Deadly Harvest: A Detective Kubu Mystery

by Michael Stanley

  He turned away, climbed into his car, and headed to the CID at Millenium Park.

  Part Six

  THE WAY TO DUSTY DEATH

  “And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

  The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!”

  MACBETH, ACT 5, SCENE 5

  FIFTY

  “DADDY. DADDY. PLEASE TAKE us to the mall today. I want to ride the ponies.” Tumi was always energetic in the morning.

  Kubu grunted and rolled over. He wasn’t awake enough to start planning the day. He put his arm over Joy and pulled her closer. After a long week, he’d decided to sleep in a little this Saturday morning.

  He felt one of the girls sit on him as if he were a horse. He did nothing, wishing that they would go and lie down for another half hour. Then there were two riders. Next thing they’ll tell me to giddyup, he groaned. Sure enough, the two started to bounce up and down as if they were galloping. He sighed. His thoughts of a slow morning were rapidly fading.

  The final straw was Ilia barking and jumping up on the two girls.

  He rolled onto his stomach, causing the girls to fall onto Joy. They giggled and tried to snuggle between the adults. “Move over, Daddy!” Tumi shouted into Kubu’s ear. “Nono also wants to cuddle you.”

  Kubu pulled a pillow over his head, but that encouraged the girls to climb all over him. Eventually he rolled over once again and sat up. He gave both girls a big hug and a kiss. “Can’t you girls sleep later on weekends?” he asked rhetorically, trying to look stern.

  “We want to play, Daddy.” Tumi grabbed Kubu’s arm and tried to pull him to his feet.

  “Girls, girls!” Joy was now awake. She also sat up and put an arm over Kubu’s shoulders. “Morning, darling,” she said and kissed him on his cheek.

  “That was nice.” He turned and gave her a lingering kiss on her neck. She snuggled closer.

  “Don’t start what you can’t finish,” she said with a smile.

  “THIS HASN’T BEEN A good month for Saturdays,” Kubu said between bites of toast. “First Marumo’s funeral, and this afternoon, Deputy Commissioner Gobey’s. I have to go.”

  “You liked him, didn’t you?” Joy asked.

  Kubu nodded.

  “What’s a funeral, Daddy?” Tumi asked, forever inquisitive.

  “Remember when we said goodbye to Seloi?” Joy asked.

  “When they put her in the ground to see Jesus.”

  “Yes. We call that a funeral.” She glanced at Nono to see how she was reacting to the mention of her sister. Nono seemed far away.

  “This afternoon, I have to go to the funeral of a very good policeman. He died suddenly last week.”

  “How did he die, Daddy?”

  “He was quite sick. He couldn’t breathe properly.”

  “Will he be able to breathe properly after he’s in the ground?”

  “No, my darling,” Joy said, leaning over and taking Tumi’s hand. “He’s dead and won’t breathe again.”

  Tumi frowned but didn’t say anything.

  “My darling, can you drop me off at the cemetery and then pick me up afterward?”

  “What time?” Joy asked.

  “The service is at two, and it will probably be six by the time everything wraps up.”

  “I can do that, but you’ll owe me. The traffic will be bad—it will be a huge funeral.”

  Kubu smiled. “I can think of some fine ways to repay the debt.”

  “Daddy, come outside and play!” Tumi’s shout prevented Joy from answering.

  IT WAS INDEED A huge funeral. The church the Gobeys attended was overflowing, and even more people arrived at the cemetery. All the top brass from the police were there in their ironed uniforms and medals, and wives in attendance, as were dozens of police from different divisions. There were many Defense Force higher-ups—a testament to the cooperation between the two organizations—as well as representatives from other government departments as diverse as Labour and Home Affairs, and Environment, Wildlife and Tourism. There were also several cabinet ministers.

  As the crowd worked its way toward the grave, Kubu held back to observe. Gobey’s family had seats under an awning to protect them from the sun. Maria Gobey was trying hard to be stoical, but would break down and sob every few minutes. She was being consoled by a man and woman with similar features. Kubu assumed they must be Gobey’s children, now in their late thirties or early forties. Their spouses and children were also seated out of the sun, in the second row. Also in the first row was the commissioner of police and his wife. Finally, at the end of the first row, Kubu saw Joshua Gobey, and presumably his mother and family. Joshua was in close conversation with the commissioner. No doubt buttering him up for the deputy commissioner position, Kubu thought uncharitably.

  Next to the grave, the choir from Gobey’s church was in full voice with both hymns and traditional songs. Many members of the crowd joined in with gusto. Kubu thought the scene had the air more of a celebration than a funeral. But that was how it went, sometimes, when a beloved man died.

  Then suddenly the crowd parted, and an impressive hearse inched its way toward the grave, FUNERALS OF DISTINCTION painted on its side. As the hearse came to a stop, a suited Kopano Rampa stepped out of the driver’s seat, face solemn, and walked over to Mma Gobey. He extended his arm to shake hands, touching it with his left hand in the traditional manner. Kubu watched closely. Was he the witch doctor? he wondered. He certainly had opportunity and a perfect way of being invisible.

  Rampa then walked over to Joshua and shook his hand. They chatted for a few moments, then Rampa leaned forward and said something in Joshua’s ear. Kubu frowned. What was that about? Payment for the funeral? Or something more sinister? Rampa returned to the hearse, where he talked to six uniformed policemen, who were obviously going to carry the coffin to the grave. Probably instructions on how to carry the casket without dropping it, Kubu thought.

  “A lot more dignified than the last funeral we were at.” A voice came from over his shoulder, startling him. Kubu turned to see Dr. Pilane behind him. “At least there are no political protests at this one.”

  “What brings you here, doctor? Did you know the deputy commissioner?”

  “Oh yes. I’ve been his doctor for many years.”

  “Did you treat him for his emphysema?”

  “Oh, no. I referred him to a specialist, a Dr. Mapunda. I’m just a family doctor.”

  “I spoke to him on police business about a week before he died. He was quite sick, but I didn’t think his life was in danger. It seemed very sudden. When did you last see him?”

  “Oh, it was several months ago,” Dr. Pilane replied. “A minor unrelated ailment.”

  “How’s his wife doing?”

  “She’s struggling. She’s taking it quite badly, as you can see.” Pilane pointed to Mma Gobey under the awning. “I paid her a visit last night. Gave her a sedative.”

  “Do you know his nephew, Joshua?”

  “I’ve met him a few times, but he lives out of town, in Phakalane, I believe. He’ll have his own doctor out there, I’m sure.”

  “Yes, he’s done well for himself,” Kubu commented sourly.

  “Well, I must go and check on Mma Gobey. I said I’d stop in and see her. I hope this is the end of the funerals.”

  “Me, too, doctor. Goodbye.”

  Kubu watched Dr. Pilane walk over to Mma Gobey and talk to her. After a while he patted her on the shoulder and turned to Joshua. The two men shook hands and spoke. Words of condolence, Kubu presumed. He looked around to see whom else he knew. He saw Mabaku in the distance talking to Ian MacGregor and a few other police colleagues. But overall, most were strangers.

  A hush settled on the crowd, and Kubu saw the cortege move solemnly to the grave. The bearers lowered the coffin next to the open hole onto the ropes that would be used to lower it into its last resting place. They covered the casket with a Botswana flag, the blue standing out against the red of the earth and th
e black of the mourners.

  A few minutes later, as the priest blessed the deputy commissioner’s passage into the afterlife, and the casket was lowered into the ground, haunting ululations so common at African ceremonies filled the air. Kubu felt goose bumps all over. They certainly get into one’s soul, he thought.

  As the crowd slowly dispersed, he made his way to the area of the awning to pay his respects to Mma Gobey. As he passed Joshua Gobey, he offered his condolences, and then went to wait in the line.

  “Mma Gobey,” Kubu said when he reached the front, “once again I want to say how much we will miss your husband. He did a great deal of good for the police force and for the country. He set a very high standard for all of us by always choosing the right course of action rather than the expedient one.”

  Maria Gobey looked at him sharply, then lowered her eyes. “Thank you, Assistant Superintendent. I will miss him more than anyone can know. He was a wonderful husband.”

  “God bless his soul,” Kubu said quietly. “And may He look after you, too.”

  He turned and walked toward the entrance to the cemetery, where he was to meet Joy.

  “That was very moving.” Dr. Pilane was again at his side. Kubu nodded.

  “I hear you’ve caught the man who murdered Bill Marumo.”

  “I think so. The evidence is very strong.”

  “Has he said why he did it?”

  “No,” replied Kubu. “He’s in hospital. He had a car accident as he tried to evade the police.”

  “From what they were saying the other day, the Freedom Party thinks you are covering things up.”

  Kubu bristled. “They can think what they like,” he said sharply. “We don’t take political sides in murder investigations.”

  At that moment he saw Joy ahead, holding her girls by the hand. She let them go and they came running over to Kubu. “Daddy, Daddy!” they cried. They flung themselves at him and each hugged a large thigh.

  He patted them on the head as Joy kissed him and took him by the arm.

  “Dumela, Dr. Pilane,” she said.

  “Dumela, Joy,” he replied.

  Before Kubu could say anything, the doctor waved. “Well, I must be off. Good afternoon to you all.” He turned and headed toward the parking lot.

  “You know him?” Kubu asked as soon as he was out of earshot.

  “Of course, darling. He’s a pediatrician and is involved in the fight against AIDS. He gives Nono her antiretrovirals.”

  Kubu shook his head. Gaborone was certainly a small town.

  FIFTY-ONE

  THE FOLLOWING NIGHT KUBU sat in his garden and gazed up at the stars. The Milky Way was bright, as were Orion and the Southern Cross. There were the Seven Sisters—the Rainy Pleiades—and Orion’s Belt, and Canis Major, the Dog, with its bright eye, Sirius—in fact the brightest star in the sky.

  The kids were in bed, and Joy had offered to wash the dishes. The stars offered some balm to Kubu’s churning mind.

  Earlier in the day, Kubu and Joy had changed the direction of the normal Sunday visit by fetching his parents from Mochudi to have lunch in Gaborone. This had been carefully planned by Joy and Amantle, because they wanted Wilmon to be assessed by a doctor—something he had vigorously resisted. He was unaware that Kubu’s additional guest was their family doctor, Dr. Patel, who had agreed, after some persuasion, to have Sunday lunch with the family so he could assess Wilmon’s failing mind.

  “I can only be sure after the appropriate tests, but I’m pretty sure it’s Alzheimer’s, not dementia,” he told Joy and Kubu in the kitchen after lunch. Then he went on to explain the difference to them. “It’s worse than dementia, because he is likely to lose his temper and become intolerant. He’ll remember less and less as time passes. You are going to have to look after Amantle—it’s extremely hard to have a husband who declines the way he’s likely to. She’ll feel guilty and angry, as well as lonely.”

  Kubu had felt a great sadness when he heard this. His memories of his father were all good—a loving man, born poor, but with a vision of what he wanted for his only son, namely the best education he could afford; a man who was revered for his kindness and ability with traditional medicines; a loving husband.

  As Kubu gazed upward, a satellite moved slowly across the sky, growing bright then fading into nothing. Even now, Kubu felt he was losing part of himself as his father lost his memory. They had shared so much, just the two of them. Now the only person with whom he shared so many memories was fading away. Less and less the laughter of mutual reminiscences.

  What would that leave for him? Kubu wondered. Would those memories be as sparkling without his father’s participation? Or would they wane in his head, too, shriveling for lack of stimulation.

  As Kubu gazed into the heavens, he felt a great emptiness.

  Slowly he pulled himself back to the present. He had a family to look after, a job to do. And he would do those things in a way that would make his father proud.

  He looked around. Joy hadn’t joined him, had left him to his thoughts. What a wonderful woman she is, he thought.

  He leaned back and gazed up to the night sky again, his mind beginning to engage.

  Was Rampa actually the witch doctor? They had circumstantial evidence, but nothing really incriminating. And Rampa had access to bodies, which he could use for muti. But which bodies? Where were they? The cemeteries were large, with many new occupants. They couldn’t dig them all up, even if they received permission from the minister, which was unlikely with the little evidence they currently had.

  Rampa also could hide bodies in the coffins of others. Kubu had a hunch that was why Seloi’s coffin seemed so heavy—two bodies not one. Again, the minister would never give permission to exhume based on Kubu’s intuition.

  And that was all they had. Very little indeed.

  Kubu lifted his arm and ran his finger along the Milky Way. He tried to remember the bright star in the middle. Canopus? He couldn’t remember. Then he traced the outline of Orion’s big dog, Canis Major, and the little dog, Canis Minor. He was surprised he could remember any of the constellations—it was nearly twenty years since he had attended the Astronomy Club at high school.

  Was there an Undertaker constellation? he wondered. Probably not. If there was, would it have Coffin Major and Coffin Minor as appendages? He smiled. Coffin Major and Coffin Minor! That was funny. Stupid, but funny.

  Suddenly a thought crystallized in his mind. Coffin Major! If Rampa needed to bury Owido, he would never be able to double up in someone else’s coffin. He was an adult—too big. The others were kids. He would have to bury Owido in a coffin by himself.

  Kubu sat upright, his mind in high gear.

  How could he do that and get away with it? There had to be a part of a cemetery where unclaimed bodies were laid to rest; where people were buried whose families had no money. Surely the undertaker could bury the body there without questions being asked?

  He stood up, an idea forming in his head.

  He started to hum—a melody from Pirates of Penzance, he thought. It was the first time in several weeks that he felt encouraged.

  He walked inside. Where was Joy? He looked at his watch. It was nearly midnight. He’d been outside for four hours. He walked into the bedroom. Joy was snoring quietly. He wanted to give her a big hug, kiss her, hold her, caress her. He stood, undecided.

  Eventually, he undressed, climbed into bed, and fell asleep.

  “DO YOU HAVE TODAY’S newspaper?” Kubu asked the receptionist at CID headquarters as he arrived on Monday morning. The man nodded and pulled it from under the counter. Kubu went to his office and opened it to the classifieds section. Funerals. He ran his finger down the list until he found one by Funerals of Distinction. Eleven o’clock at the Gaborone Cemetery. Perfect! Rampa’s assistant was about to have a visitor while his boss was supervising a burial.

  ROBERT TIBONE WAS SITTING behind his neat desk when Kubu walked in.

  “Good morning, rra,” h
e said. “Rra Rampa is not in at the moment. I expect him back about one.”

  “Oh, that’s okay,” Kubu replied. “I’m sure you can help me.”

  “Please sit down.” Tibone jumped up and dragged a chair in front of his desk. “What can I do?”

  “I’d like some information about how you organize your records. For example, how would I know how to find the grave of a particular person you had buried?”

  “That’s easy. You would go to the right cemetery and ask. They’d give you the location of the grave—which row and plot, etc.”

  “If my father died, what documentation would you need in order to bury him?”

  “Also easy. We’d need a letter from the city that all the formalities had been completed.”

  “And how about, if I wanted to know who was buried on a certain day?”

  Tibone frowned. “Why would you want to know that?”

  “It’s just hypothetical. I’m trying to understand how everything works.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “We’re trying to trace someone who may have died recently. We don’t know if he had any family and we don’t know his name.”

  “Ah, so you would be interested in indigents and unknowns buried on a certain day?”

  “Yes. Or perhaps between two dates. Say between the seventh and tenth of May.”

  “Hold on a second.” Tibone tapped away on his computer. A few seconds later he continued, “I can tell you only who we dealt with. There are several other funeral services. So you may be better off going to all the cemeteries. They could tell you about everyone who’d been buried. Amongst our clients, we had three funerals on the seventh, but they were all regular people. On the eighth there was a man from the Broadhurst area and one unknown male. On the ninth there were two brothers who were hit by a train two weeks earlier. And on the tenth a female, Agnes Taung, who died from AIDS.”