wouldn’t be surprising if people recognized him there. We could ask around in Mochudi. Maybe that’s worth a try. But the director’s right. It won’t be anything like enough. We have to find out what’s in that grave.”

  Mabaku sighed. “Good luck with that. I’d like to see you explaining to the authorities why that’s necessary. And to the family. Anyway, the timing doesn’t work for either of the two missing girls.”

  Samantha shook her head, frustrated. “This man may have a dozen unreported victims for all we know. There are children who stay with foster parents who don’t care if they go missing. And other kids who don’t stay with anyone and get food from charities. And what about the albino? It’s just by chance that we know he’s missing.”

  Kubu had been thinking while this exchange took place. “What if the family asked for the grave to be opened? What if they had a suspicion that the wrong person had been buried?”

  Mabaku looked surprised. “You could convince them of that?”

  “I could try. Seloi didn’t have much family left. Her sister lives with us now. But Joy worked with a few distant relatives and helped them arrange the funeral with Rampa.”

  “Even so, you’d need more than we’ve got right now. You can’t dig up a grave just because someone’s unhappy!”

  Kubu nodded. Mabaku was right.

  “Suppose he kills someone else while we’re trying to decide what to do next?” Samantha asked.

  “I’ll question him again,” Kubu said. “I may be able to shake something more out of him. At worst, he’ll know we’re close and watching. That should keep him away from any more victims. For the time being.”

  “Won’t he try to stop us if we get too close?” Suddenly Samantha sounded less confident than before.

  Kubu looked at her in astonishment. “Are you beginning to believe in the powers of witch doctors, Samantha?”

  “No, of course not,” she said quickly. But Kubu could detect a note of uncertainty in her voice.

  “Well, that’s a real possibility,” said Mabaku. “He may try intimidation, too, like the dog’s head or casting spells.” He paused. “I think we must all be more alert from now on. If we’re right about him, he’s a dangerous man.”

  On that somber note, the meeting broke up, and Kubu went to visit the man they now thought might help people into their coffins as well as bury them.

  FORTY-NINE

  ONCE MORE KUBU FOUND Rampa seated at his desk, involved with paperwork. He looked up as the detective was shown in, but his face expressed none of the welcome it had displayed on the previous visit. He waved Kubu to a chair.

  “How can I help you now, Assistant Superintendent?”

  “I just have a few more questions, Rra Rampa. A few points that I want to check about that Saturday night. May the fifth, if you remember?”

  Rampa nodded and waited impatiently, but Kubu wasn’t in a hurry to get to the point.

  “I understand that you sometimes do charity funerals, Rra Rampa. Low cost so that poor people can have a proper burial. That’s very good of you.”

  “Well, yes. If I know the people, and they have no one who can pay, I try to help.”

  “My wife tells me you kindly did that for one of the people at her child-care place. You remember the funeral? That was where we met.”

  “I remember.” Rampa looked wary.

  “You did everything by yourself. I’m sure the family was very grateful.”

  Rampa shrugged. “I’m a Christian. We must all do that we can to help people.”

  “Have you done any of these charity funerals recently?”

  “As a matter of fact, I had one this week. But what has this got to do with the matter you want to discuss?”

  Kubu hesitated, and wrote something in his notebook. When he looked up, he asked, “Do you know the Welcome Bar No. 2 on Eland Street?”

  Rampa hesitated. “I’ve been there once or twice. Foosball is fun, and I have a drink and chat. You never know who your next client is going to be.” Kubu didn’t smile. Obviously the man realized that he’d be known at the shebeen, so he wouldn’t lie, Kubu thought. He leaned forward.

  “Do you ever use the computer there? It’s an Internet café, too.”

  Rampa shifted in his chair. “Once. There was no one to play foosball or interesting to talk to, so I took my drink and caught up with personal stuff. Why are you interested in this shebeen?”

  “Have you heard of Hushmail, Rra Rampa?”

  The undertaker looked down at the scatter of papers on his desk. “Hushmail? What on earth is that?”

  “It’s a type of e-mail that you use if you don’t want anyone to know who you are. You give no personal information. There’s no way to trace what messages you send or who you send them to.” Kubu deliberately overstated the security and waited for the man’s reaction.

  Rampa shook his head. “Never heard of it. I have a Gmail account. Why would I need something secret?”

  “I only asked if you’d heard of it, no
t if you had an account.”

  “What has this got to do with that Saturday night?”

  “I’m coming to that.” Kubu made a production of checking his notebook. “Last time we spoke, you told us that you didn’t go out that night. Is that correct?”

  The undertaker nodded.

  Kubu decided to stretch the truth a bit. “In that case, how would you explain that your car was seen late that night?”

  Rampa shook his head. “I didn’t go out.”

  “Not even a short trip? Perhaps to buy some milk or something?”

  “No, I was at home. I told you. Who says they saw my car?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”

  “Well, they made a mistake. There are lots of cars like mine.”

  “What sort of car is it?”

  “A Toyota Corolla.”

  “What color?”

  “Red. Look, Detective, you’re wasting my time. I didn’t go out. Someone saw another car and thought it was mine.”

  Kubu took his time before he posed his next question. “Have you had any dealings with witch doctors, Rra Rampa? I’m not talking about the albino now. Other occasions.”

  “Certainly not! I don’t believe in that sort of stuff. I told you I’m a Christian.”

  “Have you ever had a case where the deceased died because of a witch doctor?”

  “Detective, we do everything by the book here.” He gestured at the papers on his desk. “In every case we require authorization from the city. There’s no question of anything improper.”

  “I didn’t suggest there was,” Kubu said quietly. “Have you ever been approached about a burial where the paperwork wasn’t completely in order? You would have refused, of course. But have you had such a case?”

  The undertaker shook his head firmly. “Is that all? I have work to do, Detective.”

  Kubu nodded slowly. “That’s all, Rra Rampa,” he said, getting to his feet. “For the moment.”

  Kubu crossed the road and turned to look back at the imposing premises of Rampa Undertakers. Why would someone who had a good business—a very good business—want to risk it by witchcraft and murder? An unpleasant thought occurred to him: was it possible that the business was built on evil magic? Was that how Rampa had become successful, or at least how Rampa believed he’d become successful? Suddenly the elegant and formal outside of the premises struck him as a mere façade disguising something unsavory behind it.