A CARRION DEATH
by
Michael Stanley


This impressive debut from Stanley, the South African writing team of Michael Sears and 
Stanley Trollip, introduces overweight assistant
superintendent David Bengu of the Botswana Police Department, whose nickname is, 
fittingly, Kubu (Setswanan for hippopotamus). In investigating the case
of a partially consumed human body found in a remote area of a game reserve, Kubu keeps 
running across tangential links to Botswana Cattle and Mining,
the country's largest company. As more people connected to the case turn up dead, Kubu 
realizes that multiple murder may be just the byproduct of a much
more heinous crime. The intricate plotting, a grisly sense of realism and numerous topical 
motifs (the plight of the Kalahari Bushmen, diamond smuggling,
poaching, the homogenization of African culture, etc.) make this a compulsively readable 
novel.



headline
Copyright © 2008 Michael Sears and Stanley Trollip
Published by arrangement with HarperCollins Publishers

The right of Michael Sears and Stanley Trollip to be identified as the Authors of
the Work has been asserted by them in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First published in Great Britain in 2008 by
HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may
only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means,
with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of
reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright
Licensing Agency.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance
to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

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ISBN 978 0 7553 4405 5 (Trade paperback)

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The peoples of southern Africa have integrated many words of their own
languages into colloquial English. For authenticity and colour, we have
used these occasionally when appropriate. Most of the time, the meanings
are clear from rhe context, but for interest, we have included a glossary at
the end of the book.

For more information about Botswana, the book and its protagonist,
please visit www.detectivekubu.com.
PART ONE:
A Carrion Death

A carrion Death, within whose empty eye
There is a written scroll!'
Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice, Act II, Scene 7

FEBRUARY-MARCH 2006
CHAPTER 1

The hyena moved off when the men shouted. It stood about fifty metres
away, watching them with its head low between powerful shoulders, wary,
not fearful, waiting for its chance to retake the field. The men stood in
silence, staring at what the hyena had been eating.
Yellowed bones pierced through areas of sinew and desiccated skin.
The head, separated from the spine, lay about a metre away. Remnants of
skin on the upper face srretched in a death mask over the skull and pulled
at the scalp. The lower part of the face had been torn away, and the back
of the skull was smashed by jaws hungry for the brains. The eye sockets
were empty, save for dried blood; one of the vultures had already had a
turn. Snapped ribs lay scattered, but the backbone and pelvis were intact.
One leg remained attached; the other was gone. The lower half of one arm
was missing; the other, freshly crunched by the hyena, lay a short distance
away. There was a cloying smell of carrion, unpleasant but not unbearable.
The scavengers had removed most of the flesh and the desert sun had
desiccated the rest. The flies, less cautious than the hyena, had startled to a buzzing swarm but now resettled, fat green jewels on the dirty bones.
'It's definitely a man,' said Andries unnecessarily.
Bongani was staring at the bodiless head.

'It's not one of our people,' Andries continued. 'Wbuld've heard that
somebody was missing. It'll be one of those bloody poachers that have
been causing trouble up north. Damned cheek, coming this close to the
camp.' Andries gave the impression that the man had got his just deserts,
given this lack of proper respect for the authorities.
Bongani looked at the area around the corpse. Thorn acacias, trees
typical of Kalahari stream verges, were scattered along the edges of the dry
Mver. Vultures brooded in the branches, waiting for another chance at the
remaining scraps should the men and the hyena withdraw. The riverbanks
consisted of mud baked to hardness by the sun. From there scattered tufts
of grass spread away from the bank, becoming less frequent as they battled
the encroaching sand. Beyond that the desert had won, and the first slope
of loose sand ran up to the Kalahari dunes, which stretched endlessly into
the haze.
The two men stood under one of the trees, its canopy cutting off
the heat, its roots sucking moisture from the subterranean water. The
body sprawled on the edge of a mess of twigs, leaves, and branches, which
had fallen to the ground over the years. Behind it lay the sand bed of the
long-vanished river, patterned with tracks of animals, some old with the
edges of the imprints crumbling, and some as recent as the disturbed
hyena.
Bongani spoke for the first time since they had spotted the vultures
circling. 'Do you have problems with white poachers here?'
Andries just looked at him.
'Look at the head. There's still some hair left on the scalp.'
Andries knelt next to the skull and examined it more closely. Although
the hair was fouled with blood, he could tell it was straight and perhaps
five centimetres long. This was a disturbing development. These days
game reserves survived on tourists rather than conservation imperatives,
and bad publicity would be unwelcome.
'You wouldn't expect to find a poacher down here anyway. You just said
so,' Bongani pointed out. And why on his own in a dangerous area? They
don't operate like that.'
Andries was reluctant to give up his simple diagnosis. 'Some of them
aren't in gangs, you know. Just hungry people trying to get some food.'
But he knew it would never wash with that straight hair. 'But not the
white ones,' he admitted. 'It'll be some damn-fool tourist. Has a few too
many beers in the heat and decides to take off into the dunes to show how
macho he is in his four-by-four that he's never had off-road before. Then
he gets stuck.' The retributive justice of this new idea made him feel a little
better.
Bongani focused farther up and down the river. The wind, animals,
and the hard stream verge could explain the lack of footprints, but a
vehicle track would last for years in these conditions. It was one of the
many reasons why visitors had to stay on the roads.
'Where's the vehicle?' he asked.
'He'll have got stuck in the dunes and tried to walk out,' Andries
replied.
Bongani turned back to the body. The lengthening afternoon sun
highlighted the dunes and concentrated his attention. 'Wouldn't he follow
his vehicle tracks back to the road?' he asked.
'No, man, he'd realise that this stream would join the Naledi farther
down -- nearer the camp -- and take the short cut. You'd be four or five
kilometres at least from the road up there,' said Andries waving vaguely
upstream, 'and you'd be climbing up and down through the dunes all the
way.'
Bongani grimaced and turned to stare at Andries. 'So let's see. Your
tourist has too much to drink and sets off into the dunes, probably in an
unsuitable vehicle -- by himself since no one reports him missing. He gets
stuck and then has enough knowledge of the local geography to realise
that following the watercourse will be the easy way back to camp.
However, he doesn't realise how much dangerous game he may encounter
in the river. And, by the way, he's working on his suntan at the same time
because he sets off naked.'
Andries looked down. 'What makes you think he was naked?' he asked,
ignoring the rest.
'Well, do you see any cloth scraps? The animals wouldn't eat them,
certainly not with bone and bits of sinew still left. And what about shoes?
Animals won't eat those either.' Bongani continued to watch the changing
light on the sand dunes while Andries silently digested this new challenge.
'Let's take a look up in those dunes,' Bongani said at last. 'Maybe he
came from up there. Let's go round the side of the tree, though. I don't
want to disturb the area between the body and the dunes.'
Something in the way the sand looked struck him as not quite right.
For once Andries didn't argue. They clambered up until they could see
beyond the crest of the dune above the stream bed. Two sets of tyre tracks
stretched away from the river, the fat-shoe tracks of vehicles designed for
the desert. The tracks came towards the dune and then stopped abruptly
as though the vehicles had been lifted into the sky.

'Oh shit!' said Andries. 'It drove out here and then went back. It was
one vehicle, not two.'
'Yes,' Bongani agreed. 'And they had to turn around on this dune when
they saw that they'd come to the river. They smoothed the area where they
turned so that you couldn't see the tracks from the river bed.' They walked
together towards the spot where the tracks disappeared. Once there, they
had no further doubts. There were boot prints aplenty, and close up they
could see the sweep marks on the sand that the wind had not fully erased.
Whoever had been there had been careful to use the hard ground and
debris from the trees to hide their progress into the river course.
'They knew what they were doing, these people, whoever they were.'
Bongani had grudging respect in his voice. 'They wanted that body
destroyed, and they knew that was more likely to happen along one of the
river courses than in the relatively dead dunes. And they left it naked
because that way nothing would remain to show it was human. In another
day or so they would've had what they wanted. And in case by bad luck
the remains were found, they took care to hide the tracks, which might be
visible from the river. Your tourist, or whatever he was, was murdered,
Andries. I think we have a big problem.'
Andries nodded. 'We can use the camera in the truck to take some
pictures. We'd better bring the tarpaulin to cover the remains. And we'll
have to wait here until we get some men to keep guard. They'll have to
spend the night here. The police won't get here until tomorrow morning.'
Sitting in the sand with Bongani and a corpse for several hours was the
last thing Andries felt like doing, but there was no choice. The hyena was
still waiting. It had moved much closer when they climbed into the dunes.

CHAPTER 2

Assistant Superintendent 'Kubu' Bengu of the Botswana police hoisted his
not inconsiderable bulk on to the front seat of the police Land Rover and
settled himself for the long drive. This involved selecting a CD of one of
his favourite operas with a baritone part. He fancied that he had a
reasonable voice and sang with gusto, but restricted this to periods - of
which there were plenty -- when he was on his own. Most of his friends
were not opera lovers, and the others knew him too well to be polite. After
selecting Mozart's Magic Flute - he would sing Papageno - he checked
that he had enough fuel and drinking water for emergencies and pulled on
to the main road. It would take him four hours to get to Dale's Camp, the bush resort near where the body had been found, on the verge of the
Central Kalahari Game Reserve.
Two hours later, Kubu ejected the CD, satisfied with his singing. He
had modestly given himself only two encores of the bird-catcher aria. The opera helped him remain patient on the congested road from Gaborone
to Molepolole. One had to be aware of so much: pedestrians who insisted
on playing chicken with oncoming vehicles; real chickens which foraged
for food in the road; and of course the other vehicles, the drivers of which
claimed right-of-way over all others. Especially terrifying were the minivan
taxis, which stopped whenever and wherever they chose, passed on either
side of other vehicles, and were not above using the sidewalk as a highway.
At Molepolole, Kubu turned north, and the traffic dropped off. Now
there were no fences, and one had to watch out for livestock. The slightly
raised road meant that what little rain the area received was channelled to
the verges where the dry grass was tinged with green, attracting the
animals. Kubu wasn't concerned about the goats. They were smart and got
out of the way. However, sheep, if scared by a vehicle, were as likely to run
into the road as away from it. Since his Sunday-school days Kubu had
thought that goats had been unfairly judged. Sheep were as likely to be led

into temptation as redemption and would be too stupid to tell the
difference. He would rather be a goat himself. As for the cows, they
preferred to examine the danger of an oncoming car at their leisure from
the middle of the road. No amount of hooting or shouting would shift
them. The cows were the worst.
After forty kilometres the road narrowed so that there was just enough
room for two cars to pass in opposite directions, but not enough if one
was a heavy vehicle. Kubu had to pull on to the dirt shoulder twice when
trucks approached. He concentrated on the driving and set aside his
musings, as well as his music.
As he approached the town of Letlhakeng, Kubu relaxed and slowed. A
new roadside poster focusing on HIV safety momentarily caught his
attention. When he looked back at the road, he was horrified to find an
enormous pig crossing just ahead of him, moving towards his side of the
road. She was dark and almost invisible against the tarmac. And she
completely ignored him as she made her way purposefully to the far side.
Kubu swung the Land Rover on to the dirt verge, controlled the
threatened skid, and stopped the vehicle in a spray of sand. As he cursed
and mopped his forehead with his handkerchief, he watched the sow's
progress in his rearview mirror. Although he must have missed her by only
a whisker, she had not even glanced in his direction, nor had she broken
her stride. And now she was joined by the excited piglets that had
motivated her near-death experience. Kubu had not seen them in the
shock of the close encounter with their mother. He started to see the
funny side, and his mouth twitched into a doubtful smile. What an
obituary it would make! The overweight detective and the monster pig! As
he watched the huge creature waddle with her brood into the thorn
bushes, he promised himself that he would take his diets more seriously in
the future. Then he started to chuckle.

After Letlhakeng the road became a track, and there were no other
vehicles. Kubu drove on through the endless grass and thorn scrub of the
Kalahari. There is something special about this land, he thought. Its
desolation, its vastness, its emptiness. A hard land that plays havoc with
people who are not self-sufficient, but reluctantly gives up secret prizes to
those who understand it.
Just look at the Bushmen - amazing small people with the ability to
survive in this harshest of environments. Hunter-gatherers, who had lived
in southern Africa for more than 20,000 years, over the centuries they had
been squeezed by both blacks and whites, the former moving south from
central Africa and the latter moving north from the Cape of Good Hope.
And the ambivalence remained. Currently there was tension between the
Kalahari Bushmen and the Botswana government. The government had
removed the Bushmen from the Central Kalahari Game Reserve into
settlements to the south, asserting that this would help them to survive
and adapt to modern society. Opponents argued that the true reason was
to allow diamond interests to prospect on traditional Bushman lands.
Kubu owed the Bushmen a debt of gratitude. His childhood Bushman
friend, Khumanego, had shown him how the desert was alive, not dead as
he had thought. He remembered vividly how in one school holiday
Khumanego had taken him sweltering kilometres into the arid landscape
and drawn a circle in the sand a few metres in diameter.
'What do you see?' Khumanego had asked him.
'Sand, stones, and some dry grass. That's all,' he had replied.
Khumanego shook his head gently. 'Black men!' he chided. 'Look
again.'
'I see sand and stones, some small and others a little bigger. Also some
dry grass.'
An hour later the world had changed for Kubu. Khumanego had
shown him how to look beyond the obvious, how to explore below the
surface, to notice what no one else would see. In that small circle thrived
a teeming world - ants, plants that looked like stones (lithops, he found
out later), beetles, and spiders. He loved the lithops - desert plants
cunningly disguised as rocks, almost impossible to distinguish from the
real things. They blended into their surroundings, pretending to be what
they were not.
The trapdoor spider also impressed him. When he looked carefully at
the sand, almost imperceptible traces of activity clustered around one area.
On his knees, Khumanego pointed to the barely visible cresent in the
sand. He gestured to Kubu to pick up a twig and prise the trapdoor open.
Kubu complied, nervous of what he would find. The open trapdoor
revealed a tunnel, the size and length of a pencil, made from grains of sand
and some substance holding them together. Khumanego tapped the tube.
A small white spider scurried out and stopped on the hot sand.
'This spider,' Khumanego whispered, 'knows the desert. He digs a hole
and makes walls of sand with his web. He makes his home under the sand

where it is not so hot. He listens and listens, and when he hears footsteps
on the sand, he opens the door, jumps out, catches his meal, and brings it
back to his home - appearing and disappearing before the insect knows
what is happening. Very clever spider. You don't know that he is there, but
he is very dangerous.'
Kubu thought that the spider and the lithops survived in the same way
- avoiding attention by blending into the background.
It was the experience of seeing so much when there was so little to see
that had the greatest impact. Khumanego had taught him to open his eyes
and see what was in front of him. 'Black people don't see,' Khumanego
had said. 'White people don't want to.' Kubu returned home that afternoon and vowed he would never be blind again. From that day, he
had trained himself to be observant, to see what others did not and to look
beyond the obvious.
Kubu was startled out of his reverie by a stretch of corrugation on the
road. He owed much to Khumanego. He hadn't seen him for several years.
He should check up on him, Kubu thought, especially with all the
problems between the government and the Bushman people. Kubu
sighed. Why couldn't people respect each other? Why did they need to be
at each other's throats so much of the time?
Kubu continued along the hot, sandy road, leaving a cloud of dust in
the still air. He was lucky there wasn't a car in front of him.
He wondered about the reason for his trip. A ranger and a researcher
had found the body of what they thought was a white man being eaten by
a hyena. It puzzled him that there were no missing person reports for a
white man, only the usual few of black men, who probably had gone to
South Africa in the forlorn hope of making their fortunes. They had also
mentioned tyre tracks. Perhaps the labs could match tread patterns, but it
was a long shot. The wind did unpredictable things with sand.
An hour later, Kubu drove up to the entrance to Dale's Camp. Next to
the wooden welcome sign with the letters burnt into it, there was a
galvanised steel gate hanging over a cattle grid. He stopped the vehicle.
There were no bird calls, just the persistent trills of cicadas in the
oppressive air. Kubu found himself oddly reluctant to open the gate. The
bush beyond looked no different, and yet it had an unwelcoming feel - a
feel of unpleasant secrets to be revealed only at a cost.
Kubu lingered a few moments with this feeling. He had learnt to trust
hunches. Then he shrugged and opened the gate. He pulled through,

stopped to close the gate behind him, and drove to the reception area.
Three uniformed attendants with huge smiles ran up to open his door and
help him with his luggage. They were surprised to find that he was not a
white man. Kubu waved them aside and told them he could handle his
own overnight belongings. 'Yes, sir!' they said, all smiles, but disappointed
they were not going to get a tip.
A few minutes later Kubu stood inside a thatched area, with horns of
kudu and eland on the walls, and a huge elephant skull standing in the
corner. Soapstone animal carvings clustered on the floor and tables. He
paused under one of the ceiling fans that labored to cool things off and
sighed with pleasure. He looked around, noticing that the dining area was
under the thatch but open to the outside, where there were reclining
chairs around the pool. Kubu recovered momentum and walked to the
desk, made from a thick piece of mopane wood, skirted with bamboo. The
designer African-bush look, he thought.
'I am Assistant Superintendent Bengu,' he told the receptionist. She
had the beautiful features of the Bayei tribe of the Okavango Delta. 'I was
notified a body had been found near here.'
'We are expecting you, sir. You will stay one night with us? You have
tent number twenty-eight. It's the last one on the right. It has a good view
of the waterhole.'
'Thank you. Please could you arrange to have two large steelworks sent
to the tent, with ginger beer not ginger ale, and extra ice in a bucket? I am
going to have a quick shower before lunch. What time is lunch, by the
way?'
'Twelve to two o'clock. The waiter will bring the drinks right away. I
will also tell Mr Botha that you are here. He's the one who found the
body'
'Thank you. There should be a police Land Rover on its way to fetch
the body. Please let me know when it arrives.'
Kubu picked up his bags and walked to his tent, waving away yet more
porters. He was sure he had been given the end tent not because of the
view but because the resort would want to keep a potential murder as low
key as possible.
It was a typical 'permanent' bush tent, about four by five metres, with
a large bed covered with a locally woven bedspread in rust colours. There
were two riempie chairs - their bases interwoven with strips of animal hide
- with side tables, a chest of drawers with a mirror, a place to hang dresses
and jackets, mosquito netting knotted above the bed ready for use, a can
of mosquito repellent, a large thermos of cold water, two drinking glasses,
candles in candleholders, two boxes of Lion matches. No one wanted the
noise of a generator spoiling their bush experience.
Next to the outdoor toilet, a shower with tall reeds on three sides faced
the waterhole. The animals can watch me shower, Kubu thought. The tent
opened on to a wooden platform with a rail made from a thick mopane
branch. Two easy chairs framed a small table with mosquito coils ready to
be lit.
The receptionist was right - the view was spectacular. The waterhole
lay not a hundred metres away, artificially fed, he was sure. Thick reeds
flourished on one side, as well as trees and bushes. No grass grew for
twenty or thirty metres from the water. It had been eaten and trodden into
oblivion by all the animals. Several zebra cautiously moved to the water,
and three young giraffes loitered in the background, each wanting to avoid
being the first to approach the potential dangers of a waterhole. In the
heat of the day, few birds were active; only a small flock of guinea fowl
clattered about, too stupid to realise that shade is cooler.
The waiter arrived with the two large tankards. Kubu loved steelworks
and wondered why they were not more popular. A tot of cola tonic, a dash
of bitters, filled to the top with ginger beer, preferably bottled. He hoped
the barman had added the ice at the end so all the liquids had blended
together. He disapproved of putting the ice into the glass before the
liquids. Kubu poured the first steelworks down his throat, washing away
four hours' dust and dryness. He smiled and went off to the shower.

An hour later Kubu was sitting next to the pool under an acacia tree,
watching a couple of young boys churning the water. He had just finished
a delicious lunch - cold meats and pickled fish, tasty salads, fruit salad and
ice cream for dessert, followed by a cheese platter. He regretted not
indulging in wine, but after all, he was on duty.
At that moment a white man approached. Big and strong, he had a belly
that was beginning to show the effects of beer. He wore the clothes of a
game ranger: short-sleeved khaki shirt with green epaulettes, khaki shorts
with an old leather belt holding a knife pouch, knee-length khaki socks,
and a pair of worn boots. Skin tanned deep brown indicated a man who
had spent his life in the sun. The tan highlighted the light blue eyes and
short blond hair, as well as a long scar down the right side of his face. Kubu
A CARRION DEATH

wondered what had caused it - a childhood fall, a bar fight, a sports injury?
'Inspector Bengu?' The man had the guttural accent of an Afrikaner
from South Africa.
'Yes. I'm David Bengu. My official rank is assistant superintendent,'
Kubu said, rising. 'You must be Andries Botha?'
'Ja. That's me. It was me what radioed you about the body'
'Please sit down. Something to drink? A fruit juice or a beer perhaps?'
'No thank you. I . . . we . . . noticed a lot of vultures circling and went
to see what the lions had got the night before.'
'Slowly, slowly, Mr Botha. Before we get to the body, please tell me a
little about yourself. What do you do? Do you work here at the game
reserve? How long have you been in Botswana? You know, the usual
background stuff Kubu took a small pad out of his briefcase, clicked his
ballpoint, and waited.
Ja, fine. I was born in the Northern Cape on a farm between Hotazell
and Olifantshoek. I was always interested in animals - we had cattle. But
it was a hard life for my father. So many droughts and bad years.
Eventually he got a job in Bechuanaland with the Bechuanaland Cattle
and Meat Company - now the Botswana Cattle and Mining Company, of
course. BCMC. Kept the letters the same. He was a good farmer and was
in charge of their cattle herds. I was still young, so they sent me to
boarding school in Bloemfontein. Every holiday I came back to
Gaborone, where my parents lived. I really liked the bush, so after school
I went to Stellenbosch University to study wildlife management. My pa
knew the owner of this game lodge concession and asked him if he would
hire me when he started the camp here. Mr Baillie offered me a job as
assistant manager and part-time ranger, and here I am.' He paused, trying
to decide what else was of importance.

'How long have you been here, Mr Botha?'
'Oh, it was two years in January' He nodded.
'So how did you discover the body? And where is it right now?'
'Ag, man. We've got a guy here from the university studying ecology for
Wildlife. We always cooperate with the Department of Wildlife and
National Parks. Mr Baillie says it's very important to cooperate with the
government and the locals.' He hesitated and glanced at Bengu to see if he
had given offence. But Kubu just nodded and went on writing. Anyway,
this guy wanted to go to the Kamissa waterhole - about an hour from
here. Apparently he thinks Kamissa is special.'
'Who is this guy?' Kubu interrupted.
'Oh, Dr Sibisi. Bongi?' Andries paused. 'Ag nee wat, I don't remember
his first name. His last name is Sibisi.'
'Did you ask him why he thought Kamissa was special?'
cJa. Complicated stuff with satellites and so on. Better ask him yourself
if you want the details.'
Kubu suppressed a smile. He suspected that Andries did not know
how to interact with a smart academic who was also black.
Fifteen minutes later, Kubu had extracted the details of the find: how
they had seen the vultures and found a hyena eating a human corpse;
how they had noticed some marks in the sand and had found tyre tracks,
some of which had been brushed over; and how they had covered the body
with a heavy tarpaulin because they thought it better to leave it where they
found it.
'Wouldn't the hyena tear the tarpaulin off and drag the carcass away?'
Kubu asked.
'Ja. But we left two of my rangers there overnight to make sure it didn't
steal the body. They've been there all night. We should go there now. If we
wait too long, it will be dark before we get back.'
Kubu sighed, thinking he would prefer to sit by the pool sipping some
decent South African sauvignon blanc. He decided he could wait until
their return to meet Sibisi. Better to talk to him alone. 'I was waiting for
the police vehicle, but it must've been delayed. Can you arrange
transportation for us? When do you think we'll be back?'
About six, if we get going now.'
Kubu sighed again. 'Okay, we'll leave in fifteen minutes. I have to get
my camera and things. Please tell reception to send somebody with the
police Land Rover when it comes, to show the driver the way. Also, please
ask them to arrange for Dr Sibisi to meet me after dinner.'
Andries did not look at all happy at being ordered around. 'One other
thing,' Kubu said. 'Please have reception pack some cold drinks for us. I guess
your rangers out there could use some food and something cold as well.'

Nearly an hour passed before they reached the Kamissa turn-off, which
was nothing more impressive than multiple tyre tracks in the sand. It
wouldn't be easy to find, and Kubu was glad that he had asked Andries to
supply a guide for his colleagues. The waterhole lay half a kilometre or so
further on at a low point of the dry river. At the end, the track snaked
between some large thorn trees and ended in a small turning circle, where
one could sit to watch animals drink. Kamissa turned out to be nothing
more than a collapsed seep-hole half filled with muddy brown water. The
noise of the truck startled a small group of gemsbok, and they jumped
away stabbing the sky with their javelin horns.
'This is the Kamissa waterhole,' said Andries. 'It's one of over fifty pans
in the Khutse area. They were part of a river system that flowed north to
the Makgadikgadi long ago. The river dried up, but the pans are
important for the animals. The body's in a tributary watercourse about a
kilometre away through the dunes. We'll avoid the vehicle tracks they
made and drive up the side here.' He put the vehicle in four-wheel drive,
engaged low range, and headed up into the dunes at a fine pace,
unconcerned about Kubu's large, albeit well-padded, frame being flung
about in the vehicle as they hit bumps and sand ridges. He smiled a little
and increased speed. 'Need to get those men their lunch and drinks,' he
said by way of explanation.
At last they descended into a narrower dry watercourse and drove a
short way before stopping. There was a small tent underneath some trees
and a tarpaulin stretched between two of them. Two rangers stood up and
walked towards the Land Rover. On the other side of the watercourse was
another tarpaulin on the ground with sand piled around its edges. Andries
turned off the engine. There was dead silence. A shimmer of heat made
the scene seem insubstantial.
'This is it,' said Andries. 'The body is under the tarpaulin, and if you
walk up the dune on the left, you'll come to the tyre tracks. They carefully
smoothed everything out on this side so you can't tell that any vehicle has
been there unless you know where to look.'
Kubu heaved himself out of the truck and stood, carefully taking in the
scene.
'What are you looking for?' asked Andries.
Kubu said nothing while he stretched and eased the creases from the
trip out of his large frame. 'Everything,' he said at last. This seemed to him
a complete answer, and he walked over to the tarpaulin and asked the rangers to remove it. As the tarpaulin came off, he took a few deep breaths.
He did not like corpses under any circumstances. As corpses go, however,
this was not too bad, since virtually no flesh remained. Even the skeleton
barely looked as though it belonged to a human, so many bones were
either missing or detached from the torso.
Ensuring he didn't move anything and leaving as much as possible of
the area around the body undisturbed, Kubu took several rolls of
photographs.
As he finished his task, the throaty noise of a vehicle with a damaged
exhaust disturbed the desert quiet. Everyone looked back down the river.
A beaten-up police Land Rover appeared, mirage-like, following the
tracks of Andries' vehicle. About time,' Kubu muttered. 'We need some
help.'
Three people emerged from the vehicle. The driver, a constable from
Gaborone, was tall and lean, his uniform stained with sweat. Next to him
was a ranger; Andries' guide no doubt. Behind them was a fiftyish white
man, wearing khaki slacks and a dripping shirt already turning brown
with sand and dust. He wore dark glasses and a broad-rimmed Tilley hat
to protect his bald head. Dr Ian MacGregor was one of the three police
pathologists who performed their gruesome rituals at Princess Marina
Hospital. Kubu liked him. He was competent, called a spade a spade, and
was an accomplished watercolour painter of birds and Kalahari
landscapes. Kubu was very fond of the painting MacGregor had given him
of a crimson-breasted shrike - one of the area's most beautiful birds emerging
from the slender branches of a Kalahari sand raisin bush.
Afternoon, Kubu. What have we here?' Kubu smiled to himself as he
heard the Scottish burr. MacGregor had lived in Africa for thirty years, but
spoke as though he had just arrived from the Highlands.
'Hello, Ian. Good to see you. Mr Botha here and a colleague of his
found this body yesterday. Had the good sense to cover it with a tarp last
night and left rangers to keep an eye on it. The hyenas were having a feast,
it seems. I have photographed it and the area. I'm going to take a look in
the dunes and leave you to do your work.'
Kubu motioned to Andries to join him, and they walked slowly to the
top of the dune to look at the tracks. He agreed with Andries' theory of a
single vehicle that had come to the waterhole and then returned in the
same direction. Kubu took a few more photographs, but decided that
making casts of the tracks and boot prints would be a waste of time. They
were too indistinct. He walked back along the tracks towards Kamissa for
a short way, and then decided he had seen enough. He returned to the
corpse to have a final word with the pathologist.
'When you've finished your dirty work, Ian, please have the rangers sift
carefully through the sand to look for any more bones or clues and in
particular, teeth. Also have them probe the area with a stick for any clothes
that may have been buried.'
'Good thinking,' commented Ian without looking up.
'Why teeth?' Andries interrupted.
'If you look at the jaw bones, you'll notice that there are no teeth. That
is very unusual. If you find a skull that's been in the desert for years, it
usually still has most of its teeth, so I think someone may have removed
them to prevent identification. I doubt if we'll find any, but we must at
least make the effort. I would appreciate it if you would help, both here
and where the vehicle turned around.'
Andries was very obvious in his displeasure at being delegated to do the
dirty work. He said nothing, but Kubu could see him clench his jaw.
Also,' Kubu continued, 'I'm going to head back now. Please wait until
Dr MacGregor gives the word and then come back in the police vehicle.
I'll see you both back at Dale's for supper. I'd better take someone back
with me so that I don't get lost.' Kubu selected one of the two
nightwatchmen. The man looked tired and nervous, and Kubu thought
that he might be ill and should get back to camp. Anyway, he had no
intention of subjecting himself to another of Andries' joy rides.


CHAPTER 3

Despite the unpleasantness of the previous afternoon, Bongani had
enjoyed a successful day organising the game-count data gathered on his
field trips around the area. When he returned to the university and
obtained the QuickBird satellite data he had been promised, he would be
able to register the data geographically and start making quantitative
statements. Now he wanted time to catch up with his thoughts and then
eat an early dinner. After that he would have the interview with the large
policeman from Gaborone, who was entertaining the staff of the lodge by
ordering Andries around. He would do what he could to help, but he
really wanted to put the incident behind him and concentrate on his
work.
As he walked back to his tent, he divided his attention between the
purple clouds of the sunset and the myriad patterns of tracks in the sand.
Long ago he had learnt to read the story of the past hours and days
through marks in the sand. Here a wolf spider had left its scribblings; here
a genet cat had walked a night or two before; here a jackal had passed
within the hour, its tracks still mint.
Then Bongani noticed a new set of tracks on the path. A sandal
print, but with a tyre tread of squares. Many of the locals wore homemade
sandals cut from old tyres, with straps from inner tubes. Others
resoled their shoes with strips of tyre rubber. It saved money, and the
broad footprint worked well in the desert. However, he only knew
one man who wore homemade sandals with this strange square tread
- Peter Tshukudu. He noticed that the tracks went in one direction only.
Tshukudu would be waiting for him at his tent. The path went nowhere
else.
He stopped for a moment, analysing his own reactions. Surprise? Yes.
Distaste? He wasn't fond of Tshukudu, who held the low post of a new
ranger, but seemed to be deferred to by others of the black staff who would
normally regard themselves as his betters. Fear? He didn't understand
where that emotion came from, but it was present. Tshukudu had been
one of the two rangers who had spent the night in the desert with the
body. Only one had been needed, but no one was willing to do it alone.
Perhaps his subconscious was playing games with him. He sucked in his
breath and walked the rest of the way to his tent.
Tshukudu was leaning against the massive ironwood tree that supplied
deep shade over the tent in the heat of the day. He was smoking a
cigarette, but didn't look relaxed. He still had on the dusty overalls he had
worn when he was with the body. He must have just returned from the
waterhole.
'Rra Sibisi,' he began politely, speaking in mother-tongue Setswana, 'I
need to speak with you.'
'I have an appointment with the police detective. Will it take
long?' Bongani replied in the same language. He wanted this over quickly.
Tshukudu shook his head. 'I need to tell you. That man out there.' He
waved vaguely to the north. 'He needs your help.'
'Who needs my help?' said Bongani, hoping that he didn't understand.
Tshukudu said nothing, but fumbled in his pocket and withdrew a
dirty piece of brown wrapping paper. He unwrapped it to show its
contents, while Bongani watched with trepidation. It was a desiccated
finger dislocated at the knuckle.
'That's important evidence,' Bongani said, his voice a whisper. 'You
must give it to the police at once.'
'There were things last night in the desert.' Tshukudu shuddered. 'I
was sick. Like malaria, but not malaria. I took this when the other man
was asleep. For the Old Man. I knew he would need it.' Tshukudu
sounded frightened, and the digit was already wrapped and had
disappeared back into his pocket. After the policeman brought me back,
I went immediately to the Old Man. He said I must show this to you right
away. He said you must come to the Gathering tomorrow night, so that
you can help this man.'
Bongani tried to protest again, but his mouth was dry and nothing
came out. Tshukudu said something that Bongani didn't quite catch about
Kamissa being sacred or magic, and that it was very bad for the dead man
to be there. The Old Man had told him this. Bongani must go there. The
Old Man had told him this too. Then he asked, 'Will you come to the
Gathering?' Without any clear thought, Bongani nodded. Tshukudu
started to walk away into the dusk. But he turned back and said, 'Bring
money' Then he was gone.
Bongani went into his tent and sat on the bed, trembling. He would
tell the detective. He would get Andries to forbid the Gathering. He
would see that Tshukudu lost his job for tampering with evidence. But as
his anger faded, he knew that he would do none of these.


CHAPTER 4



Kubu staggered into his tent, followed closely by the waiter with another
two double steelworks. He was exhausted. He had driven six hours in the
heat and dust and had also spent an hour examining the area around the
body. And he had climbed dunes and wandered around in the sun looking
for clues.
As the waiter put the tankards down, Kubu ordered two more. He
drained the first two and set off for the shower. Fifteen minutes later, he
emerged feeling much better and was cheered by the sight of more drinks.
Dinner had already started, judging by the strange sounds that had come
from the main lodge, emanating from what must have been a kudu horn
masquerading as a trumpet. He settled into one of the chairs overlooking
the waterhole and relaxed. Dinner could wait half an hour. He deserved a
few moments of relaxation. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply,
ignoring the warning grunts of the springbok in front of him. Had he
cared, he might have seen a leopard slinking through the grass and across
the bare verge to have its evening drink.
Thirty minutes later he roused himself and dressed in a colourful African
shirt, size XXXL, khaki slacks, a size even larger, and sandals. He examined
the result in the mirror. A broad face looked back at him with a cultivated,
slightly stern expression belied by laughter crinkles around his eyes. I need
a shave, he thought, rubbing his well-filled cheeks, but he couldn't be
bothered. The shirt had no buttons, and he didn't tuck it in. It was cooler
and less constraining that way, leaving a little extra room for expansion.
Satisfied, he headed for the dining area. A number of the guests looked
around at the large black man who had come to join them for dinner.
Kubu was sure that it was already well known that he was a detective
investigating a murder. Since neither Andries nor Ian was there, he was
shown to a small table at the far end of the room, near the door to the
kitchen.
It was nearly nine when Kubu left the dining room. He had contemptuously
rejected the mopane worm starter - clearly only there to
titillate the tourists - but the springbok stew with local vegetables had
been excellent. Apparently it was the chef's speciality, and he had indulged
himself with a second helping lest that worthy gentleman be offended.
Now he carried a large brandy out to the lounge to join his coffee. So what
if he was on duty, he thought. He had already been working for nearly
fourteen hours, and there was more to come. He deserved a little something.
As Kubu was leaving, Ian MacGregor walked in, obviously recently
showered.
'Did you just get back?' Kubu asked.
About half an hour ago,' replied Ian. 'I had to have a wee Scotch to
calm my nerves. You are a rascal leaving me with that maniac Andries. He
insisted on driving the police Land Rover!' His accent had thickened
noticeably. 'He was very upset with you, bossing him around like that.
And he took it out on me and the rangers.'
Kubu suppressed a grin. 'Did you get everything you needed? Any idea
when you will have your report?'
'We spent a wee bit more time sifting sand than we expected, but
found nothing. Strange, those missing teeth! Recently knocked out, without
a doubt; some of the roots are still in the jawbone. There are a few
other things that seem odd too, but I don't want to speculate now. It
certainly looks like a murder, though. Killed by a blunt instrument to the
skull, I should think. Anyway, I should have your report done the day after
tomorrow.'
'Many thanks, Ian. I always appreciate your good work,' Kubu said. I
have to do another interview, so I'll leave you to your dinner. See you in
the morning.'
'I doubt it,' Ian replied. 'I'm going to leave at six - before your
rising time, I should think. Get the body to the mortuary as soon as
possible.'
'Definitely!' Kubu said. 'Have a good trip back.'
He walked on to the veranda and looked around to see if he could spot
Bongani.
Away to his left sat a young black man, nervously sipping what looked
like a Coke. He was in his late twenties, early thirties, Kubu thought. Of
average height, lean but not muscular, he wore small reading glasses with
no rims. He reminded Kubu of a black John Lennon. He was casually
dressed in a T-shirt and shorts.
Kubu walked over. 'I'm Assistant Superintendent David Bengu. Are
you Dr Sibisi?' He addressed Sibisi in the vernacular rather than more
formally in English, hoping Setswana would make the interview feel more
like a chat than an interrogation.
Bongani stood up, shook hands, and introduced himself. 'Bongani
Sibisi.'
'I am delighted you have a first name.' Kubu smiled. 'No one seems to
know it. Least of all Mr Botha!' Kubu dangled an icebreaker, which
Bongani accepted.
Ah, yes. Andries isn't sure what to make of me. But I think he's a solid
guy. Just a little old-fashioned in his views perhaps. Likes to be in charge.'
'So what are you doing out here in the middle of the bush?' Kubu
enquired, watching Bongani closely.
'I'm a conservationist doing research on animal populations and
distributions. It's related to carrying capacities in arid environments, so it's
particularly important for the Kalahari.'
'What are carrying capacities?' Kubu asked.
'Carrying capacities are the amounts of animals of different species a
particular area can accommodate in reasonable health.'
Ah. So why did you get Andries to take you out to Kamissa yesterday
morning?'
'The Bushman people say that the Kamissa waterhole is a sacred place.
They call it "the place of sweet water". They say that's why it's the favourite
place for all the animals. We've done some satellite imaging, and the
vegetation is heavily overgrazed and overbrowsed there as a result of
the high concentrations of herbivores around the waterhole. There must
be something about the water that attracts them. I want to find out what
it is.' He paused. 'I have ordered much higher-resolution satellite data over
the area for correlation purposes.'
Kubu had read about that sort of work. This fellow is clearly a
respected scientist, he thought, if he uses such expensive technology in his
research. He wondered if Bongani also had the common sense to be a
good problem-solver.
'So what happened when you got to the waterhole?'
Bongani fidgeted with his glass of Coke, rattling the ice cubes. Kubu
thought he should at least have asked for a twist of lime or lemon.
'Well, we saw the vultures circling and dropping down behind the
dunes, so we went to have a look. Andries thought it might be some
poaching going on, or maybe a lion kill. When we got there, we saw
immediately that the kill was a person, not an animal. A hyena had been
chewing on the bones. It was horrible.' Bongani took a deep breath and
rushed on. 'Andries thought it was a poacher, but I pointed out that the
body seemed to have long, straight hair, which made it a white man. I also
noticed that there were no clothes or boots to be seen. The only logical
conclusion was that it was a murder, and the murderers had taken the
clothes to avoid identification.' Bongani said this all in one breath and
then gasped air.
'Take it easy, Dr Sibisi,' Kubu said. 'This is not a race. We've plenty of
time. Anyway, it seems that you should be in my shoes - you'd make a
good detective.'
Bongani looked at him with his shoulders still taut and hunched. He
was very tense, and not about to relax. Kubu wondered why.
'You said that there were no clothes or boots to be seen. In fact, there
were no clothes hidden nearby either. I had the sandy area near the body
either dug up or probed with a pole. I think we can assume that it was a
murder.' He hesitated for a moment. 'Don't you think it's an odd
coincidence that the murder should be near the area you are studying?'
'What are you suggesting?'
'I'm not suggesting anything. I'm asking what you think.'
'Well, maybe it's not a coincidence at all. Where there are lots of
animals, there will be predators. That dry culvert is a highway to the
waterhole. A good place to get rid of a body, I would guess.'
Now that, thought Kubu, is an interesting idea. It seems Bongani has
the analytical skills of his chosen profession. Kubu was impressed. 'That's
quite possible, I suppose. Is it common knowledge that the area attracts so
much game?'
Bongani nodded.
Kubu continued. 'How did you spot the vehicle tracks?'
'When we were standing at the body, I noticed that there was a
different texture to the sand on one section, near the top of the dune. I
thought it was strange, so Andries and I walked to the top, and we found
the tracks. They'd tried to smooth them out at the top. I'm sure there was
more than one man by the footprints.'
Kubu nodded. 'Did you touch the body at all?'
'No. We took a big loop up the dune in case we disturbed something
that might be significant. We did have to put the tarpaulin over the body,
but were very careful where we stood. Our tracks should be quite obvious
- all the rest were there when we arrived.'
Kubu nodded and smiled. 'I'm impressed! Good job. As I said, if you
ever want to change professions . . .' Bongani still looked tense, but
managed a weak smile.
Kubu closed his notebook. 'Thanks for all your help, Dr Sibisi. I've
kept you up late, and it's probably been a long day for you too. Have a
good rest.'
After Bongani had gone to bed, Kubu beckoned a waiter and ordered
another brandy. It had been a tiring day, and he didn't have a lot to show
for it. When the brandy came, he took a sip, closed his eyes, and gently
swirled it around his mouth. He loved its gentle sharpness, the hints of
sugar and fire, and of course its delicious smell. He breathed in and out of
his nose several times to enhance the taste. He sighed with pleasure.
That night, Kubu found himself over-tired. So he lay on the bed and
tried to organise his thoughts. Bongani is a good chap, he thought, and
very smart. He could be a big help. But what makes him so nervous? Some
family or youthful indiscretion with the police? It seemed unlikely. After
about fifteen minutes, he forbade himself to think about it any more. He
needed his rest. As he lay with his eyes shut, Mozart took over, and he
chased different tunes back and forth in his head. He even found his hand
conducting an aria from The Magic Flute. At last he gave up and allowed
his mind to return to the gruesome riverbed.
There were many important questions needing answers. First, who was
the victim, and second, why had no one come forward looking for him?
The third question was why the murderers had gone to so much trouble
to make the body difficult - perhaps impossible - to identify. And the
fourth question . . . but the fourth question eluded him. It had slipped out
of his mind and taken even The Magic Flute with it. All that remained was
the rhythm of his impressive snoring. Joy Bengu loved him dearly and
missed him when he was on a trip, but when she went to her lonely bed
it was with guilty relief.


CHAPTER 5

The next morning Kubu took the fourth question to breakfast: why
had the body been dumped where it had been found - relatively close to
a waterhole visited by tours from the game lodge? He guessed that
Bongani had supplied the answer with his sweet-water theory. It was the
perfect place to get rid of a body. The water attracted game. Where there
was game, there were hyenas, and hyenas ate everything, including
the bones.
As he helped himself to a large plate of fresh fruit salad - the perfect
way to start breakfast - Kubu acknowledged that there were, of course,
many more questions. His skin tingled - a sign the chase had started.
Spotting Bongani on his own, Kubu ignored the waiter's efforts to
show him to his out-of-the-way table and walked up to Bongani's instead.
'Mind if I join you?' he asked. Bongani nodded with his mouth full
and indicated a chair. He didn't look very enthusiastic. Kubu put down his
fruit salad and rewarded the unsuccessful waiter with an order for lots of
coffee, with hot milk, and brown toast. He then went back to the buffet
to place his order for eggs, bacon, tomato, mushrooms, and fried bananas.
When he returned, Bongani had finished eating and was sipping his
coffee.
'Where did they come from, the murderers, and where did they go?'
Kubu asked as he settled into his food. 'They obviously weren't living
around here. This is a major conservation area. How would they get in
and out of it without anyone seeing them or checking their credentials?'
Bongani had thought of this too. 'This is a huge area, one of the largest
controlled areas in the world. Dozens of tracks lead into the reserve from
the surrounding hunting and cattle areas. If you know your way around,
it's easy to drive in without being seen.'
Kubu digested this information along with the last piece of bacon. He
called the waiter over for more coffee, but changed his mind and instead
ordered a plate of hot mielie-meal porridge with full-cream milk,
sweetened with honey.
'My wife is always putting me on diets at home,' he explained to
Bongani. 'So I try to get just a little extra when I travel.'
Bongani folded his paper napkin and prepared to leave. Kubu said
quickly, 'You know, you may be on to something about the sweet water at
the waterhole. A ready-made disposal system for dead bodies could well be
worth a bit of a drive. I didn't see it as that important yesterday, so we
didn't stop at the waterhole and, of course, they dumped the body in the
watercourse so that it wasn't visible from the road. Is there a ranger who
could take me out there?'
I'll take you,' said Bongani immediately and unexpectedly. 'I didn't
have a chance to get the water samples I need to find out why the animals
like it so much. Andries was in too much of a hurry to get back after we
found the body. We can go as soon as you're ready. I'll get the Landy and
meet you outside.' And he was off before the surprised detective could
even offer his thanks. Bongani seemed relatively at ease this morning.
Perhaps he had been so nervous the previous night because of something
that had happened during the day.
On the drive back to the waterhole Kubu learnt a bit more about
Bongani's background. He came from a small Kalahari town called Sojwe
and had a spectacular school and university record. After graduating from
the University of Botswana, he had won a scholarship and completed a
PhD at the University of Minnesota, in its renowned Ecology
Department. His current research project was linked to the Department
of Wildlife and National Parks's thrust on the carrying capacity of arid
regions.
'I am based at the University of Botswana, but spend much of my time
in the field. I've seen most of Botswana now.'
'So they fund you for all this travel and so on?' Kubu asked him.
Bongani laughed. 'Oh no, the university doesn't have money for
research, and Wildlife and National Parks has its own people. They just
open doors for me - like this lodge.'
'It must be expensive,' Kubu commented, 'travelling around like that.
Petrol is so expensive these days.'
'Oh, I don't pay for it. I have a grant from the Botswana Cattle and
Mining Company. It's important for them to be seen supporting
conservation.' Bongani looked a little embarrassed. I'm not proud of
where my money comes from, but there are no strings attached, and it
allows me to do what I want.'
Kubu said nothing. A second connection with BCMC, he thought.
Bongani decided to turn the tables. 'What about you?' he asked. 'What
made you become a detective?'
'I was very lucky, really,' Kubu replied. 'I went to primary school in
Mochudi and thought I would have to drop out to earn money for the
family. But our priest, Father Thekiso, thought I had the brains to go
further and managed to arrange a scholarship to the new private school in
Gabs - Maru a Pula. It was wonderful. My parents wanted me to be a
teacher when I finished, but I had a hankering for something more
exciting, so I joined the police. I was lucky again, because they sent me to
university to study criminal justice. I studied full time and spent as much
time as I could at the offices of the Criminal Investigation Department.
We call it the CID. They had offices just down the road from the
university. As soon as I graduated I became a detective. I never even was a
constable on the beat. I've been a detective all my career.'
After exchanging further tidbits of personal information, the two
lapsed into a comfortable silence. After a while, Bongani turned off the
main road, and soon they pulled up under the trees close to the waterhole.
'This is it,' said Bongani. Kubu clambered out of the truck. He stood
concentrating on the area around the waterhole. A small herd of
springbok stood nervously around it.
'What do you expect to find?' asked Bongani. Kubu took in the mass
of tracks around the water.
'People always talk about the perfect murder,' he said. 'There isn't any
such thing. Murderers always make mistakes. It's not a natural thing to do
- kill another human being in cold blood. It never works out quite the
way you expect. You're tense. You're nervous. You make mistakes. You
leave clues.'
'But not all murders are solved,' Bongani commented when it seemed
that Kubu had nothing more to add.
Ah, but that is because the police don't always pick up the mistakes,
don't always find the clues. They don't always find the pieces of the puzzle
you need to see the complete picture. The only way to find them is to
look. And most of the places you look won't have any pieces.'
With this, he stomped off towards the water. Bongani was sorry he
hadn't gone first: Kubu walked over all the interesting animal and bird


A CARRION DEATH

tracks. But when Bongani caught up, Kubu was carefully examining a
variety of boot tracks still visible in the sand around the trough. He hadn't
disturbed any of those.
'They came down to the water,' he said. 'They were careless. They left
tracks. At least two people.' He pointed to two different boot prints. 'It
wouldn't "have been a neat business, you know. It never is unless you are a
comfortable distance away with a gun. You wouldn't believe the amount
of blood you'll get by smashing someone's skull. Then there is the business
with the teeth and the jaw. The killers wouldn't have been very presentable
after that.' Another thought struck him. 'But of course the victim was
probably dead when they got him here.' He paused and pointed out an
area slightly away from the trough. 'Look at this spot here, Bongani. What
do you think?' The area looked as though it had a slight stain which made
it a little rustier than the grey of the riverbed.
'It could be anything,' said Bongani. 'Perhaps it's animal urine that's
dried there. Maybe just a slightly different composition in the sand.'
'Could it be a stain remaining after water mixed with another liquid
has dried there? Could that liquid have been blood, do you think?'
I suppose it's possible.' But Bongani didn't really believe it.
'Let's take a sample anyway,' said Kubu. 'Would you get my bag from
the vehicle? It's got some sample bottles in it.' He stood looking at the
stain as though it might escape if he fetched the bag himself. When
Bongani returned, Kubu made casts of two different boot prints. Then he
opened a sample bottle, knelt, and carefully scraped the surface stain into
the container with a spatula.
Suddenly the wind came up, and dust blew into Kubu's face. He swung
around to have his back to it and, from that position, something unusual
caught his eye. About twenty metres away grew a small thorn bush. It was
tightly packed to the ground, cherishing its personal area of dirt with its
touch of moisture leaked from the waterhole. A small patch of white in
the centre of the bush would have been almost impossible to see from any
other angle or might have been mistaken for a cyst on the bark of its
spindly trunk - a small patch of white that now flapped in the breeze. The
breeze dropped, and the patch became just a white mark again.
Kubu rose with surprising speed and agility and grabbed a pair of
tweezers from his bag. Bongani followed him, puzzled but not
interrupting. Kubu lay down next to the bush and started fishing with the
tweezers.

'Damn!' he said. The first round went to the thorn bush. It scored a
couple more direct hits before Kubu managed to winkle the whiteness
carefully out between the armed branches. He held it up for Bongani's
inspection.
It's a cash slip for petrol,' he told Bongani, being careful not to handle
the slip or let any blood from his scratches stain it. It's lucky the wind
blew it into the heart of that little bush. Otherwise it could be in South
Africa by now! I can't read it. I guess that the sun has bleached the ink.
Maybe the lab guys can see what was there.'
There's nothing to say it has anything to do with the killers,' Bongani
said, trying to be the scientist and not get excited. It could have blown
out of any car that stopped here.'
'Yes,' said Kubu. 'It could indeed. But let's play what-if. What if the
killers needed to wash here, perhaps even change their clothes? What if
they left the car doors open - probably not wanting to handle things too
much? What if they even had to clean some blood off the vehicle? It would
give the wind a fair chance to help itself to loose bits of paper in the car,
wouldn't it?'
And suddenly the wind was back, moving the heat around. Kubu
nearly lost his slip of paper. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the wind
dropped, and there was silence again.


CHAPTER 6

Much as he was hoping for a few hours' respite on his return to Gaborone,
Kubu was out of luck. As soon as he walked into his home just before
three in the afternoon, his wife, Joy, told him that Director Mabaku was
expecting him in his office as soon as he returned. Sighing, he asked her
to make him a sandwich and decided to take a quick shower.
Half an hour later he was on his way to New Millennium Park, where
the Criminal Investigation Department had been housed for the past two
years. New Millennium Park was a new office development on the
outskirts of town on the Lobatse road and was situated at the foot of Kgale
Hill, which thrust up from the dry plains. The development comprised a
dozen low-rise buildings, housing both private and government organisations.
Kubu thought that the director must have played a good political
hand to have his department moved into premises so luxurious by
comparison to the old and rather shabby buildings in town. He went
immediately to Mabaku's office. The director's assistant, Miriam, greeted
him and told him to go straight in.
cSit down, Bengu,' the director said. 'Where have you been? I told
your wife to send you here right away. I know you arrived in Gabs an
hour ago.'
Kubu wondered how Mabaku could keep such close tabs on everyone.
He always knew where all the detectives were, when they got there, and
how long they stayed. He most probably also knew what they were
thinking and saying about him, which would explain why he was often so
abrupt.
'I had been on that dusty road for nearly four hours. I couldn't walk
into your lovely office leaving clouds of dust on everything I touched,'
Kubu said with a hint of sarcasm.
'When I say that I want to see you immediately, I mean immediately!'
Director Mabaku glared at Kubu, who looked down demurely. 'So what
is going on with this thing at Dale's Camp? Already there's a big fuss about
what it might do to the tourist industry'
'It's a puzzle, Director,' Kubu said quietly. 'The body was found at a
waterhole called Kamissa, about an hour's drive from Dale's Camp. It
appears that the deceased is a white male -- there were still a number
of straight hairs on the skull. I am confident that he was murdered
because--'
'How do you know it was a male?' Director Mabaku interrupted.
'You are right,' Kubu said. 'I do not know that it was a male. I used the
word "he" generically because it is easier.'
'Bullshit!' Mabaku said. 'You used the word "male" specifically. Stop
trying to bullshit me!'
Kubu continued. 'The hair still on the skull leads me to believe the
deceased is Caucasian. There are three reasons why I am pretty sure that
he or she was murdered. First, all the teeth are missing. They seem to have
been knocked out, because there are some roots still in the jawbone.
Second, we found tyre tracks behind the dunes near the waterhole where
the body was found. The area where the vehicle turned near the top of the
dune had been swept, apparently to hide the tracks from anyone who
discovered the body. Third, there was no sign of clothing or footwear on,
or near, the body'
'How close is the nearest habitation?' Mabaku asked.
'As I said, Dale's Camp is about an hour away. The nearest village is
Kungwane, about seventy kilometres away -- maybe two hours' drive.
There may be a few farms or ranches as well. I expect that BCMC will
have land in the area.'
'Why would anybody drive that far to a waterhole rather than leave the
body in the middle of the desert? Maybe they wanted the body to be
found?' Mabaku frowned.
Kubu smiled inwardly. Mabaku was so predictable; he challenged every
assumption. Even though it was often annoying, Kubu had to admit it
kept him on his toes. Should he share Bongani's sweet-water hypothesis?
He decided against it.
'I can't figure it out either. But why would anyone want a body found,
especially in such a remote spot?' He decided not to mention the cash slip
he had found at Kamissa for the moment either, until he had confirmation
that it was relevant.
'What does the pathologist have to say?' Mabaku asked.
'Director, I've just got back. Ian MacGregor promised to send his
report to me tomorrow.	"Well, let me know as soon as you hear something. That's all for now.
I'd like to have your report first thing in the morning.

Kubu decided to stay at the office to complete the homicide report before
going home. He called Joy and told her he would be home at about seven
pm She said that was fine and promised a treat for supper That
motivated Kubu, and he set about the despised paperwork. At least he did
not have to fill out forms in triplicate, handwritten, using carbon paper,
as had been the case only a few years before. Now his word processor had
a proper template that enabled him to do everything, including file the
final report. His only problem was that he had never learnt to type
properly However, his two-finger approach proceeded with respectable
speed.


CHAPTER 7

Bongani sips from his bottle of Castle beer in the staff compound at Dale's
Camp. Initially the beer is cold and refreshing, but the desert soon sucks
up its coolness, leaving it tepid and unattractive. Yet again he asks himself
what possessed him to agree to join this group on this particular night.
But in fact he is enjoying himself.
They sit outside in a semicircle, a fire providing primeval comfort.
Between the men and the fire stands a camping table with a variety of
arcane items, including a small rawhide bag, supposedly made from lion
skin. The men sit on the sand or on stools. No women are present. There
is some singing and traditional dancing, which Bongani joins tentatively,
unused to the ceremony. Most of the time they sit and chat and pass
round a calabash containing a mixture of maize beer and additives that are
neither specified nor discussed.
The proceedings are led by the Old Man, a witchdoctor, who lectures
and trances and fiddles with items from the table. The witchdoctor is an
important figure in any community. He will be knowledgeable about the
healing properties of local plants, as well as offering a variety of spells and
charms to help people achieve their desires or avoid the unpleasant. And
he will throw the bones to foretell the future. He is an important force for
good or evil, and, Bongani thinks, usually a mixture of both. His is a self
made route to power. To be a chief, you have to be born into the right
family, but a witchdoctor makes his own destiny. A successful one will be
a consummate politician and will weave his community into a web of
dependency. No chief will cross a witchdoctor who has that sort of hold
on his people. The witchdoctor will become the power behind the throne.
The Gathering is a cross between a boys' night out and a seance.
Bongani finds his immediate neighbour convivial and tries to explain
what he does for the game reserve as an ecologist. Soon they conclude that
this is too esoteric to be recognised as genuine work, so they tactfully
change the subject to common friends and family. Without much surprise
on either side, they discover that they are distantly related, as most
Batswana are if one looks hard enough. The man on Bongani s left wears
a traditional garment of animal skins, but most of the others are in their
everyday clothes. Bongani rolls up his shirtsleeves and relaxes on the
plastic chair, which the group has saved for him as a guest of honour.
It is the first time he has joined the local people socially. I should have
done this before, he thinks, although not in this context. His young face
breaks into an easy grin as his neighbour makes some small joke. Some of
the men have brought beer or something stronger; others concentrate on
the calabash and its contents. Bongani has never developed a taste for this
native beverage and prefers the lager tucked out of harm's way under his
chair. Nevertheless he politely sips from the calabash each time it is passed.
They spend a lot of time in companionable silence, allowing Bongani to
concentrate on his thoughts.
He watches the Old Man, who sits near the fire talking rather wildly
to his companions. Bongani can't hear what he is saying and finds the
pronunciation hard to understand in any case. The man is old and
gnarled. Are witchdoctors always old and gnarled? Bongani wonders. Are
they somehow born that way? Perhaps they start as babies with serious
frowns and the coarse markings of age, just growing larger until they fit
the part. Or maybe there is a special cream that they use on their faces to
age quickly - a sort of anti-facial, which causes wrinkles to develop with
unseemly haste. Probably you can order it on the Internet. He smiles,
visualising the flood of spam offerings with which modern-day
witchdoctors would have to contend.
He realises that someone is speaking to him. It is Peter Tshukudu, his
unpleasant visitor of the night before. 'The Old Man is ready now,' he
says.
Again Bongani wonders why he has allowed himself to be involved in
this charade. He knows what is in the lion-skin pouch - Tshukudu's
trophy, the desiccated finger - and also knows how inappropriate it is for
the witchdoctor to have it.
Tshukudu walks to the camping table, selects the lion-skin pouch, and
gives it to the Old Man, who clenches it tightly in his right hand. He starts
to move rhythmically, this time to some internal beat only he can hear,
and his trance deepens. After a while he starts to speak to Bongani, who
only understands a few of the words. But Tshukudu is there to interpret.
'He says this person was murdered. He says that animals were not the
killers.' It isn't common knowledge that the police suspect foul play, but
Bongani is not surprised that rumours move fast in this small community.
'He says that they stole from this person. He says that they stole his mowaJ
Bongani recognises this last word. It means 'breath', but also much
more; it means identity, soul. With a shock he is swamped by an old
horror he thought long forgotten. There are said to be evil spirits that will
steal mowa and take it for purposes that should not be imagined lest that
in itself attracts their attention. The body left behind will continue to
function behind vacant eyes, going through its daily routine, but with no
guiding force within. These are tales from childhood. They are deliciously
scary at the time, but you don't really believe them. Nevertheless, they stay
in your subconscious waiting to emerge when they are least wanted. The
sudden shock on top of the drink leaves him nauseous.

The Old Man stops talking and swaying and is now standing rigid. He
holds out his right hand towards Bongani and opens the fingers. Defying
gravity, the pouch flies towards Bongani, who watches, frozen. It falls
among the other men to his left, who scramble away, knocking over chairs
in their haste not to be touched by this thing. There is no more laughter
or talk now. Bongani's head pounds as adrenalin fights with alcohol and
calabash drugs. He has to escape. Even as he tells himself not to be stupid,
not to panic about sleight of hand or obvious deductions from common
knowledge, he lurches to his feet. Bongani walks with clenched jaw, but
does not run, from the circle into the night. The derisive laughter of the
Old Man follows him, soon joined by comments and laughter from the
men as their tension drains away.

The next morning Bongani woke up headachy and drained. He could
hardly believe his reaction to the events of the night before. Things that
leave their victims drained of identity have no need to smash jaws and
scatter teeth to obviate dental records. He had made a fool of himself and
been laughed at, and deservedly so. Now it was time to put the matter
behind him and get back to work. He was impressed by Kubu. It was the
detective's business to find out who this man was, to restore to him his
identity, and to punish his killers. Nothing more was possible.
But if Bongani believed that his involvement with the grisly murder
was over, he was going to be sorely disappointed.

PART TWO:
Nature's Needs

'Allow not nature more than nature needs,
Man's life is cheap as beast's.

Shakespeare, King Lear, Act II, Scene 4

SIX WEEKS EARLIER: JANUARY 2006



36

CHAPTER 8

The dream was always the same. He was flying his brother's Cap 10,
and he loved it. He had never flown a plane, but in the dream it felt
like an extension of his body. Without conscious thought he could move
his muscles and control the plane. He rocketed to two thousand feet,
levelled off, rolled the plane on to its back, and pulled back sharply,
causing it to dive backwards towards the ground -- a perfect split S.
He levelled off at fifty feet and did a leisurely barrel roll, then climbed
to cruise at a thousand feet, exhilarated. Below him he saw a group of
Bushman people staring up at the plane. He waved and called to them,
telling of his joy in their own language, but as always, there was no
response.
Suddenly the cockpit filled with flames. He felt the heat and inhaled
smoke and fire. There was searing pain, and he blacked out. Then the
perspective changed and, to his temporary relief, he stood on the ground
with the Bushmen, watching the plane gently dive with smoke pouring
out of the cockpit. He thought he heard screams. He called out to the
Bushmen, 'It's not me! It wasn't me! It wasn't me!' But they only stared
into the sky, watching the plane descend, turn slowly on to its back, and
eventually hit the ground. There was a moment of silence. Then there
was an explosion; fire engulfed the plane and spread inexorably and
inexplicably across the sand towards them. He stood frozen, not daring
to look at the Bushmen; knowing that if he did, he would find them
changed into other creatures. Then the fire reached him, melting the
ground beneath his feet, and they descended together into the deathless
flames.
Cecil Hofmeyr woke drenched with sweat, a scream of horror petrified
in his throat. He shook with feverish spasms, drawing his legs into a foetal
position as if to save them from the fire. At last his breathing became
calmer. He got out of bed and walked to the window, pulled the curtains
apart, and threw open the window as though the Botswana night air could
cool him when the air conditioning could not. The near-full moon was
directly overhead, and he could see the garden clearly in monochrome.
That cold light comforted him.
In the bush, prey animals - antelope, zebra, wildebeest, giraffe would
be glad, too, of that extra visibility, extra safety. In Africa the full
moon is a blessing; it has none of the bad connotations of Western legend.
Six weeks later, two rangers would long for its support as they faced a
gruelling night guarding a corpse from hyenas by starlight alone.
However, Cecil knew nothing of these things as he gulped the cool air and
felt reality return.
He collapsed into an easy chair near the bed, trying to relax, but not
daring to go back to sleep. It's Kobedi, he thought. That's why I'm having
the dream again after all these months. It's him. It is always him. His mind
returned to the meeting of the previous afternoon -- Kobedi's unwelcome
visit.
Kobedi had insisted on the meeting, and eventually Cecil had
reluctantly agreed. Kobedi pretended to be an agricultural consultant - an
expert on cattle grazing requirements. It was a simple way of gaining
access to Cecil at the office without raising anyone's suspicions. He arrived
punctually for his appointment at four o'clock. Cecil's secretary showed
him in, but pointedly reminded Cecil of another appointment at half past
four.
cWhat do you want?' Cecil asked, neither rising from his chair nor
offering Kobedi a seat. Kobedi just laughed and settled himself into a chair
in front of the desk. He still had a touch of animal magnetism, with fine
facial features and a good build. However, his face was puffed by alcohol
and loose living, and fat blurred the once muscle-sharp outlines of his
body. A blown rose, Cecil thought. How did I ever find this snake
attractive?
CI think that you need some more consulting help, Cecil. Things aren't
going too well around here from what I hear. Should we say twenty
thousand pulas' worth?' Kobedi smiled. He still had teeth like pearls.
'We had an arrangement,' Cecil said. A final arrangement. It didn't
involve any more consulting. I'll be seeing my nephew shortly. Once he's
thirty he will have the shares to call the shots in the company, and the
Trust will be his and his sister's. I will need their support to continue
running the business. I can't afford any more consulting.'
'Cecil, I expect that my input will be of great value. I think they'd be
very disappointed to hear about the things we have worked so hard to
conceal.'
Cecil abandoned all pretence of politeness. 'Look, you filthy scum, I've
paid and paid for what happened all those years ago. I won't give you
another thebe. Now get out of here.'
Kobedi gave the knife a twist. 'You're forgetting how much I did for
you, Cecil. Everything you've got is because of that. I'll be very
disappointed if you forget how much you owe me.'
Cecil's voice rose. 'You did nothing for me, Kobedi. You did it
for yourself. Roland saw right through you from the start. You were
finished. If you hadn't killed him, he would have seen to it that you rotted
in jail. Roland knew what your so-called consulting involved. You were
dead.'
'Oh, yes, Cecil, we were both dead. That's why you wanted him out of
the way. You told me that. That's why I did it. Because you told me so.' He
gestured at the luxurious office. And you ended up the main man as a
bonus. Did you think you could pay for all this with a handful of pulas
and have a few fucks thrown in? You make me sick, you ungrateful
bastard. You're worried about your nephew? I'll deal with him for you.
Why not? I've done it for you before. You should be worrying about me. Accidents happen, you know. Not only to planes.'
Cecil was so angry he stood up. 'I never want to see you again, you
stinking blackmailer! I'm warning you, accidents don't only happen to
Hofmeyrs. Now get out of here.'
Kobedi just laughed. 'You're threatening me? You haven't got the guts,
Cecil, or your nephew and I would have been history long ago. Leave that
sort of thing to me. It'll cost you, but so what? Money is no object, is it?'
He got up. 'It's nice to see you again, Cecil. Still a good-looking guy,
even at - what is it now? - fiftyish? Maybe we could have a drink together
some time? What do you think? No extra charge. Just make sure the
cheque for the twenty's in the mail, as the saying goes.' He walked towards
the door. Before he opened it, he turned back to Cecil.
'I think you'll be needing quite a bit more of my services actually. We
may have to negotiate an increased rate. Inflations bad, you know. And
the lousy exchange rate! You've no idea what decent Scotch costs in town
these days.' Without waiting for a reply, he opened the office door, left it
open, and waved cheerfully to the secretary on his way out.
His recollection of the meeting brought the anger rushing back to
Cecil.
'I'll see you in hell first,' he said aloud to himself, the anger giving him
courage to get back into bed and face sleep. He no longer thought of
himself as a religious man, but he instantly regretted the phrase. With a
sudden chill, he thought it might yet turn out to be literally true.

CHAPTER 9



Cecil came down to breakfast at nine o'clock. He still felt tired, although
the rest of the night had been undisturbed by nightmares. He always took
breakfast on the patio next to the pool unless the weather was bad, which
was seldom. There was toast and croissants with various accompaniments,
and scrambled eggs and bacon on a covered hot tray.
Dianna was already sitting in the sun on a recliner next to the pool, her
white one-piece swimsuit showing off a respectable tan. Her skin seems to
remember the Botswana sun after all the years in England, Cecil thought.
But of course it had had the sun of the Riviera and the Adriatic to remind
it, as well as her occasional hunting trips back to Botswana. She sat with
her legs crossed, a plate on her lap. On the plate were a fruit knife and a
green apple peel carefully removed in one long spiral. She was eating the
crisp white fruit.
She had a good figure, which she worked at -- she'd probably been in
the basement gym before her swim - and an interesting rather than pretty
face, the planes and features of Roland's face softened to a feminine
incarnation. Very much her father's daughter, Cecil thought. Not much
evidence of her prissy society mother.
'Hello, Uncle Cecil,' she said. 'You're up late this morning.'
'I didn't sleep very well. How are you today? Was the bed comfortable?
Didn't miss your fancy hotel suite? Where's Angus?'
'I'm sorry to hear that. I slept very well. Glad I didn't battle back to the
hotel after the party. Angus left early to pack up at the Grand Palm and
catch a plane to South Africa. He's attending that Botswana trade seminar
in Cape Town. It seems he doesn't expect to find it too demanding - he
took his golf clubs and tennis racquet. Talked about going diving too.' She
said this with a mixture of anger and irony. 'He'll be back just before the
cocktail party next week.'
'Oh yes, I'd forgotten about that.' Cecil helped himself to some toast
and covered it first with butter and then jam. 'I thought he wanted to visit
the Maboane mine again?' he added carefully.
'Yes, I think he was impressed with the manager, Jason.'
'Jason Ferraz.'
Dianna nodded. 'They got on well together when Jason took him
around. Jason promised to show him some of the archaeological sites in
the area and to take him hunting gemsbok if he came again. I suppose he'll
fit that in after he gets back from the coast.'
Cecil didn't reply, but took a bite of his toast.
'You know, Uncle Cecil,' Dianna continued, 'I need to get my brain
engaged again.' She put the plate carefully on the side table next to her and
turned towards Cecil, leaning slightly forward. 'The whole world changes
in about six weeks when Angus and I turn thirty, and he takes control of
the Trust. I think I should get to understand BCMC's businesses better.
I'm particularly interested in the resources side of the business. Did I tell
you that one of my masters projects was on the role mineral resources will
play in African development? And that when I worked as an analyst, it was
in the resources area?'
Cecil digested this with another mouthful of toast, chewing slowly. He
wasn't quite sure how to react to this approach. Dianna was obviously a
bright young woman - her success at the London School of Economics
was proof of that - but she had never shown any direct interest in the
company nor in the Trust. In fact, this was the first time that their
thirtieth birthday had come up in conversation. His instincts told him to
tread warily, but he felt this could be an opportunity to sense which way
the wind was blowing. The office could wait.
'How do you think Angus feels about the company and the future?
Which way will he want it to go, do you think?'
For a moment Dianna said nothing, concentrating on the last scraps of
fruit around the apple core. 'You're actually just like Dad, aren't you,
Uncle Cecil? I'm the one with an MSc in economics at LSE, but it's
Angus's opinion you care about. He read Arts at Oxford, majoring in
rugby and rowing.'
She has flashes of Roland's temperament too, Cecil thought, hearing
the bitterness in her voice. Actually, I care much more about your opinion
than I do his,' he said, trying to make it sound sincere. 'You know that I've
been in charge up to now, but your father's wish was that Angus would
take over when he turned thirty. It's Angus who'll have control of the
Trust. After his birthday, he'll be able to say how the trust votes its forty
per cent of the BCMC stock. The government always votes its ten per cent
with the Trust. So, with fifty per cent of the company stock in his pocket,
Angus will be able to do what he wants.'
Aren't you hurt that Daddy left you only twelve and a half per cent of
the Trust, Uncle Cecil?' she asked, still ignoring his original question.
After all, you've managed it for fifteen years for us all, and you've been
chairman of BCMC for almost as long.'
Cecil was quiet for a few moments. Careful to keep his voice neutral
he said, 'When your father set up the Trust, he expected to be alive when
Angus turned thirty. He was generous to include me at all.'
She shrugged. 'You want to know how Angus will react? Angus doesn't
really care about any of this. He cares about his sports and his friends and,
of course, his women - of which there are plenty, by the way. He'll be
more than happy to leave you to run BCMC, provided the money keeps
flowing. What do you want to see happen?'
'I thought the two of you should be appointed as non-executive
directors. I could carry on as executive chairman for the next few years
until Angus knows the ropes and is ready to take over. I thought you
might be interested in an executive position, perhaps the financial
director's job, in due course.' He watched to see how she reacted to this
carrot. God knew that someone smart would have to keep financial
control with Angus running the show, if he were really as casual about it
as she suggested.
'I've been accepted for an MBA at Harvard. That's one possibility I'm
considering. But I think it would be good to have hands-on experience
here before I go.'
Cecil helped himself to fresh coffee. Could it really be this easy? If
Roland's heirs were willing to keep out of his hair for, say, five years, he
was sure he could repay his loans from the Trust and turn the business over
to them in good shape. By then the diamond-mine situation would be
resolved as well, leaving him extremely wealthy, if Jason knew what he was
talking about. He could retire as the faithful steward who had husbanded
BCMC for the next generation. With an impressive pension and the block
of equity he'd get from the Trust, he could enjoy himself for the rest of his
life. And after all, why should Dianna and Angus care about their father's
company? Roland had been dead for fifteen years, and their mother had
taken both of them back to England to be educated and have the
roughness of what she called 'the colonies' polished away. Dianna had
returned often because she loved the African bush, but Angus had not
been back until a few weeks ago. Even with its recent setbacks, as Cecil
preferred to call them, the Trust would generate more than enough money
to satisfy them.
Dianna watched him while he poured coffee and selected a chocolate
croissant. 'That's what you want, isn't it, Uncle? You want us to get on
with our lives and leave running BCMC to you, don't you? It's your baby
now, isn't it? You really are just like my father. Control is what it's all
about.'
Cecil looked at her. 'I think you and I could work well together, make
a lot of money for the company and enjoy doing it. I'm not sure that
would really interest your brother.'
Dianna moved over to the pool and sat on the top step with water up
to her calves. She turned her head towards Cecil. 'Well, it's in the bag, isn't
it? Angus will vote the Trust shares in your favour, and you'll get the
support of the government directors with their ten per cent. You've made
quite sure of that.'
'You seem well informed,' said Cecil carefully.
As you just said, Uncle Cecil,' Dianna murmured, 'whoever controls
the Trust controls the board.' She stood up and said brightly, Are you
going to have a swim? The water's lovely.'
'I've got to get to the office. Actually, I've got an appointment with
Jason Ferraz at eleven about Maboane.'
Dianna stretched and walked to the deep end of the pool, ready to
dive. She glanced at Cecil. As a future director, I can start getting up to
speed on BCMC's resource interests. Why don't you invite Jason to
dinner? Let me know. I'll come over from the hotel.'
Cecil wasn't sure he wanted the young geologist's charm turned
towards Dianna, so he muttered something noncommittal. He'd better get
going, or the morning would be wasted. Rising, he meant to say goodbye
to his niece, but she was already back in the pool, swimming underwater
towards the far end.

CHAPTER 10

Arriving at the office, Cecil warmly greeted Jonny, his secretary, and
accepted some freshly percolated coffee. Fifteen minutes before his
appointment with the geologist, he extracted a brown envelope from his
desk drawer and carefully reread the contents. Satisfied, he put the letter
back in the envelope and into the drawer. He ran his hands over the
leather inset on the top of his desk as though smoothing it, enjoying the
feel of the well-used antique. It had been Roland's desk. He had changed
nothing in the office when he took over as chairman.
He didn't bother to rise when Jason entered, waving him to a chair and
exchanging the usual pleasantries. Jason was of average height, heavily
tanned, and sported a thick black beard. He wore the ubiquitous khaki
shirt and slacks - with shoes, however, not boots. He asked how Angus
was getting on with his orientation trips and then said how much he had
enjoyed Dianna's company when she had visited the mine. Cecil decided
he might as well follow the preferences of the two young people and
invited Jason to dinner with them that evening. After all, Jason was
pleasant enough and kept a bottle of whisky good company. Jason
hesitated and then accepted. But he seemed more relaxed after this
promising beginning.
Cecil turned to business. 'Let's talk about the Maboane mine. Is it still
producing the same level of gems?'
Actually, even better. We will be comfortably in the black this quarter,
at least on the mine operation itself. Exploration costs have gone up,
though.'
Cecil could have done without the qualification, but he nodded,
waiting for Jason to continue.
'We're in a very rich part of the kimberlite. We're now pulling out
diamonds of multiple carats as well as the smaller ones we've been getting
all along. It confirms what I've always suspected: that De Beers missed the
gradated development of the ore body and walked away from what you
might misname a gold mine.' He chuckled at this perennial joke, but
Cecil wasn't pleased to be reminded of the joint venture with De Beers. It
was supposed to make their fortunes, but when the diamond giant
rejected the prospect as not commercially viable, it had left him seriously
out of pocket. Since then he had been less susceptible to the geologist's
enthusiasm and less gullible about his claims. And now there was the letter
to add to his concerns.
'The thing is that we don't know how far this rich section will extend,'
Jason continued. 'For the moment we have a mine that's going to make a
substantial profit, but it's the tip of the iceberg. The rest of the iceberg is
in the surrounding kimberlite pipes. That's where the real mine is.'
'De Beers also knew about those pipes.'
Jason shook his head. 'No, they found the kimberlite dyke swarm, but
they didn't identify the surrounding pipes. They aren't magnetic so the De
Beers magnetometer survey missed them completely. We picked them up
with a ground gravity survey. I've had Aron supervising it, and he's done
a careful job. Look at this map showing the anomalies.'
He unrolled a map on Cecil's desk, pushing papers out of the way. The
map showed the range of gravitational attraction, with indigo representing
regions of low density and thus low gravitational attraction, red
representing regions of high density and thus high attraction, and a
rainbow of colours in between as the values changed from one extreme to
the other. A number of substantial, roughly elliptical indigo areas were
easily visible even to Cecil's untrained eye. Kimberlite, the magic host rock
of diamonds, had a low gravitational signature. So the low-gravity ellipses
could well be a swarm of new kimberlites around the mine. If they were
diamond-bearing, it represented a huge increase in the value of the ore body.
Jason could see that Cecil was impressed and pointed out the relative
sizes and positions of the anomalies. In spite of himself, Cecil was excited.
Could it be that his white elephant was the real thing after all?
'Cecil,' Jason said, dropping the 'Mr Hofmeyr' he affected when things
were going less well, 'these pipes are almost certainly part of the same
kimberlite extrusion we are mining, and we know from the existing mine
that they will be diamondiferous. We need to do some initial work
proving that these anomalies really are kimberlite. Then we get in one of
the major mining houses. The obvious one is BCMC itself, of course, but
m
if you're not comfortable with your company taking all the risk, we could
bring in another major with diamond expertise and do a joint venture.
Once we are into developing this mine, it will be much too big for the two
of us. But we'll keep a decent interest and sell out the rest for a fortune. I
think it will be an impressive sum of money even by your standards.'
He looked at Cecil carefully, gauging his interest. 'I think that Angus
is pretty keen on it too. He may want to take the whole thing over for
BCMC
Jason realised at once that this had been the wrong thing to say. Cecil
didn't want to be reminded about Angus's approaching control.
'Yes, that all sounds wonderful if it works out,' Cecil snapped. 'But
these kimberlites can't be close to the surface or De Beers would have
picked them up with sampling. They must be too deep to show. We'll have
to drill them. That's very expensive. Where's that money going to come
from?'
'We'll have to put in a million dollars, say, to get it to the stage where
a major will start drooling.'
Cecil snorted. 'That's the opposite of the royal we, isn't it? In this case
it means me. You don't have that sort of money'
'Perhaps we can leverage the money from the mine's operations?'
'How much profit do you expect from it this quarter?'
'Perhaps a hundred thousand dollars.'
He's a dreamer, Cecil thought. He believes all this - and, to be fair, he
has some good science to back it up. But one prospect in a hundred
produces an ore body, and only one in a hundred of those becomes a really
worthwhile mine. Am I looking at one of that tiny percentage here, or is
this gravity map a picture of a black hole into which my money - the
Trust's money, he corrected himself uncomfortably - is disappearing at an
alarming rate?
'Mr Hofmeyr, this could be the start of a whole new diamond
province. We've got a really big prospecting lease, too. If we do a deal with
BHP Billiton, they can fly their Falcon aerial gravity system over the area.
We could end up with a world-class mine! Remember that the richest
diamond mine in the world is at Jwaneng, less than a hundred kilometres
away as the crow flies.'
Cecil ignored that and changed tack. 'You say this Aron Frankental is
a good chap? What does he feel about this?' He nodded at the map.
'Look, Aron's solid. But he's young and doesn't have much flair. If it's
not in a respected textbook or taught to him by an academic with a PhD,
he's uncomfortable. But he stands behind that map.'
'I'd like to see him and get his perspective.'
Jason didn't like the implications. 'That's a good idea. We could have a
team session with the others too. When could you get down to the mine?'
He knew that there was little possibility of Cecil leaving the comfort of his
offices and home in Gaborone.
'No, let's get him up here.'
Jason smiled to himself. 'Well, we can do that, but I need him carrying
on work on the survey. He's out in the field right now. It would take a
while to set it up.'
Cecil briefly considered showing Jason the letter. Perhaps he should
confront him with Aron's suggestion about the stolen diamonds. He bit
his lip, then decided against it.
'Well, there's really no hurry, is there? If those pipes are full of
diamonds, they've been there a long time, and they seem to be quite
content. They're not going anywhere. In the meantime, if you can get the
mine up to full production of the good gems, we can start building up a
bit of money in the kitty. I don't have unlimited resources, you know, and
I'm taking all the risk as it is.'
He rose to indicate that the meeting was over. 'Shall we say seven-thirty
this evening? Casual.' Then, as Jason started to roll up the map, 'Oh, I'd
like a copy of that gravity map too, by the way' Jason just nodded, shook
hands, and muttered that he looked forward to the dinner. He was
obviously disappointed by the way things had turned out.
Cecil watched him leave. Without that letter, he thought, I probably
couldn't have resisted it. I would probably have gone for one more throw
of the dice and given him the money. He shook his head, not quite sure
which scenario he was rejecting.
Shortly after Jason had left, Jonny reminded him that it was time for
his appointment with the two government-appointed directors of BCMC.
He was taking them to lunch at the Phakalane Country Club, north of
town. The director of the CID would be making up a golf foursome
afterwards. That would lend some respectability to the proceedings, Cecil
thought with a smile. Actually, he liked Mabaku. Could be a helpful chap
with speeding fines and the like. Not a bad golfer, either.

CHAPTER 11

Jason arrived promptly at half past seven. He had taken trouble to look
casual yet smart. The safari suit had been replaced by white slacks and a
black open-necked shirt with a bold African pattern based on Xhosa
beadwork. He was carrying a large bunch of yellow and orange roses - for
Dianna, he explained - and presented Cecil with a bottle of decent French
claret from a good, if recent, year. Cecil appreciated wine and was pleased
that Jason had gone to the trouble of finding something worth drinking.
Cecil upgraded the wines for the evening, but he wondered if this
expensive gift was aimed at smoothing over the rather fractious conclusion
of the morning's interview.
Cecil was feeling mellow. He had enjoyed a good lunch and a pleasant
afternoon of golf, and he had lost graciously to his black colleagues, who
had each walked off with a thousand pula in side bets. They had been
effusive in their thanks for an enjoyable day while downing an obligatory
Scotch at the nineteenth hole. The directors had promised to have a word
with the minister about the irritating Bushman land issue. He felt that the
day had worked out well, and that his support at the crucial board meeting
was sewn up. It would be possible to resolve the diamond-mine issue in
due course. He could afford to make Jason feel welcome.
A few minutes later, a taxi brought Dianna to join them. She had also
gone to considerable trouble with her appearance. She wore a simple black
dress, strikingly embroidered with a birdwing butterfly in emerald and
crimson, which clung to her when she moved. Cut to show glimpses of
her long stockinged legs, it plunged between her breasts. In a surprisingly
formal touch, she wore a double chain of heavy pearls, and plain gold
bracelets. She had found time to have her hair done.
Dianna walked over to Jason, threw her arms around him, and gave
him a strong kiss that lasted several seconds. 'Hello, darling,' she said. 'I've
missed you!'
Jason held her at arm's length and appraised her carefully, lifting his
eyes from her slender waist, past her cleavage, past the pearls, to her face
and the glisten of her hair.
'You are looking gorgeous, Dianna,' he said quietly. 'What an
incredible dress.' Turning, he presented her with the roses. She smiled as
she took the flowers and called one of the servants to deal with them.
Dianna turned towards a numb Cecil, whose mouth worked like a fish
in astonishment. 'Didn't I tell you, Uncle Cecil? Jason and I have been
seeing each other ever since I went hunting in the Kalahari with him about
six months ago. We met at one of the camps I was staying at. He took me
down to see the Maboane operation, and the rest, as they say, is history.'
'I had no idea you knew each other well,' Cecil stammered. Jason's face
expressed his own surprise at Cecil being in the dark.
Cecil ushered them to the sparsely furnished lounge for a drink before
dinner. 'I like the modern minimalist style,' he said to Jason, recovering
some of his composure, and mentioned the name of the interior designer
who had produced their austere surroundings. Jason looked impressed and
nodded, assuming that the name would be well known to people who had
the money for this sort of thing.
'It's brilliant,' he said, 'uncluttered, almost spartan, but completely
comfortable.' This seemed to be an adequate comment from someone
whose furniture had to fit into the back of a four-wheel-drive truck. He
settled back to enjoy the excellent whisky. Cecil had added half a dozen
drops to it when Jason had asked for water; he was glad he hadn't tried for
soda. Dianna was drinking a dry Martini with an olive. He found it easy
to watch her and avoid the immediate need to say anything.
'How long are you going to be in Gaborone?' she asked him.
'Probably a few more days. It's really up to your uncle. We need to go
over some issues connected with the mine. After that I must get back. As
you know, we have an active exploration programme under way, as well as
the production from the mine itself.'
Dianna turned towards Cecil. Actually, Uncle Cecil, I've been doing
research on Maboane for some time. It's quite a substantial investment for
the Trust, and it isn't really clear to me how it should be handled.'
Now it was Jason's turn to be confused and concerned. He and Dianna
had had several conversations about Maboane's future, and he had been
sure that she supported his development plans. If she changed her mind,
it could cause him all sorts of problems and cost him a lot of money.
i

'What is your assessment, Uncle?' she asked.
Cecil felt panic welling up. He didn't want to explore this issue in detail
in front of Jason, and he didn't want to explore it with Dianna at all. She
had obviously already researched the mine. Did she know how much
money the Trust had lent to the operation under various harmless
sounding debenture entries? Did she know how much it had lent him? She
had completely fooled him about Jason. How much more did she know
that she was not revealing? He carefully savoured the whisky, buying time
to decide what to say.
'We're getting some excellent gemstones from lower in the ore body
now,' he eventually said. 'I think the mine is going to be very profitable
and, as Jason says, we have lots of promising possibilities to extend the
resource. Of course, we must be careful not to overstretch our investment.'
The last sentence was directed at Jason, but it was Dianna who responded.
'But in the joint-venture project report, De Beers didn't think much of
its long-term prospects. That's why they walked away from it.'
Jason looked at her, surprised. He thought he had given her all the
information she wanted, albeit carefully selected to support his point of
view. 'We believe that they made a big mistake,' he said. 'The heavy
mineral indicators were not right. Micro diamonds and some of value
lower down in the kimberlite, but nothing really payable. That was the
conclusion from the bulk sampling. However, on closer examination, and
after spending a lot of time there doing the geology, I'm convinced
otherwise.'
'Shall we go in to dinner?' Cecil interjected. 'I think the chef has prepared
a special main course for us. Pigeon with foie gras. He doesn't have
guests to show off to as often as he used to. I wouldn't want to disappoint
him.' He led the way to the dining room. They took their drinks with them.
Dianna was pleased with herself. Jason was visibly concerned that she
had read the De Beers report. Cecil was shocked by her liaison with Jason
and by the fact she was prying into BCMC affairs. She had expected him
to be surprised, but she wondered why he seemed so concerned. The first
few minutes of the dinner passed in complete silence, other than a few
quiet acknowledgements for the waiters. Cecil and Jason stared at their
smoked springbok carpaccio starters, eating without enthusiasm. On the
other hand, Dianna savoured the food and their discomfort in equal
measure.
The dinner was excellent and impeccably served with appropriate
wines, whose pedigrees Cecil described in some detail. So there was little
need of small talk until they were past dessert and into coffee and - in
Cecil's case - port and cigars. Everyone was more relaxed. Dianna was
radiant, slightly tipsy, and having fun.
'I think I'll have a glass of port after all, Uncle Cecil,' she said. Cecil
turned to call the waiter, who had discreetly retired to the kitchen.
'No, let me!' Dianna interrupted. For a moment she was quite still,
concentrating. Then, in an almost perfect replica of Cecil's voice, she
called, 'Johannes! Bring back the port. Miss Dianna would like a glass.'
The waiter appeared at once, looking at Cecil, but was greeted by Dianna's
laughter. Cecil was smiling too. 'That's fine, Johannes. Give the guests
new glasses and top mine up.' Then, to Dianna, 'I had forgotten about
your party tricks, my dear. I see you haven't lost your touch.'
Jason was surprised, unsure what to make of this. To change the
subject, he asked Dianna, 'Have you had a chance to explore Gaborone at
all since I last saw you? Not much in comparison with London, I'm sure,
but there are some decent restaurants and nightlife nowadays. There's a
nightclub I've visited a few times when I've been here. It's interesting.
African flavour.'
Dianna looked at him as though he had said something quite different,
which she considered carefully while she drank the port. 'No, I haven't. I
was waiting for you! Let's go.'
Jason wasn't sure if she meant immediately, but Dianna stood up and
thanked Cecil for dinner. Jason worried that he would think them rude,
but with a puff of Cohiba smoke, Cecil said he was keen on an early night
in any case.
'I'll have Jason drop me off afterwards at the Grand Palm,' Dianna
said. Cecil gave a casual wave, and they saw themselves out.
Jason helped Dianna into the passenger seat of the dented and
unwashed bright yellow Land Rover that BCMC had lent him to use
while in Gaborone. All BCMC's bush vehicles were this garish colour,
which was supposed to be the most visible from the air in case of a
breakdown or accident.
'I'm sorry about the vehicle. Not quite appropriate for a night on the
town, is it? I'm sure you are used to a rather different class of transport.'
'Yes, I suppose I am.' Then she spoke in Cecil's voice again, saying
pedantically, 'The Queen drives one of these around Balmoral all the time.
Not this colour, though!' This time they both laughed.

CHAPTER 12

The African Gala Club differed from the places Dianna was accustomed
to in much the same way that the Land Rover was different from the
red BMW sports car she drove in London. The club was loud and
glitzy, the African flavour supplied by tomba drums, which provided a
bass beat below the electric guitars and amplified voices of the live band.
The dance floor covered most of the room, with the obligatory
multifaceted sphere rotating above it, spreading flashes of colour among
the dancers.
The club was for adults - the prices ensured that - and there were
tables spread in the twilight around the dance floor, allowing one to rest
and even to attempt conversation. If people were taking drugs, they were
the designer ones of the twenty-first century; the air was free of the acrid
smell of dagga. Even though it was a Friday night, it was not crowded.
Jason said the atmosphere was better on Saturday nights, when people
flocked to the adjoining casino like moths to a flame.
They danced while the live band was playing, but when the musicians
deserted their instruments for a break, Dianna suggested a long, cold
drink. She found dancing required more enthusiasm than skill, and quite
rapidly exhausted her supply of both. Jason seemed comfortable and had
a good feeling for the rhythm. They headed for one of the vacant tables
while the disc jockey started his patter.
Jason went off to get pink gins. She had no difficulty letting him pay
for everything. Such issues had never mattered to her or to her friends.
While she waited for his return, she thought again about the Maboane
mine. She decided to try a small fishing expedition. Thanking Jason for
the drink, she said, Angus knows what's going on at the Maboane mine,
you know. I think you are going to have quite a problem there, Jason.' She
watched him carefully, detecting concern and uncertainty. He tried to
cover it with a mouthful of his drink, so she pressed on. 'He knows that it
will never be commercial. It's just a pipe dream, isn't it? And a money
trap?'
Surprisingly, Jason seemed relieved. A lot of smart people and
geologists think that, and we're going to prove them all wrong. There will
be a lot of dry pap eaten around here.' Seeing the look on her face, he
laughed and explained, 'Dry porridge. Humble pie, that is.'
Then he became more serious and leant forward until his face was in
her space, causing her to draw back. 'I haven't had your sort of advantages,
Dianna. This mine is going to make me wealthy, very wealthy. Your uncle's
a visionary. I won't forget his help, and I won't forget yours if you give it.'
He took her hands in his, and she felt her attraction to him stir with the
intensity and passion of his words. We really do have something important
in common, she thought.
She smiled, enjoying the effect on him. 'Is that a job offer? It's the
second one I've had today. The first was for financial director at BCMC.
The only problem is that I'd be under Cecil's thumb. What's your offer,
and what's the catch? They all come with a catch, don't they?'
Jason smiled back. 'I wasn't thinking of a job. I can't match Cecil's offer,
anyway. I was thinking more of an alliance. I know there are things you
want, and that even with all this' - with one gesture he took in the dress,
body, pearls - you can't get them by yourself. I'm willing to help.'
Who is fishing for whom? she wondered, finishing her drink. Although
his glass was still half full, Jason went to get her another. It took him a few
minutes to get service at the bar. Suddenly he heard a commotion behind
him: men's voices raised and chairs being knocked over. It was coming
from where they had been sitting. He deserted the drinks and elbowed his
way back.
A man was sitting on the floor amid up-ended chairs. He was holding
a handkerchief to his nose, but blood was still leaking on to his shirt. He
looked up at Jason's approach, frightened, fearing a further attack.
'She's broken my nose!' he said. 'I just--' But he shut up as Dianna
leant over him with her fists clenched. 'If you ever touch her again, you
whimpering mongrel, I'll break your scrawny neck with my bare hands!'
Jason looked at her speechless, shocked equally by what she had said and
how she had said it. Her intonation and accent were the same as usual, but
the timbre of her voice had deepened and hardened. The man scrambled
to his feet and backed off, still clutching the handkerchief to his face.
Dianna was looking at the knuckles of her right hand, which appeared

bruised and bloodied. 'I need to wash my hands,' she said, her voice back
to normal. Ignoring Jason, she walked towards the toilets. With no idea
what had happened, or what he should do, Jason finished his drink and
waited. After five minutes Dianna returned.
'What the hell happened? What was that all about?'
'It's hot in here,' Dianna said flatly. And I've danced enough. Please
take me back to the hotel.'

Jason pulled the Land Rover up in front of the impressive entrance of the
Grand Palm Hotel. The battered vehicle looked out of place amongst the
BMWs, Mercedes sports cars and luxury four-by-fours. A valet was
already fussing as they came to a stop.
'I really enjoyed the evening, Jason,' Dianna said. 'Would you like to
come up for a drink?' After the unpleasant conclusion to their clubbing,
Jason hesitated for a moment -- but only for a moment. 'Sure,' he said.
'Just leave the car here, then. Someone will deal with it for you.'
He left the car running, walked round to the passenger side, and
opened the door for her, She gave him a smile and got out. The valet was
already in the driver's seat.
'They gave me the Presidential Suite on the fifth floor,' she said, as
though it had been a present. They walked through the imposing
reception area and took the elevator to the top floor. She let them in. The
suite was spacious, with luxurious furnishings. Through the windows
Jason saw a stunning view of the city lights. She waved at a bar crowded
with bottles.
'Help yourself to anything you want, Jason. I'm sticky from the
dancing. I'm going to take a shower.' She smiled again and went through
to the bedroom, closing the door. Jason examined the bar. It was stocked
with every sort of liquor one could desire. He wondered what this suite
was costing her and decided she probably didn't know or care. He settled
for a generous tot of whisky and opened the fridge for ice. A bottle of
Dom Perignon champagne lay cooling next to some white wines he didn't
recognise. He decided to forgo the ice and took a generous mouthful of
the whisky. It slightly numbed his mouth and filled his senses with
aromatic flavours. He let it roll gently down his throat, liquid amber.
He heard the shower in the bathroom and considered the implications
of Dianna inviting him to her apartment and then immediately taking a
shower. Each of the previous times, she had decided when they would

have sex. It was time to change that. He swallowed the rest of the Scotch
and walked to the bedroom door. Opening it quietly, he went in. Through
the open bathroom door, he could see Dianna showering behind the
frosted glass. The shower was large enough for two. He hesitated for just
a moment, thinking back to the nightclub, and wondered how well he
really knew this woman. Then he let his instincts take charge. He stripped,
piled his clothes neatly on a chair, and opened the shower door gently so
as not to scare her.
There was a momentary flash of surprise in her eyes. Then she said,
'What are you doing?' He said nothing, so she gave him the soap. He
started to lather it over her shoulders and then worked down to her breasts
while the water flew off her body, liquid diamonds. He spent a while on
her breasts, teasing the nipples to stand up in his fingers.
'I didn't realise my breasts needed so much cleaning,' she said, but the
breathlessness of her voice belied the sarcasm. His hands moved down her
body to the private triangle, and at the same time he kissed her lips. Then
his mouth moved to her nipples. She was breathing hard now and started
to spread her lather over his body with her hands. Her fingers took his
maleness and guided it to her. Gently he lifted her at the waist and
brought her body down to it. She grasped his shoulders as he moved inside
her, her grip tightening as their passion rose. When he came, her fingers
dug into his flesh, but without release. She let him relax and rinse her
again, this time without passion. Then they dried each other with the
generous towels. She was still breathing heavily, and her pulse was high.
Her eyes fastened on his heavy shoulders and the thick mat of hair on
his chest, his strong legs and what still remained excited between them.
Small bruises were developing on his shoulders where her nails had dug
into him. He saw a slender and attractive, physically hard woman with a
designer body, probably sculpted by a personal trainer. Neatly toned but
missing some of the softness of feminine curves. Dianna indeed, rather
than Venus. He held her eyes. To her chagrin, it was she who flushed and
dropped them first.
Turning away, she put on a silk dressing gown offered by the hotel.
There was one for him too, but he ignored it and followed her naked into
the bedroom. She stretched out on the bed, letting her legs push open the
gown.
I'd like some champagne,' she said. 'There is some in the fridge.' She
was still tense, unsure if she wanted him to leave. He returned with the
bottle of Dom Perignon and two flutes. He poured carefully, and they
watched the bubbles form and rise. They sipped. It was heavenly wine, but
they were distracted.
Suddenly he leant over and roughly pulled the gown from her body.
Then he poured the golden, tickling fluid between her breasts so that it
flowed down around them, making a tiny lake in her navel before flowing
still farther down. When it reached the silk sheet beneath her thighs, he
stopped pouring and said, 'It's very expensive champagne. Pity to waste it.'
His tongue started to follow the rivulet from her breasts, emptied the
miniature lake, made its way on to the delicate triangle of hair, and then
on below. She moaned softly, and then he was inside her again with his
lips and teeth caressing her nipples. She felt her sexual tension rise still
further and arched her body against his. And when she felt him ready
again, she sank her teeth as hard as she could into his shoulder. He cried
out, but he was already coming inside her. With that, and the taste of his
blood on her lips, she climaxed too. When the waves stopped, she relaxed
against his body. He was still inside her, but now quiet. She reached for
her champagne, but her hand was shaking.
He was holding his shoulder, which was gently bleeding. 'You're a
bitch,' he told her, but without rancour, and she ignored it. She looked at
him again. His beard ran into the mat of chest hair which stretched
between his shoulders, over his stomach, and down to the bushiness of his
private parts. He's a gorilla, she thought. But my gorilla, she added with a
sudden possessive thrill in her loins. And he works at it. I have to give him
that.
Taking a mouthful of champagne, she leant over and kissed him
deeply, letting the champagne follow her tongue into his mouth. When
she separated her lips from his, she was pleased to feel that he was hard
again. She sipped more champagne and kissed him a second time, not
wanting sex again yet, but enjoying the taste of him mixed with the
champagne, and her power to keep him aroused.
You are a delicious man, she thought as her tongue worked round his
mouth, but there's one thing you're going to have to learn the hard way,
lover boy. I'm not looking for allies; I'm looking for tools.
Then she felt him start to thrust inside her again, and she didn't think
of anything else for some time.


CHAPTER 13

The cocktail party to welcome Angus and Dianna Hofmeyr back to
Botswana was the most lavish anyone could remember, more so even than
the one the US embassy had thrown when President Bush visited
Botswana in 2004. The foyer of the headquarters of the Botswana Cattle
and Mining Company glittered like the diamonds it mined. The Kalahari
String Quartet played familiar works with an African rhythm. The flowers
had been flown in from Cape Town, ericas and proteas in abundance, and
strelitzias, all coddled by subtle hues of purple fynbos. Mountains of
Mozambique prawns punctuated the tables, while Botswana springbok
carpaccio and a variety of marinated beef dishes showcased the company's
agricultural heritage.
Kubu wondered why he had been invited. It had been years since he
had communicated with Angus Hofmeyr, and he hardly remembered his
sister, Dianna. Yet Angus had welcomed him enthusiastically, and Joy was
having a wonderful time. She had spent almost a month's salary on her
sequinned gown, which moved on her like a second skin, and Kubu
thought she was the most beautiful woman there. But he would have
thought that in any case. She will be storing it all up to tell her sister, he
thought, smiling.
Kubu went off for another helping of the excellent prawns - there
was no shortage - and a refill of champagne. It was from a house he
had not heard of before - Gobillard et Fils - but it was the 2001 vintage
and rather good. Kubu approved of giving new imports a chance - and
preferably a second and third chance, if someone else was paying.
As the waiter was pouring the champagne, Kubu reflected how lucky he
had been to have Michael Rose as a lecturer in his English class at
university. Not only had he inspired Kubu to read more, but he had
introduced him and several other favoured classmates to the pleasures
of wine. Once a month he would have a small wine-tasting party,
encouraging the students to articulate the tastes they were enjoying.
'Language is about expression,' he often said. 'You need to be able to
describe the difficult things in life - taste, smell, feelings. It takes practice,
feedback and collaboration.'
At first Kubu thought this was a rationalisation for the parties, but later
he began to believe it to be true.
His glass full, he headed to the buffet, where he bumped into Mabaku.
cBengu!' Mabaku said with a smile. 'Let me introduce you to Colonel
Hamilton and Dr Martins. The colonel was just telling us about a very
interesting fraud case.' He sounded puzzled. 'But I must get back to
Marie. She wanted another couple of prawns.' Mabaku hurried off,
carrying a plate heaped with shellfish.
Kubu nodded and shook the hands of the two elderly gentlemen. Since
he knew no one but the hosts and Mabaku, he decided to make an effort to listen. It would free his mouth to concentrate on the more urgent
business of the prawns. But the exchanges seemed to have only one word
in common on each side, and he was soon lost.
'Bad job when those lawyers get at you in court,' offered the colonel,
shaking his head so violently that he spilt whisky on his dinner jacket.
'Court? Did you hear that Matthews collapsed at the club playing
tennis? Gone in a flash, and he was superbly fit,' came the reply from the
doctor.
'Was it a fit? I thought it was a heart attack.'
'Oh, he had a heart attack a few years ago, you know. Never fire
without smoke.'
'I didn't think Matthews smoked. Maybe he gave it up recently. Did
you buy that tobacco stock I recommended?'
Kubu didn't wait for the answer. Indicating that his glass was empty, he
returned to Joy, collecting a full glass en route. Joy was having no difficulty
finding people to chat to, albeit all males. Now she had found Angus.
'Kubu, your wife is absolutely gorgeous, and much too smart even for me\ How on earth did you persuade her to marry you?. Lucky for you she
didn't ask my advice.' While they were expanding on the joke, Dianna
joined them. She seemed put out and spoke directly to her brother,
ignoring the Bengus.
Angus, we have to discuss the financials with Cecil. I've just been
talking to Andy, the financial director, and I think--'

Angus interrupted. 'Do you remember David Bengu? My school
cricket friend? I always called him Kubu. And this is his gorgeous wife, Joy'
Dianna nodded to them. 'But Angus, we really need to talk seriously.
I'm not getting the answers I want from Cecil.'
'Look, Di, leave this to me. I'll chat to Cecil next week. I'll take care of
it. Why don't you enjoy yourself tonight?'
For a moment Dianna said nothing. 'Leave it to the men, not so?
Mustn't worry my pretty little head about business things? Just like Cecil.
He treats me like a little girl, something to show off the family looks. He
refuses to take me seriously too. You're both exactly like Dad used to be.'
'Uncle Cecil's done a great job as chairman of the company'
And how would you know one way or the other?'
Angus tried to recover the situation. 'Look, Di, we're having a party.
We can sort this out later. Have a glass of champagne.'
'You'll just get on with your playboy lifestyle, won't you, Angus? Let
Cecil go on calling the shots and pulling the strings? Well, I count too.
And it's not going to be like that. Believe me.'
Angus's ears reddened, partly in anger and partly in embarrassment at
this inappropriate exchange in front of Kubu and Joy.
'Di, you're not running the show here. I'll decide what's best for the
company and the Trust, and for you, for that matter. That's the way Dad
wanted it, and that's the way it is.'
'Don't you dare talk to me like that,' she said through clenched teeth.
She turned away from Angus and muttered something. Then she cursed
in a deep, bitter voice. At first Kubu thought she was talking to him, but
she was looking somewhat to his right, and her eyes were focused behind
him. He looked round but there was no one there. When he turned back,
she seemed to see him for the first time. She stared at him for a moment
and then walked away without a word. After a moment's hesitation, Angus
said he'd better go after her, and followed.
'What did you make of that?' Kubu asked Joy. 'Was she talking to us?'
Joy shook her head. 'I don't think so. She seemed to be looking past
you. She was upset with Cecil Hofmeyr. Was he standing in that
direction?'
Kubu shook his head. 'He's on the other side of the room.'
As the conversation around them picked up again, Mabaku came over
with his wife, Marie.
'What was that all about?'
'Brother-and-sister spat, I'd say,' said Kubu, helping himself to a couple
of mini pizzas with caviar from a passing tray. 'I'm sure it's not important.'
Joy didn't agree. Her instincts told her otherwise. And in the long run,
she would turn out to be right.

PART THREE:
Reading the Writing

A carrion Death, within whose empty eye
There is a written scroll! I'll read the writing.'

Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice, Act II, Scene 7

MARCH 2006

CHAPTER 14

The morning after he'd returned from Dale's Camp, Kubu arrived at his
desk a little later than usual. He put down his briefcase and went to the
canteen for a cup of tea. As Kubu poured milk into his cup, Edison Banda
appeared on a similar mission. He was an immigrant from Malawi, and
also a detective. Kubu told Edison about the Kamissa murder and asked
him to watch for reports of missing white people. Then Edison filled
Kubu in on some of his recent cases - an attempted robbery of a bottle
store and a few break-ins at private residences. Kubu nodded sympathetically,
because he knew how much time such cases took, usually with no
glamour and little likelihood of success.
As Kubu turned to go back to his desk, Edison said, 'Did you hear that
Ms BCMC has found herself a man?' He was referring to Dianna
Hofmeyr. 'He's developing a mine near the Central Kalahari Game
Reserve. Apparently they met about six months ago. She's been down to
his mine a couple of times since then. Then one of the guys saw them go
up to her room at the Grand Palm a few weeks ago. He was back in town
over the past weekend, and the same thing happened. Probably he's just
her local entertainment while she's here.'
'Interesting,' Kubu murmured. 'Thanks for the news.' He wondered
how this kind of gossip managed to spread so quickly. We're a social
species, he reminded himself. We are interested in other people, especially
if we know them or know of them. He recalled Dianna's strange behaviour
a couple of months earlier at the cocktail party the Botswana Cattle and
Mining Company had thrown for her and her brother Angus, who was
expected soon to take control of the company. Angus and Kubu had been
together at Maru-a-Pula school, and even though there was four years'
difference in age, they had become quite friendly because they
passionately shared certain interests, such as cricket. Angus had been a fine
all-rounder, already playing for the First XI even though he was only
fifteen. Although Kubu loved the game, he was too big and uncoordinated
to play, but was the official scorer for the team. By the nature of cricket,
there was a lot of time for the two to get to know each other. But then
Angus's father died in a terrible plane crash. As soon as they finished the
school year, Angus and Dianna were whipped off to England by their
mother, who made no pretence of liking Africa in general, or Gaborone in
particular.
After Angus left, he and Kubu had kept up a correspondence for about
three years. Angus complained about the British, about the weather, and
about the fact that he had to study hard to keep up at school. He never
mentioned either his mother or his sister in any of his letters. In the years
after that, the two exchanged no more than Christmas greetings. Kubu felt
that too would soon end. He had very fond feelings for Angus, for it was
he who had given Kubu his nickname. 'You're David?' Angus had
exclaimed in disbelief when they first met. 'D/zzWBengu? That's not right.
You aren't a David. Not even a Goliath! You're Kubu. That's what you are
- a big friendly Kubu!' Kubu is the Setswana word for hippopotamus.
Kubu remembered being upset at first, but he came to like the special
familiarity of the name. It made him feel closer to Angus. The other kids
had laughed, of course, but soon Kubu was his name. He was sure some
of his friends didn't even know his real name.
Back at his desk, Kubu telephoned his wife's sister, Pleasant Serome, at
the Gaborone Travel Agency, to get names and contacts for all resorts
within a hundred kilometres of Kamissa to check for missing persons.
Some of the more upscale resorts had telephone numbers and e-mail
addresses, while the others could only be contacted via radio. He
suspected, of course, that even these had satellite phones for emergencies,
but did not want to give those numbers out because of the costs. Typically,
the travel agent acted as their point of contact.
An hour later Pleasant called back and told him that she had faxed
through contact information for five resorts. She asked after Joy, which
Kubu thought was amusing, since the two spoke about five times a day.
He told her that Joy had promised him that Saturday would be a night to
remember. He smiled broadly as he wondered how Joy would react when
Pleasant shared this news.
Kubu picked up the fax and started calling the resorts. Most of my time
is spent on dull, routine activities, he thought, as he worked his way
through the numbers with no success. As much as he disliked it, outine

often did more to solve cases than did flashes of inspiration. The last camp
on his list was the Rucksack Resort, a popular stop for many of the trans
Africa safaris. A woman answered, and he explained what he wanted. After
a brief pause, she told him that a German group had come through about
a week before on its way to the Central Kalahari Game Reserve. When the
driver came back several days later, he was irritated because one of his
passengers had decided to leave the tour and spend extra time in the
Khutse game reserve. He was cross because the man had not bothered to
inform him directly, but had just sent a message with another passenger.
Kubu asked if she knew who the missing person was, but she did not. He
then asked for the name of the tour group and the name of the driver.
After a minute or two, she came back with the information. Kubu
thanked her and hung up.
Kubu phoned Pleasant again. 'Ever heard of the Miinchener
Reisegruppe tour group?' he asked.
She knew of the group. It's based in Munich. Occasionally they
contact us for add-ons for their clients, but not often. I've a contact
number in Munich, if that would be useful.' Kubu thanked her and wrote
down the number. 'Anything else I can do for the police?'
'You never know,' he said. 'I may need more information late on
Saturday. Bye, and thanks.'
'Kubu,' Pleasant said, 'Joy didn't know anything about what you said
she had planned for Saturday!'
'Oh, she wouldn't admit to something like that, would she? She'd be
embarrassed. Where is a good place to buy champagne?' Now she was sure
he was teasing, because Kubu was Gaborone's self-proclaimed expert at
finding good wines at good prices. 'I've got to go now,' he said, giving her
no chance to comment. 'Thanks again.'

At about three thirty that afternoon, a messenger delivered an envelope
from Forensics. It contained the cash slip Kubu had found with Bongani
at Kamissa. Apparently it was standard issue and came in preprinted
books. The paper had been dusted for fingerprints. They had found a
number, most of which were smudged and indecipherable. One, however,
was clear and well formed. They had run it through the computer, but
there was no match to any known criminal. Kubu had been given a high
resolution copy of the slip. He looked at it carefully. It was from the
Number One Petrol Station in the town of Letlhakeng. Probably the only
petrol station there, Kubu thought, and snorted. It was for two hundred
and fifty pula and a volume of petrol he couldn't make out. There was an
illegible signature, but the date was clear - the twenty-third of February,
four days before Andries and Bongani had discovered the body.
He dialled the number on the slip and waited.
'Yes?' said a voice at the other end.
'Is that the Number One Petrol Station?'
'Yes. What do you want?'
'Good afternoon. This is Assistant Superintendent Bengu from the
CID in Gaborone. I would like to ask a few questions to help me with a
case that I'm working on.'
'Okay' The voice seemed to think that telephone calls were charged by
the word rather than by the minute. Kubu sighed.
'Could you tell me who I'm speaking to?'
'Noko.'
And you are?'
'The manager.'
Deciding that this was as good as it was going to get, Kubu plunged
ahead.
'Well, Mr Noko, we found a cash slip for petrol sales from your garage
at the scene of a crime. We think that the criminals may have bought the
petrol on the way there. We'd be grateful if you could tell us anything
about the sale.'
'What's the number on the slip, and the date?'
Kubu told him. He was rewarded by a crisp 'Wait.'
After a few minutes Noko returned. 'We keep records,' he said, as if
Kubu had challenged this. 'The sale was made on the Thursday-night
shift. We don't keep the car registration numbers for cash sales.'
'Who made the sale?'
'It was Mashu. He was on duty on that day, and you can see his
signature on the slip.'
'May I speak to him?'
'No. He's not here.'
Kubu took a breath. Noko was not unhelpful; he was just not helpful.
'Where is he?' he asked, and then, guessing the response, he added, And
when will he be back?'
'He's off. He'll be here during the day tomorrow.'
'Fine. I'll call tomorrow then.'
'Okay, Mr Superintendent.' And without waiting for any acknowledgement,
the line went dead, leaving Kubu to contemplate the dial tone.

It was nearly four o'clock before Kubu tracked down the tour-bus driver,
who confirmed that Tjeerd Staal, a student from the Netherlands, had
deserted the tour at Khutse Camp. The driver asked Kubu why the police
were interested. Kubu told him and then asked, 'When did you last see
him? Did you see or hear anything that seemed as though he was in
trouble in any way?'
Ag, no. When we were at Rucksack Resort, he and another student,
from Germany, had a big argument in the bar the last evening something
about how the Botswana government is treating the Bushmen.
The German's first name was Joachim, but I don't remember his last name.
I can get it for you if you want.'
'Was that the last time you saw Staal?'
Ag, no. They both were on the bus the next day, at opposite ends.
Funny! When Staal didn't show up for the trip back, it was the German
who said that Staal had met a girl who was with a camping group and
decided to stay on at Khutse, and then she would give him a lift back to
Gabs. I thought it was strange that he would know what Staal was doing.
Still, I didn't worry because that sort of thing happens the whole time.
Young people are always changing their plans.'
Kubu paused, thinking through what he had heard. 'Do you make the
return-flight arrangements back to Germany?' he asked.
'Usually. Wait a minute; I've found the trip schedule. Both of them
are going back at the end of next week. Both leaving from Gabs and going
via Johannesburg. Staal is on the Kim flight to Amsterdam from
Johannesburg on Saturday. Tannenbaum - that was the German's surname
- leaves on Thursday to Joburg, then via Lufthansa to Frankfurt.
Tannenbaum leaves Gabs at four in the afternoon on Thursday's Air
Botswana flight 123; Staal leaves on the same flight on Saturday'
'You have been very helpful, Mr van der Merwe. I assume you have no
idea how to contact either of them?'
'No way. They are on their own now'
Anyway, if you hear from either of them before they leave, please let
me know' Kubu gave him his telephone number and hung up. 'Oh no!'
he exclaimed out loud. He knew another long trip was in his future.
He telephoned the car pool to arrange a vehicle and, just before he
went home, told Director Mabaku's assistant, Miriam, that he was leaving
for the Rucksack Resort in the morning. He prayed she wouldn't suggest
he tell Mabaku directly, and sighed with relief when she said she would
pass on the message.

CHAPTER 15



This time Kubu chose Don Giovanni for his long drive. He felt in need of
the Don's advice. Joy had held him to the story he had told Pleasant and
was now expecting a special event. He had a grin you couldn't kick off his
face, and he sang with zest and enthusiasm.
Deciding to kill two sandgrouse with one stone, he made a detour to
Letlhakeng but struggled to find the Number One Petrol Station. The
main road was under construction, and the detours were very confusing in many places appearing to be any piece of open land near the road.
Eventually Kubu asked directions from a group of youngsters who were
sitting on a wall and watching with amusement as drivers passed, only to
return several minutes later, desperately trying to make sense of the maze.
They told him that the petrol station, or garage as they called it, was off
the main road to Khutse. Kubu wasn't particularly happy with this
information because he had been on that road before and had not seen it.
When questioned further, they told him the garage was actually not on the
Khutse road, but behind a high security fence a hundred metres or so
away. They pointed out a mobile telephone tower in the distance and said
the garage was right next to it.
Arriving at the Number One Petrol Station, Kubu found a seedy
establishment with a variety of broken-down vehicles on the apron, and
the pumps in need of paint. One seemed to have had an altercation with
a truck - which the truck had won - and leant crazily. He pulled up at one
of the other pumps and waited. A bored attendant sauntered out and
looked at him enquiringly.
'Hello. Are you Mashu?' The man nodded. 'I'm Assistant
Superintendent Bengu from the police. I'd like to ask you a few questions.
You may be able to help me.'
Mashu didn't look happy. 'I'm on duty,' he said.
'I can see how busy you are,' Kubu commented, looking at the
derelict cars and empty petrol bays. 'It won't take long. Noko knows
about it.'
'Okay. You'd better come into the office, Rra.'
The office turned out to be an annex to an area that was misnamed the
workshop. Little work was taking place. One man was doing some
accounts; he nodded but said nothing. Kubu wondered if this was the
terse Noko.
Mashu offered Kubu some coffee, which he accepted to break the ice.
When it arrived, it had some nondescript creature floating in it. Things
are pretty bad when the flies go for black coffee, Kubu thought, placing
the cup at a respectable distance.
He told Mashu the background to his questions and was pleasantly
surprised to find that Mashu remembered the sale quite well.
'Yes, I remember them, Rra,' he said. 'I was asleep. No one
comes through Letlhakeng at night. Why should they?' He paused,
but Kubu correctly assumed that the question was rhetorical. 'They
woke me up. Hooted loudly. I was dreaming about my Maggie. Yes,
well anyway, they hooted so I woke up and came out. I gave them the
petrol, and they left.' He smiled, pleased to have concluded his contribution.
'What
time was it?'
'Near dawn. Must have been around four o'clock.'
'Can you describe the car and the people in it?'
'Well, the car was a BCMC Land Rover - bright yellow. There were
two men in the front. They were in the dark, so I couldn't see them well.
The driver was a white man with a beard.' He paused. 'It was red. I didn't
see the other guy very well, but I'm sure he was black.'
'Was it an open truck or a station wagon? Two-door or four-door? Did
it have a BCMC logo on it? Do you recall anything about the licence
number?'
Mashu was trying to remember. At last he said, 'It was a station wagon
- four doors, I think, Rra. I don't know if it had a BCMC logo, but it was
their yellow, all right.'
'Did you look in the back of the vehicle while you put in the petrol?'
Mashu shook his head.
'Can you describe anything else about the men?'
'Well, it was dark. I was half asleep, Rra. I'm sorry'
Kubu thought about the cash slip. 'Did they ask you for a receipt?' It
seemed very unlikely that a couple of murderers would put in expense
claims. Mashu shook his head yet again.
'The man with the red beard gave me three one-hundred-pula notes,
and I gave him fifty pula back with the cash slip. We always give a cash
slip with the change. It's Rra Noko's rule.' Kubu nodded, satisfied.
'Can you describe anything else at all about the men?'
Mashu shook his head. 'It was dark,' he said for the third time. And
white men all look the same anyway,' he added with a shrug. 'Just the
driver's beard - very thick. I didn't like the look of him much. I tried to
clean the windscreen, but he just waved me away and gave me a few coins
as a tip. Turned out it wasn't even real money!' He gave a wry grin. 'He
cheated me, Rra!'
Kubu was suddenly interested. 'What do you mean, it wasn't real
money? Do you still have the coins?'
Mashu nodded, reached into his pocket and came up with a small,
grubby change bag. He dug in it and produced three coins, which he
handed to Kubu. The bag rapidly disappeared again.
Kubu looked at the coins. It was Angolan money totalling five new
kwanza, worth nothing in Botswana and not much more in Angola.
'I'll give you five pula for these,' he offered Mashu. Mashu could hardly
believe his luck, but with the suspicion of the very poor, he asked slyly,
'Perhaps it's worth more?' Kubu tossed the coins on the table and said, 'It's
okay. I don't really need them. You can keep them.' Mashu folded at once
and took the pula.
That was all that Kubu got out of him. Not much to go on really, but
more than he had expected. He finished by asking Mashu to let him take
his fingerprints. Mashu was very nervous about this and actually asked if
he should see a lawyer first. Kubu just laughed. He doubted that Mashu
had ever even sold petrol to a lawyer. Inevitably, while Kubu was taking
the prints, Noko entered the room.
'What has he done?' he demanded. Are you arresting him?'
'No, no, he's done nothing,' Kubu said patiently. 'I just want to check
his prints against the one we found on the cash slip.'
Noko nodded, but looked at Mashu suspiciously. Kubu tried to rescue
the situation by commenting on how helpful Mashu had been and even
shaking hands all round. All he got for his trouble was a smudge of
residual ink from Mashu and some automobile grease from Noko. Giving
up, he settled for directions to Rucksack Resort.

CHAPTER 16

Rucksack was quite different from Dale's Camp. As Kubu drove up, he
could tell immediately that this was not upscale accommodation. A dozen
or so tents were pitched around the central buildings. This was a
backpackers' resort - for people who wanted to see Africa on the cheap.
They would spend four or five weeks in a bus, trekking across Africa.
Kubu introduced himself at the reception desk. He asked the
receptionist to arrange for him to see the manager in about half an hour,
asking if he could use a large towel so he could wash the dust off in the
meantime. This was not a place with porters, Kubu thought. He decided
to get a steelworks for himself.
The receptionist suggested he make use of the public showers in the
campsite and gave him a towel. Kubu had the impression that she did not
want him sponging himself off in the men's room next to the dining area.
A half-naked hundred-and-forty-kilogram black man might upset the
guests, even if most of them were young.
Looking around, Kubu realised that the focal point of the resort was a
large bar that offered simple food as well. It was a low-budget operation
designed for low-budget visitors.
'Is that the usual barman?' Kubu asked the receptionist.
'Oh yes,' she replied, smiling. And owner, manager, bouncer and
general handyman. We only have a small staff here.'
'I'll speak to him as soon as I am presentable,' Kubu said.
Fifteen minutes later, Kubu went over to the bar and introduced
himself. The barman told Kubu that his name was Dieter Papenfuss from
Switzerland. He had set up the camp five years ago and enjoyed providing
young people with inexpensive accommodation in his favourite country in
the world.
'I did a trans-African safari fifteen years ago,' he explained. 'We were
twenty students in an overland truck. We spent a week in Botswana,
mainly in Chobe and Savuti. I fell in love with it then, and I still love it
now. I meet many young people here, and a few older ones too, who do
not have the money to pay high prices. I charge everyone the same, no
matter how rich or poor. I think having two prices is ridiculous - one for
locals and one for foreigners. It will kill the tourist trade eventually. People
are very greedy.^
Kubu shared these sentiments but did not say so aloud. He liked
Papenfuss's accent, which was definitely Germanic, but was quite soft with
a purring sound at the back of the throat.
'Mr Papenfuss. As you know, a body--'
'Everybody calls me Dieter!'
'Thank you, Dieter. A body was found near the Kamissa waterhole. We
think it had been there for about four or five days. I spoke to a bus driver
you know: Koos van der Merwe. He said that one of his group did not
show up for a trip back from Khutse a week ago. Apparently he and
another traveller had a big fight here in the bar.'
fa. It is correct. Two students were arguing about the Bushman people
- whether the government was right to resettle them out of the Kalahari.
One, a Dutchman, said that since they had ancestral lands there, they
should continue to live where they pleased and to wander as they needed.
The other, who was from Germany, said they were interfering with a great
wilderness area, hurting conservation of an irreplaceable ecosystem, and
that the government had every right to give them some land of their own.
They had too much to drink, and it became a very angry argument. The
Dutchman called the other a Nazi for suggesting the Bushmen should be
transported, as he called it. He said the next thing would be to exterminate
them because they were a nuisance, just like the Germans had tried to
exterminate the Jews. Mein Gott - what a fight. I had to bang their heads
together and throw them out.'
'Did it seem that one wanted to kill the other?' Kubu asked.
'I doubt it - but they were very angry. I think the Dutchman was still
angry about what the Germans had done in World War Two. Several
members of his family were killed, I think. Maybe he was Jewish. They
were young, with hot heads and too much beer and schnapps. I think they
would have liked to hurt each other. But kill? No.'
'But they were still angry the next morning. Van der Merwe told me
they sat at opposite ends of the bus.'
fa. fa. But you must remember they are young, with pride.'

'While they were here, Dieter, did either mention that they were
changing their plans and not returning with the bus? Apparently the
Dutchman - his name is Tjeerd Staal - left the tour at Khutse.'
'Nobody mentioned anything to me. You may want to ask the
receptionist. She is very popular because she is young like the students.
She often has a drink or two with them after work. No, I think you are
barking at the wrong bush. These are kids, not animals.' Dieter's tone
indicated that he had made his final pronouncement on the subject. 'May
I offer you a drink, Mr Detective?'
Aaaah, yes. Thank you. A double steelworks would be wonderful.'
'Nobody knows you here. You can have a real drink if you want.
Nobody will tell.'
Kubu smiled. 'Thank you, but I need something long and cold.'
After lunch, Kubu talked to the pretty receptionist, who told him that
her name was Siphile. She remembered the fight and the two angry men.
She, too, did not think that one would kill the other. They both seemed
quite sweet, she said. Both had offered her a drink, but she had declined
because she was still on duty. Anyway, by the time she was off duty, the
fight was over, and the two had been banished from the bar. So she did
not get to speak to them again.
Kubu thought that this whole trip had been a waste of time. Just two
hotheaded kids having a fight! Shortly afterwards he waved farewell to
Dieter and started the long drive home.

CHAPTER 17

Although the next day was Saturday, Kubu was in the office by nine. He
wanted to see if anything new had turned up while he was touring the
southern Kalahari. He sat down to check his messages, his ordinary mail,
his e-mail, and other paperwork.
As usual, it was a mixed bag. He was disappointed to find no missing
persons reports that could possibly shed light on the victim. He listened
to several messages asking for return calls on other cases he was working
on. There were no e-mails of real interest. He wished he could stop those
promising to improve his manhood or to provide graphic videos of horny
teens 'at spring break', which he assumed was some sort of bacchanalian
festival in the United States. He speculated how long the e-mail system
could survive the onslaught of pornography and solicitation.
The highlights were the reports from Forensics and from Ian
MacGregor. Forensics concluded that, based on the photos made of the
tyre tracks, the tyres were Yokohama Geolandars - a common bush tyre 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.
He 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 1.7 and 1.8 metres. 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 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 in to 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 smiled. '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 leant 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 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 lock-up
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 on to his shoes. Kubu retrieved his briefcase from the back seat
and walked towards the door on the front veranda. He climbed the three
steps on to the veranda 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 latice 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 towards a large glass of steelworks. He took
a couple of sips, savouring each, and then drained the rest in noisy gulps.
'Would you like another one, my dear?'
Kubu turned towards the door where Joy stood with a 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 daycare
centre for AIDS orphans and other underprivileged children.
Half an hour later, Kubu and Joy strolled around their small garden.
Kubu had showered and wore shorts. 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 even seen them spraying Christmas trees with fake snow
and eating traditional Christmas dinners, complete with plum pudding
and brandy sauce, even though the temperature outside was forty degrees
Celsius. 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 favourite 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 colour causing them to resemble small
stones in their natural surroundings. To minimise 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, 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 Moet. 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 prised 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. 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 on to 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 usl' 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
enquiringly. She sipped the wine and leant 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 difficult
to get rid of. What would they do with it? Feed it to the dog?' Without
thinking, he tossed a crust from his 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 realised where this idea had come from, and started to
smile. A few weeks earlier 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 visualised 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--'
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 realised 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 identity 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!'

PART FOUR:
Pricking Thumbs

'By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes.'

Shakespeare, Macbeth, Act IV, Scene 1

SIX WEEKS EARLIER: JANUARY 2006

CHAPTER 19

Despite its relatively small size, and attempts to avoid excessive
environmental damage, the Maboane diamond-mine complex interrupted
the arid vista like a scar. It was an open-pit mine that corkscrewed down,
following the kimberlite host rock into the depths. Nearby, the crushing,
washing and sorting plant stood waiting. A galvanised corrugated-iron
construction, it glared hotly, its unpainted walls dulled by sand storms and
the sun. Heavy-duty ventilation fans could not alleviate inside
temperatures usually reserved for Hades.
Aron Frankental was standing on a small ridge, where the rough dirt
road started winding down the side of the pit to the mine's current floor.
He was puzzled. He had a problem, and it was occupying much of his
time despite his boss's apparent lack of interest. Aron was a geologist, and
a good one. He had a degree from the University of Erlangen near
Nuremberg and had come to Africa to pursue his interest in diamondiferous
kimberlites. He had hoped that Maboane might be a steppingstone
to De Beers. The diamond giant probably did more research on
kimberlite geology than all the other mining companies and the local
universities combined. That hope had been shattered when De Beers
pulled out of the Maboane joint venture.
Recently, however, Maboane had started producing some much
higher-grade gemstones, and it seemed as though De Beers had made their
decision prematurely. But the good gems came in bursts, and therein lay
the puzzle. Aron wanted to know why the stones were not more uniformly
distributed. If he could find the answer to that question in the geology, he
felt sure that he could use it to direct the miners to the right locations to
keep those good stones coming. He turned this over again in his mind as
he watched the sun sink to the horizon and swell into a huge crimson ball.
He loved the fantastic Kalahari sunsets, made garish by the dust from the
mine.
If Aron had met Kubu, he would have discovered that their minds
worked in similar ways. An exploration geologist needs to be a good
detective. He (and it is usually a he out in the wilderness, with a fourwheel-drive
vehicle and only rocks for company) follows surface clues to
try to determine the structure and nature of the rocks below. Still more
important is to understand the development of those rocks and structures,
for that will offer pointers to what valuable gems or ores may lie hidden,
and where best to look for them. Diamonds are amazing. Kimberlite pipes
started life deep in the earth's mantle and thrust upwards, picking up
carbon that, at huge temperatures and pressures, crystallises into the gems.
If the conditions are just right, those crystals will be large, but most of the
time the process is too fast and only tiny valueless micro-diamonds result.
So the new flush of gemstone-quality diamonds from the mine suggested
a different geological past from that of the smaller and much less valuable
stones it had been producing before.
Kubu would have found this approach familiar. He, too, followed
history and tried to understand background structure and development.
Clues were pieces of information that led to facts, and the facts needed to
be placed in the context of human behaviours and motivations. Only the
timescales and motives were different. Geology makes no deliberate effort
to confuse; the aeons take care of that.
Aron's current theory postulated two kimberlites: a hasty one that had
rushed up, allowing the development of small diamonds, mostly of
commercial rather than gem quality; and a slyer, slower one that had
husbanded its resources, allowing the formation of wonderful gems.
Somehow the second had intruded into the first, mixing their very
different prizes. The puzzle was that he was unable to pin down the
geology that would allow that to happen. But there were strange alteration
patterns in the country rock around the mine that could have been caused
by some such event.
The sun sank below the horizon; there would be no twilight in the
desert. Aron turned away from the mine and headed to his vehicle. It was
time to go home.

Aron was one of just seven professional staff. Management costs had to be
kept down at the marginal mine. He and his boss, Jason Ferraz, were the
two geologists. There was the mine supervisor, a mechanic to maintain the
machinery and vehicles, and the security officer - Jacob Dingake. The two
administrators - the Devlin sisters - dealt with the accounts and the
cumbersome red tape around the production of gem diamonds, including
the Kimberley Process.
The Kimberley Process was the procedure that assigned to each batch
of stones a document that was a cross between a pedigree and a passport.
The KP document accompanied a diamond in coddled safety to the
ultimate consumer, who could thus be assured that it was what it said it
was, that it came from where it said it came from, and that its background
was free of the horrors of civil wars and the human suffering that certain
diamonds had so liberally financed in the past - the notorious 'blood'
diamonds.
The seven staff members lived in a block of small units some distance
from the main mine complex, in a different part of the compound from
the miners. Aron entered his unit and immediately switched on the
window air conditioner, which laboured into life. He no longer noticed
the sudden temporary dimming of the lights brought on by the greed of
its ageing motor at start-up. He walked into the kitchen and opened the
freezer, where he kept a couple of beers during the day to guard against the
high summer temperatures and the occasional power outages caused by
the mine's intermittent diesel generator. A really cold beer in the evening
was a necessity.
He opened one of the bottles of Windhoek lager, deep-chilled. He was
thankful for the German heritage of neighbouring Namibia, which had
produced a decent local beer. Although he quite liked the taste of
Botswana's St Louis beer, the 3.5 per cent alcohol content was too low for
a real drink. He poured the beer into a pewter mug, which had also been
stored in the freezer. He disliked the local habit of drinking straight from
the bottle. Sitting at the dining table, which doubled as a work area, he
put the tankard on a blotter so that the moisture would not damage his
papers, and started to review his work.
Each month the complete details of the diamonds and their weights
were published. This was as much for tax considerations as for the
Kimberley Process. But Aron needed much more detail. He wanted to
know where each batch of the larger gemstones had been found. He did
that by checking the production records against the locations where the
miners had been working. He had developed a graph covering the last
three months showing by weight the number of larger stones found each
day. The graph showed peaks of five or six days, separated by troughs that
might be weeks in length. The mine plan marked the locations where the
diamonds had been found. It wasn't encouraging. There seemed to be
three main areas where the larger diamonds had occurred, but he had been
unable to determine a significant distinction in the geology at those sites
or even a convincing relationship between them. He had spent most of the
day in the pit trying to do just that. However, the geology was complex,
and he felt that he might be missing something important.
The previous week he had performed an experiment. He had carefully
collected some of the rock still attached to the larger diamonds and
compared that under a geological microscope to the rock collected from
the smaller ones. Both were kimberlite, of course, since diamonds are
rarely found in other rock types, but he felt that the trace minerals were
sufficiently different to support his double-kimberlite theory.
Unfortunately he couldn't be sure without more detailed analysis.
In common with many geologists, Aron was a loner. He liked to have
a sense of a solution before he shared the problem with others. He felt he
had enough to intrigue Jason, and had tried out his theories over lunch
one day. The response had been abrupt and discouraging. Jason had been
dismissive and uninterested, going so far as to suggest that this sort of
speculation was not part of Aron's job, and that in any case all kimberlites
had an uneven distribution of gem quality. Aron had been hurt, but not
discouraged. He had heard some disturbing rumours about Jason, and
although he only believed what was proved to him, he felt uncomfortable
with the situation.
Aron wasn't very hungry because he had eaten lunch at the mine. The
mine workers were served a meal of chicken or beef each day with the
ubiquitous pap. Aron had developed a taste for it and felt that he should
not be over-critical of the mine food until his own cooking improved. But
he did feel the need for a sandwich and another beer.
He returned from the kitchenette after a few minutes with a new beer
in a fresh chilled mug, and a springbok fillet sandwich smothered with
mustard and canned sauerkraut. He glanced at his maps, plans and graphs,
and went so far as to push away the graph of gem quality per day before
he gave up trying to make place for the plate. Paper is winning this war,
he thought wryly. The other side of the table was clear, and he settled
himself there with his sandwich and beer. The maps and plans blurred a
little because of his short-sightedness; only the graph was now close
enough to be clear. He took a big mouthful, careful not to spill the
sauerkraut out of the edges. As he chewed, he looked at the graph.
Something struck him as different, new, surprising. Of course - it's upside
down, he thought. The peaks have become troughs, and the troughs have
become peaks.
That change of perspective changed the meaning. He stopped
chewing, the meat untasted in his mouth. His mind churned. All along,
until now, he had tried to discover what was causing the peaks of good
quality gems. Suddenly he thought of it in the converse: why were there
times when there were fewer good-quality gems? He immediately rejected
geological reasons. Any event that would destroy the bigger stones would
also have destroyed the smaller ones. It was people who must be removing
the good gemstones - men stealing them for their own gain. He had no
idea how that might be done, but suddenly he felt sure that it was
happening. He remembered that his mouth was full of food and
swallowed. As it hadn't been properly chewed, he needed to wash it down
with several generous swigs of beer.
Now Aron was faced with a different problem. Who was stealing the
gems? A few disappearing here or there would mean a failure of their
substantial and expensive security system, but it would be possible to
blame the miners or team bosses. But Aron mentally calculated that if the
peaks of gem production were the norms, then upwards of half of the
larger stones were being stolen. That required a very different type of
scenario. Aron found this new type of puzzle exciting. There are seven
suspects, he thought. Well, six, since I'm not the culprit. Intriguing as it
was, he felt this was a matter for the boss, and that was Jason. But he
didn't trust Jason. He might be in real danger if the thief was Jason
himself.
He rummaged in a cupboard and took out his journal. It was a
hardcover notebook that filled the dual roles of diary and record book. He
carefully entered his new theory and the logic behind it in longhand. Then
he turned on his laptop computer - same vintage as the air-conditioner,
he thought wryly - and typed a careful letter to the mine's owners in
Gaborone. While he accused no one of anything, he set out all his
scientific work and summarised all his concerns. He felt disloyal to his
boss, but he also felt that he needed the letter as insurance. He printed two
copies and tucked one into the journal. The other he signed and sealed in
an envelope addressed to Mr Cecil Hofmeyr at BCMC in Gaborone.
Jason was in Johannesburg buying some equipment for the mine, so Aron
had a few days of grace. He didn't have to find the thieves, only confirm
beyond any reasonable doubt, as the lawyers would say, that Jason was not
one of them. Motive isn't an issue in geological puzzles, so this was new
territory for him, but obviously no one would commit such a serious
crime if there was no personal gain. So he considered the case against
Jason.
Jason owned a share of the mine, so in part he would be stealing from
himself. Obviously if he could take the diamonds and sell them for much
more than his normal share, then he would be doing extremely well. But
he would be lucky to get half the value for stolen diamonds - probably
more like a quarter, with the Kimberley Process making stones harder to
move on the grey market. Then there would be accomplices to pay. It
made no sense. However, there was one issue to check.
The next morning Aron shaved for the first time in several days,
dressed as though he worked for De Beers rather than Maboane, and made
his way to the administrative offices. He presented himself to Shirley
Devlin - an attractive Welsh girl he had chatted up once or twice.
'Hello, Shirley,' he said, his nervousness bringing out his German
accent. 'I need some help from you this morning.' She gave him a smile,
but mentally noted that he had had plenty of time since their last meeting
to follow through if his intentions had not been honourable. She wasn't
particularly interested in honourable intentions.
'I need to check all the KP records against the individual gems we have
reported to the Botswana revenue office for the last three months.' Aron
didn't expect this request to go down at all well, and had prepared what he
hoped was a plausible explanation.
She looked at him as if he were crazy. He was suggesting a great deal of
work, and moreover it was right in the middle of her territory. And it was
pointless. Everything balanced because it was her job to make it balance.
The only point of checking would be to suggest that she was either
dishonest or incompetent. It was not a good way to start a conversation
with her, and she told him so in no uncertain terms.
'No, no!' Aron protested. 'There is a query, and I need to follow it up.
They are concerned about a possible discrepancy between the number of
carats we declare for tax and the number we declare for the KP. It's just a
check to make sure all the taxes are declared. No one is suggesting that you
have not done your job. But everything has to be cross-checked and
double-checked. They're concerned that we are declaring more diamonds
on the Kimberley Process than we are declaring for tax purposes.'
'It's impossible for there to be a discrepancy. The diamonds are
classified in the sorting room and weighed in batches. Then they are
brought here and weighed again and described for the KP document. Mr
Ferraz signs off on both numbers and also checks the mine returns.'
'But suppose extra diamonds were described for the KP, but not
weighed at the plant?'
'I just told you that Mr Ferraz does that check. In case I'm not trusted.'
She seemed to regard the last question as doubly insulting.
'That's the concern, Shirley. The government now wants us to check
the mine records themselves directly against the returns. The easiest way
will be to check against the KP records.'
She threatened to refer the issue to Jason Ferraz. His shrug suggested
that she had that choice. Then he just stood and waited. Eventually she
told him what he could do with all his red tape, but then settled down to help.
By lunchtime it was done. Every diamond was accounted for, every KP
certificate linked to a declared diamond for tax and thus for production.
Whoever was stealing the gemstones was not getting a KP certificate for
them. That had been the only possible way in which Jason could get the
real value for the stones. Aron was satisfied. To thank her for the help, he
invited Shirley over for a drink that evening, which perked her up a bit.
It looked as though Jason was in the clear. But perhaps he had missed
something. He stood outside the administration office, unsure what he
should do. Despite the morning's work, he couldn't bring himself to trust
his boss entirely. At last he went back into Shirley's office.
'Shirley, I forgot to ask before. Would you kindly put this letter in the
outgoing mail for me?' He handed her the letter to Cecil Hofmeyr, hoping
she wouldn't notice the address.
She nodded, barely glancing at it. Then she made it clear that she
needed to catch up on her real work.

CHAPTER 20

After Jason's return from Johannesburg, Aron gave him a day to settle
down and then went to see him. Jason kept him waiting for half an hour.
Aron was nervous by the time Jason arrived and waved him into his office.
Jason, however, seemed to be in excellent spirits. He had managed to
acquire the needed equipment at good prices and for quick delivery. He
listened to Aron's new idea with concentration and seemed to consider it
carefully before he spoke.
'You are suggesting that the mine would normally produce the sort of
diamonds we've been getting in patches? But that someone has been
skimming off the cream?'
'I thought there might be sorters who are in on it,' Aron said. 'They
select some gems and hide them in the plant. Then they smuggle them out
afterwards.'
'What about all the security?' Jason asked. 'The video cameras in the
sorting room? And you can't get in or out of the processing plant without
going through the scans. There's a security guard on duty there at all times
while the plant is operating. After work the plant is locked and secured,
and only Dingake and I have override keys. No one else can go in or out
without setting off one of the alarms. So how do these hypothetical thieves
get the diamonds out of the plant?'
'Yes, I thought about that quite carefully. You and I aren't involved.'
Aron didn't mention that he had checked that. 'There's one other person
who could manage to get the stones out of the plant.'
Jason thought for a few seconds. 'Jacob Dingake?' Aron nodded. Jason
leant back in his chair and looked at Aron steadily.
'You understand that you are making a very serious accusation against
one of our trusted colleagues?'
Aron shook his head and said quietly, 'I am proposing a theory. You are
coming to the conclusions.'
They sat in silence for what seemed a long time. Then Jason laughed.
'I don't know, Aron. I still think there are other possibilities, including the
idea you suggested last time. I'm quite interested in that. I think we should
keep all these options open. Perhaps I'd rather mistrust the geology than
old Jacob. I think he's a bit too thick to pull off something like this.' He
laughed again.
'Let's have a couple of beers at my room tonight. Bring over your stuff.
We'll go through the geology again. Maybe we can find your second pipe.
That would certainly tip the balance on the new exploration with Mr
Hofmeyr.' Then he added, 'In the meantime, I'll keep a close eye on our
Mr Dingake.'
Aron left with mixed feelings. He was pleased that Jason had taken him
seriously. He was surprised by Jason's new-found interest in his geological
theories. And he was confused by Jason's lukewarm concern about the
possibility that upwards of half of his best diamonds were being stolen. He
wandered back to his bungalow wondering which way up he should hold
his graph after all.


CHAPTER 21

For several weeks, that was more or less where matters stood. Aron spent
some time exploring ideas with Jason, but he felt that Jason's heart wasn't
really in it. Aron might have settled back into his more comfortable
geological puzzles if one night he hadn't had too much coffee while he
finished his monthly production report. He spent time on his graphs and
tables and wrote up his journal detailing his rising concerns about the
mine management. He had another cup of coffee. Eventually he realised
it was two in the morning and that he was wide awake. He decided to
walk up to the vantage point above the mine and watch the moon over the
desert. As he was about to leave, he went back in and took down his
revolver from its hiding place behind some textbooks. Recently, there had
been rumours of a leopard about.
By this time of the night the ground had cooled. For once it was really
pleasant walking outside. He felt invigorated and almost jogged along the
road. When he reached his favourite spot, he looked over the hills in the
full moonlight for some breathtaking minutes before he realised that
something was not as it should be. There were lights on inside the plant,
and the perimeter fence lights were off. A single mine vehicle was parked
at the entrance. It looked like one of the security vehicles.
Aron knew he should raise the alarm, but he was sure that the answers
to his puzzles were in the building. He fingered the gun in his pocket and
walked down the road towards the mine. He felt very exposed in the
moonlight, but there were no signs of life at the mine - just the wrong
lights on and the lone empty vehicle. He found the perimeter gate locked,
as it should be. He had his keys with him. Years of habit in big cities and
some petty theft some months ago at the mine compound made him lock
his bungalow.
He let himself through the gate, locking it behind him. He couldn't
avoid some clatter, so he stood behind the vehicle until he was sure that
there was no reaction. Then he worked his way round to the plant door,
keeping out of sight of the windows. The main door was ajar. He peeked
in, trying to see what was happening inside. This was the security entrance
to the plant. There would normally be a guard on duty, putting packages
and overclothes through the X-ray, while their owners went through the
personnel scanner in a double-door chamber like an airlock. The room
was empty. The sensors were off, and both doors stood open. One could
walk straight through the chamber, which he did. It was eerie. The plant
was always either busily active or closed tight upon itself like an oyster
hoarding its pearl. No one passed through it without authority. It felt as
though the plant was deserted, abandoned.
Then Aron heard voices coming from the sorting room.
For the first time he was scared. It was stupid to have come here alone.
He should have gone straight to Jason, and the two of them could have
looked for Dingake and let him take charge, if indeed he could be found.
He considered going back, but the sorting room was open-plan. It should
be easy to see who was in it. He took the revolver out of his pocket and
pulled back the hammer. It made him feel silly rather than secure. I'm a
second-rate actor in a B-grade American movie, he thought. Nevertheless
he moved quietly up to the open door and looked in.
Two men stood at the sorting table with their backs to him, talking.
The table was covered with what appeared to be large uncut diamonds. So
I was right, he thought. Somehow they hid them here, and now they'll get
them out. He couldn't understand why this was taking so much
discussion. Perhaps they were already arguing over the spoils?
He had no intention of staying to witness the outcome, however. He
needed to get away while they were preoccupied. He started to back away
as quietly as he could, keeping his eyes fixed on them. The two men
carried on with what they were doing. One raised his voice, and there
seemed to be a brief argument, but all Aron could determine was that they
were not speaking English. Then he was through the door back into the
passage. He let out his breath. He hadn't even realised that he had been
holding it.
Suddenly a huge hand closed around his forearm, the long, fat fingers
reaching right around his wrist. He felt his bones grind and the gun slide
out of his grip. He twisted around to see a massive black man dressed in
khaki fatigues. He didn't cry out, and for a moment the man said nothing.
Then he called out quite casually, 'Boss!' One of the men at the sorting
table turned at once, a stocky man with a bushy red beard. He looked
surprised and then angry. Aron was sure that he had never seen him
before. An instant later the second man turned towards them. He was well
built, with thick black hair and a heavy black beard. Aron recognised him
at once. It was his boss, Jason Ferraz.

CHAPTER 22



'Sin? O que voce querem?
There were a few moments of silence on the line as the caller
deciphered this greeting. Then, 'Yes, hello. I want to talk to you.'
'You talk to me. What you want talk about?' The voice had a heavy
Portuguese accent. It sounded neither interested nor friendly.
'I know what you are doing. I know why you are doing it. I think we
need to talk about that.' The caller's voice had the refinement and
pronunciation of a graduate of an upper-class English school. The
recipient was sure he had never heard it before, and yet there was
something about it that seemed familiar.
'Bullshit. You waste my time with bullshit. I hang up.' And he did so.
No one should have his mobile phone number, except the few people who
needed to know it. Probably this was a wrong number or some sort of
scam. He didn't expect to hear from the caller again, but almost
immediately the phone rang once more. He checked the screen for the
incoming number, but it was listed as private. He grimaced so that his red
beard bristled. 'What you want?' he shouted into the mobile phone.
'If you hang up again, there are other people I can talk to. People who
would be interested to know that you have kidnapped an important
person and are holding him for ransom. The police, for example.'
'What you want? You after money?' This was said more quietly as the
man tried to work out who could have this phone number and know so
much. He needed to know who this person was. He needed to know
whom he now had to kill.
'No, quite the contrary. I want to do a deal. One that will be very much
to your advantage.'
There was a long silence. It seemed that the caller did not intend to go
on without encouragement. At last a response came: 'What deal?'
'You are holding this person until a specified date. There is a ransom
to be paid, but you are going to hold him for another two weeks. Then
you are supposed to release him, not so? He is supposed to accept what
has happened, and you are supposed to have time to leave with your
money. Lots of money, not so?' The voice paused. Then it resumed, calm
but firm: 'That's not going to work, is it? The man will know too much
about where he has been, whom he has seen, how long it took him to get
there. You can't let him go alive. That wouldn't make sense, would it?'
'Who you anyway? Who thinks he know so much about someone else's
business? Very dangerous know too much about other people's business.'
'You don't need to know my name. Just think of me as a friend.'
'So, friend with the bullshit. What you want? What's your deal?.'
'I want what you want. I don't want this prisoner of yours telling stories
after you let him go. I want you to kill him.'
There was silence while the man with the red beard digested this. The
caller had explained that his prisoner couldn't leave alive, but he knew that
anyway, so what was the game? Why was he having this conversation?
Why didn't the caller just sit back and wait for what was inevitable in any
case? Obviously the caller wanted something else, or something more. Perhaps that would give a clue to his identity. 'So what's the deal?' he asked
for the third time.
'I want two things. First, his death must look like an accident, but not
something crude that the police will see through. An accident that stays
an accident. I don't care how you do that - you're the expert, not so? The
second is that it happens after the date he was supposed to be released. You
keep him alive until then. After that he dies. In an accident.'
Again there was silence, but it was no longer hostile. Between these
speakers there would never be any trust, let alone friendship. They
recognised that each operated by a private set of rules, rules that had
nothing to do with morality or legality or collegiality, only personal
advantage. Right now, it seemed, their interests might be aligned. If so,
they could cooperate, do business. But tomorrow that might all be
different.
'Sin. Much harder than just get rid of the body. Why I go to all this
extra trouble?'
'I'll pay you two hundred and fifty thousand when he dies in an
accident at the right time, and another two hundred and fifty thousand
after the funeral. US dollars.'
'I want money up front. Why I trust you?'
The voice on the other end of the line laughed. 'You don't have much
option, do you? If it doesn't work out the way I want, the police get a road
map. A road map that leads straight to you. And if it does work out, you
walk away with another half million. Dollars. And if I don't pay? Well,
you're home free, aren't you? With plenty of time to come after me.'
Red Beard hadn't been born the day before, or even the day before that.
It was his turn to laugh. 'Sure. Very good. I take all risk, you get what you
want. Maybe I get money, maybe not. You know what I think? I think this
is bullshit. I think this job's blown, Mr Friend. Maybe cops know already,
maybe not. But you know. That's already too many people. You get your
package back right now. With bullet in his head. Look for him tomorrow.'
Deliberately, but smiling this time, he hung up.
As he expected, the phone rang again almost immediately. All right,'
said the upper-class English voice. 'Two fifty up front. Two fifty after the
funeral. But if you screw up, I come after you. And I bring the police with
me. I think they'd be very interested in meeting you.'
'Okay. But you give me a name. No name, no deal.'
'If you insist. My name is Daniel.' Red Beard sensed that that was the
best he was going to get. He didn't like it, but half a million dollars was a
lot of money.
'Where do we meet so you can give me the money?'
'No meeting. That's absolutely not negotiable. You'll get the money'
And suddenly Red Beard was listening to a dialling tone, wondering if he
had played this hand too well or not well enough. The money would be
nice - if he got it - but this Daniel was a loose end. He didn't leave loose
ends. Not ever.
The next morning a text message from his bank in Lisbon reported
that his account had received an electronic funds transfer from a bank he
had never heard of in Bermuda. He was disturbed that Daniel knew where
to send the money. The amount was two hundred and fifty thousand US
dollars. He was tempted to take the money and run. But he didn't. He had
one big weakness. He was greedy, extremely greedy. But he was also
careful, extremely careful.

CHAPTER 23

The room was comfortable enough. It could have been mistaken for a
hotel room in one of Botswana's cheaper establishments. A metal-frame
bed with a spring base and inner-spring mattress stood in the corner
farthest from the door. The mattress could have been firmer, but the linen
was clean and changed every few days. There was a small table with a
battery-powered reading light. In the centre of the room a work table
doubled as the dining table, with two plain-varnished pine chairs. The
table was dressed in a cloth that looked as though it had been retired from
an Italian restaurant, judging by its faded pattern of Chianti bottles and
dried vegetable bunches. An easy chair, whose insipid red clashed with the
tablecloth, was in the far corner. A large wardrobe's open doors revealed a
sparse mixture of clothes.
Off the main room was a small bathroom. A shower was mounted
on the tiles over the bath, surrounded by a stained plastic shower curtain.
On the wall above the hand basin clung a small medicine cabinet with an
open sliding-mirror door, revealing an electric razor, toothbrush and
toothpaste, male deodorant and hairbrush. A hurricane lamp hung over
the cabinet, with an asbestos fire shield above it. The windows in the
bedroom had been bricked up, and the bathroom's window had been
covered with a sheet of plywood attached to the window frame with heavy
screws.
The room was comfortable enough, but it was a prison.
The prisoner was sitting at the table, carefully studying a pile of
newspapers he had been given. He had first looked through the headlines
in all the sections and then, disappointed, settled in to absorb everything
to be found in the text. There was a copy of last week's Botswana Gazette, and three days' worth of the government Daily News from earlier in the
week. He spent nearly an hour going through them. With no ventilation,
the room was stuffy and hot. He was sweating.
There was a perfunctory thump on the door, and a huge man came in
with a lunch tray. Being so large, it was not surprising that the others
called him Sculo, an abbreviation oiminusculo in Portuguese. The hulking
man didn't seem to mind. He was big, but not fat, and very black. He was
sometimes willing to talk if things were going well, and he seemed to have
no animosity towards the man he guarded.
'Hey, man,' he said by way of greeting, 'they were generous today! Told
the cook to make you some real chow for lunch. Hamburger. Potato chips.
Cold beer.' He laughed as he set the tray on the table, pushing the
newspapers aside. Then he dumped himself on one of the wooden chairs,
which protested as he leant back.
'You'll be out soon now. We get our money. You go home.' He seemed
to mean it. This was an opening gambit in an ongoing conversation, and
the prisoner took his cue. 'You're not part of this Bushman People's
Liberation Movement nonsense, Sculo. You certainly don't fit the
Bushman template. About ten sizes too large! Not that anyone has ever
heard of this BPLM before anyway. How the hell did you get mixed up in
this?'
Sculo just shrugged. 'Man,' he said, 'I started off in Angola with
Savimbi's assholes. Then it was the National Angola Army of Reconciliation
or some nonsense like that. Their generals didn't know which end
of a gun the bullets came out. They were just there to keep the MPLA in
power to get their hands on the diamonds and other good stuff. When
they actually tried fighting, I went off on my own.'
'You're a mercenary, then?'
fa. You could say that. If you're in the army, they send you to stinking
places. You eat garbage, sleep in mud, and people try to kill you all
day. And you get paid shit. As a mercenary, they send you to stinking
places. You eat garbage, sleep in mud, and people try to kill you all
day. But you get paid like you're a king!' He laughed as though this was a
really good joke. The prisoner smiled and took a sip of his beer.
'You better eat that lunch before it gets cold,' said Sculo. So the
prisoner started on the hamburger. He was hungry, and it didn't taste
bad.
fa. Out of here soon. The Boss told me. Your guys are busy raising the
money.' The Boss was the bearded Portuguese man who seemed to be in
charge. The prisoner thought of him as Red Beard. He had two Angolan
shadows who communicated only in Portuguese.
'Red Beard doesn't have anything to do with the Bushmen either.
It's just a scam to shake money out of the company,' he told Sculo. But Sculo wasn't going to let his good mood be disturbed as he scavenged
a few chips that had been left on the plate, dipping them into the
sauce.
'Maybe, man. Who cares? They pay us the million. I get my share. We
all go home.' Sculo nodded to emphasise the happy ending. He seemed
very relaxed, and the prisoner thought it was worth a chance to try to buy
help.
'If you help me, you could get a lot more money than your share here,'
he responded. 'How about all of it? The whole million?' For a moment
Sculo just looked at him, but then he laughed as though it was the
funniest thing he'd heard in a long time.
'That's good. That's a real good one. A million dollars all to myself.
Could get out of this business. Go live in a nice place in South America
with nice girls. No AIDS. Only problem is, I get real dead along the way.'
This last thought seemed to rather spoil the joke, and he stopped
laughing.
'Well, you finished?' He replaced the empty plate, glass and beer
bottle on the tray, which he carried out without another word. The
prisoner heard the lock turn. He called out, 'Tell Red Beard I want to see
him.' There was no response, and he wasn't sure that Sculo had heard.
He picked up a newspaper and moved to the easy chair. He admitted
to himself that he was very worried. When he had been taken, he was
frightened, of course, and then Sculo had knocked him out. When he
came round, he was alone in this room on the bed. But once they told him
they wanted a million dollars in ransom, he almost relaxed. That wasn't a
really large sum of money and should have been raised in a few days. But
that was over a week ago. Why had it taken so long? Had the company
brought in the police? There was nothing in the newspaper - there never
was. He couldn't just disappear for two weeks. Someone must have
noticed.
He was now sure he was here for a purpose other than the ransom, and
that he was not likely to leave alive once that purpose - whatever it was had
been achieved. Sculo might believe it, but he no longer did. His one
hope was that he had discovered where he was, and help was not too far,
if only he could get out of this building.
Red Beard came to see him after supper. His most striking feature was his
bushy ginger beard, which flowed off his craggy and sunburnt face. It was
the only growth on an otherwise bald head. He spoke English with a
strong accent and, from time to time, used Portuguese words when he
couldn't be bothered to find the appropriate English ones.
'You want talk to me?' he said. He didn't sound happy. 'What you
want?'
'I want to know what's happening. You said you'd keep me informed.
Have you got the ransom? They should have paid it by now. When do I
get out of here?'
'Money comes soon.'
'That's not good enough! Let me talk to them myself!'
' Vai sefoder! Do like you told and you okay. Don't make me mad, or I
make you real sorry'
He walked up to the prisoner and glared at him, faces a few centimetres
apart. He turned and walked out, slamming the door. The prisoner heard
the lock click. He was convinced now that the ransom was irrelevant to
his situation. What sense did this conversation make? They should be
ranting and raving at him about the money, not the other way around. He
should be pleading for his life on tape, or bits of his anatomy should be
being delivered in anonymous parcels. Yet his captors seemed calm and
relaxed, as if everything was going to plan. He decided he had to take the
initiative, whatever the risk.
He got ready for bed as usual, brushing his teeth, putting on sleep
shorts, dousing the storm lantern in the bathroom. Then he climbed into
bed and pretended to read his newspaper again. He didn't know if they
watched him, but he didn't want to take unnecessary chances. After about
fifteen minutes, he turned off the reading lamp and tried to rest. He knew
he'd wake when the time came, but he was tense and thought he wouldn't
sleep.

When he woke abruptly from a deep sleep, it was pitch dark and still. He
knew it was time. He lay with his eyes open for a while, listening in the
dark, but he could hear no sounds. He carefully stood up and made a
crude image of himself in the bed with the pillows. He groped around in
the open wardrobe for his tracksuit and pulled it on over the sleep shorts.
He put on his running shoes, not bothering with socks. He didn't take
anything else. He believed safety was only about ten kilometres away. He
tiptoed into the bathroom and as quietly as possible closed the door. It
creaked a bit, and he stood breathless for a few seconds, listening. He
heard nothing. He stuffed a towel at the base of the door where the gap
would show light. He fumbled for the box of matches by the basin and lit
the storm lantern over the cabinet. This was the riskiest part, but he had
no choice. He couldn't do what had to be done in the pitch dark.
He took down his toilet bag and rummaged for a now-bent five-thebe
coin. He had snapped the nail file on the first day, but the coin had proved
more resilient. It had amused him that the classic escape tool had been so
useless. He fitted the coin into the head of one of the screws holding the
plywood panel and easily unscrewed it. It was loose, because he had taken
all the screws out before. He repeated the process for the other nine
screws. When the panel came away from the wall, it revealed the window.
The bottom section was solid frosted glass, but the upper part was a
ventilation window that hinged upward. The opening was large enough
for a man to fit through with some difficulty. He couldn't remove the glass
in the lower panel because the putty was too hard for his makeshift tools.
Breaking the glass was out of the question.
He climbed on to the toilet and carefully pulled himself up to the top
section of the window. He had heard that if you could get your shoulders
through an opening, you could get your whole body through. After some
uncomfortable wriggling, his shoulders were free. He could see the area
below, dark and quiet. It would be quite a jump from the window to the
ground, but with luck he would be off and running for the unlit and
unguarded gate within seconds of landing. It seemed easy. But then he
heard the bathroom door open.
'Fuck!' yelled Sculo behind him. 'What the Fuck!
He pulled himself desperately forward, trying to dive out of the
window, overlooking the fact that with no head start, he had little chance
of getting far.
A huge hand closed on his ankle and pulled him back, grazing his
shoulders on the window. 'Where the fuck you think you're going?' He
grabbed the window frame, as much to stop himself falling as to fight
back. He kicked out hard with his free leg almost by reflex. It was sheer
luck that his shoe collided with Sculo's face with a satisfying thud. For a
moment, he was free and pulling himself out of the window again. Then
both legs were grabbed, and he was yanked back. This time he couldn't
hold on to the window and he collapsed on top of Sculo. He kneed Sculo
hard in the crotch. Although Sculo screamed and doubled up for a
moment, the fight was over. Sculo of the swollen eye and battered genitals
was now angry, very angry. He smashed his fist into his tormentor's face
as hard as he could. His victim flew back against the bath. If his head had
hit the tiles, he would have been concussed. As it was, it hit the makeshift
shower mount, smashing his skull and breaking his neck.

Red Beard and his bodyguards pushed into the bathroom. Red Beard
glared at Sculo but said nothing until he had examined the prisoner.
'You killed him, you load of cow shit. Why you so fucking stupid?'
'He was trying to escape,' Sculo said, but given his size advantage over
the dead man, it sounded lame even to him. Red Beard felt like killing the
black man immediately, but he already had one inconvenient corpse to
deal with. Punishment could wait. A bullet in the head in a slum area of
Gabs would be much more convenient. He looked forward to doing it
himself.
Red Beard was silent for a few minutes, thinking, while the others
waited. At last he turned to Sculo. 'Get his clothes off. Then you stay here.
No move!'
With that he stalked out, slamming the door. Sculo pulled off the
bloodied tracksuit, shorts and shoes, leaving them oozing in the tub. After
that he wasn't sure whether he shouldn't move at all or whether he
shouldn't leave the room. Eventually he sat down on the toilet.
A few minutes later, the door swung open and Red Beard returned, his
face flushed the colour of his whiskers. A tall black man followed him with
a plastic ground sheet and some tools. He wore blue jeans, but his shirt
was that of a bush guide. Without a word, Red Beard pushed the naked
body flat in the bath and with a hammer and screwdriver smashed out the
teeth. Then he started slicing off the fingertips with a sharp meat cleaver.
Sculo's blackness took on a tinge of green.
'Oh, this is nothing, man,' Red Beard said sarcastically. 'More fun if
he's still alive! Get the Landy ready. Me and the guide take a little bush
trip.'
Then he turned back to the mess in the bath. He looked down at the
body for a few minutes after Sculo left. Then he smiled. He lifted an arm
and pulled it over the edge of the bath. Using the cleaver, he hacked down
just above the elbow, feeling the blade bite the bone. After a few blows he
changed his mind. More carefully he cut through the sinews of the elbow,
sawing to the bone. With a sudden movement, he put his knee on the arm
and leant all his weight on it. The forearm broke off with a crack and
dangled towards the floor, held only by a few sinews. One tug detached it
from the rest of the body. Noticing a heavy gold ring on the prisoner's
other hand, he pulled it off and pocketed it. Then he walked out, taking
the arm with him. He was painted with blood, a nightmare from The
Masque of the Red Death.

PART FIVE:
False Thieves







112
A plague upon it, when thieves cannot be true to one another!'
Shakespeare, King Henry IVPart One, Act II, Scene 2

MARCH 2006

CHAPTER 24

Sunday was the only day when Kubu and Joy were still in bed after six
thirty in the morning. Normally, they both left for work around seven. On
Sundays, Kubu would get up when he woke, wrap himself in a large
dressing gown, fetch the Sunday Standard from the driveway, put some
food in Ilia's bowl, pour two glasses of juice, and return to bed, followed shortly thereafter by Ilia, who always found a comfortable valley in which
to snuggle.
As far as possible, Kubu maintained Sunday as his family day. Every
Sunday morning, he and Joy would visit his parents at their home on the
outskirts of Mochudi, twenty-five kilometres north of Gaborone. This day
was no exception. At about ten a.m., the three of them set off on the
thirty-minute drive. Joy always drove, Kubu relaxed, and Ilia stood on the
back seat with her nose pushed out of the gap made by a slightly lowered
window. Traffic was relatively light, but taxis, bicycles and pedestrians kept
the speed down to a fast crawl until they reached the highway. As they
turned on to his parents' street, Ilia started yapping with excitement.
There was no doubt that she recognised the street, Kubu thought. He
wondered how much more went on in the dog's head. Were dogs relatively
stupid compared to humans, or were they smarter in ways that humans
just couldn't comprehend?
Kubu's parents lived on a sandy plot in a rectangular house that had
two small bedrooms, and a living space that included kitchen, dining area
and lounge. The walls were made from a combination of mud and brick,
and the roof was the ubiquitous corrugated iron. At the front of the house
was a small lean-to veranda, which Kubu had given his parents as a present
when he was promoted. They spent most of the day there, sheltering from
the hot sun.
The garden was arid. Several aloes grew at the side of the house, and a
straggly acacia tree at the back only partially obscured the outhouse.

Behind the house were carefully tended beds containing squash and
carrots and potatoes, which Kubu's mother, Amantle, tended with almost
religious care. Next to them was a collection of other plants, some in small
beds of their own and some in earthenware pots. It was an eclectic selection of small shrubs, herbs and succulents, and these Amantle would
never touch. Kubu's father, Wilmon, had spent years on a cattle post in the
Kgalagadi and had learnt much natural lore from the Bushmen and
others. He made no pretence of magic, but his herbal remedies were
highly sought after in the town, especially for rheumatic pains. Many
sufferers attested to the rapid relief brought about by Wilmon's rubs.
Relative to many in the Gaborone area, they were well off, because they
had running water - a huge boon - and sporadic electricity whose
availability was totally unpredictable. Kubu wasn't certain whether his
father even realised that there was a charge for the electricity, because he
and Joy paid the monthly bills.
And they had a mobile phone - another present from Kubu and Joy.
Although he and Joy spoke to them quite frequently, he was sure they
never used it themselves. Nevertheless, his father religiously turned it on
each morning and off each evening. On Saturday nights, he recharged it
whether or not it was flat. The routine was the important thing.
As Joy stopped the car at the edge of the dirt road in front of the house, they saw, as they always did, Wilmon slowly lifting himself out of his
favourite chair. Ilia, of course, was ecstatic; they had arrived at a place
where she was much more spoilt than at home.
'Shut up, Ilia!' Joy said.
'Quiet. Quiet!' Kubu hissed, to no avail. As soon as the door was open,
Ilia raced along the fence, skidded around the corner at the gate, and
jumped up on the elder Bengu, who smiled broadly and lifted the dog
affectionately off the ground. Ilia was delighted and licked all available
skin. Kubu walked up to his parents and formally greeted them, 'Dumela, Rra. Dumela, Mma.' He then extended his right arm to his father with the
left crossed over it as a mark of respect.
Wilmon responded solemnly: 'Dumela, my son.'
Kubu followed with: 'I have arrived.'
'You are welcome, my son. How are you, my son?'
'I am well, Father. How are you and Mother?'
'We are also fine, my son.' Wilmon's voice was strong, but quiet. It was
the same proud greeting that they had heard every Sunday for seven years.
Joy gave Wilmon and Amantle non-traditional hugs, even though Ilia
was between them. Then the three of them settled in their favourite chairs,
and Amantle went into the house to make tea. Even Ilia relaxed on
Wilmon Bengu's lap.
'Father, I am well, even though I have been travelling too much, and
my wife has been trying to starve me to death. Women today have no
respect for their husbands.'
'David, you are lucky to have found any woman to marry, let alone
such a wonderful one as Joy,' Wilmon said with a straight face, while Joy
suppressed a snigger.
'Father, you are a wise man, and I listen to you.'
Kubu's mother came out of the house carrying a bent and battered tray
with a large aluminium teapot, four enamel mugs, a white milk jug, and
a bowl of sugar.
'David and Joy,' she said. 'Please have some tea.' She put the tray
on the table. Joy stood up and insisted that she serve. As she did, she
opened her handbag and took out a packet of Marie biscuits, Amantle
and Wilmon's favourites. She poured four cups of strong tea, added
milk and sugar, and handed the mugs around together with three biscuits
each.
For the next few minutes there was a comfortable silence as everyone
either bit into their biscuits or dunked them in the tea. Kubu loved to put
half the biscuit in the tea and see whether he could lift the sagging half to
his mouth without it falling back into the mug or on to his trousers. Joy
thought this behaviour was very childish, but knew better than to say
anything. She nibbled at her dry biscuits. Kubu slipped Ilia a small sliver
of biscuit from time to time, but he made sure his parents weren't
watching. They would surely remind him of all the hungry people in
Africa.
'Joy,' Kubu's mother said, pretending not to notice what Kubu was
doing, 'how is Pleasant, and how is Sampson?'

Joy's parents were dead, and her only close relatives were her younger
sister, Pleasant, and an older brother, Sampson, who was working in
Francistown. Her parents had both been educated at a mission school up
north near Francistown. Her mother was a schoolteacher who loved
children and was able to impart her passion for learning to them. Her
father had started a small clothing shop that was successful, due to his
energy and the fact that he was willing to go to Johannesburg to buy his
stock.
When Joy was about fifteen, her mother died of tuberculosis, leaving
a hard-working thirty-five-year-old husband to care for three young
children. He was devastated by his wife's death. In typical African
fashion, both his family and his wife's family absorbed the children
into their lives and homes, while he engrossed himself in his work. He
became obsessed with the shop as a way to handle his grief. Five years
later, he suffered a massive heart attack and died within a few days.
Sampson was twenty-one, Joy was twenty, and Pleasant eighteen. None
of them had any experience running a business, so they decided to sell
the shop. The amount they were offered sounded like a fortune to them.
It was only years later that they realised they had sold at a price far less
than the shop's real worth. Nevertheless, by local standards they were well off.
Joy and Pleasant took a secretarial course and decided to move to the
capital, Gaborone, which had more opportunities for work and a larger
pool of single men. Joy found a job with the police department, while
Pleasant joined a travel agency, where she soon upgraded her qualifications
to become an agent rather than a secretary. Sampson stayed in
Francistown and went to work for the government, in the Ministry of
Lands and Housing.
Joy and Kubu saw Sampson about once a year, but Joy and Pleasant
were inseparable, talking to each other several times a day on the phone,
as well as frequently having lunch together at one of the fast-food outlets
near the travel agency. Joy wished Pleasant lived closer to them, but that
was not to be. She lived a couple of kilometres away on the north side of
town, where there was a better nightlife and more young people.

'Mma Bengu, we have not seen Sampson for several months. He is well,
but still single.' The tone of her voice conveyed the inherent contradiction
that one could be well and single. As for Pleasant,' she continued, 'she too
is well, but also still single.'
Kubu's mother seemed to shudder. 'The children of today have no
sense of responsibility. If your parents were still alive, they would be living
in sadness for your brother and sister. I know what they would feel. Just
look how long it took before David got enough sense to marry you. I
thought I would never smile again, and my heart was always dark.'
Kubu concentrated on his last Marie biscuit, willing it not to fall into
the tea.
'It has worked out well,' Joy said with a smile. 'It was important for
David to do well in his career so he could support me, and I am a patient
woman. I knew in my heart that we would marry, so I did not worry too
much. And now David and I are very happy'
'I am proud of my son.' Wilmon's comment startled the group because
he rarely participated in domestic conversations, thinking them silly and
repetitive. He continued as though Kubu was not present. 'He is an
important man. He makes Botswana safe for us. He is very clever - much
more clever than the crooks.'
Joy took advantage of Wilmon's presence in the discussion. 'David has
been working on a difficult case. Last week some rangers found part of a
skeleton in the desert. It was being eaten by hyenas. There is no clue as to
who it could be.'
'AaiiaaV Amantle let out a wail. Another Segametsi. Aaiiaa! She
covered her face with her hands.
Amantle was referring to the ritual murder a decade earlier of a young
girl, Segametsi Mogomotsi, who lived just up the road. The murder had
reverberated through the community, pitting old against young, women
against men, community against the police. People had taken to the streets
to protest the barbaric desecration of human life - the sexual abuse,
mutilation and killing of a beautiful young girl, all in the name of
tradition. Crowds had protested the inability of the police to solve the
murder. They accused them of not doing anything because prominent
people were involved, perhaps even policemen. And the murder was never
solved, even though the government took the unusual step of inviting
Scotland Yard to take over the case.
'No! No!' Joy said quickly. 'This was a man - a white man. Not
one of us.'
'Thank the Lord!' exclaimed Amantle. 'That was a very bad time for
Mochudi and the country. David, I hope you solve the problem of the
skeleton quickly. Do you think it was a murder?'
Kubu returned to the conversation at last. 'Yes, Mother. I am sure that
the man was murdered. But it is a difficult case because we do not know
who the victim is, and no white man has been reported missing. We can
ask the usual questions, but until we know who the victim is, we have little
to go on.'
'Just remember,' Amantle continued, wagging her finger at Kubu, 'just
remember that most men are killed about women or money!'
'Yes. Thank you, Mother. I will remember that, and I am sure you will
be right as usual.' Kubu smiled at her. 'May I have some more tea?'
Joy stood up and took Kubu's cup. Anyone else for more?' Everyone
was in the mood for more, so she went inside to make a second pot.

Once everyone had another cup, they gossiped about Mochudi and its
inhabitants, caught up on friends and relatives not recently seen, and
listened to Wilmon get heated about how the country was being badly
governed and how the youth of the day were all up to no good.
Often at this time Wilmon would take Kubu for a walk around the few
blocks near their house, ostensibly for 'man' talk, but in reality to show off
his only child to his neighbours and friends. 'My famous policeman
detective son,' he would say proudly. Meanwhile Joy and Amantle would
talk about things they would not discuss in front of the men. These activities were opportunities to maintain strong family ties. Both Kubu
and Joy understood how important these times were for Kubu's parents.
This particular visit ended shortly after a lunch of stewed meat and pap. One took a blob of pap and dipped it into the stew, which usually
comprised meat, tomatoes, carrots and onions. It was delicious and filling.
Kubu usually ended the meal with the wish that his bed was nearby.
After one more cup of tea to wash the meal down, Joy and Kubu
headed back home, leaving two happy people to congratulate themselves
on having a fine son and daughter-in-law. As Kubu drove south back to
Gaborone, he decided that he would think about work on his bed, and
not go in to the office. It could all wait until Monday morning.

CHAPTER 25

Kubu had just settled himself on his bed for his nap when the phone rang.
Not a good sign, he thought, when the phone rings on a Sunday
afternoon. It wouldn't be his parents, because they didn't know how to use
their mobile phone. He didn't think it would be Pleasant, because she was
out with some friends and would only be back in the evening. Kubu
willed the phone to stop ringing, which it did, because Joy answered it in
the kitchen.
'Kubu! It's for you,' she shouted. Kubu sighed and picked up the
telephone next to his bed. 'Yes?' he said abruptly, intending to make the
caller feel embarrassed for calling at such an inconvenient moment.
Assistant Superintendent Bengu here.'
The caller was Bongani. Kubu had not given him much thought
recently.
'Detective Bengu. Detective Bengu,' rushed Bongani breathlessly, 'I
may have found something about the murder. I think I have a picture of
the vehicle.'
'You have a picture of the vehicle? Who took it? Where is the vehicle
now? Can you read its number plates?'
'No! No!' Bongani said. 'It is not that sort of picture. I was looking at
the satellite data that came yesterday, and I may have found the vehicle
that was used in the murder.'
A satellite found the vehicle?' Kubu asked incredulously.

'No! No!' Bongani said more sharply. 'Of course the satellite didn't find
the vehicle. I did. I found it from the images the satellite took. I think you
should come and see for yourself. It's difficult to explain over the phone.
You need to see it. It isn't certain, but I think it could be useful. Can you
come over immediately?'
'Take a breath, Bongani. Are you still at Dale's Camp?'
'Of course not. I am at the university. You could come straight over.
I'm in the Biological Sciences Building on the north side of the campus.
Room 212.'
'I'll be there in twenty minutes,' Kubu said.
Kubu put down the receiver, hoping that this was not a wild goose
chase.

Kubu was proud of the university, and proud of earning his degree there.
It was an attractive campus set out in spacious grounds with pleasant
courtyards and well-kept gardens. His only minor complaint was that he
would have preferred exclusively indigenous trees and plants. But he loved
the road along the east side of the campus, which was lined with Acacia
xanthophloea. In English it was called the fever tree because early white settlers to northern South Africa believed it was associated with malaria.
As is often the case, cause and correlation had been confused; the trees
loved the swampy areas where the anopheles mosquito also felt at home.
In spring the trees would be covered with small mustard-yellow pompoms,
but their greenish-yellow chlorophyll-rich bark made them
attractive at any time of the year.
He parked next to the science complex and walked to the Biological
Sciences Building. The complex was less than fifteen years old and
completed in an attractive rust-coloured brick. The campus expansion had
taken place when money started flowing from the diamond mines. To
access the offices it was necessary to climb to the upper floors; the ground
level was reserved for teaching venues. 'He would be on the top floor,'
Kubu muttered, plodding up the stairs. But he was rewarded at the top
landing by a beautiful view of open country to the north of the campus.
Once again he felt the privilege of living in a city that had open space close
to its centre. He checked his watch. Twenty-five minutes since Bongani's
call. He made his way into the building, easily found Room 212, and
knocked on the door.
'Come in. Come in,' Bongani said loudly. 'Grab that chair and come
on over here.'
They sat in front of a computer with a large screen used for examining
image data. The screen showed a beautiful representation of the Kalahari
dunes, and Kubu became intrigued at once.
'It's QuickBird data,' said Bongani. 'Usually it's too expensive to use
over such a large area; but we got a big grant from BCMC to support
conservation in Botswana. The resolution of this image is about two and
a half metres. That means that each image point the satellite records is two
and a half metres by two and a half metres on the ground, which is about
six square metres.
'We're seeing the whole satellite scene here,' he continued. 'I'll zoom in
to the area of the river where the body was found.' He did so, but as the
image magnified, it started to break up into small blocks. As we zoom in,'
Bongani told Kubu, 'each image point is magnified to a square on the
screen. So everything looks jagged.' The edge of the river was no longer
smooth but saw-toothed. Still, the riverbed was clear, and Bongani
pointed to a greenish area which he claimed was the actual acacia tree
where the body had been found.
'Now let's follow the route across the dunes from the tree to Kamissa.'
The image panned over towards the left.
'Look at that block over there,' he said, pointing with a pencil to the
screen. To Kubu it looked much the same as all the other blocks. Some
were a darker brown, some more reddish. This one was a somewhat lighter
colour. 'Let me zoom in again.' This time the picture collapsed completely
into little squares. The image was no longer visually understandable, but
two of the little blocks were now clearly lighter and much yellower than
their neighbours. 'Those two blocks, representing about five metres by
two and a half metres on the ground, contain the vehicle,' Bongani
explained.
'Why should it be a vehicle? It could be a patch of lighter sand, couldn't
it? Even some springbok? Are all the image points equally reliable?'
'Good questions. But I've also got the panchromatic data - that's blackand-white
data - recorded at exactly the same time. Let me show you
that.' Bongani minimised the colour image and concentrated on his
mouse and keyboard for a few seconds. A black-and-white scene opened
on the screen. It was sharper and crisper than the colour image had been,
with more detail, and clearly covered the same area.
'This is the panchromatic image of the same scene. Here the spatial
resolution is much better - down to sixty centimetres, so one of the colour
image points breaks up into sixteen black-and-white ones. Watch this.'
Bongani again zoomed in to the riverbed, and now the tree where the
body had been discovered was quite clear. Kubu could recognise it. Then
he tracked from the riverbed through the dunes, stopped, and zoomed in.
At this resolution, what had been merely two lighter blocks in the colour
data became a collection of smaller blocks crudely outlining a vehicle.
'I actually spotted it in this panchromatic data,' Bongani admitted.
'That's how I knew where to look in the colour data.'
All right,' said Kubu, relaxing, 'let's suppose that those blocks do
represent a vehicle. That's important, because then we know pretty well
exactly when the body was dumped in the river. Would that by any chance
have been the morning of the Friday before the body was found?'
Bongani looked surprised, but nodded. 'Yes. At about ten-thirty. The
satellite always collects data at that time.'
And can we do any better than that?' Kubu continued. 'Can you get
more information about the vehicle itself?'
Bongani smiled. He had been waiting for this and looking forward to
it. 'I can estimate the size of the vehicle from the black-and-white data it's
about six square metres or roughly half of those two colour blocks. Let's
suppose that the rest of the area covered by those blocks is the same colour
as the surrounding dunes. Then I can find exactly what colour we need to
mix fifty-fifty with the dune colour to get the colour actually recorded by
the satellite.'
It was Kubu's turn to surprise Bongani again. 'Let me guess,' he said.
'BCMC yellow?'
Bongani looked startled. He had already selected a colour on the
screen. It was bright yellow. Neither man said anything for a few minutes.
Everyone in Botswana knew vehicles of that colour. Every vehicle of the
Botswana Cattle and Mining Company was painted that bright yellow to
stand out from the air in the arid country. Apparently it stood out well
from space also.
It was Kubu who broke the silence.
'I think we need a drink, and then I'll tell you how I knew what you
were going to say,' he said. 'Let's go to the bar at the Gaborone Sun.'

CHAPTER 26

First thing the next morning, Kubu plucked up his courage and went to
see Mabaku. Miriam waved him in, and Mabaku favoured him with a
grunt by way of greeting. Kubu took an unoffered chair.
'Director,' he said humbly, 'I need your advice.'
'I am delighted you think I have something to contribute to an
investigation, Bengu!' Mabaku said sourly. 'I hope you haven't got yourself
into some sort of trouble.'
'No, Director,' Kubu said. 'It's to do with the body that was found near
Dale's Camp.' Briefly he told the director about the fight between the
students. Then he got to the real point of the meeting.
'Remember that young academic from the university, Bongani Sibisi,
who was one of the people who discovered the corpse? Well, he phoned
me yesterday afternoon and said he believed he had found the vehicle that
was used to drop off the body. And he had.' Kubu hesitated. 'Well, he has
a sort of picture.'
Mabaku interrupted. 'My advice, Bengu, if you are asking for it, is to
find the owner of the vehicle and bring him in for questioning! Surely you
can work that out for yourself?'
'It is not quite as simple as that,' Kubu said. 'If we could identify the
vehicle, we would certainly find the owner and bring him - or her - in.'
He added a little emphasis to the 'her', remembering his last visit to this
office. Mabaku glowered but said nothing.
'However, the picture is not a normal photograph,' Kubu continued.
'Sibisi has a computer-enhanced image of satellite data of the area
coincidentally taken a few days before the body was found. He is able to
identify objects on the ground in quite an amazing way. The satellite, he
thinks, shows that the vehicle that dumped the corpse is owned by
BCMC. And there is corroboration of that.' Kubu told the director about
the Number One Petrol Station.
'Shit!' Mabaku spat out.
'I need your advice on how I should go about trying to find out about
the BCMC vehicle, if it is indeed a BCMC vehicle. Where should I start?
Who should I speak to? I don't want to stir up any unnecessary trouble at
this stage.'
Ten minutes later, Kubu left the director's office with a plan of attack. He was reluctantly impressed with Mabaku's insistence on pursuing any
leads to their conclusion. He can be a bit of an ogre, he thought, but he
is thorough and clear-thinking.
A junior detective would monitor whether Staal confirmed or changed
his flight. If nothing had happened by the Thursday morning, Edison
Banda would interview Tannenbaum at the Gaborone airport before he
left for Germany. He would then return to the airport to check whether
Staal took his Saturday flight. If he did, the lead closed. If not, Kubu
would contact the Dutch police for help in determining whether Staal was
alive.
In the meantime, Kubu would take Mabaku to meet Bongani. If
Mabaku was satisfied, they would set up an appointment with Cecil
Hofmeyr. Mabaku did not want to cause problems with BCMC and
thought it prudent first to visit his golfing friend, the chairman of BCMC,
both to alert him to the investigation and to seek guidance on how to
proceed.

It was close to four p.m. that day when Mabaku and Kubu arrived at
Bongani's office. This was the earliest the three could meet, and Kubu had
spent much of the day nervously waiting for the appointed time to arrive.
Kubu introduced Bongani and Mabaku, the latter showing surprising
civility initially.
'I have to say I'm very sceptical about what Assistant Superintendent
Bengu has told me,' Mabaku said. 'Please take me through what you
showed him. And keep the jargon to a minimum. I am interested in facts,
not a smoke-and-mirrors routine designed to impress me.' Kubu relaxed.
That was more like the Mabaku he knew.
For the next fifteen minutes Bongani made a careful and thorough
presentation of what he had found. He was careful to explain terms when
he thought it would help Mabaku understand what he was presenting, but
otherwise kept to the point. He answered Mabaku's questions directly and
clearly. Kubu was impressed by Bongani's organisation of his material, as
well as the way he handled the senior police officer. When he had finished,
Bongani pushed his chair back and turned towards the director.
'So! What do you think?'
Mabaku did not respond at first, keeping his eyes on the computer
screen with its profusion of small coloured blocks. He shuffled a little in
his chair and stood up, still silent. After a few seconds of looking out of
the window, he turned towards Bongani and said quietly, 'That is quite a
show you have there - turning bits of desert into yellow vehicles. I hope
your conclusions can stand up to close scrutiny, Dr Sibisi, because they
may have to.'
Mabaku paused for what seemed a long time. 'Thank you for your
time, Dr Sibisi. Let's go, Bengu.' He walked to the door.
Kubu stood up, glanced at Bongani, rolled his eyes, and thanked him
again. 'I'll phone you later,' he whispered, hoping that Mabaku didn't
hear. He turned and followed Mabaku back to the car.
As they drove back to police headquarters, Mabaku was unusually
quiet. But as they turned into the parking lot, he said, 'I'll set up a meeting
with Cecil Hofmeyr tomorrow, if I can. There is no proof that was a
BCMC vehicle, but we need to check it out. I hope BCMC personnel are
not involved in any way. That won't be good for anybody'
Fifteen minutes later, Kubu received a call from Miriam telling him
that they were to leave for Cecil Hofmeyr's office just before eight-thirty
the next morning. Kubu was surprised and impressed that Mabaku had
been able to arrange things so quickly. He wondered about the connection
between the two men.

CHAPTER 27

Kubu wasn't looking forward to the meeting with Cecil Hofmeyr. He had
no concern about bearding the lion of BCMC in his den, but he didn't
much like going with Mabaku, who would probably run the interview,
cramping Kubu's style. It was clear that Mabaku had no intention of
letting Kubu play this one on his own.
Actually, Mabaku was in good humour and seemed to be looking
forward to seeing Cecil. He was pleased that Cecil had told him to come
whenever he liked - he would make time for them. He told Kubu this at
least twice. Kubu tried to look properly impressed. They left punctually at
eight thirty a.m.. Mabaku had opted to go first thing in the morning so
as not to break up Cecil's day.
BCMC headquarters was a fifteen-minute drive away on Khama
Crescent, opposite the Orapa building, where diamonds were sorted for
the huge Debswana joint venture between De Beers and the Botswana
government. The BCMC building skilfully blended glass and brick, with
ponds and fountains outside. Nevertheless, it seemed out of place in the
sprawling village that was Gaborone.
Entering the building, both men stopped for a moment to savour the
cool air. Gaborone was over a thousand metres above sea level, but it
could still be very hot in March. The lobby was large, occupying almost
half the ground floor. The understated colours suggested the heat and
dryness of Botswana. Pedestals scattered throughout the lobby displayed
beautiful masks and sculptures. They were not from Botswana, but rather
the products of the great sculpting tribes to the north, in Zimbabwe,
Angola and the Congos. On the walls, faded black-and-white
photographs showed large herds of cattle, and bright-coloured ones
depicted mines and happy workers. Behind the reception desk hung a
large portrait of a suntanned man in an open-necked shirt with eyes a
startling shade of blue and a determined jawline. This was the late
Roland Hofmeyr, founder of the company, and brother to Cecil.
They checked in at the elegant reception area and were directed to
Cecil's office on the fifth floor. The waiting area offered a beautiful
panorama of the northern parts of town, with floor-to-ceiling windows of
tinted glass. The seats and sofas boasted upholstery in a colourful fabric
with a strong African motif. More historical photographs hung on the
walls. The secretary was polite but seemed agitated and surprised, and at
once telephoned through to his boss announcing, 'The police have
arrived.' He then waved them through the impressive double doors of
Rhodesian mahogany.
'Director Mabaku! It wasn't necessary for you to come yourself. And
how did you get here so quickly? Jonny phoned the police a few minutes
before I arrived. I've only been here about ten minutes.'
For a few seconds all three men looked at each other, puzzled. It was
Cecil who realised what was causing the confusion. 'Oh, of course, you've
come to see me about the other matter you mentioned on the phone
yesterday. It's nothing to do with the break-in, is it?'
Mabaku hesitated, glanced at Kubu, and turned towards Cecil with a
frown. 'Did you have a break-in here?'
'Yes. Last night, we believe.'
'Well of course we'll investigate it immediately. It is fortunate we are
here. By the way, this is Assistant Superintendent David Bengu. He's in
charge of the other case I mentioned.'
Kubu muttered that they had already met at the reception for Cecil's
niece and nephew, but Cecil showed no sign of recognition. He shook
hands briefly and at once returned his attention to Mabaku.
'Early this morning one of the security guards discovered that a
window on the ground floor was broken, but nothing else seemed to be
disturbed. But . . . here, let me show you.'
He herded them around his desk and pointed to the top right drawer.
The fascia was made from rich golden walnut with a delicate inlay of other
woods. It was obvious that the drawer had been forced open. The lock was
bent, and there was a chip out of the top of the drawer and a scrape above
it on the once perfectly fitting frame.
'This is an eighteenth-century French antique! You can see for yourself
how beautiful it is. It's very valuable too. Restoration will cost a fortune,
and it'll never be perfect again. I'm absolutely furious about it. Barbarians!'
'What was in the drawer?' Kubu asked mildly.
'Well, I keep some petty cash there, for odds and ends, such as staff
presents, taxis, whatever.'
'How much cash was in the drawer last night?'
'Oh, perhaps a thousand pula. It'll cost more than that to do the restoration.
Look at the way the front panel has different wood pieces inlaid.
Those will have to be matched, if it's even possible to get the right woods.'
'Who knows about the money?'
'Well, it's not a secret. Any one of my staff would know. They aren't
going to be tempted by such a small amount of money, I can assure you.'
'Was anything else taken?'
Cecil hesitated and glanced down at the damaged desk again. 'Not as
far as we can tell. The cupboards over there' - he waved at the built-in
fittings along the opposite wall, but kept his eyes on the desk - 'have a lot
of sensitive and important company information. But how can we tell if
anything's been taken - or copied?'
Mabaku interrupted. He had been on his mobile phone to the station
telling them not to send an investigating officer but rather a forensics
team.
'It's a very serious matter,' he said rather pompously. 'This is one of
Botswana's flagship companies. There is no telling what it would do to our
investment rating in the international community if confidence in our
security is lost.'
'Indeed. I'd be grateful if we could keep the whole matter low-key, for
exactly that reason.' Cecil seemed almost to regret that his secretary had
called the police in the first place. 'I know this is way below your level,
Director, but I'm grateful that you are here. You've put your finger on the
key issue right away. We don't want any hysteria. Not over some petty thief
after a few pula, for God's sake.'
Kubu was still thinking about the burglary rather than international
finance. 'Do you lock your door when you leave the office?'
'Yes, always.'
'Does anyone else have a key?'
'Oh yes. My secretary, Jonny, has a spare key. He's always in and out.'
And who would know about that?'
'Well, again, all the senior staff. But it rather misses the point, doesn't
it, Superintendent Bengu? Someone broke in through the window in the
men's toilet on the ground floor. None of the staff would have to do that.'
'That's true.' Kubu nodded, appearing to indicate that this was a good
point. After a moment's pause he asked, 'What time did you leave last
night?'
About six o'clock, I think.'
And this morning you came in only a little before we did?'
'Yes, I've already said that.'
'Was your secretary here when you left?'
Cecil thought about this. 'He wasn't at his desk, but I didn't see him
leave. Sometimes he goes to our gym. He often works late too.'
'You are sure nothing else was taken from the desk drawer?'
Cecil shook his head. 'I keep only the money in there.'
Kubu looked disappointed. He turned to Mabaku.
'Perhaps we should talk about the other case, Director? Then I want to
interview the secretary and the security guard, look at the broken window,
and check who else was around. But I don't think we should waste too
much of Mr Hofmeyr's time, do you?'
Mabaku had to agree. He looked enquiringly at Cecil.
'By all means, gentlemen. Please sit down.' Cecil, already seated behind
his precious desk, obviously expected the policemen to sit opposite him.
He had a conference table, but he was making it clear that this was not to
be an extended meeting. He was not in the mood for socialising. Kubu
looked at the desk's matching eighteenth-century chairs with their spindly
legs and wondered if they would hold him. He sat gingerly, but the chair
felt sturdy despite its delicate appearance. Eighteenth-century Frenchmen
who could afford furniture of this quality probably overindulged in foie
gras and Bordeaux wines. They would have had weight problems of their
own.
Kubu looked around. On the wall hung another portrait of Roland.
This time it was of Roland and Cecil together on horses, somewhere in
the African veld. Kubu thought Roland looked like the one with drive and
energy, while Cecil looked deferential. Another painting reminded Kubu
of a Skotnes. There was a magnificent Walter Battiss, whom Kubu
regarded as an honourary Motswana because of his knowledge and love of
the Bushman people and their art. This particular painting gave the
impression of sand dunes in the haze. It was made up of thousands of
meticulously rendered calligraphic figures resembling the forms seen in
Bushman art. Another Battiss, from a different period, an abstract with
bright, contrasting colours, was apparently of flowers and animals.
Whatever it was, Kubu thought, he would like it on his own wall.
Mabaku got to the issue at once. 'Cecil, I mentioned the body we
found at a waterhole in the southern part of the Central Kalahari Game
Reserve, not too far from Letlhakeng. Gruesome. Eaten beyond
recognition by scavengers. Well, we believe that the vehicle that was used
to take the victim there - or to take the body there, if the victim was
already dead - may have been a BCMC vehicle.'
'What makes you think that?'
Before Mabaku could answer, Kubu broke in. A sensor picked up the
colour of the vehicle. It seems it was BCMC yellow.'
'Of course,' Mabaku hastened to add, 'it might have been stolen. Have
you had any stolen vehicles reported, Cecil?'
'Not as far as I know. But after about five years we sell our vehicles and
upgrade. Maintenance costs start getting high, and it works out cheaper
to renew them. Obviously we sell them without repainting them. It's
hardly a registered trademark, you know.'
Neither Kubu nor Mabuku had thought of this embarrassingly obvious
explanation. Kubu was the first to recover.
'Yes, of course, I see that. It would be very helpful, though, to check
the records of sales as well as current records. We're quite short of leads.'
'Yes. Well. We'll be happy to help with any of your inquiries. I'll tell
Jonny to make sure you are given every assistance. Now, if there is nothing
more?'
Neither policeman could think of anything else, so they accepted
Cecil's rising as a dismissal and finished with formal handshakes.
Once out of the inner sanctum, Mabaku went off to meet the forensic
team, Kubu to speak to Cecil's personal assistant. The personal assistant
could add nothing to what they already knew. As part of his general
information-gathering, Kubu asked her to get him a copy of the previous
week's appointment book, and then went to look at the broken window.
After about half an hour they reconvened to interview the secretary. He
showed them to a meeting room and went off to arrange for coffee.
'What did you discover downstairs?' Mabaku asked.
A small window was broken in the toilet. Nothing subtle. Probably hit
with a crowbar. The intruder didn't bother to clear out the glass shards at
the bottom. He or she would probably have got cut climbing through. He
or she did remember to break it from the outside and to choose a window
facing the tarred road so there would be no footprints out there. The
window was above the toilet itself, so you would expect footprints on the
lid, but there was nothing like that. It's all obvious nonsense. This is an
inside job. No petty thief would break into BCMC headquarters, go
straight to the chairman's suite, open it with a key from the secretary's
drawer, break into an antique desk and get out with a thousand pula and
a feeling of a job well done. And that's leaving aside the issue of getting
past the outside security on the way both in and out.'
Before Mabaku could comment, Jonny returned with a tray containing
coffee cups, matching sugar bowl and milk jug, and a steaming pourer
fresh from the filter. After the coffee rites had been completed, he sat
opposite them.
'I'm so ashamed,' he began at once. 'Mr Hofmeyr's been good to me,
so I feel terrible about this whole issue. I was careless. It's my fault.'
Kubu asked mildly, 'Why is it your fault?'
'I left his office unlocked when I went home last night. I always spend
at least an hour in the gym each evening - we have one in the building for
the staff, and I try to keep fit - and when I got back at about half past six,
Mr Hofmeyr had already left. I had some papers that I'd finished but
hadn't given to him yet, so I opened his office and put them on his desk.
As I was closing his door, I thought I heard a crash - like a window
breaking. I went to my window, which overlooks the front of the building,
but I couldn't see anything. So I packed up and went home. When I
changed clothes later, I found the key to Cecil's - Mr Hofmeyr's - office
in my pocket. That's when I realised that I hadn't locked his door because
I'd been distracted. Thank God I didn't bump into the thief on the way
out! But I feel terrible about leaving the office open.'
'Did you tell Mr Hofmeyr this?' Kubu asked.
'No. But I suppose he'll have to know. He'll probably fire me.' He
didn't sound particularly concerned.
'How long have you worked for Mr Hofmeyr?'
About six months. I really enjoy the job. A lot of responsibility.'
Kubu nodded. 'So we see. And you often stay late?'
'Yes, I have a lot of important work.'
And sometimes you stay late with Mr Hofmeyr?'

Jonny didn't seem to like the question. 'Sometimes,' he said cautiously.
There was a rather uncomfortable pause. Then Kubu asked gently,
'How much were you paid for what you took from Mr Hofmeyr's desk?'
Oddly, neither Mabaku nor Jonny looked particularly surprised.
'I didn't take anything! I've been open with you and tried to help. I

don't think you should make completely unsubstantiated allegations and
accuse me like that.'
Kubu wanted to ask this pretty young man with his carefully gym
toned body and feminine lilt how well he knew Mr Hofmeyr - whom he
called Cecil - but he doubted if Mabaku would be happy with that
question. So instead he asked, 'Do you have a habit, Jonny? Need money
in a hurry sometimes?'
Even this was too much for Mabaku. 'You don't have to answer that,'
he snapped. But then, after a few seconds, he added more thoughtfully, It
would be helpful if you did, though.'
Jonny emphatically denied having a drug problem. They evidently had
decided to pin the crime on him, he said, since they couldn't be bothered
to find the real culprit. He wanted a lawyer if he was to answer any further
questions.
'Oh, I don't think that will be necessary,' Kubu said. 'I don't think we
need to ask you anything else at the moment, do we, Director?' Mabaku
shook his head. Jonny got up and went out, carefully closing the door
behind him to show that he was too well trained to give way to temptation
and slam it.
After a moment Kubu said, 'They're lying.'
'Who?'
'Both of them. Something much more important than a thousand pula
was taken from Cecil's desk. He was upset about the desk, but there's
something else. The thief has to be Jonny. I don't buy his nonsense about
hearing the window break and forgetting to lock the door. This is a
modern, sound-insulated building, and the toilet window is on the other
side of it, five floors down. He didn't hear the window break; he broke it
- on his way out, in case a security guard did hear the noise. He didn't
throw away this nice job, with its benefits on the side, for a lousy thousand
pula.'
Mabaku didn't ask what he meant by 'benefits on the side', and for
once he didn't argue. His morning had not gone well, and his mood had
soured. 'I'll go and chat to Cecil about it,' he said. 'Why don't you get a
taxi back to the office? Start thinking about tracing all the sold-off BCMC
vehicles.' Kubu didn't argue. He had had quite enough of BCMC for one
day.

CHAPTER 28

After Mabaku left, Cecil sat for several minutes glaring at the painting on
the opposite wall - the one Kubu had thought to be of animals and
flowers. It was actually a watercolour of stylised Bushman paintings. He
felt like throwing his ornate paperweight at it, but restrained himself. It
was, after all, a Battiss original and quite valuable. His anger was kindled
by the desecration of his desk, but it was stoked by betrayal. He pressed
the buzzer for his secretary. When Jonny came in, he told him to close the
door and left him standing in front of the desk.
'Who paid you to steal the letter?' he asked. His voice was calm but
Jonny knew him well enough to be scared.
'I don't know what you mean. I know how much you love that desk,
Cecil. I'd never--'
'Don't you dare lie to me. The police saw through you immediately.
They know it had to be an inside job, and you are the obvious candidate.
Did you really think you could get away with something so unutterably
stupid?' He drummed his fingers on the desk, and his gaze went back to
the painting. 'You have a choice. You can cooperate with me, and I'll
protect you; or you can wait for the police to hunt you down. You'll spend
a few years in jail and the rest of your life on the street. Decide right now.
I've wasted enough time on this already'
Jonny slumped into a chair. Having recently supported Kubu, it
accepted Jonny's slender frame without complaint.
'Cecil, I'm really sorry. I mean it. It was Kobedi. He forced me to do
it. I needed the money. I'm scared of him.'
'Why didn't you come to me?' But Cecil already knew the answer.
Jonny had been Kobedi's creature all along. There really is no fool like an
old fool, he thought.
'Never mind. Is it heroin?'
Jonny looked down. 'Kobedi said he'd wipe out the debts if I helped
him, if I ... um . . .' he hesitated and then ended with a euphemistic
shrug, 'worked for you.'
'But he wanted more, didn't he?'
'Somehow he knew about the letter. He asked me if I knew where it
was. I'd seen you read it and store it with the petty cash. Kobedi offered
me a lot of money for it. Cecil, I needed that money badly last night.'

'You are going to help me get that letter back. Then I'll drop the
charges. Get you admitted to a drug-abuse clinic. I'll pay. It'll look good
to the police. After that you are on your own. I never want to see you
again. Clear out your desk and go home and wait for me to call you there.
Now get out of my office.'
Cecil was still very angry, but there was a silver lining. For the first time
he had something on Kobedi. He didn't know how he would use it, or
even if he could use it, but his gut feeling was that Kobedi had gone too
far this time. He went back to his contemplation of the Battiss painting.
But it only reminded him of his difficulties with the Bushman land claims.
Suddenly he came to a decision. He lifted the phone and dialled an
unlisted number. Kobedi answered almost at once. It was too early for him
to have embarked on a tour of his favourite haunts.
'Yes?'
'It's Cecil Hofmeyr. I want that letter back. I want it back right
now. Jonny will come over and get it. If that's not convenient, I'll send
the police to get it instead. You've gone way over the line this time,
Kobedi.'
'Letter? Oh, that letter. Jonny said it might be worth something to me.
He's very anxious to please, isn't he? Did he tell you about his little habit? All that extra money you gave him just wasn't quite enough, was it?
Especially as he had to share it with me; my finder's fee, you might say'
'Listen, Kobedi, I'm not interested in the pimping you're so proud of.
That letter is a business matter. There's nothing in it that embarrasses me,
but it could be valuable to our competitors. If you don't return it, I'll have
no hesitation in sending the police. The director of the CID - Mabaku is
a personal friend. Don't think you can pull me down with you over this.
You'll be sitting in an uncomfortable cell for a long time, starting about half an hour from now. Mabaku is very concerned about Botswana's
investment climate. He's had some good stock tips from me, which makes
it a personal issue for him. He won't be happy about industrial espionage
at all.'
i
'I must admit that the letter was rather a disappointment. All those
geological goings-on at that mine, but nothing really juicy. But it does
suggest everything's not altogether right there, doesn't it? I'm not sure
you'd want all that read out in court - especially that last bit about stolen
diamonds. I think the police might be here already if that was all there was
to it. But I am your consultant, after all, so I'm concerned about your
welfare first and foremost. I've proved that pretty convincingly once
before, haven't I?' He paused and gave a theatrical sigh. 'But you are so behind in your payments. I tell you what, send over dear Jonny with my
money - in cash - and you can have the letter back. That's a very generous
offer, because I already have a much better one, and I'd still be expecting
my payment from you. We do want to stay friends, don't we, Cecil?'
Cecil thought about it. 'Who's the other offer from?' he asked, not
doubting that it existed. Someone had commissioned Kobedi to get that
letter through Jonny in the first place.
'No, I'm sorry. It would be very unprofessional to answer that. You
know how careful I am about business ethics.'
Suddenly Cecil was tired of the whole sickening business. He really
couldn't afford any sort of fuss, with the big board meeting coming up. He
promised himself that as soon as he had breathing space, he was going to
get rid of Kobedi once and for all. Now he would back off.
All right. I'll come myself. I'm not trusting Jonny with that sort of
money'
'Excellent decision, Cecil. My other client will be very disappointed.
But I suppose the break-in never really happened, did it? Turned out to be
impossible. Perhaps you'll want to keep the letter somewhere safer in
future? My other client isn't a very nice person. Can get quite violent,
actually.'
Suddenly Cecil realised how he might get even with Kobedi. He knew
how to let Kobedi's other client know that the break-in had in fact taken
place. All he said before he hung up was 'I'll see you in about an hour. I'll
have to go to the bank in person.'
Then he called in his personal assistant. He told her about the break
in and that he had fired Jonny, mentioning only that Jonny had forgotten
to lock the office on his way out the night before. She looked surprised,
but didn't comment.
'So I need a new secretary - you select one for me. I don't seem to be
too good at doing that myself, do I? Also, I wouldn't mind this appearing
in the newspapers - something about a rumour that personal papers and
money were stolen from BCMC headquarters. No real details. We don't
want investors to panic, do we, Paulina? But it may help the police.' He
didn't expand on how it might help the police, nor did he mention that he
knew Paulina was seeing a young man at the Daily News. He was smart;
she was smart. Between them they would work out how he wanted the
story to appear.
Another thing. Our security is a joke. Get some quotes on a complete
alarm system for the whole building. I have to go out now for about an
hour. Some private business. Cancel all my appointments. I'll see you
when I get back. Don't worry about a driver, I'll take a taxi.' Cecil was
feeling much better. But he had completely forgotten about Jonny waiting
for his call.

CHAPTER 29

It was half past eleven by the time Kubu returned to his office. Before
opening a case file on the break-in, he stopped at Edison Banda's desk.
'Hello, Kubu.' Edison said. 'I hear that you moved like lightning on
that BCMC break-in this morning. What's the story?'
'It was just a coincidence. Mabaku and I were going to meet Cecil
Hofmeyr about the Kamissa case. When we arrived, everyone was in a flap
because Cecil had just found out that someone had broken into his desk
and stolen some money. He was most upset by the fact that his precious
desk was damaged. I suppose that makes sense, though.'
Kubu pulled up a chair. 'It was obviously an inside job pulled by his
assistant. Do you know a Jonny Molefe, by any chance?'
'Never heard of him,' answered Edison.
Anyway, Molefe pretended that it was an outside job, but it was
obvious he'd done it. The strange thing is that he's well paid, so why
would he take such a risk for a few hundred pula? It just doesn't
make sense. He must have been after something else. But what? And
why didn't Cecil mention it? Unless it was something incriminating. I
thought at first it might be a blackmail note from Molefe himself - my
hunch is that Molefe and Cecil have more than a professional
relationship. But why would Molefe steal back his own letter? Maybe
someone saw them together and thought it a way to profit from Cecil's
wealth. Again, why would Molefe want to steal it? Makes no sense.' Kubu
leant back in the chair - a plastic one whose back was deformed from his
previous visits.
'Perhaps Molefe was working for a competitor?' said Edison
speculatively. 'Maybe it had nothing to do with sex and everything to do
with company secrets.'
'Wouldn't Cecil want the police to know about that? He wouldn't need
to reveal what was in it.' Kubu sucked on a ballpoint pen. 'Unless it was





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Michael Stanley

an illegal transaction, or he was blackmailing someone. Then he wouldn't
want us to know.'
'My guess is that Hofmeyr has been doing something under the table
and got caught! That would make him want to keep it quiet,' Edison said.
'Edison, could you do me a favour, please? Run a quick check on
Molefe and see whether he has a record. I think I'll have another talk with
him. I'll leave in fifteen minutes - as soon as I have the file opened on the
case.'

Jonny had cleared out his desk and gone home to wait for Cecil's call. He
wasn't going to wait long, though. He had his money and would need a fix soon. Also the thought of the drug rehabilitation centre took away the
guilt. He promised himself that he was going to be cured and would go
straight after this. He had learnt his lesson and was lucky to have got away
with a slap on the wrist. But until the centre cured him, he had no choice
but to continue the habit. He could wait for an hour or two. Not much
longer.
Two hours later, he was starting to fidget. Then the buzzer sounded.
With relief, he went to find out what he needed to do to get the promised
absolution. But when he opened the door, it wasn't Cecil. He was so
surprised that it took him a few seconds to recognise the large, stern
looking black man in his doorway. It was Assistant Superintendent Bengu.
'What do you want?'
'The lady at your office told me you were at home. She didn't expect
you back in a hurry. I thought you could come down to police HQ and
help us with our inquiries, as they say in the TV crime programmes.'
'I can't go anywhere. I'm waiting for Cecil - Mr Hofmeyr - to tell me
what to do. He'll sort out this matter. It's nothing to do with me. It's just
a misunderstanding.'
'Yes. But you see, I checked. Your record for possession of a banned
substance, for example. I suppose you didn't mention that in your job
interview with Mr Hofmeyr, did you?'
'He said he'd sort everything out. Drop the charges.'
Kubu looked down at Jonny, trying to find it in his heart to feel sorry
for him. 'Well, it's not quite that simple, you see. This is a criminal matter.
My boss is very upset about it. You remember Director Mabaku? Very
stern man. Very worried about his investments. Quite religious too. Do
you read the Bible? Eye for an eye, and all that? He's very strict about
sexual preferences too. That won't go down well with the judge either. I
think you'd better come down to HQ.'
Jonny backed into the doorway. 'I'm waiting for Mr Hofmeyr.'
Kubu sighed. 'Look, perhaps we can sort this out here. Either come
out, or let me in. I get irritable standing in doorways.'
Jonny hesitated, but then led Kubu into his apartment. Kubu looked
at the worn, cheap, second-hand furniture and thought about Jonny's
good salary and probably generous benefits on the side. He still couldn't
feel sorry for him, but found himself angry with the people who had
expensive furnishings paid for by Jonny's addiction.
'No eighteenth-century French chairs?' he asked as he settled himself
on to a worn leather couch, which creaked insultingly under his weight.
He regretted the jibe at once. We are not here to judge, he reminded
himself.
'Jonny, you're in a lot of trouble. You waited until Mr Hofmeyr left last night, broke into his desk, took the money and the other things
you wanted, and then broke the window on the way out to your car. I
can't prove that yet, but I will. I will talk to everyone at the company,
work out all the timings, check all the prints, find whatever it was you
used to break the window - you left your prints on that, didn't you? and
find what you stole. Then you'll go to jail for a long time. We take
this sort of thing very seriously in Botswana. We don't want the place to
end up like South Africa, do we? And jail won't be pleasant for you, will
it? No dope. Plenty of not very savoury characters with dubious sexual
appetites. Not very pleasant at all.' His stomach growled, and he added,
And the food will be terrible.' He shook his head as if genuinely appalled
by all this.
'Mr Hofmeyr said he'd help me. If I help him.'
'Well that's a coincidence, Jonny, because I'll also help you if you help
me. You see, I can get the charges dropped. But I want to know what's
going on, Jonny. I don't like people with antique furniture playing games
with me when I'm trying to do my job.'
Jonny said nothing, but Kubu smiled encouragingly.

'Good. Now what did you take from the drawer?'
Jonny looked away from him. 'The money. About a thousand pula. I
don't have it any more.'
'Of course not. And what else did you take?'
'Nothing.'
Kubu spread himself further over the couch. It creaked again. Looking
at Jonny, he waited.
'I took the money. I needed it for a fix. I was desperate. You don't
understand
Kubu sighed and looked at his watch. 'It's getting close to lunchtime.
I'm hungry and don't really want to waste too much time on this. Let's
finish up, and I'll buy you something at the pizza place down the road.
Otherwise it's back to HQ, and I'll eat my lettuce and tomato sandwiches.
I don't know what you'll get, though.' Kubu realised that he really was
getting hungry. Good, he thought, it will make me irritable.
Jonny didn't want lunch, but he knew that if he went to HQ, he
wouldn't get what he did want. 'There was a letter. I took that,' he said
quickly. Kubu nodded encouragingly as if he'd known this all along. 'Yes.
And who did you take it to?' Jonny said nothing, so Kubu changed tack.
'How much did he pay you for it?'
'Five thousand pula.' Kubu looked disbelieving but said nothing.
And he wrote off my debts. My other debts . . .'
'Who?'
'I'm not answering any more questions. I want a lawyer.'
'Oh, come on! You've already admitted to stealing a thousand pula as
well as a valuable document belonging to BCMC, which you then sold for
an unspecified sum to a dope pusher. What do you want a lawyer^r? You
say Mr Hofmeyr is willing to drop the charges, and why should I care? But
I want to know who paid you.'
'I can't tell you that.' Jonny sounded genuinely scared.
Kubu's stomach grumbled again. A calzone, he thought. With
anchovies and mozzarella cheese and tomato sauce. Perhaps only a
medium, since he was on a diet. He looked at Jonny hopefully. 'Why did
this person want the letter?'
Jonny shook his head. 'I don't know. I only glanced at it. It was all
about the geology of a diamond mine. Perhaps he wanted to buy shares?
Or sell it to a competitor? That might be it.'
'Very likely,' said Kubu. Perhaps with olives also, he thought. Olives go
well with anchovies. He checked his watch again.
'You know, I don't think Mr Hofmeyr is going to call. I think he's had
another idea about all this. That leaves you on your own, doesn't it? I'm
getting really hungry,' he added almost wistfully. He took out his
notebook and tore out the back page. 'I'll tell you what you should do,'
A CARRION DEATH

he said. 'Just write down the name on this piece of paper and leave it on
the table. Then we'll go out and get some lunch.' He passed the paper to
Jonny with his pen. Both were now keen to leave, but Jonny was getting
desperate. He quickly scribbled down a name and put the paper and pen
on the table. As they left, without apparent interest Kubu scooped them
up and into his pocket.
He let Jonny go his own way, and went to the restaurant alone.
Thembu Kobedi, he said to himself. That rings a bell. Where have I heard
that name? He puzzled over this for a few minutes before he remembered.
He'd seen Kobedi's name on the copy of Cecil Hofmeyr's appointment
book he had taken from BCMC. His mind flooded with questions. Who
is Kobedi, and what has he done? Why does he want the letter? What's in
the letter? Why did Cecil keep it a secret? Was Kobedi's appointment with
Cecil Hofmeyr linked to the letter? He decided the best way to find
answers was to pay Mr Kobedi a visit.
That decision made, he focused on more immediate matters and
ordered a steelworks and a calzone with all the trimmings. A large calzone.

CHAPTER 30

After lunch, Kubu set out to discover where Kobedi lived and whether he
had a police record. It didn't take long. There was a long list of arrests, but
few convictions. The arrests were mainly for drug- and prostitution
related offences, but none had stuck, and he hadn't even been charged for
most of them. There were a few convictions for minor offences, including
shoplifting (as a teenager), a suspended sentence for knocking an assailant
unconscious and then maliciously breaking all the fingers on both his
hands. The assailant had attacked him with a lead pipe, but appeared to
be no match for Kobedi, who retaliated in self-defence. Sounds like a
drug-related affair, thought Kubu.
Kubu asked Edison about Kobedi and was surprised that he knew a
good deal about him. 'Thembu Kobedi,' Edison said, 'is no good. He's
into drugs, both use and sale. He's known to be both a prostitute,
swinging both ways, and a pimp. We think he uses force when people get
in his way, but have never been able to prove it. He has a vicious streak,
capable of anything.'
'Where would I find him?'
Edison shrugged. 'Who knows? You could try the Highflyer later on.'
'The Highflyer?'
'On Kaunda Road. It's a nightclub. We think the name's not entirely
inappropriate.'
Kubu grunted his thanks. He had to be in court that afternoon on
another matter. But he would try Highflying after his dinner.

The Highflyer was an ostentatious nightclub, overdecorated in a pseudo
African style that seemed hardly necessary in real Africa. It was smoky, but
not so noisy that you couldn't hear the person next to you shout. A long,
elegant bar, surfaced in what used to be called Rhodesian teak, protected
the barman from thirsty customers, and a variety of tables were scattered
9
around the edge of the dance floor. A small band was taking its ease while
the disc jockey chose a selection of harmless music.
Kobedi was sitting at a small table, chatting to a girl who was dressed
to attract male attention, preferably of the paying kind. She was wearing
a miniskirt that displayed all of her legs - which she crossed and uncrossed
from time to time to emphasise the point. For his part, Kobedi was
wearing tight jeans - a couple of sizes too young for him - and a garish
short-sleeved shirt.
Eventually the girl got up with an artificial smile, handed Kobedi an
envelope, and drifted away. Kobedi gave her a wave and counted the
money. This is so easy, he thought. Fifty per cent, and she does all
the work. And she takes the risks. Kobedi made a mental note to remind
her to have her monthly AIDS test. It must be hard to insist that a
paying client uses a condom, he mused. Especially if they are willing to
pay extra for 'flesh on flesh'. He wondered if he was getting his half of that
extra.
Kobedi finished his Scotch and was about to signal the barman for
another when he noticed a large man in a crumpled suit pushing through
the swinging doors. Not the usual clientele, unless he was looking for a
high-class call girl. Kobedi thought not. He could smell a policeman
across the Kalahari, so he sat back to watch. The man walked to the bar
and spoke to the barman, who pointed at Kobedi. The man nodded and
walked over.
'How are you doing, Kobedi?' asked Kubu in a chatty way. 'Can I buy
you a drink?' Kobedi looked him over, wondering what this was all about.
'Sure, why not? I'll have a double Chivas on the rocks.' Kubu waved to
the bartender and ordered the same for himself. Kobedi wondered
whether this was an official meeting, given that the man was drinking.

'Can we talk?' Kubu asked.
'Sure, fire away. As long as I've got this drink, we can talk. You don't
get much of my time for one drink, though,' he said cheerfully.
'I understand you do some work at BCMC,' Kubu said. 'In the cattle
business, are you?'
'I'm over there occasionally,' Kobedi said warily, wondering why the
policeman hadn't introduced himself. He actually thinks I don't know he's
a cop! 'Do some consulting for them.'
Kubu looked interested. 'What sort of consulting would that be?'
'Some specialist animal husbandry,' Kobedi replied with a broad and
attractive smile, thinking of the good old days in bed with Cecil. Cecil's
first big mistake.
'Include practical demonstrations, does it?' Kubu asked.
Kobedi stared at the man for a moment, wondering whether to rise to
the bait. Instead, he laughed out loud, but didn't reply. They drank in
silence for a few minutes. Kobedi had decided to let the policeman make
the moves.
Kubu broke the silence. 'I heard you might be selling something - for
them, of course.'
'Did you indeed?' Kobedi replied blandly.
'So who's your principal up at BCMC?' Kubu asked casually, as though
he was only looking for something to fill the conversation gap. But Kobedi
didn't like that at all. He wanted to keep his dealings with Cecil strictly
between the two of them. He decided he had had enough of the game. He
leant forward and glared at the man.
'What business is it of yours, friend? Who the hell are you anyway?'
Kubu pulled out his police identification and tossed it to Kobedi. A
fucking cop,' Kobedi said with exaggerated disgust. Assistant
Superintendent David Bengu! What the fuck do you want?'
Kubu stared back with matching dislike. 'Well, I met a young man at
BCMC this morning that you might know. Jonny Molefe. Someone you
are slowly killing with drugs. Ring a bell?'
Kobedi tensed. He wondered how much Jonny had spilt.
'Can't say it does,' he replied dismissively.
'Quite a well-placed young man. Access to important documents and
such. You sure you don't know him?'
Kobedi looked into his drink. So Jonny had fingered him as being
behind the theft of the letter. Jonny's good as dead, he thought. He
decided not to respond.
And you wouldn't know anything about a letter that was stolen from
BCMC headquarters last night either, I suppose?' the detective asked.
Kobedi shook his head and drained his drink. He was surprised that
Cecil had mentioned the letter. He had gone to a lot of trouble to get it
back. And locked himself still more firmly into Kobedi's cage in the
process.
'Have you finished your stupid fishing expedition?' he asked
insultingly. Anything else you'd like to know?'
'Well, I know you visited Cecil Hofmeyr last week,' the detective said.
A CARRION DEATH

'I was wondering what you were selling. I know that animal husbandry
isn't your strong suit. Did the letter come up in that conversation? I can't
imagine you have anything else to talk about to a man like Cecil Hofmeyr.
Different class of person, I'd say.'
Kobedi thought about Cecil. He had played the chairman of BCMC
like a minnow for all these years. Fool! Cecil's second mistake. Pillow talk
expressing a wish that Roland were out of the way! If Cecil only knew that
the bars of his cage didn't really exist! It was lucky that nobody had
witnessed the accident. The brilliant idea of telling Cecil that he, Kobedi,
had sabotaged the plane to get Roland out of Cecil's ambitious path was a
stroke of genius. He had milked Cecil for so long, so easily.
'Why are you smiling like that?' Kubu asked.
Kobedi's mind snapped to the present.
'Piss off, fat man!' he snarled. 'If you have something on me, contact
my lawyer. Peter Vermeulen at Vermeulen, Siphile and Botma. He's the
best. Otherwise, keep the fuck out of my business.' He stood up, lifting
his side of the table so the detective's glass slid on to his lap. He stalked
through the swinging doors, leaving Kubu to muse about Kobedi's strange
reaction to the question about Cecil. And to mop his suit.


CHAPTER 31

The next morning, Mabaku summoned Kubu.
'I had a call from Cecil Hofmeyr yesterday afternoon,' he began,
getting straight to the point. 'Wants to drop all the charges. Seemed
Jonny confessed to taking the money. He's a drug addict, as you suspected.
Cecil's going to help him kick the habit. Quite decent of him actually, I'd
say'
Kubu nodded. He knew all this was coming. 'But Jonny took more
than the money,' he said. 'There was another item in that drawer.'
'Well, Cecil made it quite clear that he wants to put the matter behind
him. Charges dropped, no publicity. Case closed.'
'The only thing is, Jonny sold the letter he stole to one Thembu
Kobedi.' That got Mabaku's eyebrows moving upwards. 'There's got to be
more to it than a junkie needing a quick fix.'
But Mabaku had already reverted to his previous expression. 'Bengu,
the case is closed. It is clear what Cecil Hofmeyr wants in this matter clear
to me, anyway. Drop it. And keep away from Kobedi. He has the
contacts to cause trouble, if you understand me.' Since there was no
response, he repeated, 'You do understand me, don't you, David?' The
unaccustomed use of his first name made Kubu realise that he should not
pursue the matter.
'I understand very clearly, Director,' he said. 'I'd better get back to my
other case.' Mabaku nodded; yet he didn't look entirely satisfied.

When Kubu got back to his office, Edison waved to him from across the
hall. 'I picked up a call for you from the station in Letlhakeng. It's about
your hyena murder.' Kubu frowned. He didn't like the nickname his case
had acquired. He didn't see anything amusing about a hyena eating a
naked human corpse in the middle of the Kalahari.
'They saw your memo about the Kamissa body,' Edison went on.
Apparently they received a call a few days ago about a white mine-worker
going missing. They asked you to phone them back.'
Ten minutes later, Kubu had discovered that a Jason Ferraz from a
diamond mine near Maboane had reported that one of his geologists had
been missing for a week. Ferraz did not appear to be overly worried,
according to the Letlhakeng constable, but had said that it was unusual for
the geologist not to check in.
Kubu dialled the mine's phone number and was quickly transferred to
Ferraz's office
'Is that Mr Jason Ferraz?' Kubu asked.
'Yes, it is,' came the response.
'This is Assistant Superintendent Bengu speaking, from the Gaborone
CID. Apparently you phoned the station at Letlhakeng to report one of
your staff missing.'
'That's right,' Ferraz replied. 'Chap called Aron Frankental. Hasn't
been seen for a couple of weeks.'
Kubu's ears pricked up. 'Could you give me some details about this
person?'
'He's a geologist working here on the mine. Works for me, actually.
Really bright chap. German, with a first-rate academic background. We
were lucky to get him, but then again, there aren't too many diamond
mines in Germany! He's just disappeared.'
Kubu was already confused. 'Can we start from the beginning, please?
Where actually is the mine?'
'It's between the towns of Maboane and Ditshegwane. The nearest real
town is Letlhakeng. We're in the middle of nowhere. But that's where the
diamonds are.' Kubu realised that would be less than a hundred kilometres
from Dale's Camp as the crow flies. On the other hand, few roads in
Botswana had been designed with crows in mind. He'd have to check a
map. It might be a long way as the Land Rover drives.
And how long has Frankental been at the mine?'
'He's been here for about eight months. We employed him when we decided to drop the De Beers joint venture and go it alone. This was his
first real job.'
'Was he happy at the mine?'
'Seemed to love it. Real geologist's geologist, if you know what I
mean.' Kubu didn't. 'Really keen on the rock structures. He's been doing
great work with geophysics too. Could be responsible for a major upgrade
of the mine's diamond resources. We're very excited about it.'
'So he was doing a really good job? You were pleased with his work? He
would have had no reason to do a duck?'
'No, absolutely not. If the new kimberlites had worked out, we would
have given him some shares.'
That made Kubu ask, 'Who owns the mine now?'
'Well, I own a minority interest. The rest is basically BCMC.'
Kubu sat up at his desk. BCMC again. It kept coming up from
nowhere. Of course, it was such a big deal in this part of Botswana that
any step you took might trip over it.
'Have you checked his living quarters?'
'Superintendent Bengu, this is a small operation. He's not in his
bungalow.'
'No, I realise that. I was wondering if he had packed anything, if there
were any signs of something unusual, at worst a body.'

'Oh, I see. I'm sorry. Yes, we did look inside, but there was nothing
unusual. Of course we knew he'd be away because he was going off on a
field trip. Some more geophysics work. And he wanted to visit a group of
Bushmen he'd made friends with. So his vehicle is gone, and we expected
him to be away for about a week, camping.'
'Was it a BCMC vehicle?' Kubu was starting to feel excited. And the
Bushmen had come into the story again, and with another German.
Could this all be coincidence?
'No, we aren't formally part of their group. It was an old Toyota Land
Crtiiser diesel. We try to keep costs down.'
'Does he go on these trips on his own?'
'Not always, but he did this time. He had a radio, though. But we
didn't get any word from him. He should have checked in from time to
time, so we thought perhaps it had broken down.'
'Did you try to look for him?'
'Yes - once he was overdue, we got a plane to fly around over the area
where he was supposed to be working. Nothing.'
And the Bushmen?'
'No sign of them either. That was very strange. But they are a peaceful
lot. They wouldn't attack a friendly person like Aron. And they wouldn't
have any idea what to do with the vehicle and wouldn't want it. That's
when we reported the matter to the police.'
And when was that?'
'Three days ago. They seemed to think people disappear on unscheduled
bush trips all the time, and that he will turn up in a week or so.'
'Well, that begins to seem a bit unlikely, doesn't it?'
'Yes. I have to say it does,' Jason said quietly.
Kubu sighed, but felt that Aron's connection with the Bushmen had to
be checked out. That, at least, was a real lead, and more promising than
the missing tourist.
'Mr Ferraz, you've been very helpful. I think I'll need to come down to
the mine, interview the other staff, look around. Probably tomorrow. Will
that be okay?'
'Of course, Superintendent. If you can get to Letlhakeng, we'll send
someone to pick you up.'
'That will be very helpful. I'll contact you to confirm the
arrangements.' Then a lateral thought struck him. 'Do you have a beard,
Mr Ferraz?'
'Well, yes, I do. What a strange question. Why on earth do you ask that?'
'Oh, just curious. A lot of men do these days. Thank you again.
Goodbye, Mr Ferraz.'
For several minutes Kubu stared at his wall calendar. The March picture was a waterhole scene from the Chobe game reserve. Then he
started making detailed notes on the conversation. He had only just
finished when his phone buzzed again. This time it was Joy, reminding
him not to be late for dinner because she was trying a souffle recipe that
she had discovered in a recipe book at Woolworth's while chatting to
friends in the checkout queue. This case must be getting to me, he
thought, if Joy feels it's necessary to remind me when it's dinnertime.
Kubu then walked over to Edison Banda's desk and gave him a rapid
summary of what Ferraz had said.
'I'm driving down to the mine tomorrow, Edison. Could you go to the
airport about two hours before the Air Botswana flight to Johannesburg
leaves? If Tannenbaum shows up, get his version of what happened at the
Rucksack Resort. If he asks why you are interested, tell him that Staal is
missing, and a corpse has been found with no identification. Watch his reaction.
I'll be back tomorrow evening. I'll phone you when I get back. Thanks.
Oh yes. Don't forget to get Tannenbaum's contact details in Germany'
Kubu walked back to his desk and packed his briefcase. 'Good night,
Edison,' he said as he walked out, wondering what would be appropriate
to drink with a souffle.


CHAPTER 32

Kubu left at six a.m. so that he was ahead of the worst of the traffic and
could enjoy Carmen. He didn't know the opera well, but liked its
compelling gypsy rhythms. It was only when Escamillo launched into the
rousing Toreador song that Kubu unleashed his enthusiastic support,
which he repeated several times to help pass the time.
The driver from the mine met him at Letlhakeng just after eight. His
vehicle was a vintage Land Rover whose shock-absorbers had given up
their battle with the corrugated roads. It was nearly forty kilometres to the
mine on a bad sand track, and Kubu was tired when they got there. He
didn't have much hope of decent food or drink and was not pleasantly surprised. Still, the drinks were cold. Jason turned out to be a pleasant host
and, indeed, had a heavy black beard. Kubu guessed that he might be
Dianna Hofmeyr's nocturnal visitor. That would interest Joy and Edison.
Before lunch Jason took him up to the mine and gave him the tour,
even taking him into the diamond sorting room. However, he stayed as
close to Kubu as his shadow. After that, he pointed out the processing
plant and the large dump, which received the crushed and separated rock,
robbed of its value. Jason said it grew at nearly half a metre a day, all
round. Kubu tried to look impressed, but he regarded mines as necessary
evils at best. Perhaps noticing this, Jason added that when the mine was
closed, the dump would be bulldozed back into the open pit as part of the
rehabilitation programme. They didn't go into the mine itself.
'Mr Ferraz, is it possible there was an accident down there?' Kubu
asked. 'Could Aron have been caught in a rock slide or a collapse of the
pit wall, something like that?' Jason shook his head. 'No, we know exactly
who is in the mine at any time. It's partly for safety reasons and partly for
security. Diamonds are valuable, Superintendent. And every event is
recorded. Nothing like that happened the day Aron left. And anyway, his
Land Rover is gone.'
Back at the living quarters, Kubu spent time poking around in Aron's
bungalow. Everything was neat and tidy. It looked as though a good
bachelor housekeeper had cleaned and tidied up and then gone to work,
expecting to be back shortly. Kubu discovered a couple of bottles of beer
in the freezer which had frozen and burst. Apart from that, nothing
seemed amiss. He questioned all the staff and several of the shift bosses.
They all knew Aron, of course, and said nothing negative about him. But
he had no real friends. A bit of a loner, he enjoyed his work, reading textbooks
on geology as often as not, or Laurens Van der Post novels - and
learning about the local Bushman group, which he had visited quite often.
Several people had seen him the day before his trip, and he appeared
to be in his usual private good spirits. No one had seen him leave, but such
trips usually started early to avoid the heat of the day. The canteen staff
remembered that he had collected some extra provisions but that he hadn't
told them anything about where or when he was going.
The last person Kubu spoke to was Shirley Devlin, one of the
administration people. She had nothing to add to what he had heard from
everyone else. But something seemed to be bothering her. At last he asked,
'Miss Devlin, is there anything else you can remember? Anything strange
or unusual that took place? Anything at all that you'd like to tell me?'
She hesitated for a moment and then said, 'Well, Superintendent, there
was one odd thing. It didn't happen that day, but about a month before.
Aron came to see me and insisted on checking all the Kimberley Process
documentation against the mine returns for the previous three months. It
took us hours.' She hesitated again, and Kubu nodded encouragingly.
'Well, he said it was a new requirement. I
wanted to check with Jason, but
he was away. Anyway, we did it. But when I asked Jason about it
afterwards, he knew nothing about any new regulations or requirements
and said that anything like that would have come to him in any case. I
didn't say anything more about it, but it bothered me, you know?'
'Was there anything wrong with the records?'
'Oh, no. Everything balanced perfectly. Aron seemed quite pleased. We
had a drink on it that evening. Superintendent, do you think something
really bad has happened to him?'
Kubu realised that other than Jason, she was the only person who
seemed genuinely concerned. All the others had decided that Aron had
taken himself off. The vehicle would be found at the airport, and Aron
would be safely home in Germany. Kubu reminded himself to get the
vehicle registration number and alert the airport police. He took his leave
of Miss Devlin and headed back to the canteen to meet Jason. It seemed
that Aron had prepared for a trip, set off early one morning with his
equipment, and vanished into the desert. Did he reappear two weeks later
as a naked, unidentifiable corpse under a thorn tree on a dry riverbed near
Dale's Camp? What had happened in those missing two weeks, and why
had it happened?
Jason had a cold beer ready for him, and Kubu warmed to the geologist
at the same rate as the beer cooled him. He told Jason what little he had
learnt, but didn't mention the postscript from Shirley Devlin. Jason
nodded. He had been through a similar exercise himself, he said. Then,
taking a long shot, Kubu said, 'Do you know if Aron had any bad
accidents before he came here? It probably would have been several years
ago? Broken arms?'
Jason shook his head. 'We check that our people are fit, of course,
before they're employed. But we don't ask for detailed medical records.
Perhaps his parents would know. Why do you ask?'
Kubu ignored the question and asked, 'Have you contacted them at
all? His parents?'
'No. I was hoping that he'd just turn up somewhere.'
'Well, maybe he'll turn up with them. Frankly, he seemed to be a bit
lonely here. Maybe out there in the desert he just decided to go home.'
Jason shook his head again and poured each of them a second beer.
'You didn't know him, Superintendent. I don't think you'll find him back
in Germany'
They sat in silence for several minutes, sucking their beers. Then to
break the mood, and just for the hell of it, Kubu asked, 'Did Aron have a
beard?' While Jason looked at him quizzically, considering the relevance of
this, Kubu realised that he'd referred to Aron in the past tense.

It was late when Kubu drove up his driveway. Ilia was delighted to see him
and shared her excitement loudly with the neighbourhood. After a shower
and a cold drink, Kubu sat down and phoned Edison at home.
'You're going to be disappointed,' Edison said. 'Tannenbaum showed
up ninety minutes before the flight and wasn't worried by my questions.
He was obviously curious why he was being interviewed by the police and
showed more concern than fear when I told him about the body. He said
he didn't think it could be Staal's body because Staal had gone off with a
girl at Khutse. If Staal was missing, the girl would have reported it. I think
this is a dead end.'
'Certainly sounds like it,' Kubu responded. 'It was a long shot from the
beginning. Still, I would appreciate it if you could resolve this by checking
up on Staal at the airport on Saturday. He is on the same flight, I think.'
'That's fine. I just hope it doesn't take too long. I promised to take
Maki to the early showing of Diamonds are Forever that evening.'
'You should be back in plenty of time. One other thing, please could
you call Forensics tomorrow morning and arrange for someone to go
down to Maboane on Monday and do a thorough scan of Frankental's
room? Hopefully we can make a DNA match with the body'
Kubu hung up and went out to join Joy on the veranda.

CHAPTER 33

Of course, Kubu could not leave well alone. He might have done so but
for a short article in the Daily News describing the break-in at BCMC
headquarters. Surely Cecil Hofmeyr had the pull to keep that out of the
government press if he wanted to? But it was the content that really
intrigued him. It specifically mentioned money and personal papers. Where on earth had that information come from? Cecil had been
adamant that nothing had been stolen but the money and had insisted
that Mabaku close the case. Very strange! Kubu simply could not resist
paying Kobedi another visit.
He decided to test Kobedi's mood at home this time. He wasn't sure
he'd find him in, but if not, Kobedi's staff might provide other leads. He
drove to Kobedi's house in the upmarket suburb of Phakalane, north of
the city. The house was hidden by a high wall and heavy metal gates.
Kubu's heart sank. He wasn't going to be able to work his way in easily. He
almost gave up and drove on, but he decided to try his luck and parked
just out of sight of the gates. He walked up to the gates and was about to
press the bell when he realised that, in fact, they were not locked. They
were slightly apart, and swung open easily when pushed.
He walked up the driveway, surprised by the open gates, and
approached the front door. It, too, was slightly ajar. Even more surprised,
he knocked. But he made no special effort to be heard, and when there
was no response, he pushed the door open gently and went into the
hallway. Feeling somewhat guilty, and without raising his voice, he called
out, 'Mr Kobedi?' But he surprised himself with how softly he said it. His
instincts told him there was something badly wrong in this silent and
open house.
He walked through the lounge, noting the ornate but quite tasteful
furnishings, and then to the main bedroom. The door was open here too.
The bedroom was extraordinary. The walls were mirrors, perhaps
concealing cupboards or a dressing room or even a bathroom. In the
centre of the room was a king-size bed, directly under another mirror on
the ceiling. Shaggy off-white carpet covered the floor. Kubu took all this
in almost incidentally, because he was staring at the floor at the foot of the
bed.
Kobedi lay there with blood dripping down his face. One forearm was
at a funny angle. Kubu bent over him. Blood was still flowing from some
of the wounds, so he wasn't dead. Since the blood had not dried, the attack
must have taken place a short time before. Then he noticed a torn piece
of paper partly obscured by Kobedi's body. He bent down, meaning to
examine Kobedi, but a slight noise made him jerk upright and swing
around. He found himself facing a huge black man holding what looked
like a .45-calibre pistol by the muzzle, and the next instant the butt
crashed down on Kubu's temple. There was an explosion of pain and light,
and for a moment he thought he heard Mozart. Then everything was
absorbed by darkness, and he sank to his knees and collapsed over
Kobedi's body.

PART SIX:
Ugly Death

'What sights of ugly death within my eyes!'
Shakespeare, King Richard III, Act I, Scene 3

CHAPTER 34


Kubu opened his eyes. In the background, ghostly white blurred
figures were watching him, and in the foreground was an ominous black
blob. I'm in hell, he thought. But of which religion? He forced his
eyes to focus, and the black blob resolved itself into Director Mabaku's
face. I'm definitely in hell, he decided, before he realised that the white
figures had become a doctor and a nurse. All were looking at him with
concern. He considered closing his eyes again in the hope all of them
would go away. But the doctor bent over his bed and held up three
fingers.
'How many fingers do you see, Superintendent Bengu?' he asked in a
voice not to be denied.
'Three,' said Kubu weakly.
And are they clear or blurred?'
'Quite clear.'
The doctor nodded, apparently satisfied, and walked back to the end
of the bed. He glared at Mabaku. 'You can talk to him now, but briefly. He's had a severe blow, and we're lucky he's not seriously concussed. You
must be careful not to upset him.' This remark made Kubu smile. How
could Mabaku avoid upsetting him?
'How are you feeling, Kubu? You gave us a real scare there.'
Kubu digested the fact that Mabaku had addressed him by his
nickname and tried to get feedback from his body in order to answer the
question. His head hurt badly, and his right elbow felt as though someone
had attacked it with a hammer. His left arm hosted a drip. It all felt unreal.
It's the painkillers they've given me, he decided vaguely.
'Not too bad, actually,' he replied finally. 'My head hurts like hell,
though, and my elbow is sore.'
'You fell on it when you collapsed. You were hit really hard. You've
been out and sedated for hours. The doctors first thought your skull had

161

Michael Stanley

been fractured, then that you had a bad concussion.' He looked down at
the mound in the bed. Recovering some of his usual acid, Mabaku added,
'But I told them your head was solid bone, so they shouldn't worry too
much.'
Kubu managed a weak laugh. 'Where is Joy?' he asked.
'She went out for a few minutes. She's been here since they brought
you in several hours ago. She was beside herself. What on earth possessed
you to go to Kobedi's house alone, especially after I had told you to drop
that line of investigation?'
Kubu didn't want to answer that and quickly changed the subject.
'When did they find me? For that matter, who found me?'
'The neighbours heard a shot. They had already called the police, and
a car was on the way. Otherwise you might have ended up like Kobedi.
The police constable called an ambulance right away. How did you get
into the house? You didn't have a search warrant.'
'The door was open, and I suspected foul play,' Kubu improvised. 'I
was right, too. Is Kobedi dead?'
'He wasn't when the police arrived, but he died on the way to hospital.
He was beaten and then shot.'
Kubu digested this. 'I was bending down to look at him. There was
something under him. A piece of paper, I think. Then I heard a noise
behind me. I turned around, and that's when he hit me. It was a very large
black man, but I saw him only for a split second. I think he was wearing
army clothing of some kind. I really didn't see him properly. I felt the gun
butt well enough, though.'
'Could you describe him?'
'Perhaps I could try an identikit.'
This was too much for the doctor. He said that there would be nothing
like that for the time being and told Mabaku that he should leave. Kubu
decided that it would be handy to have this doctor with him for all his
interviews with his boss.
'Doctor, you must understand that a man has been violently murdered,
and Assistant Superintendent Bengu is a key witness. What he tells me
may help to apprehend the murderer. I won't be longer than necessary'
The doctor harrumphed and looked inclined to argue, but at that
moment Joy arrived. Realising Kubu was awake, she rushed to the bedside
to kiss him. This caused a flurry from the nurse, and Mabaku decided to
give up.
'I'll come back later when you are stronger, David. Possibly first
thing in the morning.' With a sour look at the doctor, he turned and left.
Kubu was too busy enjoying Joy's attention to respond to his boss's
departure.



CHAPTER 35

Kubu tossed and turned all night, partly because of his aching head, partly
because of the discomfort of having a drip in his arm, but mostly because
his mind could not stop trying to make sense of all the confusing facts.
There is a break-in at Cecil Hofmeyr's BCMC office. An important letter
about a BCMC diamond mine has been stolen. However, Cecil claims
only a small amount of money has been taken. Cecil's assistant admits
being paid by Thembu Kobedi to steal the letter from Cecil. Cecil wants
the whole thing swept under the carpet, but a newspaper prints that
personal papers were taken as well as money. Shortly thereafter, Kobedi is
murdered, and Kubu attacked. A geologist from the diamond mine is now
missing, and the body of a white man is found, mutilated to avoid
identification, apparently dumped in the desert from a BCMC Land
Rover. Could this all be unconnected?
By the time the nurse brought tea at five-thirty a.m., Kubu's headache
had returned, and he was pleased to take his medication. The doctor had
insisted he remain in hospital for observation until the following morning,
but Kubu wasn't sure how he was going to get through a whole day wasted
in bed. There was so much to do!
At the top of his list, he needed to interview Cecil Hofmeyr. He was sure
Cecil was a key piece of the puzzle. Kubu sighed, realising that Mabaku
would probably insist on doing the interview himself. He hoped he could
persuade Mabaku to see Cecil immediately and not wait for Monday.
His wish was granted. Mabaku walked into the room at seven-thirty.
After Kubu explained the importance of finding out what was in the
stolen letter, Mabaku reluctantly agreed to see Cecil as soon as he could.
'The letter is mysterious,' Mabaku said. 'But you can't imagine that Cecil
is involved with these murders. He's just not the sort. He is the head of a
highly regarded company. He isn't going to run around murdering
people!'
'Director,' Kubu responded, 'I am not suggesting Cecil is a murderer,
but the letter is clearly important. It was stolen. The person who stole it
was murdered, and I was assaulted. We have to find out what was in the
letter. As soon as possible!'
At that Mabaku pulled out a piece of paper from his briefcase and
handed it to Kubu. It seemed to be roughly a quarter of an A4 sheet that
had been torn in half vertically and horizontally. It contained printed text
- from a dot-matrix printer by the look of it - and ended with a scrawled
signature in blue ballpoint. Under that appeared:

A. K. FRANKENTAL, BSc
SENIOR MINE GEOLOGIST

Below that the paper was blank.
'Is this what you were looking at under Kobedi?' Mabaku asked.
Kubu nodded. 'It could be. But it was hidden under his body'
'When you fell, you covered it completely. There were no other pieces
of it anywhere else. We think your attacker missed it because you were
covering it.' Mabaku suppressed a comment about this being understandable
in view of Kubu's bulk. 'What do you make of it?'
Kubu read it again and then shook his head. That was a mistake, and
he grimaced.
Mabaku bit his lip. 'I'll leave you the piece of the letter to think about.
Don't lose it; it's the original. It's been tested for fingerprints already; a
good one of Kobedi's. Nothing else. Now look after yourself He added
that he would let Kubu know as soon as he had some information from
Cecil. He would try to see Cecil that day, but wouldn't promise anything.
Kubu thanked him, and Mabaku nodded and left.
Kubu took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Could this be linked to
Frankental's disappearance? And why weren't Frankental's and Cecil's
prints on the letter? Moments later, Kubu was asleep.

It was just after morning tea, and Kubu was desperate to be out of the
cloying regimen of the hospital. Joy had already stopped in, but had left
to run some errands. Alone, he found his boredom magnified, and time
dragged. Joy returned about an hour later, kissed Kubu, and gave him a
white paper packet.
A little something to take your mind off your head,' she said. He





164
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Michael Stanley

looked in the packet and extracted a large slice of chocolate cake.
Ah! Thank you, my dear,' Kubu said, a touch of enthusiasm returning
to his voice. 'I may survive after all.'
Joy sat on the edge of the bed, her hand on his shoulder.
'Kubu,' she said. 'I've been thinking.'
Kubu grunted, his mouth full of cake.
'This is the first time I've been really scared.' She paused. 'You know,
about what could happen to you.' Kubu grunted again as he tried to eat
the cake but not the icing, which he liked to leave for last.
'Kubu, listen to me,' Joy said so sharply that Kubu had to divert his
attention from the cake. 'You've no idea how scared I've been since you got
here.' She took a deep breath. 'I've made a decision. It never really
occurred to me that you could be in such danger. And if you are in danger,
so am I. I am going to take some self-defence lessons, and I've asked the
director to authorise me to learn how to shoot. He's agreed to let me go
and shoot for a couple of hours at the range, but made me promise that I
wouldn't get a handgun. He reminded me in no uncertain terms that
handguns are illegal and that being a policeman's wife wouldn't protect me
if I'm found with one.'
Kubu almost choked as he swallowed. 'You're going to do nothing of
the sort!' He struggled to sit more upright. 'It's my responsibility to
protect you. And anyway, nobody would dare to harm you. They'd know
I'd never rest until I caught them.'
'Kubu. You've no idea how vulnerable I suddenly feel. I'm scared for
you, and I'm scared for me.'
'Joy, it's me who has to protect you. Not the other way round. I won't
allow it.'
'Kubu,' Joy said, anger creeping into her voice.
'I'd be the laughing stock of the force,' Kubu continued. All I'd hear is
that Assistant Superintendent Bengu gets his wife to protect him!'
'You are not listening, Kubu.' There was no give in Joy's voice. 'It's got
nothing to do with you. I've made up my mind. You'd better get used to
it.'
'Joy, dear,' Kubu said, patting her arm.
'Don't patronise me, Kubu,' Joy snapped. 'You're obviously not
listening. I'm not going to discuss this any further.' She stood up, eyes
blazing. 'I'll be back in an hour. Don't dare to raise the subject again.' She
turned and stalked out.
Kubu lay back on the mountain of pillows, icing sticking to his fingers.
My God, he thought, this is a new Joy. I hope I like her as much as I did
the old.

While he was wallowing in frustration, there was a polite knock at the
door, and to his surprise Bongani walked in. 'Kubu,' he said. 'I called you
at the office, and they told me what had happened. Terrible. No one is safe
from thugs these days, not even the police.'
'Did you need to see me in a hurry?' Kubu asked, wondering what
could be urgent enough to bring Bongani to the hospital.
'No, not at all. I was wondering how the interview at BCMC had gone,
but wanted to check that you were okay. How's your head? It looks
dreadful.'
Kubu was touched. 'Well, it's sore, but they say nothing is broken. My
boss says that my head is too solid to be broken by a mere blow with a
blunt object. My immediate project is to get out of here. You can't imagine
how bad the food is. Diabolical!'
At this point a nurse came in with medication. Kubu swallowed it with
bad grace and waved her away when she tried to fiddle with the bed. 'They
don't give you a minute's peace,' he told Bongani. 'I used to think that the
bit about waking you up to give you your sleeping pill was a joke.' He
glared at the poor nurse, who beat a hasty retreat.
At that moment Joy returned, jaw clenched defiantly, just waiting for
Kubu to question her decision.
Kubu turned his head in Bongani's direction. 'Bongani, let me
introduce my wife, Joy. My dear, this is the young man I mentioned to
you, Bongani Sibisi. He's one of the men who found the body'
Joy's demeanour relaxed immediately. As they shook hands, she gave
Bongani a quick but thorough appraisal. What wealth of information,
unseen by the men, was now stored in her head? She excused herself and
said she would be back in ten minutes. A call to Pleasant, perhaps, Kubu
thought with a wry smile.
Kubu rapidly told Bongani about the visit to BCMC headquarters. He
didn't mention the letter or the subsequent Kobedi meetings, but told
Bongani how they had stumbled on the burglary and about Cecil's
reaction to the BCMC vehicle issue. Bongani nodded. 'We really should
have thought of that,' he said. 'You know, I've been noticing just how
many of those yellow Land Rovers there are. I was on a field trip yesterday,
and you see them all the time, if you are looking out for them. Before, I
didn't pay any attention.' He started to say something else but realised that
Kubu wasn't listening. He was staring at the ceiling with a quizzical look.
'Say that again.'
'I said that I keep seeing BCMC vehicles - or at least ones that colour.'
'No, the last bit.'
'Oh, just that I see them now that I'm looking, but before I didn't take
any notice of them.'
After a full minute of thought, Kubu said, 'Did you ever read a story
called "The Purloined Letter"?'
'Wasn't that the one about the stolen letter that the thief hid in plain
sight on a pinboard with a lot of other letters so that it would be ignored?
But Sherlock Holmes saw through it at once? I think we had it in English
literature at school.'
'Not quite. It was Edgar Allan Poe actually, not Conan Doyle, and it
was set in France in the nineteenth century. And the letter wasn't hidden
by placing it with a lot of other letters - the French police would have seen
through that ruse; it was disguised. But it was disguised as itself. The thief
disguised it as a letter, but a letter that no one would care about. An old,
tatty letter.' He bit his lower lip.
'I've been wondering why they would use such an easily identifiable
vehicle. But you've just given me the answer. It's camouflaged. As itself.
Just another boring, beaten-up BCMC vehicle. We need to check if
anyone at the Maboane mine owns a Land Rover. One that might have
started out yellow or maybe became yellow later.
'Speaking of letters, what do you make of this?' He handed Bongani
the torn sheet of paper. 'Read it aloud.'
Bongani did so: ' "reputation among his colleagues in". Then the next
line, "his approach which I think is" and the next, "at best. I cannot trust
him." And that ends a paragraph. The next three lines: "output from the
mine. Because", "wrong about the big gemstones" and finally "diamonds
are actually stolen". Then it's formally signed "A.K. Frankental". What
does it mean? Is it related to the murder?'
'I don't know what it means. But it seems that someone was killed to
get it.'
'The body we found?' Bongani asked.
'I'm not sure about that body. But I found the letter on another body.
That's where I was bashed on the head. The curious thing is that the
r
A CARRION DEATH

second body is also tied to BCMC. The letter was sent to BCMC by a
geologist at a BCMC mine - that's Frankental. Then it was stolen, and the
person behind the theft was killed. I found this fragment under his body.
I am beginning to think that the body you found may be Frankental's.
He's missing.'
'What does BCMC have to say about what was in the letter?'
Kubu sighed. 'Well, that is another mystery. The letter was stolen from
Cecil Hofmeyr s office. Hofmeyr reported that there had been a break-in,
but that only petty cash was taken. He never mentioned the letter - in
fact, denied that anything else was missing. However, his assistant
admitted stealing the letter.'
'I can see why you like your job! Is it always like this? Twists and turns
and mysteries?' Bongani's eyes sparkled as he imagined the challenge of
being a detective. 'I think I'd love your job.'
Kubu pointedly rubbed his head, but smiled. 'You'd be good at it! But
your research is also rather like detective work, isn't it?' Nodding towards
the piece of letter Bongani was still holding, he added, Anything your
image-processing wizardry could do with that?'
Bongani turned his attention back to the letter. 'Why would anyone
get so worked up about a copy of a letter?'
'It's the original. My boss left it with me because they've done all the
tests.'
'Kubu, this is a copy. A high-quality colour copy, but still a copy. Look
at the signature.' Bongani handed the letter to Kubu, who looked at its
back. Sure enough, there was no trace of the impression that a ballpoint
pen would have made. He had missed that.
'Why would anyone get himself killed over a copy of a letter?'
Bongani said, 'Perhaps he was killed because it was a copy' Kubu didn't
reply, but his mind was now on a new track. If Bongani was right, he
thought he could guess who had the original.

CHAPTER 36

Mabaku wasted no time contacting Cecil at home. Cecil was reluctant to
make a special trip to see Mabaku on a Saturday, but eventually agreed to
meet him at BCMC at ten-thirty.
Mabaku had been deliberately evasive about the reason for the
meeting, and he smiled as he put down the phone. He swivelled in his
chair and looked out of the window at Kgale Hill, just behind the CID
office complex. Not so long ago, he thought, this had been out in the
country. Now it was a Gaborone suburb with shopping malls and fast
food outlets. All that remained of the past were the baboons that
frequently swarmed over the buildings and parking lot. Soon someone
would complain loudly enough, and they would be captured and moved,
or shot for being a nuisance. You can't stop progress, he mused, but
wouldn't it be nice if we managed it better?
He remembered when his father had first brought him here. They
spent half the day, it seemed, riding their bicycles to the hill in the dusty
heat on treacherous soft sand. They both fell off several times, laughing as
they did. It was an adventure! At the foot of the hill, his father had pulled
two Cokes from his tattered backpack. This was such a treat that it made
no difference that they were lukewarm. He remembered that they had
rested under an acacia tree, sipping. Then they climbed the hill, watched
curiously and cautiously by troops of baboons, which barked in
annoyance at the disturbance.
When they reached the top, Mabaku had been astonished. He
was convinced he could see the whole of Bechuanaland. The hills
far to the south; Gaborone to the north and east; and endless plains
to the west. What a huge country, he thought. And so beautiful!
He swelled with pride. This was his country. It must be the best in the
world.
Mabaku was startled from his reverie by the William Tell overture
emanating from his mobile phone. Reluctantly, he reached for it, noting
that the call was from his old office on the mall.
'Mabaku!' he said abruptly, annoyed that his few moments of
reminiscence had been interrupted. But the call was important. The body
of a very large black man had been found in an alley in a seedy area of
town. He had been shot in the side of the head, execution-style. Thinking
of Kubu's description of his attacker, Mabaku asked to be sent a
photograph.
He wondered what was going on. Several months of relative calm with
just the usual break-ins and petty thefts, and now suddenly three murders
is not much more than a week!

Mabaku deliberately arrived fifteen minutes late for his appointment with
Cecil Hofmeyr. The security guard took him up to Cecil's office.
'Come in, Mabaku. Sit down. Tea or coffee? I had them send some up
from the canteen.'
'Tea, if possible. I am so sorry to have to disturb you on a Saturday,
Cecil. Normally I wouldn't dream of it, but this is serious.' Mabaku's tone
was conciliatory. Cecil poured some hot water into a cup and dropped a
tea bag in.
'No milk, I'm afraid,' he said. 'I'll let you take the bag out.'
Cecil set the cup next to Mabaku and settled behind the desk. 'Now,
what's this about a murder?' His normal authoritative tone returned.
'Sometime yesterday evening a business associate of yours was shot
dead in his house. Thembu Kobedi.'
'Kobedi murdered?' Cecil said, showing only mild surprise and no
regret. 'I've had no dealings with him for some time. Several years, in fact.'
'In addition,' Mabaku continued, 'we are reasonably confident that the
corpse found in the desert was a geologist from one of your mines - an
Aron Frankental from the diamond mine at Maboane. Your mine
manager, a Mr Ferraz, I believe, phoned the police to report him missing.
Frankental left the mine a day or two before the corpse was found.
Nothing has been heard of him since, and he is the only white reported
missing.'
'Frankental dead?' Cecil fidgeted with a pen on his desk. 'I know of
him, but I've never met him. He's just a geologist at the Maboane mine.
Why would anyone murder a geologist?'
'Even unimportant people get murdered,' Mabaku said drily. 'For one
thing, there are a lot more of them. We are not certain it is Frankental, but
we'll probably find something in his room at the mine to use for DNA
corroboration.'
Cecil continued to spin his pen. 'What has Kobedi's death got to do
with Frankental?' he asked cautiously. 'I didn't know that they even knew
each other.'
'We were hoping you could answer that question. We found
Frankental's name on a scrap of paper at Kobedi's house. You are a
common link. One body a former business associate; the other, an
employee. What is the link, Cecil?' Mabaku leant forward in his chair and
stared at Cecil, who looked down at his pen, saying nothing. He shifted
in his chair as though trying to get comfortable.
'I employ thousands of people, and I have nothing to do with Kobedi
any more. I've no idea how they are connected, if they are.' Cecil lifted his
eyes and tried to outstare Mabaku, who didn't flinch. It was Cecil who
looked down first. His breathing had become faster and shallower. He's
lying, Mabaku thought.
'I've no idea how they are connected,' Cecil repeated, as though each
word was a new sentence.
'Cecil,' Mabaku said firmly. Are you certain that you know of no link
between Kobedi and Frankental?'
'Of course I'm certain!' Cecil snapped. 'I know what I know.' He glared at the CID director, but Mabaku seemed completely relaxed.
'You're quite sure?'
Cecil could sense a trap, but tried to brazen it out. 'I'm sure!' he said.
Mabaku was silent for what seemed like an eternity to Cecil. Then he
looked up and said very quietly, 'Mr Hofmeyr, I need to have the truth
from you. You know how much I admire you and BCMC, and I want to
make sure nothing gets blown out of proportion.' He stopped for a
moment, but when Cecil said nothing, he continued.
'When I was here last, you told me that only some cash had been taken
from the drawer during the break-in. However, your assistant, Jonny, told
us that he had taken a letter. He had been paid to take the letter by one of
your acquaintances - the same Thembu Kobedi who has just been
murdered. Jonny also told us that he had admitted this to you. So you
knew that Kobedi was behind the theft. We think he may have been
blackmailing you, which gives you a motive. I want to know what was in
that letter.'
Mabaku watched the effect of his short speech. Suddenly Cecil was no
longer the man in charge. He repeatedly ran his tongue over his lips and
swallowed hard a few times, trying to get saliva into his mouth. He took
a mouthful of his tepid tea. He stood up and walked over to the window,
but there was no relief in the heat-dry sidewalks of Gaborone. At last he
pulled himself together.
All right,' he said. His voice was strong, but Mabaku sensed he was
fighting to keep it that way. 'I didn't tell you the whole truth when you
came the day of the break-in. There was some cash taken, but also the
letter Jonny mentioned. I've no idea how Kobedi knew about the letter or
why he wanted it. It had nothing to do with him or anything he was
interested in. I should have told you about it, but I was under a lot of
stress. I wasn't thinking clearly' Cecil looked out of the window again.
'The company has invested a lot of money in the Maboane mine, and I've
been very nervous about whether we will get it back, let alone make a
profit. The manager, Jason Ferraz, is very optimistic, but I am not so sure.
He has been pressuring me to invest a lot more to take it to the next stage.'
'What has that got to do with the letter?' Mabaku asked, standing up.
'The letter raised concerns about the mine. I didn't tell you about it
because it is very sensitive information. I couldn't risk letting this
information become public. That could have caused all sorts of problems.
I could see our investment disappearing. I was holding the letter to
confront Ferraz when the time came. I haven't yet made a decision about
investing more.'
Cecil ran his hand through his hair. He turned and walked over to
Mabaku. 'I know it looks bad, Mabaku. But I had nothing to do with
Kobedi's death. Right after the letter disappeared, he phoned me and
offered it back for five thousand pula. Like a fool, I agreed and went over
to his house. I paid him off and took back the letter. He was very much
alive and gloating when I left. You must believe me!'
'I know he was alive when you left on Tuesday,' Mabaku said, 'because
he was murdered on Friday. Where were you on Friday afternoon?' He
stared at Cecil.
At what time?'
'Between two and five.'
'I was at home! I needed my own space and took the day off. The
servants can vouch for me.'
'Were they with you all the time?'
'No, I took a nap later on and sent them off.'
Mabaku nodded but looked unconvinced. 'What happened to the
letter? I would like to have it, please.'
'I destroyed it.' Cecil's voice rose. 'Can't you see? It was causing all sorts
of problems. When I got it back, I shredded it.' Cecil walked around his
desk so that it was between him and the policeman. 'It only dealt with the
mine!'
Mabaku leant over the desk. He was angry. 'Mr Hofmeyr, I don't
believe you! I am going to give you one more chance. If I am not satisfied,
I will be forced to take you to headquarters and officially question you
there as a suspect in the murder of Thembu Kobedi. I've been giving you
every chance to explain what happened, and all you have done is lie to
me.'
The fight seemed to go out of Cecil. He walked to a wall safe in one of
the cupboards, opened it, and pulled out an envelope. He pushed it over
towards Mabaku, who carefully held it by the corner and shook the
contents on to the desk. There were three folded sheets of paper. No piece
was torn out of any of them. Without saying a word, he sat down, lifted
his briefcase on to his lap and opened the lid. Keeping the lid between
himself and Cecil, he took out a copy of the fragment Kubu had found
and compared it to the letter. The fragment was identical to the bottom
left quarter of the last page.
I wonder if one's a copy, he said to himself. Using his handkerchief, he
turned the last page over and saw an indentation from the signature. He
wondered whether the fragment he had left with Kubu had also been
signed. He should have checked.
He closed the briefcase and put it on the floor. He scanned the whole
letter and said, 'I don't understand any of the geology. The last page seems
to sum it up, though.' He read it aloud.

In view of the above analysis of the geology, and Mr Ferraz's
attitude, I feel I have to tell you about this yourself. I give my overall
conclusions here.
Mr Ferraz does not take my ideas seriously. He does ignore my
concern about the geology model at the mine. The current model
is not right. So there may be better diamonds that we are missing.
I believe a more careful geological study of the area is needed. The
production is not correct with what should be produced according
to my models and the selection of stones we are seeing from the
mine.
Also Mr Ferraz has a not good reputation among his colleagues
in the industry. I am worried about his approach which I think is
unhonest at worst and unscientific at best. I cannot trust him.
I think we are not getting the true output from the mine. Because
of above, I think something is very wrong about the big gemstones.
Perhaps some of the best quality diamonds are actually stolen.
Yours faithfully,
A. K. FRANKENTAL, BSc
SENIOR MINE GEOLOGIST

Mabaku looked puzzled and reread the letter. He looked up at Cecil
and said, 'Cecil, you need to tell me what is going on here. The letter is
full of gobbledygook about rocks and geology. The only thing that looks
sensitive is the suggestion about stolen diamonds. What's all that about?'
Cecil grimaced. 'It's complete nonsense! No one has stolen anything!
Every stone that comes from the mine is accounted for.'
'Of course, but could someone be stealing diamonds from the mine?'
'We have the best security money can buy. And Jason himself is a
shareholder, so you can bet he's on top of everything. It's all rubbish. I
don't know what this chap could be thinking.'
Mabaku shook his head. 'I don't see anything in this letter that could
possibly be regarded as ultrasensitive, worth five thousand pula, or worth
killing for. It raises a question about a manager, and that's it. What am I
missing? You're sure that this is the same letter?'
'Mabaku, I promise you that is the letter that was stolen by Kobedi and
Jonny. It is the same letter that I got back from Kobedi on Thursday
evening. It cost me five thousand pula to get it back!' Mabaku could sense
Cecil's desperation. He was starting to hyperventilate.
'Look, Mabaku, we are old friends. You can't believe I had anything to
do with this murder! It was just a silly mistake about the letter. It's critical
that nothing of this gets out, especially now, right before a crucial board
meeting.'
Mabaku sat without saying a word, letter in hand, occasionally
carefully turning it over as if to ensure there was nothing written on the
back. He took a deep breath. He placed the fragment and the letter in his
folder and shut the briefcase. He stood up.
'What's in this letter that could affect your board meeting?' he asked.
'It's nothing but speculation.'
Cecil hesitated before answering. 'You don't understand, Mabaku,' he
said. Any red flag influences decisions, no matter how small. The letter
would distract the board and possibly lead them in the wrong direction.
We need their unqualified support of the mine expansion.'
And you would withhold information that may influence that
decision?' Mabaku's voice was tinged with disgust.
'They don't know the whole story. They trust me on this.'
'Cecil. All you have done today is lie to me. I have always tried to help
you because you and BCMC are important to Botswana, and I thought
that we were friends. And this is what you do. Lie to me.' Mabaku's voice
was rising. He took a deep breath and said more evenly, 'Cecil, I don't
know what is going on here, but believe me, I will find out. I don't think
you are a murderer, but there is something you are trying to hide. I'll find
that out too. For the moment this will be a matter between the two of us.
I suggest you stay in town for a while and run your meeting. Make sure
you let me know if you think about leaving Gaborone, let alone the
country. Is that clear?'
'Yes, Mabaku. Thank you.'
With that, Mabaku nodded and stalked out of the office.
Cecil was shaken to the core. His wealth, his company, his reputation
were teetering. 'Fuck you, Kobedi!' he shouted. 'This is all your fault. Rot
in hell!' He looked down at his hand. It was shaking. It still held the pen.
He snapped it in half and threw it at the Battiss. Then he held his face in
his hands as he battled for some semblance of calm.

After leaving the BCMC building, Mabaku drove the short distance to the
hospital, stopping only to drop the letter off at Forensics. He felt rather
pleased with himself. At least he believed that Cecil knew nothing about
Kobedi's murder. Thank goodness for that.
In less than ten minutes he was at the hospital.
'I need to speak to David alone,' he said as he walked into Kubu's
room, directing his comments at Joy and Bongani. 'Why don't you come
back after lunch if you want to continue your conversations?' Kubu sighed
at Mabaku's lack of civility. Mabaku must have sensed this because he
added an abrupt, 'Thank you!'
Mabaku sat down and related what had happened in his interview with
Cecil. He emphasised that he was sure that Cecil knew nothing about
Kobedi's murder. He also thought Cecil knew nothing about Frankental's
disappearance. However, he still didn't understand why Cecil had lied and
not told them about the letter in the first place, since it seemed relatively
innocuous. He handed Kubu a copy of the letter.
'This is a copy I made before I left the original at Forensics,' he said. 'I
think yours may be a copy too.'
'You're right,' Kubu replied. 'Bongani pointed that out to me. It is a
very good copy. We should check if there are any colour-copy places near
Kobedi's house.' Kubu took a minute to read the letter.
'This makes no sense at all, Director. There is nothing in here that
warrants Hofmeyr's lies. Aron seems very anti-Jason and accuses him of all sorts of things, but there is nothing here that warrants murder. I'm not
sure Hofmeyr is being honest, even now.'
'Cecil says that if the board saw the letter, they might not fund the
expansion that he wants. That doesn't sound like honest management to
me. My guess is that he has his own money in the mine too.'
Kubu shook his head gingerly. 'There has to be something else going
on.'
'David,' Mabaku said sharply. 'I am sure that Cecil Hofmeyr wasn't
involved with the murder. He wasn't shocked when I told him about
Kobedi's death, but I believed him when he said he knew nothing about
it. Call it intuition, if you like. He isn't the murdering type. He also said
he'd never spoken to Frankental directly. I have to admit that the letter is
a mystery, but I am sure Hofmeyr knows nothing about the murder.'
'Did you tell him that Frankental is missing?' Kubu asked, feeling his
headache returning.
'Yes. I told him that we thought the corpse at the waterhole was
Frankental. I think that helped eventually, because he must have thought
we didn't know who wrote the letter. That is why he lied about it. He
must've been scared we would believe he was linked to both murders. I
think that's what made him go over the edge. I don't think he knew
Frankental was missing.'
The two men were quiet for some time. Then Mabaku said, 'Of course,
if Ferraz is stealing diamonds, and Frankental found out, that would be a
motive for getting rid of Frankental. Then the letter would be
incriminating. I think we need to speak to Ferraz again. Why don't you
arrange that as soon as you get out of here?'
'I'll arrange it for Monday, Mr Director. I know I will be fine then.'
Kubu felt a surge of excitement. His headache disappeared. He started to
plan his visit.
His thoughts were interrupted by Mabaku. 'Did you get the photo I
sent you?'
'I got nothing. A photo of what?' Kubu asked, now curious.
'Maybe it is at reception,' Mabaku said. 'I'll go and check.'
A few minutes later Mabaku returned. 'Idiots! You were sleeping, and
they thought they shouldn't disturb you.' He handed Kubu the photo of
the latest victim. 'Recognise him?'
Kubu was startled. 'Where did you get this, Director? I think this is the
man who knocked me out.'
'He was found this morning in an alley. Shot in the side of the head.
Point blank. An execution, I think.'
Kubu lay back on his pillows. What was going on? Bodies everywhere,
but no motive. No reasons. No real clues. He frowned and pressed his call
button for more medication. He needed to get out of the hospital. So
much to do.
'There is no way you are leaving the hospital until the doctors say you
are okay,' Mabaku said sharply, reading Kubu's mind. 'Tomorrow
afternoon at the earliest! Maybe only Monday.'
Kubu opened his mouth to object, but shut it quickly when he saw
Mabaku's scowl. 'Yes, Director,' he said meekly.
At that moment, Mabaku's briefcase started playing William Tell. Mabaku scrabbled for his phone. 'Yes, Banda?' He listened for a minute.
'Thank you. Good work. Leave your report on my desk.'
Mabaku turned back to Kubu. 'That was Edison. One lead is dead.
The Dutchman showed up for his flight.' He stood up, again told Kubu
not to leave the hospital until the doctors said he could, and left.
For the rest of Saturday, Kubu was like a caged lion. Every fibre in his
body wanted to be out working on the case. He'd done enough thinking.
He needed action. Even periodic telephone calls from Edison had failed to
mollify his frustration. Nobody seemed to be making any progress. Even
Joy was unable to calm him down. Eventually she gave up and told him
that she was going to have dinner with Pleasant.


CHAPTER 37

Contrary to his expectation, Kubu slept well, with only occasional
discomfort. When wakened early on Sunday morning for his tea, he
realised that the night nurse must have slipped him a sleeping pill as a
defence against his bad mood. He was thankful that she had. Still, he had
another eight hours to wait before he even had a chance of leaving. The
doctor had promised to visit after lunch.
Joy looked in early and brought the Sunday newspaper and some fat
cakes that she had bought from a street vendor on the way to the hospital.
She was on her way to see his parents, but promised she would be back in
case the doctor discharged him. She knows me too well, he thought. She
knows I will be impossible to be with today.
As soon as she had left, Kubu opened the newspaper and found the
coverage of the two murders. It was sparse, but surprisingly accurate. The
report recapped details of Kobedi's death and reported that the police
believed that his murderer might himself have been murdered assassinated
was the word they used. There was a picture of the big black
face, with a caption asking anyone who recognised him, or who had seen
him, to contact the police. Kubu thought that the assassin must have used
a .22-calibre pistol, or something similar, because the bullets had not
blown away the face. A weapon that was easily concealed and less noisy,
Kubu thought.
There was a brief mention of Kubu being assaulted at the scene of
Kobedi's murder. Assistant Superintendent Bengu is recovering in the
Princess Marina Hospital and is expected to be released on Monday.'
Kubu snorted. 'Monday, my foot!' he said out aloud.
The rest of the paper had little of interest. Kubu's mind was elsewhere.
However, he did notice a short article discussing BCMC and the
fact that the board would meet on Thursday. There was speculation
that Angus Hofmeyr, the son of the founder Roland Hofmeyr, would
assume control of the company now that he had inherited a controlling
share.
Kubu's interest picked up when he turned to the sports section to see
whether South Africa had beaten Australia in the third cricket test match
at Newlands in Cape Town. Like most fans, he ardently hoped that the
Aussies would be walloped; there was natural support for fellow Africans.
He was pleased to see that the Proteas were in a strong position going into
the final two days.
While he was reading the details of the match, Edison Banda walked
in with a folder in his hand. 'Morning, Kubu. How are you doing?'
'I'm in terrible shape, Edison,' Kubu replied. 'I've been fine since
yesterday morning, but they won't let me out of here. The doctor is only
showing up after lunch - hopefully lunch today! There's so much to do. I
can sense we're about to break these cases wide open, but I'm useless stuck
here.'
Edison waited for Kubu's rant to end. 'I have something that will take
your mind off your misery,' he said, handing the folder to Kubu. 'This is
the report from Kobedi's house. He was quite a boy, Kobedi was.'
Kubu put the folder on his bedside table. 'Tell me about it.'
Edison sat down and started his tale.
After the pathologist had left, and the photographers and Forensics
had finished their work in Kobedi's bedroom, we went through the house
with a fine-toothed comb. We could find no sign of a forced entry, so it's
possible Kobedi was expecting his murderer, or at least knew him. This is
supported by the fact there were two half-empty glasses of Scotch in what
seems to be a study. One had Kobedi's prints on it and the other had the
prints of the guy we found dead on the mall. So you were probably right;
he was the person who knocked you out. Certainly it seems that way. We
didn't find any money on either Kobedi or your assailant, but we haven't
had a chance to go through a safe we found. We'll get into that on
Monday morning. Our locksmith can't open it - it's a German safe. We've
contacted the agents in Johannesburg to help us. They're sending someone
down in the morning.'
A nurse's aide pushed a tea trolley into the room. Both Kubu and Edison took a cup and a few biscuits.
'We also couldn't find any other pieces of the letter you saw,' Edison
continued after a few sips of his tea. 'Our only guess at the moment is that
your assailant took them. Maybe the person who shot him then took them
from him. Kobedi could have used one of two copy shops. They are shut
for the weekend, so tomorrow morning we'll see if we can get an ID from
them on either Kobedi or his killer.' Edison took a bite out of his lemon
cream biscuit.
As for the rest of the house, it was for the most part as you would
expect - expensive and garish. Halfway-decent paintings, leather and
chrome chairs and sofas, shag carpeting, and some real champagne in the
fridge.'
'Not to mention the king-size bed and mirrors on the walls and
ceiling!' Kubu interjected.
Ah! You noticed,' said Edison with a slight smile. 'But you don't know
the half of it!' He paused, ostensibly to sip his tea, but really to make Kubu
impatient. He put his teacup down and had another nibble of his biscuit.
Kubu didn't rise to the bait.
'What you saw was more than a bedroom. It was also a production
studio. Behind one of the wall mirrors and above the ceiling mirror were
video cameras.' Kubu sat upright in his bed. 'They could be controlled by
a remote next to the bed,' Edison continued. 'One of the other mirrors
was a door to what must be an editing room, with some fancy electronic
equipment and a big screen hooked to an Apple computer.'
Apples are good for editing video,' Kubu commented. 'Go on. This is
fascinating.'
'There was also a VCR and a TV--' Edison continued.
'For making sure his blackmail tapes were what he wanted, I'd bet,'
Kubu interrupted. 'It has to be that!'
'Right as usual! We found only one tape. It was in the VCR. The
cameras were empty, unfortunately. For a moment I thought Kobedi
might have videoed his own murder. You'll never guess who was on the
tape!' Edison paused and looked expectantly at Kubu.
Kubu was about to answer when Mabaku strode into the ward. 'Three
murders, and two of my detectives are having tea and discussing cricket or
some other nonsense.' He pulled up a chair. 'I assume you've filled him in
on what you found at the house,' he said, looking at Edison.
'Yes, Director. He was about to guess who the star of the videotape
was.'
'Now that I am here, Kubu, you can take me off your list of guesses!'
'Director Mabaku,' Kubu said politely, 'I would never dream of
making fun of you.' As Mabaku scowled, Kubu continued, 'I was actually
going to guess that it was a government official of some sort. Not too high
up, but with enough influence to be of help to Kobedi.' This was not
actually Kubu's first guess, but he was not going to share his real thoughts
just yet.
Mabaku scowled at Edison. 'You've already told him!'
'No, Director. I was just about to, but I hadn't said anything yet. You
have to admit, Kubu sometimes is brilliant!' He smiled at Kubu. 'Yes, it
was a high-up official involved with mining leases. The video was taken
recently, judging by the date on the tape, although that could have been
added later. We were wondering whether it might have been something to
do with Kobedi's interest in the diamond mine.'
'Possibly,' Kubu growled. 'Kobedi never did anything just for pleasure.'
He paused, then continued, 'He must have plenty of other tapes stashed
away somewhere. They'll be interesting to see.' Another pause. 'Edison,
can you get hold of Kobedi's bank records? Check all banks, and also see
whether he ever wired money overseas. I suspect we will find quite a few
big deposits over the past few years. We may be able to trace them and get
some idea who he was blackmailing. That will generate plenty of suspects.
Professional blackmailers have a lot of enemies.'
Kubu felt his headache returning. Before ringing for more medication,
he outlined his plan for Monday's visit to the mine and resisted Mabaku's
suggestion to send someone else. With luck, in a few hours he would be
out of this infernal room and back on the job. There was no way he was
going to sit on the sidelines.

CHAPTER 38

Kubu was eventually released from hospital just after lunch. Joy drove him
home despite his protestations that he could handle the car safely. 'You are
not driving home! That's that!' she said without fear of contradiction.
Kubu dared not resist.
At four p.m., Kubu couldn't stand it any longer. Sitting at home was
driving him crazy. He told Joy that he had to stop in at the office for an
hour or so, but would be back in time for a sundowner. This time, Joy did
not protest. She couldn't take his complaining any more.
'Don't be later than six,' she said. 'It will be getting dark about then.'
The office was unusually busy for a Sunday. There had been a number
of apparently related break-ins the night before. But after an hour, Kubu
was not happy. His head, still wrapped in a heavy bandage, hurt. He had
snapped at Edison over something silly, but Edison had taken it in good
part and remarked that Kubu would be 'a bear with a sore head, except
that he's a hippo!' The witticism had gone down well with the rest of the
staff, who kept chuckling and referring to Kubu as the hippo with the sore
head. This palled for Kubu very quickly.
Adding to his bad mood was his dissatisfaction with Mabaku's report
on his meeting with Cecil. If Cecil had lied about the letter the first time,
ostensibly to protect the company's image and a potential investment, it
would be easy for him to lie again. Kubu couldn't understand how
Mabaku could be convinced that Cecil was not involved. He wouldn't
want to spoil his golf outings, Kubu thought uncharitably, and snorted.
'Well, we won't find out by asking my attacker,' he mused. 'How
convenient for him to turn up dead.'
His thoughts turned to Aron. The geologist had written to the head of BCMC about his boss in highly critical terms. Now, it seemed, he was a
hyena-chewed corpse in the police morgue. Yet neither Cecil Hofmeyr nor
Jason Ferraz seemed particularly concerned that he was missing.
'Edison!' Kubu shouted, his bad mood showing. 'Edison. Tomorrow,
please contact the German embassy and see whether you can get an
address for Frankental in Germany. See if you can find his parents or some
other relatives. Phone them and ask them when they last saw or spoke to
him.'
Kubu's bad mood grew with the thought of another long, hot trip to
the mine. The Forensics people hadn't been there yet. No real effort had
been made to find Aron's vehicle. Everything sensible seems to stop when
I'm not here, he thought sourly. But that gave him an idea. It was time for
a thorough search for Aron's vehicle, and for the Bushman group who
knew Aron. He picked up the phone.
Fifteen minutes later, he was pleased with himself. Both his headache
and his mood had lifted. He had persuaded the Botswana Defence Force
to supply a light plane and pilot for a search of the area surrounding the
mine. Best of all, it would give him and Zanele Dlamini, the Forensics
lady, a lift out to the mine first thing in the morning. He would sit next
to the pilot and watch the minivan taxis, chickens, pigs and donkeys
fighting it out on the congested roads below. After that he would see the
dirt tracks snaking through the bush, pristine and dust-free, undisturbed
by the bumping and shaking of his Land Rover. He wondered if he could
arrange a cold steelworks in a flask for the flight.

CHAPTER 39

The next day was hot, the air turbulent, and the flight bumpy. When they
came in to land at the dirt strip at Maboane mine, Kubu had had enough.
His equanimity was further disturbed by a group of nervous springbok at
the side of the airstrip that the pilot appeared to ignore. To top it off, they
landed hard on the rough bush strip. When the plane bounced to a stop
at the end of the runway, Kubu was happy to open the passenger door and
climb out. They had buzzed the mine on the way in, so he was sure
someone would come out to the strip to investigate. He had deliberately
not warned the mine personnel they were to receive another visit from the
police.
Kubu retrieved his briefcase from the small luggage compartment,
while the pilot helped Zanele take out her extensive forensic equipment.
Then he and his spotter got ready for their real business of searching the
surrounding bush from the air.
'We'll be back at three p.m.,' he told the detective. 'I'll have to refuel
once at Molops Air Force base during the day. That'll give us enough fuel
to get back to Gabs by five.' Kubu nodded absently. His mind was already
on the situation at the mine.
Kubu and Zanele carried their gear to the side of the airstrip and
waited. The plane turned and taxied back down the strip to take off. The
draught of its propellers added a generous measure of choking dust to the
already hot and stuffy air. Then with a roar it took off and climbed into
the sky. As its sound faded, they heard a vehicle approaching from the
mine. Kubu wasn't surprised to see that Jason had come himself.
'Superintendent Bengu! You should have let us know you were coming.
We'd have had someone here to meet you.' But the tone belied the
welcome of the words.
'It's been a bit hectic recently. May I introduce Zanele Dlamini? She's
one of our forensic specialists.' Jason greeted her warmly. All his charm
returned. But then Zanele is gorgeous, thought Kubu, with the abstract
appreciation of the happily married man.
'I want her to go through Aron's room with the scientific equivalent of
a fine-toothed comb. Has it been locked up since I was here?'
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 was also 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. 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 per cent 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.'
Kubu didn't answer for a few moments. Then he said, '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?
He 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. 'Recognise him?'
Jason picked up the photo 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.
'SinV 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 realised 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, Jacob 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 twenty kilometres 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
realised 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, recognising 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 apologise 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 little man suddenly started talking animatedly, and Kubu was
sure that he recognised 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 stayed with them many times. He
always treated them with respect. Not the way they are sometimes treated
today by the farmers. He says this man is dead now.'
Kubu realised 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 to 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 aeroplane; 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 southwards.
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
twenty-five kilometres 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 - 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'
'You're thinking that if Hofmeyr stayed at one of the farmhouses, it
would be near a road? And that now it could be abandoned? That was why
I asked Gobiwasi that question in the first place.' Kubu really liked the
pilot. He was smart and working on the police problem, not just on the
flying.
Mike nodded. 'Let's have a go,' he said. 'We've got enough fuel for a
few sorties.'
In fact, it turned out to be relatively easy to find the disused tracks.
Nature uses water to take back its own. Blowing sand helps but is unable
to start regrowth on its own. They followed one track for about ten
kilometres until well past the border of the wedge, but found nothing.
Then they followed branches that went off to the south. Two just faded
into the semi-desert. The third led to what had once been a dwelling. Its
roof had collapsed, and all around it was dust-dry. There was no sign of
any recent activity.
'We'd better head back,' Mike said. 'Maybe this wasn't such a smart
idea after all.'
'Let's try one more southern track,' said Kubu, unwilling to give up.
As for Mahongo, he was managing to doze in the back seat of the
chopper, despite the noise. Towards the eastern border of their wedge, they
found a better track leading due south. The track faded out a couple of
times but they managed to find it again by cross-searches and by flying
higher. At last in the distance they saw a house. As they got closer, they
also spotted a track leading towards the west - in the direction of the
mine.
'Do a couple of low passes over the house,' Kubu instructed.
Mike obliged. The house was of the same vintage as the ruin they had
seen before, but this one looked maintained. Surprisingly, it was two
storey; Kubu couldn't imagine why one would build upwards with fifty
kilometres of open space all around. It was built of brick with a galvanised
iron roof. The gutters were peeling and some brick showed through the
paint on the walls. A sign was mounted outside the house but they
couldn't read it. Some outbuildings - possibly barns - also had tracks
running to them.
What most intrigued Kubu, however, was the sudden widening of
the road as it passed the house. It looked cleared of bushes and somewhat
flattened. It wasn't an airstrip by any stretch of the imagination,
but an experienced bush pilot would have no difficulty landing a small
plane there. They circled over the house three times, but saw no sign of life.
'Let's land,' said Kubu. Mike gave him a doubtful look, but said
nothing, and brought the chopper to rest in the open area. They saw no
movement from the house or the surrounding area. 'How soon could you
take off?' asked Kubu, imagining bad scenarios.
'Very quickly, if I have to,' replied the pilot, sounding nervous.
'I'm going to have a look around,' said Kubu. 'You stay put here with
Mahongo. Radio headquarters and tell them exactly where we are and
what we are doing. Remain on the radio while I'm outside and keep the
engine running.'
Kubu opened his door and climbed out of the chopper. He swallowed
a mouthful of saliva, realising he was thirsty. Suddenly he noticed that his
head hurt again. He recalled his huge assailant with a neat bullet hole in
the side of his head. He recalled Kobedi beaten to death. He recalled fresh
human meat eaten by hyenas. He was scared.
He walked over to the sign. It read, 'Bechuanaland Cattle and Meat
Company Limited. Private Property. Keep Out. Trespassers Will Be
Prosecuted.' The same message was repeated in Setswana and Afrikaans.
No one had tried to write any of the Bushman languages. The sign was in
glossy white paint on a black metal board with rust around the edges.
Some of the letters looked smudged. Kubu walked on the solid wooden
door. It had a Yale lock and a heavy padlock on a lever arm.
Kubu walked around the house, feeling a flutter in his stomach as he
went out of sight of the chopper. All the downstairs windows were closed
and had burglar bars that looked impenetrable, but the upstairs windows
were unprotected. There was no way into this house except to break in.
Suddenly he felt the hair tingle on the back of his neck. He spun round
and looked up. A single window stood open on the upper level with a
vacant look, as though the glass had been removed. Kubu stared upwards
for almost a minute before he started to worry about the pilot's reaction
to his disappearance behind the house. He quickly finished his circuit, and
waved to Mike as soon as he could see the chopper again, to show that all
was well.
Then he walked to the outbuildings, two sheds next to each other.
The first one was obviously disused. The doors were open, and there
was sand inside. Kubu went in, but found only a dilapidated shell.
The second building was a different story. Again, a heavy padlock secured
the double barn door. The structure had no windows, but Kubu found
that by pulling the doors towards himself, he could open a small vertical
crack between them, before the padlocked lever-arm prevented further
movement. He looked through the crack with one eye and closed
the other. He had to wait for the open eye to get used to the gloom
within.
Inside, he could make out a vehicle. It was a Land Rover, and it was
BCMC yellow. There were other items too, but he couldn't make them
out in the poor light. He released the doors and let them knit closed. Then
he walked back to the chopper.
'Get on to headquarters, Mike. Ask them to send a light plane. It can
land on the open area here. They should bring a Forensics team and a
locksmith. Oh, and we'll need a search warrant. This is BCMC property,
but don't mention that. Just tell them that we believe the yellow Land
Rover we've been looking for is in a shed here. We'll wait for them. Tell
them to bring us some food and drink.'
Kubu climbed into the chopper and waited for his heartbeat to return
to normal. It would be at least three hours until the police plane arrived.
Meanwhile, he wasn't going anywhere.

The flight attendant at the South African Airways business-class check-in
watched her next client approach the counter. He was wheeling a suitcase
and carrying a heavy carry-on bag. He lifted the suitcase on to the weigh
station, then gave her his ticket, offered an attractive smile, and wished her
good morning. She smiled back.
'Good morning, sir. May I see your passport, please?'
He dug in his shirt pocket and passed it to her. It was an EEC United
Kingdom passport, dog-eared and well travelled. She first checked the
name on the passport against the one on the ticket. They agreed on Angus
Roland Hofmeyr. Then she held the passport up to compare the
photograph to the face in front of her. It was a handsome face, heavily
tanned, with a broad forehead below short, thick black hair, penetrating
brown eyes, and good teeth showing through the persistent smile. He was
wearing a short-sleeved denim-blue shirt showing off his broad shoulders.
His pressed jeans fitted him well, but tightly, showing off strong legs. She
felt a stirring of sexual interest.
Suddenly she realised that she was still holding the passport, and that
her eyes were no longer on his face. She flushed and fiddled with the
baggage tag on his suitcase to hide her embarrassment. I need a new man,
she thought angrily, not this damn pilot who fits me in when he's available
and no doubt has a different girlfriend in every city. Soon she had all the
formalities complete and had regained her composure.
'There you are, Mr Hofmeyr,' she said, handing him his ticket, boarding
pass and passport. 'You're all set. I've issued your onward boarding pass
to George, too, and your bag is checked through, but you will have to
clear Customs and Immigration in Johannesburg. As soon as you're
through Customs, just give the SAA staff your suitcase, and they'll transfer
it to your flight to George. Oh, and there is a lounge you can use here once
you are through Security and Immigration. Your flight will be boarding in
about half an hour. Have an enjoyable trip.' She smiled at him again, a
little more warmly, and slightly less professionally, than before.
'Thank you. You've been very helpful.' He hefted his carry-on, gave her
a friendly wave, and headed for Security. That was more of a challenge. His carry-on bag contained a laptop and other electronic equipment, and
he had to convince them of the purpose and legitimacy of all the items.
By contrast, the Immigration official just glanced at his maroon passport
and stamped it without a word. He was glad to pour himself a gin and
tonic and relax in a comfortable chair in the lounge. It was not yet noon,
but he wouldn't be getting any alcohol at the rehab in George. He might
as well enjoy it while he could.
It was mid-afternoon by the time the BDF light plane arrived at the
abandoned farmhouse. It brought with it sandwiches and cold drinks.
Kubu felt revived after several fried egg and polony sandwiches and a
couple of ginger ales, although the sandwiches tasted of dust. By that time
the locksmith had opened the padlocks on the front door and on the shed,
and the forensic staff had started to look around. Kubu went first into the
shed, taking a cursory look at the vehicle. He didn't touch anything, but
he was certain that it had taken Aron's corpse to Kamissa. The Land Rover
was parked on the left side. Kubu noticed some oil stains on the right.
As he left the shed, he studied the tracks leading from it. From the
right, tracks led to the road heading south. The tracks from the left all
went the other way, except one that paralleled the ones from the right. The
treads were different. Kubu went back into the shed and studied the tyres
on the vehicle. They were Yokohama Geolandars - good for crossing sand.
Then he went into the house. He wandered around the lower section,
getting the feel of it. Clearly the house had recently been inhabited. The
kitchen looked used, and the stove needed cleaning. This house had been
abandoned weeks, not decades, ago. There were three bedrooms
downstairs and two bathrooms with showers and toilets. But Kubu
wanted to look upstairs and find that empty window.
He climbed the staircase to the upper level, where he found a door ajar
at the top of the steps. The first thing he noticed was that it had a deadbolt
screwed on to the outside with heavy screws. That would withstand a lot
of pressure, he thought. This was a lock to keep someone in, not for
privacy. No corresponding lock was on the inside of the door, although
there was a normal lock with the door handle. The key was on the outside
too. Kubu stood looking at the door for a few moments. The deadbolt had
been added recently. He could understand Aron becoming an
embarrassment if he had stumbled on some sort of scam at the mine, but
why hold him prisoner? Why not get rid of him at once?
He walked into the room. It was spartan and self-contained - a bed, a
wardrobe, a table and chairs, and one easy chair. He carefully opened a
door on the left without disturbing any prints that might be on the
handle. It led to a typical bathroom containing a bath with a hand shower
and a mount for it on the tiles at one end, a toilet, and a wash basin.
Everything was covered in fine dust. Over the toilet was an open window.
Next to the toilet, leaning against the wall, was a wooden panel about the
same size as the window. Kubu examined the area around the window and
noticed the screw holes. He nodded, mentally matching the wood with
the window and the screw holes. Looking out of the open window, he
realised that it was the one that had so disturbed him on his first
reconnaissance.
He turned his attention to the bath. He leant over, blew away the dust
from around the plug hole, and looked at it carefully. Then he went back
downstairs and found Zanele.
'Get your people to go over the bath upstairs carefully, and also check
out the shower fittings. I think you'll find that Aron died up there. Also,
tomorrow morning, get someone to follow the tracks heading south from
the shed. Aron's vehicle's been dumped down there somewhere. Probably
in a donga.'
Kubu wiped his forehead. 'I've had enough. I'm going home. We can
talk in the morning.' Zanele nodded, distracted. The excitement of the
crime scene was absorbing her attention. There was so much to do. She
was happy to be left to get on with it. Kubu went to find Mahongo and
Mike. If they left now, they could still get back to Gaborone. The
Forensics team could camp in the house and hold the fort until the
morning.
As the chopper took off, Kubu was isolated in his own thoughts. He
felt depressed by what they had found. I should be celebrating, he
thought. I've found where Aron was murdered, and the vehicle they used,
and I'd bet on finding Aron's vehicle tomorrow. It's only a matter of
following the spoor now, and we'll catch the murderers. Why aren't I
elated? Because there's more to come, he answered himself. This isn't the
end of it. There are more nasty surprises ahead.
He looked at his watch. He would be home by eight. He could still
have some of the delicious stew that Joy would have prepared for their
dinner, perhaps with a glass of red wine, or even two. The thought cheered
him up at once.


CHAPTER 41

Kubu had meant to phone Director Mabaku as soon as he got home, but
he was tired and hungry, and after supper and a few glasses of wine, it was
too late. He would see his boss first thing in the morning.
But when he arrived at the CID headquarters and walked towards his
office, he could hear his phone ringing. By dropping his briefcase and
leaving his keys jangling in the door, he managed to answer it before it cut
off.
'Hello,' he said a touch irritably. 'This is Superintendent Bengu. Who
is this?'
'Kubu, it's Zanele. I'm on the plane radio. Communications put me
through to you.'
'Oh! Zanele! How are things going there?'
'Fine. You were right about the bloodstains. Actually, there are a lot of
them if you know where to look. The killers tried to clean up and wipe
everything down. But I think they were in that house for some time. You
can't live somewhere and not leave prints in odd places. We've got quite a
few. Some are quite good.'
'Good! The trick will be to match them with Frankental's. Also
compare them with Ferraz's. We've got those on file because we had to
exclude them from Aron's bungalow.' Kubu let his mind run. Also check
them against the one on the cash slip we found at Kamissa. And against
the delightful character who gave me the sore head. And run them past
Interpol, of course.'
Zanele laughed. 'Yes, Superintendent. I'll do all that. But I'll have to
get back to the office first. It's quite a job checking a whole house, you
know. We are waiting for a police vehicle from Molops to arrive. Once
they get here, they can check the roads and see if you were right about the
victim's vehicle.' There was a burst of interference, and Kubu lost the next
part. It was something to do with the BCMC-yellow Land Rover.
'Say that again.'
'The vehicle's pretty clean. Someone did a really good job on that. But
I think we may have some blood traces there too. And we've collected dust
and thorn samples from the tyres. Unlikely to help, but who knows?'
Kubu recalled how impressed he always was with Zanele's work and
thoroughness. He was lucky that they had sent her.
'There's one more thing, Kubu. Jason Ferraz left the mine yesterday. I
discovered that when I phoned through this morning to ask them for
some help with provisions and stuff.'
Kubu sat upright in his chair. 'You mean he's done a flit?'
More static. When the signal cleared, he could hear Zanele saying
something about a holiday. Then she was lost in static again. Kubu
became impatient.
'Thanks, Zanele,' he said loudly. 'I'll get on to it myself right away.
Carry on with your work. See you soon.' And without waiting for a
response, he hung up.
He retrieved his briefcase and the keys from the door and closed it. A
few minutes later he was on the phone to Shirley Devlin, who seemed to be the closest thing the mine had to an administrator.
'Mr Ferraz's trip has been planned for some time, Mr Bengu. He's been
talking about it for a month, I would guess. He's going to visit the British
Geological Survey and other research institutions, and someone involved
with the Kimberley Process. But he's also spending time in Portugal.
Visiting family he hasn't seen for quite a while, I think. Maybe Madeira?'
'So you all knew he was leaving yesterday? But no one mentioned it to
me when I was there the day before?'
He could visualise Shirley's shrug. 'I suppose you didn't ask. Did you
tell Mr Ferraz you wanted to know about his movements?'
'No, I did not,' Kubu admitted with considerable chagrin.
'Well then,' commented the efficient administrator, her point made.
'When did he leave?'
'Early in the morning. He was driving to Gaborone to catch his flight
later in the day.'
'How long will he be away? Do you have an itinerary for him?'
'Three weeks. He didn't leave a detailed itinerary, but he said he'd have
his mobile phone on international roaming in case of anything urgent. I
can give you the number.' She did so.
Kubu let his frustration get the better of him. 'But how can the
manager walk away from a diamond mine for three weeks? Who's running
the operation?'
Devlin replied coldly. 'Mr Dingake is in charge, Superintendent. This isn't a one-person show, you know. We can cope for a few weeks without
the boss on site. Will there be anything else?'
Kubu sighed. 'No, you've been extremely helpful, Miss Devlin, and I'm
most grateful. If you hear from Mr Ferraz, please ask him to phone me. If
I think of anything else, I'll be in touch.'
Immediately Kubu called Edison and asked him to check passenger
lists for flights out of Gaborone for yesterday and today. Ferraz might have
driven to Johannesburg or caught a connecting flight. Kubu knew that it
would take much longer to get information from Johannesburg
International, and potentially forever from the Botswana border posts if
their computers were down. He was cross. He had been so pleased with
himself for shaking up Ferraz, but now he had a search for a fugitive on
his hands.
He tried the mobile phone number and heard a recording. He left a
message asking Ferraz to contact him as soon as possible. He wasn't
optimistic he'd hear back soon.
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 second-hand 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.
Goodbye.' 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 apologise. '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 turnings. 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 analysing 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 tyre 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 tyre 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 realised 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
burnt 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
burnt. 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 apologise 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.
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 travelling 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 realised 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 III, Scene 1

F

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 two floors from the ground-floor lecture theatre 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.

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 recognises the witchdoctor.
He feels a shock of surprise mixed with concern, fear, and even a touch of

humour. There is something comical in the witchdoctor'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 recognises it at once from the
Gathering. Then the Old Man 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 witchdoctor shakes his head. Bongani repeats himself using the
appropriate honorific. The witchdoctor doesn't reply. Suddenly he takes
the pouch in his right hand and, before Bongani can pull back, grasps his right hand with it. The Old Mans 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 witchdoctor 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 witchdoctor 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 recognises 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, travelling by minibus taxi for the first time, are
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.
The Gaborone Central Bus Station is on the verge of the city centre. It
is a large, more or less rectangular open lot bordered by major roads on
two sides and the railway line on the third. On the fourth side is the
Gaborone Hotel and pub. Although past its prime, it remains popular
with visiting businesspeople who cannot afford the prices or stomach the
ostentation of the casino hotels.
A mixture of vehicles of various shapes and sizes fills the lot. Minibus
taxis crowd the narrow entrance, shouting at each other good-naturedly
and hooting at the pedestrians in the street. Larger transport buses are
parked towards the back of the lot. The ones from Botswana and South
Africa look reasonably well maintained, and follow a schedule of sorts. In
contrast, the ones from Zimbabwe are old, broken-down hulks. They
travel when they are full, or when the driver feels like leaving. Their roof
carriers are crowded with items that look like junk but are unobtainable
in Zimbabwe - used tyres, reconditioned car engines and other old and
dusty mechanical parts from scrap yards, bags bulging with the
nondescript treasures of their owners. Probably the passengers have come
to visit relatives working in Gaborone. Perhaps they have been lucky
enough to find short-term work themselves. They undercut the locals
and are exploited by their employers. They make few friends. Many
Batswana have lost sympathy for their desperate neighbours to the northeast.
Everyone
walks in the street. Flea-market stalls and hawkers overflow
the sidewalks. Foodstuffs, cooked and raw, adult and children's clothing,
blankets, trinkets, mirrors, even household appliances, are crowded into
small, collapsible stalls. Much discussion precedes each sale. The
merchandise changes according to circumstance. When a thunderstorm is
brewing, everyone sells umbrellas; when it is hot, bottled water and soft
drinks in buckets of cold water appear. At nightfall, all stock disappears
into battered old vans.
The Old Man weaves his way through the flea-market crowd. Despite
confusion, shouting and hooting, he knows exactly where he is going. He
moves out of the main shopping area and back off the street. Here stalls
sell other sorts of items. Only a few people show serious interest in these
goods. Some walk past slowly with the furtive curiosity that a conservative
Westerner might show for a newly opened sex shop, but most walk past
quickly. The witchdoctor makes a few enquiries and soon finds what he
wants. He pays the price asked, and places the items carefully in his
suitcase.
Then he makes his way towards the intercity buses.

Kubu looked at his young friend with disappointment.
'Why didn't you tell me all this before, Bongani? You're a first-rate
scientist. Surely you don't believe in witchdoctors and evil eyes and spirits
who steal people's names and souls? And that finger bone was evidence,
possibly important evidence. You've placed yourself in the position of
concealing evidence from the police.'
'Yes, I know it was stupid. I don't know why I didn't tell you. I don't
know. I was scared, but I don't know what I was scared of.'
'I remember you were more upset than I expected the first time I met
you. But I still don't understand.' He lifted himself out of his easy chair.
'Iil get us another gin and tonic. For medicinal purposes. And some nuts.
It's not good to drink on an empty stomach.' He headed off to the bar,
leaving Bongani alone for a few minutes to search for enlightenment in his
empty glass with its melting ice and flaccid lemon wedge.
When Kubu returned, Bongani had pulled himself together. 'His right
hand felt like dry bone,' he said. 'The feeling was all wrong; it was warm,
but dry warmth, like a piece of stone left lying in the sun, not the warmth
of live flesh and blood.'
'Listen, Bongani, witchdoctors do have powers. They have remarkable
control of their bodies. They can trance. Some can go into a state of
suspended animation.'
'But the other hand was quite different. It was as cold as ice. So cold
that my hand felt chilled! No one has that sort of control.'
'No, I suppose not. But they are often skilled in hypnosis too. Are you
sure that these things weren't just in your mind? Carefully placed there by
the witchdoctor? You admit you were almost hysterical by the time he
disappeared/
'But what would be the point? He didn't ask for money'
'He could be reeling you in with his lion-skin pouch and your
emotional reaction to the murder. You don't know what else he has in
mind for you once you're taken in by this charade. You don't even know
what was in that pouch. It could be a piece of carved cow bone, anything.'
Bongani concentrated on his drink, saying nothing. Kubu finished the
nuts, using a finger to mop up the salt on the side of the dish. He expected
an argument, but instead Bongani changed tack.
cDid you ever find any parts of the hands? They weren't attached to the
body when we found it.'
A few pieces were identified as being part of a hand. The pathologist
determined that. But nothing that would help to identify the victim.'
'Was it possible to tell which hand they came from?'
Kubu shook his head. 'I didn't ask, but it seems unlikely. Apart from
orientation, the two hands will be pretty similar. Why?' Bongani didn't
answer, and an uncomfortable silence ensued while Kubu wondered if he
should tell Bongani what the pathologist suspected. He decided that it was
only fair to do so.
'There was one thing, though. One arm was missing below the elbow,
but there were marks on the left humerus that looked as though it had
been hacked at by something like a cleaver. They thought that the man
might have been attacked and lifted his arm in front of his face to defend
himself. Didn't do any good, though. Perhaps his throat was slashed before
they hit him from behind. The hyenas would have eaten any evidence of
that.'
Despite Kubu's clinical tone, Bongani was glad he hadn't eaten any of
the nuts. 'Which arm was it?' he asked quietly.
'It was the left arm. If the assailant was right-handed, the victim would
defend with his left.'
'But it's unlikely that a blow would hit the upper arm. It would be
more likely to hit the forearm. Suppose I attacked you with a knife, and
you wanted to protect your face with your arm. What would you do?'
Kubu raised his arm to block the hypothetical blow and immediately
took Bongani's point. The forearm would face the blow.
Bongani nodded. 'You see? The radius bone would be hit and probably
broken with a heavy blow. The humerus wouldn't be damaged. But
suppose the arm was hacked off after he was killed, not before? Maybe it
wasn't taken to the desert. Maybe it is "waiting"; the devil knows what for.'
Kubu considered his glass and the empty peanut bowl, then looked at
his watch. 'I have to go home to dinner, or Joy will be upset,' he said,
getting up. 'I'll try to track down your witchdoctor friend, though. He's
up to something, and I'd like to know exactly what.'

CHAPTER 43

Before the meeting started, while tea and coffee were served, Cecil took
Dianna around, introducing her to each of the BCMC directors, starting
with the most senior. He made a point of introducing her as his niece in
order to emphasise the family connection. He was surprised to discover
that many of the directors recognised her at once, but supposed they
remembered her from the reception he had held for her and Angus when
they first returned to Botswana more than a month ago. Dianna handled
it well, remembering names and making a few pleasant and appropriate
comments to each.
At last they settled to their positions around the massive rectangular
yellowwood boardroom table. Cecil sat at one end with a large portrait of
his brother behind him. Roland had been painted with a formal and
somewhat stern aspect. The artist had captured the strength of Roland's
face, and the hardness. But the most striking feature was the intensity of
the blue eyes that, Mona Lisa-like, seemed to look at each person around
the table. When he'd been chairman, Roland had always sat at the far end,
facing his portrait; Cecil had taken the opposite seat, saying with apparent
modesty that he didn't feel comfortable usurping the founder's chair. But
some of the older directors believed that he didn't want those stern eyes
watching him. It had become tradition that Roland's chair remained
empty.
Cecil seated Dianna on his right, and the other members of the board
assumed their usual seats. An overgrown telephone sat in the centre of the
table, with a spread of cables leading to strategically placed microphones.
Cecil disliked it. It reminded him of a fat black spider in the middle of a
messy web. He hoped it would work. He had experience in managing and
manipulating people, but was uncomfortable dealing with a person while
physically separated from him by technology. He'd made a point of being
on hand when the technician installed the system earlier that morning,
but had received small comfort for his trouble. He'd tried yet again to
reach Angus at the hospital without success, being told curtly that he
wasn't available. He'd had to settle for testing it on a conference call with
his personal assistant.
The assistant was speaking into the handset now. Had she been able to
contact Angus? She smiled, said something he didn't catch, and carefully
replaced the handset. Then she gave the thumbs-up. She's behaving as
though we're on a sound stage, Cecil thought with disgust. The whole
issue of Angus being in hospital for this crucial meeting infuriated him. It
destabilised the meeting. And he remained unaware as to what Angus
wanted or what he would say. How could the young man have been
careless enough to pick up malaria at this crucial time? He realised he was
nervous, still shaken by the interview with Mabaku. Those issues had yet
to be resolved. They hung over him like an unpleasant shadow.

Cecil decided that they might as well begin. He cleared his throat
officiously.
'Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your attendance. I would
especially like to welcome my niece, Dianna Hofmeyr, who is joining us
this afternoon at my invitation. I also want to welcome my nephew, Angus
Hofmeyr, who is unable to be here in person, as he is ill in South Africa,
but who has joined us by teleconference from his hospital. This is the first
occasion we have used this particular innovation. Angus, we are all
extremely sorry to hear that you've contracted malaria and give thanks you
are on the mend. While we would have been delighted to have you with
us, we are glad that you are participating in this way and trust that it will
be satisfactory for the board and for yourself
There was polite applause. After several seconds' pause, Angus's voice
came from the speaker. 'Thank you, Uncle Cecil. I'm grateful to have this
opportunity to address the board. As you all know, as of last Thursday, I
speak for the Roland Hofmeyr Trust. And I have had quite a bit of time
to think over the last few days. I've tried to put my ideas together in a
short statement. I wanted to discuss it with you, Uncle Cecil, and Dianna
first, but it simply hasn't been possible. So I request the chairman's
permission to read my statement.'
Cecil was taken aback. He had expected polite acknowledgements
from Angus and Dianna followed by the smooth formality of the board's
normal meeting. He had not expected any substantive input from the
twins other than their acceptance, with appropriate thanks, of their
nominations to the board. Still, he could see no reason to delay whatever
it was that Angus wished to say. At this point he was interrupted by his
secretary, who had glided quietly into the room. She said something to
him, and he nodded and waved her towards Dianna. 'If no one has any
objection?' he asked looking around the table. Of course, there was none.
Dianna read the note the secretary had handed her. She turned to
Cecil, 'I'm sorry, Uncle, it's an urgent call concerning my mother in
London. She's . . . not well. Excuse me. Please go on without me. I'll be
back in a few minutes.' She stood up and left, followed by the ever
attentive secretary.
Cecil was furious. How were the Hofmeyrs going to run one of
Botswana's most important companies if they couldn't get through a board
meeting without rushing off to deal with each other's medical problems?
He had little time for his brother's trophy wife. He thought her a
hypochondriac and a shallow snob. She would have fitted perfectly into
the British Raj, where she would have found kindred spirits in the British
upper class to isolate her from the country in which she lived. In Botswana
there had been none of that, and she had not fitted in at all. Now she had
to interrupt her daughter at a crucial moment to complain about one of
her spells, no doubt. He ground his teeth. Then he realised that everyone
was looking at him, waiting for his decision on Angus's request.
'I'm sorry. Dianna had to deal with an urgent issue and will rejoin us
in a few minutes. Please go ahead, Angus.'
Angus cleared his throat.
'The Botswana Cattle and Mining Company has a long and
distinguished history in this country, dating to my father's development of
it from a collection of small cattle-farming properties in the south and
mining investments around Francistown. The company is now a major
player in Botswana, with government shareholding, providing great
benefit to all the shareholders and the Botswana people. The company has
a proud history of achievement.' A pause, and then he continued. 'The
company started in the colonial Bechuanaland days, when exploration
and development were synonymous with progress, and little regard was
paid to the environment or to the indigenous peoples. The rules of the
game have changed since then. It is no longer acceptable to make profits
and accelerate national development without thought of the cost.
The world demands sustainable development and long-term concern for
the environment. It wishes to see the local people benefit, as well as the
economy as a whole.' He paused again to a murmur of agreement around
the table; this was motherhood and apple-pie stuff and needed due
recognition but nothing more. Cecil fidgeted with his pen, wondering where this was leading.
'I wish to raise in particular the issue of the Bushman people. This
company has supported moves to force them off their ancestral lands, and
they have become little more than research material for anthropologists
and a curiosity for tourists. Their deep culture and knowledge, nurtured
and tempered by the desert, is facing destruction. Fewer than a hundred
thousand survive! Their protests are treated merely as a passing
embarrassment by the government. The High Court has upheld their
appeal against their forced removal from the Central Kalahari Game
Reserve. One of them said, and I quote, 'I don't need any piece of paper
to show that land was given to me by God. It belongs to my forefathers
and all my children who were born there.' The issue has even been raised
at the United Nations! This company is doing no better by them. My
father was a great admirer of the Bushmen, and their help and advice
enabled him to select the appropriate areas for his first farming ventures.
Now that is all forgotten. I'm convinced that we must address their needs
and legitimate grievances. This is not only morally right; it is essential for
the continued acceptance of this company's business in the Western
economies and by the people of Botswana.'
He seemed to finish, and there was silence. This went way beyond the
acceptable platitudes, and Cecil wondered what on earth to make of this
surprising intervention. Angus had never shown any interest in these types
of issues before. Almost anything the chairman said would be
problematic. Even lip service to this ideal could embarrass the
representatives from the government, whereas to reject it would seem
callous and dismissive.
'We have always been concerned--' he began, but Angus ignored him
and interrupted.
'I fear that we will not be able to achieve this new approach with
management so steeped in the previous philosophy of the company. I'm
sure that we need new leadership, while at the same time appreciating and
utilising the experience and expertise of the present management team. I
look forward to your reactions and guidance on these crucial issues.'
A stunned silence descended over the boardroom.
Once they were outside the boardroom, the secretary led Dianna to a
small office next to Cecil's suite. 'You can take the call here, if you like,'
she said. 'It's quite private. The doctor said it was very urgent, so I asked
him to hold and came to call you at once.' Dianna nodded her thanks and
waited for the secretary to leave and close the door behind her. She took a
deep breath, made herself relax, and picked up the handset. 'Hello,
darling. I'm here,' she said.

Cecil realised that in his confusion and hesitation, he had lost the
initiative. Several hands shot up around the table. He was relieved to see
that one belonged to Roger Mpau, a respected investment manager
believed to manage funds controlling almost five per cent of the company.
He was a level-headed and independent person who would be able to say
the proper, soothing things from the politically correct side of the racial
spectrum. 'The chair recognises Mr Mpau,' he said gratefully.
'Mr Chairman, this is a very unusual state of affairs. We have had an
unexpected and, may I say, radical proposal presented to us by someone
who is not even a member of this board. In the normal course of events,
we should politely note the proposal and move on with the items on our
agenda. Or perhaps, if feeling generous, appoint a small subcommittee to
prepare a report for urgent presentation in six months or a year.' This
produced some smiles, and Cecil started to feel relief that the issue would
soon be gracefully behind them. But the relief was to be short-lived.
'However, this is by no means the normal way of things. I need to
remind this board that Mr Angus Hofmeyr, as of a few days ago on his
thirtieth birthday, controls the Roland Hofmeyr Trust, which in turn
holds forty per cent of this company. He is, to put it plainly, the new
controlling shareholder. But more important still, what he says makes a
great deal of sense. I know that the Botswana government cares deeply
about the Bushman people.' Here he nodded pointedly to the two
government appointees, thereby coopting them as accomplices to his
argument - unwilling accomplices, perhaps, but still trapped by the
political imperatives of what he was saying. 'Several funds that require
good practice on the sustainable-development front will not invest in our
shares. We need to move to reassure them and our other stakeholders that
we have recognised these issues and moved on. We should ask Mr Angus
Hofmeyr how he proposes we do that.'
Without waiting for Cecil's reaction, Angus broke in over the
f
speakerphone. 'Mr Mpau has summarised the situation very well. I think
we need new leadership, but also the expertise and experience of our
current management team. We also need a champion for sustainable
development and the long-term environmental issues associated with our
business.'
'Exactly what I think,' said Mpau. 'I propose we achieve this neatly
without embarrassment to any party by separating the role of chairman
and chief executive officer, as recommended by best corporate governance
practice in any case. Specifically, I propose that Mr Cecil Hofmeyr become
CEO of the company, and that Mr Angus Hofmeyr become the chairman.
Under his new leadership we will be able to address these issues of concern
properly'
Cecil was dumbfounded. This was crazy! How could anyone imagine
that he would give up his dictatorship of BCMC to a thirty-year-old
playboy with no experience? Anyway, Angus hadn't even suggested that.
Had Mpau gone mad? As before his delay cost him momentum, for Angus
was speaking again.
'I'm sorry, gentlemen, but I really must decline. I know I'm regarded as
a bit of a dilettante, and although I hope my intervention here today has
indicated I am deeper than you may have believed, I have no illusions that
I have the ability, background or commitment to chair this company, even
with my uncle's invaluable help. However, I believe I can suggest someone
who has all three of these qualifications, as well as my unqualified
support.'
'I think we are running ahead of ourselves.' Cecil tried to regain
control of the meeting. 'We need to consider what--' But Angus's voice
cut across him, either on purpose or as a result of the imperfect
teleconference communication.
'I propose we offer the chairmanship to my sister,' he said, and went
on for several minutes, summarising her impressive CV. As he finished
speaking, Dianna came back into the room.


Dianna sensed the change immediately. The mood was no longer one of
quiet confidence, almost boredom. Now there was tension, uncertainty,
even a hint of fear. She resumed her seat next to Cecil, offering an almost
inaudible embarrassed apology. But she felt exhilarated. My God, she
thought, it's actually going to work.
'Is Di back?' Angus asked.
'I'm here, Angus. It was a call about Mother. She's all right. She had a
dizzy spell - her blood pressure wasn't right - and she fell. But she'll be
fine now'
Angus ignored this. 'Di, we've been discussing the leadership of this
company. We feel it needs new direction and new blood, as well as the
experience and support of our current management. We want you to be
the new chairperson, with Cecil continuing as chief executive.'
Dianna made herself look surprised. The timing has to be right, she
thought. She counted silently to ten. Then she said, 'Uncle Cecil, what do
you think about this?' Cecil thought that perhaps he was being offered a
way out.
'Well, I could see a longer-term--' But Angus's voice cut across his.
'We are agreed on this, Sis.'
Mpau nodded. 'I believe the board supports it.'
Dianna lowered her eyes. 'In that case, thank you, Mr Mpau. I will be
honoured to accept the chairmanship, assuming that my uncle is willing
to support the new structure you propose, which will lead to what is really
only a token change in his position.' And she looked directly and
enquiringly at Cecil. A bland look, but her eyes were already triumphant.
Now the board was looking to Cecil for his decision. If he wanted to
fight, he knew he would win here easily. Most of the board would back
him if, for example, he asked for a postponement to allow him to regroup
and fight another day. But what would be the point? Angus would just call
a special general meeting and vote him out. And if things got nasty, there
were areas where he was dangerously exposed. He thought again of
Mabaku. He kept them all waiting for several long moments, while he
brought himself to accept that these two near-children had
outmanoeuvred him with no apparent effort. Oh, but there was some! He
wondered what Roger Mpau's payoff was going to be.
'I'm willing to resign as chairman effective immediately, and accept the
new position of chief executive officer, if the board creates such a
position,' he said at last.
For a moment there was silence as the men and women around the
table digested Cecil's decision to give up without a fight. Then Dianna
said formally, Angus and I have always known that Uncle Cecil's
commitment to this company was absolutely paramount, ahead of his
personal interests. He has just demonstrated that again.' She began to clap,
and all the members of what had been Cecil's board less than half an hour
ago joined in one by one. For the first time Cecil felt fear. My God, he
thought, do Angus and Dianna actually hate me? Can they possibly
suspect the truth about their father's death? But how? When the clapping
stopped, it was replaced by a jeeringly rhythmic bleep from the telephone.
Evidently they had lost the connection.
Dianna collected her papers and rose. With all eyes on her, she walked
around the table to her father's chair. She sat down facing Cecil. He found
it hard to meet her eyes. After a moment's hesitation, his assistant lifted
the receiver and replaced it. The noise stopped. No one suggested trying
to reconnect to Angus.
The formalities were soon concluded. The necessary motions were
proposed and seconded, and the board coopted Dianna and Angus
Hofmeyr as directors until the next annual general meeting. It then
elected Dianna as chairman, and Cecil to the newly created position of
CEO. Finally it appointed Roger Mpau to head a task group to look into
sustainable development issues. Dianna then adjourned the meeting,
pleading the need for time to inform herself on the company's businesses
and strategies. She asked Cecil and Roger to join her in the small
committee room next door to prepare a press statement. The rest of the
board members stood up and wandered out in near silence, all concerned
about their own positions as much as the new direction of the company.

Cecil left as soon as he could without appearing to be running away. He
drove home with his mind in neutral. Only when he settled into his
favourite armchair, with a large helping of his favourite twenty-year-old
Lagavulin with just a few drops of water, did he start to analyse the events
that had just occurred. He wondered what had been offered to Mpau; he
wondered if he might still get the government to intervene; and he
wondered about Dianna's oh-so-convenient exit when Angus was ready to
sing her praises and put her case. He particularly wondered about that. He
thought that he had neglected his sister-in-law. He should phone her in
the morning and find out if she was quite recovered.


CHAPTER 44

Peter Tiro did not fit the usual perception of a policeman, let alone a
detective. He was introverted and very quiet, hardly ever volunteering an
opinion. Few people got to know him well. But Tiro was amazingly adept
at asking questions that encouraged people to open their hearts to him.
He listened carefully and asked more questions. When a conversation was
over, people felt there had been a very meaningful exchange. In reality,
Tiro had learnt a lot more about the other person than the other way
around.
It was children who made the hidden Tiro emerge. His only child had
been killed by a drunken teenager who lost control of his car and swerved
off the road on to the dusty sidewalk. Tiro's nine-year-old son was walking
home from school when he was hit by the car. Perhaps the only blessing
was that he died instantly. The loss of his son had intensified Tiro's love of
children, as did the fact that he and his wife were unable to have more.
Detective Tiro had been assigned to scour the Mall for clues to the
murder of the unidentified huge black man. Late in the afternoon, he had
walked slowly up the Mall away from Parliament House towards the
National Museum and talked to the many women street vendors packing
their wares for the night. None had seen anything the night of the murder.
As he neared Independence Avenue, a filthy street urchin had run up to
him, begging for money or food. The child was dressed in a variety of
tattered garments, some male, some female, and was covered in the ever
present Botswana dust. Even in the open, Tiro flinched at the bitter smell
of weeks-old sweat. Despite his appalling lifestyle and living conditions,
the boy's smile melted Tiro's heart.
'Dumelal Tiro said gently in Setswana. 'Hello. My name is Peter.
What's yours?'
The boy looked at him with uncertainty. He was not used to being
spoken to politely. He was used to being shouted at, or kicked, or chased
if he grabbed something from a street stall. But an adult saying hello and
asking his name made him very suspicious. He looked around to see if this
was a trap, but there was nobody else in sight. He decided to take a chance
- perhaps this man would give him a few thebe.
'Dumelal he replied, alert for an attack. 'My name is Happy. Some of
the women call me Sethunya, but I don't like that.'
'The old women call you Sethunya because you light up their day like
a flower. I will call you Happy' Tiro paused. 'How old are you?'
Happy relaxed a little. 'Thirteen,' he said with a smile.
Tiro shook his head, knowing full well that this was at least two
years too high. Ten was closer to the mark. 'Where is your mother?' he
asked.
Happy's smile disappeared. 'I have no mother. All those ladies are my
mothers,' he said, pointing at the street vendors.
'Where do you live?' Tiro's voice was soft.
Happy pointed at an alley.
'Would you like something to eat?' Tiro asked, pointing at a small shop
that provided inexpensive takeouts.
Immediately, Happy was suspicious. Tiro continued, 'You look hungry,
and I need to eat too. Let's go.' He walked over to the counter and ordered
two hamburgers and two Coca-Colas. When they were ready, he took
them over to a bench and gestured to Happy, who had stayed some
distance away. Happy didn't move. 'Come on, Happy,' Tiro shouted. I'm
hungry.'
Cautiously, Happy came over and wolfed the food down. Tiro watched
with pain in his heart. How can we let children live like this? he asked
himself.
When Happy had finished a second burger and was sucking large gulps
of Coke through a straw, Tiro asked him how long he had been living in
the area. Happy was not sure, but it was a long time. Before that he had
lived in a very poor area whose name he did not remember. Tiro asked him
about his friends, where he slept when it rained, where he found his food,
and so on. Soon Happy was talking freely. Even though he was by nature
very cautious when dealing with adults, he felt safe with this man who had
bought him food. The man asked lots of questions and teased Happy,
making him laugh. The man also laughed, but quietly. It was his eyes that
laughed rather than his mouth.
After half an hour, Tiro said that he had read in the paper that someone
had been killed on the Mall a few days before. He wondered whether
Happy had seen or heard anything.
'Oh, yes Happy said. 'I saw him and his friend. They were talking.'
Tiro asked, 'Weren't you scared? I would have been.'
'No,' answered Happy. 'It was dark, and they didn't see me. If they saw
me, I'd hide. Know plenty of places to hide.'
Now Tiro had to make a decision. Happy might be a witness, or at
least able to provide information about the two people. He had to
handle this carefully. Happy could disappear for ever if he felt the slightest
threat.
'Will you come with me to my house? I want my wife to meet you. She
likes little boys with big smiles. I think you will like her. If you want to,
you can spend the night in my son's room. He's away'
At once Happy looked anxious. But he liked this quiet man, so he said
he would, hoping that the man's woman had more food. Perhaps he could
take something while they were not looking and sell it.
Later that evening, Happy was unrecognisable. He was clean and wore
clothes that had no holes or tatters. He was still barefoot because he said
the shoes the Tiros had given him hurt his toes. Mma Tiro was not quiet
like her husband. She was large and always laughing. She had taken one
look at him, and helped him take a bath - his first. Then she threw away
his rags. When he was dry, she gave him beautiful clothes from the
cupboard in a big room that had pictures on the wall of people he did not
know. He was overwhelmed by this lady and by all the money they must
have to own such a mansion.

When Tiro opened the door to the bedroom early next morning, he found
Happy curled up on the floor. He had been uncomfortable with the soft
bed and sheets over him and couldn't sleep. Eventually he had crawled out
of bed and slept on the floor with a blanket pulled over him.
Happy got a fright when the door opened. He didn't remember where
he was, but when he saw Tiro, he remembered the kindness of the
previous night. He smiled his glorious smile.
'Come and have some breakfast, Happy,' Tiro said gently. 'I have to go
to work, and I want you to come with me.'
Happy jumped up and went with Tiro to the kitchen. Tiro's wife
pointed to a chair and asked how he had slept. Happy told them how he
had slept on the floor, a story that made the Tiros smile. Mma Tiro put a
plate of bread covered with butter and jam in front of Happy, and told
him to eat up. She also gave him a bag with fruit for later in the day.
As he was eating, Happy asked Tiro what work he did. Tiro hesitated
a moment and said, 'I am a policeman.' Fear crossed Happy's face. Tiro
continued, 'I am a detective. That's a person who tries to find the bad
people who commit crimes. Remember you told me about the man who
was killed on the Mall the other night?' Happy nodded suspiciously.
'Well,' Tiro continued, 'my job is to find out who killed him. But it is very
difficult because nobody knows who it is. Nobody saw him; nobody
knows where he is.'
'But I saw him! I told you I saw him.'
Tiro pretended to be startled and surprised. 'I forgot! You did tell me.'
He paused for a moment and then asked, 'Will you help me find that
man? I need your help.' He looked directly at Happy.
'What do you want me to do?' Happy asked cautiously.
'Nothing much,' Tiro said. 'Can I ask you some questions about it?'
Happy nodded. 'Tell me what you saw' Tiro poured another glass of milk
and gave it to the boy.
'The man who was dead was a big black man. He was with a white
man,' Happy said. 'I saw them walking.'
'Where did they come from?' Tiro interrupted.
'They walked from the side of the football field.'
That must be the National Stadium, Tiro thought.
'I saw them,' Happy continued. 'They stood under a big tree. I hear
them talking. Then there was a big noise like a gun, and the white man
walks back.' He paused. 'I looked for the black man. I find him on the
ground. Blood all over his face. I run and tell the man who cleans the
street. Then the police come, and I hide.'
'What did the white man look like? Did you see him?'
'It was dark. All I know is he had a beard.'
'How tall was the man?' Tiro asked.
'Bigger than you.'
'This big?' Tiro raised his hand ten centimetres above his head. Happy
shook his head. Tiro raised his hand even farther. 'This big?' Happy shook
his head. 'You show me how big,' Tiro said. Happy just shook his head.
'I don't remember,' he said.
'Did you hear what they were talking about? We're trying to find the
white man, so anything will help us.'
'I hear them speak, but didn't understand anything. Funny words.
Never heard them before. Not English. Not Afrikaans. Not Setswana.
Funny words. The white man was shouting.'

Half an hour later, Tiro and Happy were sitting under a tree in the Mall.
Tiro had tried to persuade Happy to go with him to the police station
where he worked. He wanted Happy to listen to some tapes in the hope
of recognising what language the two had been speaking. Happy had
refused, saying it was 'bad place' for him. Eventually, Tiro located a
portable tape player and took it to the mall. Tiro had been thinking about
a black man and a white man speaking to each other in funny words that
were not English or Afrikaans. Thinking of the European languages
spoken in the neighbouring countries, he would bet it was one of three:
German was still widely spoken in Namibia, French was common to the
north, and Portuguese was the official language of nearby Angola.
'Listen to this one,' Tiro said, putting a German tape in the player. He
pressed PLAY, and Happy heard a strange language that sounded rather
like Afrikaans. He shook his head. Next Tiro tried French, but Happy
shook his head again. But when Tiro played the Portuguese tape, Happy
picked up his head. 'Sh. Sh.' He made some sounds as though he was
telling someone to be quiet. Tiro realised that Happy was trying to imitate
the frequent 'sh' sound at the end of many Portuguese words.
Happy smiled and jumped off the chair. 'Sounds like that. Funny
words.'

CHAPTER 45

In sheer frustration at his lack of progress, Kubu set off for his office at six
a.m.. 'I can't sleep. My mind is racing. I'm upset. I might as well go to
work!' he said to Joy as he leant over the bed to kiss her goodbye. She
grunted, muttered something about taking a piece of fruit or a yoghurt for
his breakfast, rolled over and went back to sleep.
As he left the house, he felt the familiar urge associated with
frustration: the urge that had welled up throughout his life; the urge he
had never been able to resist. And that was hunger. Less than ten minutes
later, he was sitting at the Wimpy at Game City. He despised fast-food
joints, but the Delta Cafe upstairs didn't open this early. Nor did Botsalo
Books, where he could succumb to the alternative temptation to browse
the shelves. Anyway, Wimpy did a good job of a steak-and-eggs breakfast.
Waiting for his order to be delivered, Kubu took advantage of a benefit
that Wimpy offered - plenty of copies of the Daily News. His eye was
drawn to a front-page headline, 'BCMC Control Changes Hands'. The
article outlined what had happened at the board meeting. Dianna
Hofmeyr had become the new chairman - chairperson, he thought, for
the politically correct. Angus Hofmeyr, her brother, who had become the
majority stockholder on his thirtieth birthday, had proposed that his sister
run the company that their father had started. Cecil Hofmeyr, the brother
of founder Roland Hofmeyr, would step aside as chairman, but would fill
the new position of CEO. Board member Roger Mpau told reporters this
was the beginning of a new era for the company, enabling it to build on
the strong foundation prepared by Roland and Cecil Hofmeyr.
'The world is changing,' he said. 'The company needs to help guide
that change, at least in Botswana. I think you will see the company
embrace the community to a greater extent than in the past. BCMC will
grow internationally and become more Botswanan at the same time.'
Kubu snorted. He had seen those sorts of promises before.
The article then provided such scant background information about
Dianna that the reporter must have been caught off guard by her
appointment. There was much more detail about Angus, whom the
reporter had obviously thought would take over.
Kubu was lost in thought. He, too, was surprised. It was hard to believe
that Angus would give up control. Angus always wanted to be in charge,
and at the centre of things. This was a different Angus from the one Kubu
had known at school. Even more surprising, the recipient of Angus's
largesse was his sister. Angus had never seemed close to her. Why hadn't
he let Cecil stay on for a few more years, if he wasn't ready to take over
himself? Very strange. At this point the aroma of his breakfast
approaching claimed his attention. He hastily folded up the newspaper
and cleared space. He hated cold eggs.

When he arrived at his desk, Kubu immediately left phone messages for
Edison and Zanele to meet him at eight-thirty in the conference room. He
needed help in brainstorming. He needed a lead, an insight, even an
intuition. He had nothing other than a growing number of bodies, all
linked in some obscure way to BCMC.
Edison and Zanele both arrived early. Everyone poured a cup of tea or
coffee and settled in the conference room. After a minimum of social
chatter, Kubu briefly summarised what they knew. They had three bodies.
The first, an unidentified white male, had been found at Kamissa on
Monday, 27 February.
The second was a black male, Thembu Kobedi, thief, blackmailer and
pornographer, beaten and shot on the afternoon of Friday, 10 March.
Kobedi had recently stolen a letter from Cecil Hofmeyr, who had paid five thousand pula to retrieve it. The police had the letter, written by a BCMC
geologist, Aron Frankental, critical of the abilities of his boss, Jason Ferraz,
as manager of a BCMC mine, suggesting something about diamonds
being stolen from the mine. The letter hardly seemed grounds for either
blackmail or murder. Part of a copy of one page of the letter was found
near Kobedi's body.
The third body was that of a black man, also unidentified, but a prime
suspect in Kobedi's murder. He was shot in the head late in the evening of
10 March or early in the morning of the 11th.
They had one missing person - the same Aron Frankental who had
written to Hofmeyr. Meanwhile Ferraz had disappeared. Everyone
thought he was in Europe on business, followed by a vacation. However,
the police had not been able to contact him, trace him, or even verify that
he had left the country.
Finally, Kubu had been assaulted by the now-deceased black man.
'So that's where we stand,' Kubu concluded. 'We need to make
some progress.' He paused for a moment before continuing. 'Zanele,
I know you haven't had much time to process all the stuff you got from
the mine, but I need to know whether you have anything at all at this
stage.'
'I do have some information, but not as much as I'd hoped,' she said.
'I did find enough material at both sites to run DNA tests. There were a
few hairs with follicles in Frankental's bathroom, trapped in the shower
drain. He also left a hairbrush, which had a few hairs on it. We found
plenty of hairs in the farmhouse, some curly and some straight. Then there
was the blood in the bathroom and in the yellow Landy. It's definitely
human blood. Unfortunately, none of the DNA reports are back yet. I've
told the lab it's a high-priority job, but they have a backlog, and it's going
to take a while.'
Kubu nodded, but looked despondent. 'Zanele. I need some good news. Please have some!'
Zanele pulled a brown envelope from her briefcase. 'I do have some
positive information. We found some fingerprints in Frankental's room.
Some were from the person who cleaned it - I've his name here
somewhere. Some were Jason's, and the others were Frankental's - at least
we're pretty sure they are his. They matched some found on his resume in
his file. I would say we can be ninety per cent certain. The strange thing
is that there were no prints on the hairbrush. It had obviously been
cleaned. Someone tried to clean up at the farmhouse too. But we found a
variety of prints there anyway. We found several matches with those of the
third victim - the huge black man. We also found one that's a perfect
match for Jason Ferraz. But none of Frankental's prints. There were also
other prints we haven't been able to identify, including some in the
upstairs room - the one with the heavy lock. We got a clear thumbprint
on a bent five-thebe coin we found in the bathroom and some partials on
the underside of the table. We were lucky there - most of the room had
been wiped clean.'
All three sat silently, digesting this new information.
Again Zanele checked her report. 'The vehicle we found abandoned
near the farmhouse was Frankental's, though. The engine numbers
matched.' She paused.
'Personally, I think Frankental is dead. But what happened to his body?
There wouldn't be a lot of predators or scavengers in the area around the
mine, but it might be buried somewhere nearby. We've done a careful
search around the farmhouse itself and around the area where we found
the car, but we've found nothing. Yet I'm not convinced he is the Kamissa
body'
Kubu raised his eyebrows. 'Why do you think the Kamissa body is not
Frankental's? Nobody else seems to be missing.'
'It is my intuition,' Zanele replied. 'Why didn't we find any of his
prints at the farmhouse? And it doesn't make sense to drive Frankental's
body all the way to Kamissa, but hide his Landy near the farmhouse. It
seems too much work. It would've made more sense to hide the Landy
somewhere else and bury the body nearby'
Kubu nodded. 'Well, I think we all rely on intuition to some extent.
So we'll keep that in mind. Now, let's narrow the focus. Disentangle what
we know. Keep the issues separate. First, the Kamissa body We don't really
know who the person is. We're certain he was murdered. We're also sure
that the murderers used a yellow vehicle - which Zanele's report suggests
is the one we found at the farmhouse. Ferraz was definitely at the
farmhouse. In my interviews with him, I sensed he knew more than he
was saying, but my intuition is that he isn't a cold-blooded murderer.'
He paused, took a deep breath, and continued. 'Second, Frankental is
missing. His vehicle is found burnt out in a riverbed and then
camouflaged. It had been at the farmhouse. Frankental had criticised
Ferraz in a letter to Cecil Hofmeyr and said that he thought diamonds
were being stolen from the mine. Ferraz had been at the farmhouse. So,
Ferraz has to be our main suspect, even though we don't actually know
Frankental is dead. Now we can't find Ferraz.' Kubu paused once again.
'Third, Kobedi is murdered. That much we know. We think he was
blackmailing Cecil Hofmeyr, using the letter Frankental wrote to
Hofmeyr. If the letter we have is genuine, it's difficult to understand how
it could be used for blackmail. Nothing really sensitive in it. We're pretty
sure Kobedi was murdered by the large man, who was subsequently also
killed. When I spoke to Ferraz, I was sure that he knew who the black man
was. But I don't think he knew about the murders. He seemed shocked.'
Kubu took a deep breath. 'Three bodies. One missing person, who may
also be dead. One missing suspect.' He paused as a new thought struck
him. I wonder if he's also dead?'
Edison pulled some notes from a folder. 'There is a small lead on the
murder of the big black man. Last night one of the detectives, Peter Tiro,
talked to a homeless boy who lives between some of the stalls on the Mall.
He told Tiro that he saw a big black man and a white man together on the
night of the murder. He said the white man sounded angry, but he didn't
understand what they were saying. It was a strange language he couldn't
understand. A little later the white man came back along the Mall walking
fast. He was alone. And he had a beard.' Edison referred to his
notes. 'Tiro's still talking to the boy'
Kubu lifted himself a little in his chair. 'Were you able to locate the safe
deposit boxes for the keys we found in Kobedi's safe, Edison?'
'Yes. Yesterday afternoon I found both. The first was in his name at the
Barclays bank on Luthuli Road - that was easy to find. Nothing much of
interest in it. Paperwork for his house and car. About eight thousand pula
and five thousand US dollars in cash. Some other innocuous papers. The
second was more difficult to find, since it was not in his name - it ended
up being in the name of a fictitious company, Pink Flamingo Enterprises.
It was in the industrial area branch of the Stanbic bank on Old Lobatse
Road. Finding the bank wasn't too difficult, because they use a different
type of key from Barclays. However, the director had to get a court order
to persuade the bank to open the box. They were reluctant, and it took
some time to match the key with its box. They keep the key numbers
separate for security reasons.'
'What was in that one?' Zanele asked.
'It could be a gold mine!' Edison's eyes lit up. A large box with thirty
one videotapes in it - all from Kobedi's little studio! I wasn't able to look
at them because the director took them and said he would review them.
Scared of who could be on them, I guess.'
'That has the potential for being a huge scandal, if the tapes are of what
we think. Government officials caught with their pants down - literally!'
Zanele said with a giggle. 'No wonder the director doesn't want anyone to
see them. Kubu, do you think he will tell us who was on them?'
'Mabaku needs these murders solved. He'll let us know whatever's
necessary. But he's also well aware of the chaos it would cause, if all the
details came out. We can trust him. I'm not so sure about his superiors,
though.'
All three were silent. All imagining who could be on the tapes, and
picturing the outcry if they became public.
Kubu brought the discussion back to the Kamissa body. 'I spoke to the
German embassy about Frankental, as well as to the German police. The
police know nothing of him, and he has no record of any sort. Not even
speeding fines. The embassy contacted his parents. They're arriving in
Gabs today. The embassy asked them to bring any of his medical records
they could obtain. I'll go and see them after lunch. Obviously they are
very upset and, apparently, don't think that the Botswana police can be
any good. But I'm hoping they may be able to help us decide whether or
not the corpse is their son.'
Kubu changed tack again. 'Do the guys from the CID Diamond
Branch have anything to say about the mine? They were there on
Wednesday'
'Not yet,' Edison answered. 'I spoke to Afrika Modise this morning
before I got here. He said the report would be finished in a few days. I
asked him for a quick summary, but he said it was premature to say
anything.'
At that moment the door swung open, and Mabaku walked in.
'I hope you're making progress!' he said. 'I am beginning to get flak
from the commissioner. He says some higher-ups want to know what's
going on.'
'The same higher-ups who enjoyed Kobedi's comforts, I bet!' Kubu
said with a hint of anger in his voice. 'They're worried about what may
come out. What else has the commissioner said, Mr Director? Does he
want the Kobedi case closed?'
Mabaku's face hardened, and he stared at Kubu, eyes angry. After a few
seconds, he sat down. 'Kubu, don't push me! I should have you disciplined
for your insinuations about the commissioner.' He paused. 'But I have
some sympathy with your sentiments. I'm tired of being pressured. It's
time everyone lived by the same rules as we do. I think the commissioner
feels that way too.'
Kubu, Edison and Zanele looked at Mabaku in astonishment.
Mabaku stood up and said, 'You never heard me say that! Okay? All I
can say is that the big black man we think murdered Kobedi was not on
any of the tapes I've watched. Now, where are we with all these bodies?'
It took Kubu fifteen minutes to lay out what they knew. Mabaku paced
up and down, occasionally stopping to stare out of the window. He didn't
say a word. At the end, he turned towards Kubu and said, 'Kubu, we need to make progress. I know you're doing what you can, but we need more,
and soon.' With that he turned and walked out.
Almost immediately there was a knock on the door, and Detective Tiro
walked in with a big smile. 'Portuguese! They were speaking Portuguese!
We played a number of tapes to the kid, and he lit up when the Portuguese
tape came on. He mimicked it well, with lots of "sh" sounds at the end of
words. I think we can deduce the big guy was from Angola, and that he
was shot by someone else from Angola.'
Kubu closed his eyes and let his mind tumble this new information.
BCMC and Angola and diamonds and some small coins from a petrol
station. They seemed to mesh. He was starting to see a pattern at last.


CHAPTER 46

Kubu was tired when he returned to his office after his meeting with the
Frankentals. The meeting had been difficult. Not only was there
the language barrier, but also an unspoken accusation that the police
could be, and should be, doing more to resolve the issue. On the positive
side, the Frankentals were sure that their son had never broken either
of his arms, and fairly recent medical records they had brought with
them corroborated that. Given that information, Kubu felt confident
enough to give them the good news that the Kamissa body was not
Aron, but cautioned them that he did not think their son would be found
alive.
He collapsed at his desk with patterns and people in his mind. He was
trying to force them into focus, but they remained hazy, peripheral. He
needed to change the perspective, add another dimension. Angus used to
say that about cricket. When the bowlers were making frustratingly little
progress, you had to change the perspective, reshuffle the deck and pull a
new card. That reminded him that Dianna had given him Angus's South
African mobile phone number. He decided to give him a call. Perhaps he
would draw an ace.
Kubu dialled the number, but it rang for so long that he thought it
wouldn't be answered. But then he heard a click as the connection was
made.
'Hello. This is Angus Hofmeyr.'
Despite the indifferent quality of the mobile phone, Kubu recognised
the voice of his old friend. Angus,' he said. 'It's Kubu. How are you?'
'Kubu! Wonderful to hear from you.'
Angus! Are you okay? I gather you've been quite ill.'
'Well, first they said it was malaria, then tick-bite fever, then they
became more honest and said they didn't know. I've been stuck here for
over a week. Thank God for the test match on television. I would have
died of boredom without it. Did you manage to watch any of it? Great
that the South Africans beat the Aussies, wasn't it!'
Kubu admitted that he had had little time for cricket recently but had
seen some highlights over the weekend.
'Good God, man. No time for the cricket? What's happened to you,
Kubu? You need taking in hand.' He sounded scandalised.
Kubu laughed. Actually, I've been battling with a case. Or maybe it's
two cases, or even three. I phoned to find out how you are, but now I
realise that you are just malingering so you can watch the cricket in peace!
Didn't want to be interrupted by silly board meetings and changes of
control of Botswana's largest public company, and so on.'
'Well actually, the board meeting was a problem. Uncle Cecil was
absolutely furious that I wasn't there. But he's probably even crosser now!'
He laughed. It wasn't a nice laugh.
'I understand that Dianna's taking over as chairman. I have to admit
I'm surprised. I thought you were pretty set on taking the helm yourself.'
'I've got lots of other things to do with my life. Important things.
So many beautiful women. So little time! Di's the one who wants it,
you know, and she's got the qualifications. Worked for it like a dog.
London School of Economics and all that. And she's really smart.' There
was a pause. 'She really deserves it, actually. And she was my father's
favourite too. He would have been really happy to see her take over. Really
happy'
Kubu didn't know what to say. The thought of the misogynistic Roland
Hofmeyr wanting a woman - even his own daughter - to run his
company was just too peculiar. Angus had always been the apple of his
father's eye - sometimes embarrassingly so. It certainly seemed that Angus
had changed. Well, Kubu thought, it's been many years. Perhaps even
Angus has grown up.
'I'm sure you're right,' he said blandly. 'Where are you, by the way?
What do you intend to do when they let you out of there?'
'I'm at a private clinic in the Cape. After this I'll go up to Plettenberg
Bay and spend some time there at our beach house. Relax. Get my
strength back. Swim. Work on my tan. After that, I've got lots of time to
decide. All the time in the world.' He laughed again, but Kubu wasn't sure
why.
'I guess you have.'
'Well, Kubu, it's really great to hear from you. We must get together as
soon as I'm back in Gaborone. Go watch some cricket. Now, was this a
social call, or can I help you with your multiple cases?'
It was Kubu's turn to laugh. 'You see through me, don't you, Angus? As
a matter of fact, I do want to ask you a couple of questions. It seems this
case is somehow connected with BCMC, but I've no idea how or why.
We've got enough bodies to stage the final scene of Hamlet"
'Bodies? It's a murder case?'
. 'Yes, it certainly is.' Using broad brushstrokes, Kubu filled his friend in
on the developments since Bongani and Andries had found a corpse in the
desert. Angus seemed very interested and asked for the details. He
particularly wanted to know where Kamissa was located. Kubu finished by
describing Zanele's doubts about Aron Frankental being the Kamissa
corpse, and how that had been corroborated by Aron's parents. 'We don't
know where Frankental is, and we've no idea who was found at Kamissa.
Nobody who would fit the bill has been reported missing. Do you have
any idea where Jason might be? Or Frankental, for that matter?'
There was a long pause. I'm wasting my time again, Kubu thought.
'I know Jason. I spent time with him at the mine. He took me hunting.
Decent sort of chap.' Angus hesitated. 'I also met Aron. Quiet chap. Keeps
to himself. Probably lonely. Out of it, you know? Being German and all
that. I'm not surprised he developed some weird ideas alone in the desert.'
'You think the idea of theft at the mine was weird?'
'Well, certainly Jason stealing the diamonds is weird. Did you know he
is a twenty-five per cent shareholder? Stealing from himself would be
crazy, not so? I went through the whole operation with a fine-toothed
comb. Clean bill of health. I wasn't so sure about Jason's expansion plans,
but I don't pretend to be a geologist. I looked into it all pretty carefully'
Very carefully, Kubu thought, for someone who wants to carry on life
as a playboy.
'So you've no idea where either of them might be?'
'Not a clue.'
Kubu hesitated, wondering if he was about to presume on their
friendship. 'Was your sister involved with Jason?'
The laugh again. 'Certainly! She seemed to like him well enough. Light
relief for her, not so? She's gorgeous. She can have any man she wants.
Perhaps she'd know where he is?'
'She said he was on a trip. That's all she knew. And the letter? Did Cecil
ever talk to you about it?'
'Not a word.'
Kubu felt a return of the morning's frustration. Another blank. He
kept drawing twos and threes. When was he going to turn over an ace?
'Well, I'd better get back to work before they notice that I'm using the
phone to chat long-distance to my old school friends. Oh, by the way,
speaking of school, you know who I met a few weeks ago? Lesley Davis our
old English teacher. Retired now, of course.'
'Yes, I remember him well. He was quite a character. Well, good luck
with your case, Kubu.'
'Yes. Thanks,' Kubu said blandly. 'Well, keep in touch, Angus.'
'Certainly will. Goodbye, Kubu.'
'Goodbye.'
Kubu looked at the telephone handset as though he'd never seen one
before. Then he carefully replaced it on its cradle. He hadn't turned up an
ace, but it seemed he had uncovered a joker. For Lesley Davis, who had
taught them both English literature, was a woman.

CHAPTER 47

'Listen to me, Jason,' she said with venom. 'If I find you're lying, you'll
regret it for as long as you live. Don't you dare cross me!'
Now Jason fought to keep his voice under control. 'Look, this doesn't
change the way I feel about you, you know? We've got big plans. Together.
I hope you still feel the same way'
She wanted to scream that she never wanted to see him again. But
instead she said quietly, 'I'll see you soon, darling.' Then she broke the
connection and sat for a long time with her head in her hands, mumbling
to herself.


Dianna wandered through her suite at the Grand Palm. In one direction,
she had lovely views of Kgale Hill. In another she could see sprawling,
dusty Gaborone teeming with traffic. The room was quiet - the double
glazed windows muffled the city sounds. It was as though she was isolated
from the real world outside, protected in a silent cocoon. She sat down
at the desk in the study alcove, rested her head on her hands, and talked
to herself for several minutes. At last she unlocked the top drawer.
She took out a mobile phone -- not the one she usually carried with her --
and punched in a number from memory. After a few rings, Jason
answered.
'Jason,' she said calmly, 'I had a call from your police friend Superintendent
Bengu. He's very eager to see you. Told me to get you to
contact him at once. I think it's time you told me the truth. The truth
about what happened at Maboane.'
Jason hesitated. 'What do you mean?'
'I mean, what happened to Aron Frankental.'
'I don't know what you're on about,' Jason said blandly. 'He's missing
- has been for a week or so. I reported that to the police. They know about
it, but haven't found him.'
'You know about the letter he wrote to my uncle claiming you were
stealing diamonds. I think you got rid of him.'
'For God's sake, Dianna!' Jason shouted. 'Why would I do that? I'm
not stealing from myself. And I'd be the obvious suspect if something
happened to Aron. Calm down, will you.'
And what about the body the police found? What do you know about
that?' Dianna was fighting to keep her voice under control.
'Darling, what's got into you? Of course I know nothing about a body.
I read about it in the newspaper. It's most probably some dumb tourist.
Calm down.'



CHAPTER 48

The mobile phone played its silly tune, and Red Beard picked it up. He
recognised the supercilious English voice at once.
'How's your prisoner? I'm worried about him'
Ah! Mr Daniel, my friendl I wonder when I hear from you again. He
fine. Everything fine.'
'I am not sure I believe you. I am told a body has been found.'
'Bullshit. Prisoner fine.' Red Beard wondered how Daniel had found
out. He would have to be very careful of this man. He always knew too
much. 'Prisoner fine. But maybe he has accident pretty soon.'
'I want to talk to him! Now! I want to be sure!'
Red Beard squirmed. He could feel a quarter of a million dollars
slipping away. 'I no take orders from you, Mr Friend! No way you talk to
anyone here. Only me!'
iil phone you back in five minutes. You had better have him there. I
know everything about you. The police will be very interested, not so?
Five minutes, no more.'

Exactly five minutes passed, and the phone rang again. Red Beard
punched the accept button hard. 'He not here,' he said at once. 'I
move him somewhere safe. Somewhere even you don't know about,
Mr Friend.'
'Do you think you are playing with children, you idiot? I know about
every move you make.' There was a pause. 'You have nothing to say? I
thought you could be trusted if there was money on the line. Wrong again.
You're going to be very sorry you underestimated me!'
'Okay! Okay! We have problem.'
'We have a problem?' Daniel shouted. 'You have a problem! Not me.
Not we. You! What happened?'
'He tried escape. Hit head. Die. Accident.' He held the phone away
from his ear, expecting the worst. There was silence. Red Beard waited.
Silence. Then he asked, 'You there? You okay?'
The voice at the other end had lost its heat and was now icy. 'When
did this happen - exactly?'
'February twenty-fourth.'
'Yes, well, hardly the arrangement we made. Not at all a convincing accident. And very bad timing. Total shambles actually. I expect to get all
my money back.'
'You think this a shoe shop?' Red Beard growled. 'No refunds! But I
keep my word. You get your accident. Just like you wanted.'
'Well, it's a bit late for that now, not so? The police have found the
body, and they know when he died. Not really easy to stage a convincing
accident post-mortem, is it? Cart before the horse, you might say'
Red Beard didn't understand these allusions so he ignored them. He
shook his head and said, 'Took body far away from here. No connection.
No identity. No worry. Lots of things you don't know. And I have a plan,
Mr Friend. Uma planta simples. What you say - an easy plan, no? I tell
you.'
And he did. At first Daniel was unconvinced, finding objections and
gaps. But Red Beard had thought hard about his simple plan; after a while
they were both raising objections and both finding the answers. They
argued it back and forth for half an hour, like jackals worrying a wounded
springbok lamb.
At last neither spoke for some seconds. Then Daniel said, 'Will
Hofmeyr and Ferraz go along with this?'
'They in too deep. They do what they told.'
'There are loose ends,' Daniel said. 'Hofmeyr's the key to all this. We
mustn't touch. But Ferraz is a loose end. You understand?'
'I have friends in Lisboa. But expensive.'
'Oh, no. You screwed this up. You sort it out at your own expense. I'll
be in touch to let you know where Ferraz is staying.' With a click the line
went dead.
Red Beard wasn't worried about the money. Although he would never
admit it, he privately felt that Daniel's attitude was justified. And he did
worry about loose ends. All loose ends.

CHAPTER 49

After dinner, Kubu drove to the Zebra bar, not far from the train station.
Although not his choice of watering hole, it was where most Portuguese
speakers congregated. He turned off the asphalt on to a dirt road that
wound around some palms, past a Chinese restaurant and another bar that
had a reputation for being a good source for drugs. He parked on the far
side of the road from the Zebra.
Pushing through swinging doors, Kubu entered a large outdoor area
surrounding the bar itself. Cheap African masks decorated the reed walls,
and an elephant skull dominated a small platform near the door. Two sets
of kudu horns caught his attention. They must have been magnificent
beasts, Kubu thought as he admired their size. And three zebra skins hung
on the wall behind the bar. Several couples sat at tables sipping Portuguese
wines. A boisterous group of young men surrounded a large table to the
right of the bar. Several older men occupied stools at the bar itself. Kubu
headed towards them.
At first he didn't see his quarry. He walked around the bar again. Luiz
was not there. Kubu had not talked to him for some time, so perhaps he
had left the country or changed his habits. He leant over the bar and spoke
to the bartender.
'Luiz used to be here the whole time. Any idea where I can find him?'
The bartender stared at him, assessing whether the question warranted
an answer. Kubu stared back. Eventually the barman pointed towards the
back of the enclosure, behind a small fountain that had run out of water
long ago. There was Luiz, sitting by himself at a table. He was drinking
something a lot harder than wine. Kubu ordered a Scotch on the rocks,
paid for it, and walked over to Luiz's table. Pulling up a chair, he said,
'Luiz, my friend. It's been a long time!'
Luiz's dirty, sweaty face looked up. He didn't smile.
'Luiz,' Kubu repeated. 'How are you? It's been a long time.'
'Okay,' Luiz responded quietly. 'Drink too much. Still at garage. But
still clean!'
'That's wonderful, Luiz. Congratulations.'
'What you want?' Luiz asked, not smiling. His relationship with the
detective had always been ambivalent at best.
A favour!' Kubu sat down. 'Luiz, have you ever seen this man?' He
handed over a picture of the man he believed had killed Kobedi. 'We think
he's from Angola. He was murdered last week. We don't know who he is.
Does he ever come in here?'
Luiz glanced at the photograph, then put it face down on the table. He
took a gulp of his tequila. He shook his head slowly. 'Don't know!' But a
hint of fear in his eyes made Kubu believe otherwise.
'Please, Luiz. I need your help.'
'You always need my help! When I help, I have problems.'
'I just need to know who this is. Have you seen him before?'
Luiz stared at Kubu, then at his glass, and shook his head. 'You bad for
me.' He paused. 'Very bad for me!' Again he shook his head. 'Don't know
his real name. They call him Sculo. From Angola. Don't say I tell you. Bad
friends.' He glanced around the bar nervously.
'Bad friends?' Kubu asked. 'Who are these bad friends?'
Luiz shook his head rapidly from side to side. 'Bad friends! I tell you I
die. Very bad.' Kubu could feel his fear.
'Luiz, I need to know. I have three murders, including Sculo. When
did you last see him?'
Luiz continued to shake his head. 'Very bad.'
Kubu stared at Luiz, but said nothing. Luiz looked down, then around,
then at Kubu. He examined his glass again. Eventually he said, 'Bad man
with Sculo. Like me. From Angola. Don't know name.'
'I need his name, Luiz. Please.'
Luiz sat silent.
'Don't know name. Promise. Bad man. Don't like you, you dead.'
Kubu slipped two hundred pula across the table.
'Very bad/ said Luiz. But the pula disappeared into his trouser pocket.
'Do you know where I can find him? Where does he live?'
'Live in Angola.'
'How often does he come to his bar? Do you see him often?'
Luiz again shook his head. 'Not often. Four, five times a year.'
'Luiz. Please help me,' Kubu pleaded. 'When did you last see him?'
Luiz stared into Kubu's eyes. 'Last week,' he whispered. 'With Sculo.'
'When last week? Which day?'
Luiz's eyes became fearful again. 'Not this week. Last week. Thursday?
Friday? Say no more. Bad man. He find out I talk . . .' He cut his throat
with his hand.
'You're sure you don't know his name?'
'Don't know name.' He glanced around, swallowed his drink, and
stood up. 'Don't know name. But has big red beard.' He turned and
almost ran from the room.
Kubu sat quietly for a moment. Picking up the photo, he walked to the
bar. The barman came over and asked if he wanted another Scotch. Kubu
declined. Instead he pulled out his police credentials and said, Assistant
Superintendent Bengu. Have you ever seen this man?' He handed over the
picture of Sculo. The barman looked at the photo and replied, 'Yes. He
comes in for a drink sometimes.'
'Do you know his name?'
'No. I don't ever talk to him. He always sits at a table, not at the bar.'
'Does he have any friends?'
The barman paused for a moment. 'He's usually by himself.
Occasionally he comes in with a man with a red beard. I don't know his
name either.'
Kubu growled. 'This is very important!' He handed the barman a card.
'If the man with the red beard ever comes in here, phone me immediately
- but don't let him know. If I find that he's been here and you haven't
phoned, I will find a reason to close the bar, and I will find a reason to put
you in jail.' Kubu hoped that he sounded angry and threatening.
The barman nodded. "Iil let you know!'
Kubu turned and walked out. A little progress, he thought, but not
much. He decided to send a fax to all police stations and the immigration
people asking them to alert him if they saw a Portuguese-speaking man in
his thirties or forties with a heavy red beard. He hoped he was guessing the age correctly.

CHAPTER 50

Dianna paused at the secretary's desk and asked politely, 'Is Mr Hofmeyr
available?' Recognising her immediately, the secretary responded, 'Of
course, Miss Hofmeyr. Go straight in.' She didn't bother to check with
Cecil, assuming that he would now always be available to the new
chairman of the company.
Dianna knocked and opened the door. She took in the palatial extent
of Cecil's office, which had been her father's. She was still using a modest
consultant's office, but she didn't care about the office. She had her father's
seat at the head of the boardroom table.
Cecil glanced at her and returned his attention to the document on
his desk.
'Sit down, Dianna. I'll be with you in a minute.' Dianna had already
helped herself to the French Renaissance chair whose safety had concerned
Kubu. It accepted her as to the manner born.
Cecil pushed the document aside, looked up at her enquiringly and
asked, 'How is the tour going?' He was referring to her round of meetings
with the various executive directors. He had not offered to facilitate these,
but left her to find her own way. It seemed she knew most of them already;
they were ready with their presentations, although these might originally
have been prepared for Angus.
'Oh, it's been fine. You've run a tight ship.' Cecil nodded, but didn't
acknowledge her compliment. They were like two springbok rams
circling. Neither wanted to lock horns, but each held its head down and
body ready in case of a confrontation. It was their first private conversation
since the board meeting.
'Uncle Cecil,' Dianna began, emphasising the family link, 'I hope we
can work together. This has been a surprise to me too. Angus, I mean. I
need your help.'
"iil be happy to help in any way I can,' said Cecil coldly. 'How is
Angus, by the way?'
'Much better. It's one of the things I wanted to talk to you about. I
want to spend a few days with him at our holiday place in Plettenberg Bay
in South Africa. I think he needs some support at the moment. We can
chill out at the beach.' Dianna gave a little laugh - the Cape was in the
midst of a heat wave - but Cecil ignored the small offering.
'I've been worried about that clinic where Angus is,' he said. 'I've been
looking into it. Not really the place to go for tropical infections, you
know. More for, shall we say, rehabilitation? Very discreet they are, mind
you. They wouldn't even admit to having had a patient called Angus
Hofmeyr, until I mentioned the call to the board meeting. Under no circumstances may he be disturbed, it seems.'
Dianna shrugged. She had expected this. Angus didn't have malaria,
Uncle. He went for rehab. There was no choice.'
'That was more important than appearing at the key board meeting?'
'Would you have preferred him to be there drunk or spaced out? Just
the message to send to our investors, not so?' Now she sounded angry.
'Perhaps not.' Cecil retreated. 'Your mother seems fine, anyway. I spoke
to her after the meeting. She couldn't understand what all the fuss was
about.'
Dianna hadn't expected that. Cecil and her mother couldn't stand one
another. Her mother hated Botswana and despised her brother-in-law
with the disapproval of a conventional married woman for a good-looking
man whose sexual appetites lay elsewhere. They had had little to do with
each other apart from business issues after the family had gone to live in
London.
'Mother's quite private about these kinds of issues,' she said smoothly.
'Evidently,' Cecil agreed, unsatisfied.
She changed the subject. 'I want to use the company Learjet.' She knew
Cecil regarded the jet as his personal plane, but it wasn't. It belonged to
the company. 'I want to meet Angus tomorrow when he leaves the clinic
and would like to avoid all the delays and formalities with the airlines. He
shouldn't be left on his own right now. We'll come back next week. We
won't need the plane in the interim.'
Cecil didn't like it, but he couldn't see any grounds to refuse. 'I'm not
sure the pilot is available.'
'He is. I checked.'
'Very well, then. Is there anything else?'
?
At last Dianna did jab at him with her horns. 'Just this. I have what I
want. I'm happy to leave you with what you want. The diamond mine at
Maboane, for example. Just don't get in my way.' She got up and walked
to the door. 'I'll be back in a week, perhaps ten days. Keep the plane on
standby' She closed the door behind her.
Cecil thought about the conversation and her reactions. She had
warned him off, but why was she so tense? She obviously knew something
was up at the Maboane mine. But she had decided to use it as a stick
rather than to pursue it. And the carrot? Despite the unpleasant
discussion, Cecil felt that after all he held some decent cards.
Unfortunately, he had no idea what they were.

CHAPTER 51

Kubu arrived at work on Monday morning full of hope that a breakthrough
was near at hand. That was not to be. They made no progress at
all for two full days. The Angolan embassy knew nothing of Sculo nor his
bearded Portuguese friend, and no information had come through on the
DNA tests. They had traced the yellow Land Rover found at the
farmhouse. It had indeed belonged to BCMC, but they had sold it five
years ago, and it had changed hands a few times since then. Now it was
registered in a false name at a false address in Gaborone. The second-hand
car salesman who last sold it thought the buyer looked like Ferraz, but he
was really only interested in proving that he had the correct paperwork.
By Wednesday, Kubu was despondent again. He sat at his desk
doodling on a pad - beetles, birds, meaningless scribbles. He even tried
some lateral-thinking techniques he had learnt on a course. Nothing
sparked an insight.
At noon, Kubu's phone interrupted his reverie. It was Afrika Modise,
head of the CID Diamond Branch.
'Kubu,' he said in his usual gruff and to-the-point way, 'I have the
report on the Maboane diamond mine here.'
'What's in it?'
'Well, I think you'd better see it for yourself. And there's someone with
me I want you to meet.'
Kubu looked at his watch. 'What about lunch?' he asked hopefully.
'Oh, grab a sandwich later. Come over.'
Kubu groaned. Why was he the only person in the building who
thought that eating regular meals was important?
When he arrived at Afrika's office, he found him with a stout,
bleached-looking man with a heavy tan beard and a long handlebar
moustache. A scientist from Debswana, Kubu thought. Another one of de
Beards from De Beers! Kubu smiled to himself at his unoriginal humour.
In his self-amusement he missed the man's name -- something Polish
sounding - but he was indeed a scientist with Debswana. He wore small,
frameless glasses, and when he focused over the top of them to shake
Kubu's hand, his bushy eyebrows rose, making him look like a surprised
walrus.
'Pleased to meet you, Superintendent,' said the Walrus. He turned to
Afrika. 'Do you think they could organise something for us to eat? I've
been here for ages, and it's past lunch time.' Kubu warmed to him at once.
After Afrika had ordered sandwiches and cold drinks, the three settled
around his small conference table.
'Well, Kubu,' Afrika began, 'we're sure no one's stealing diamonds from
the mine. Nothing's impossible, of course, but just about everyone at the
mine would have to be in on it. Doesn't make sense.'
'Is that what you called me over to tell me?'
Afrika held up one hand. 'There's a lot more. Dr Waskowski, perhaps
you should fill in Superintendent Bengu.'
The Walrus made a grunting sound by way of clearing his throat. 'Aron
Frankental was a scientific colleague, Superintendent. He regarded me as
a mentor. He was dubious about Ferraz - understandably - and knew I'd
worked on the Maboane joint venture project. So he could bounce ideas
off me. Speak to a real scientist rather than an entrepreneur.' It was clear
that he didn't think much of Jason Ferraz.
Ah, so you knew Aron well?' Kubu's interest picked up.
'Not really well. As I said, we were colleagues. We'd speak on the
telephone or meet occasionally if he came down to Gabs.'
And Ferraz?'
The Walrus waggled his sideburns. 'Only a few professional meetings.
I didn't like dealing with him. He's a showman. Before this he managed a
small mine in Angola and left there under a bit of a cloud, from what I've
heard. I told Aron to watch out for him.'
'So what did you make of Aron's story about diamonds being stolen?'
The Walrus shrugged. 'Not much. Never made a lot of sense to me.
But that wasn't Aron's first idea, you know' Kubu raised an eyebrow. 'Oh
no, he had a lot of other theories. He thought there might be a second
kimberlite that had intruded into the first, bringing the better stones.'
'Is that possible?'
Anything's possible, but it's very unlikely. And it would be obvious,
when you found the interface. Aron never did. I asked him to look at the

kimberlite around the richer diamonds. You know what was remarkable?'
The Walrus paused for effect and puffed his cheeks, obviously not
expecting an answer. Aron never found any of the rich stones in situ. He
was always chasing the latest area where they were supposed to have been
found, but never found gemstones there. Of course, now we know why'
He grunted again and said nothing more.
'Have you heard of fingerprinting?' Afrika asked Kubu, who looked
incredulous. Afrika laughed. 'Diamond fingerprinting, that is. It's a
technique originally developed for the gold mines in South Africa. The
smelted gold contains a variety of trace elements. These vary in type and
concentration from mine to mine. If you take a sample of the processed
gold, analyse it, and check the results against the database, you've a good
statistical probability of matching it to its original mine. It can be helpful
in tracing stolen gold if you know where it originated. We have a different,
but similar, technique for diamonds.'
Kubu would have been interested in how that worked, but the two
men made it clear that the process was secret. 'So what does that tell you
about the Maboane mine situation?'
The Walrus pulled on his sideburns and grunted again. 'The smaller,
industrial-quality diamonds come from that mine. No doubt. It seems
likely that the gemstones come from somewhere else. But not from one of
the established Botswana mines or, indeed, any De Beers mine. There's no
match to our database. They might be from some other country'
Angola?' Kubu asked quietly.
The Walrus's eyebrows shot up. 'Yes, quite likely. We've got little data
from that part of the world. There are a lot of unregistered diamonds there
too.'
'You mean blood diamonds?'
The Walrus was displeased. 'We prefer to call them unregistered. Some
of them are perfectly legitimate. Not all finance wars and such. The whole
conflict-diamond thing is rather overcooked in my opinion.' He
harrumphed and then subsided.
Kubu had little interest in the diamond industry's sensitivities. 'So are
you suggesting that it was all a scam? That the mine was being salted?'
Afrika was about to reply, but was interrupted by the arrival of lunch.
He could get no attention from either Kubu or the Walrus while they
attacked the sandwiches. At last, feeling he might be heard above the
chewing, he reminded Kubu of his question.
'Do we think the mine was being salted? Well, yes and no. It is a
commercial producing mine. It does make money even though the
majority of its diamonds aren't gem quality. It also has a large exploration
lease area, and they have identified several additional potential
kimberlites. No one would be excited about a joint venture over that area
on the basis of the sort of output they're getting from the mine. But if you
add these high-quality gems to the mix, it's a different story.'
He looked enquiringly at the Walrus, who nodded and said, 'The point
is, you are not talking about a few stones scattered around to fool some
novice junior exploration company. Over the last year, a substantial
portion of the mine's income came from these stones. And it all started
after we'd pulled out of the JV - the joint venture, that is.'
Kubu digested this. 'Did Aron know any of this? Did you suggest he
send some diamonds for fingerprinting?'
The Walrus looked shocked. 'That would have been most improper.
Different now that it's a police matter, of course.' Not a lot of comfort to
Aron, Kubu thought. He turned instead to the most useful question in
any investigation. 'Who would gain from all this?'
Afrika shrugged. 'Basically everyone. Whoever has the diamonds in the
first place gets to sell them. The smuggler gets his money. Ferraz gets more
money from the mine and a higher profile for his exploration areas. The
workers on a marginal mine get to keep their jobs. Even the Botswana
government gets extra taxes! No one will be in a hurry to rat on this one.
Somehow Aron got in the way'
Kubu helped himself to another sandwich. They were tasty, and he
wanted to think, not talk, for a moment. 'It's Ferraz and the smuggler
from Angola,' he said at last. 'It's small potatoes for BCMC, and it
couldn't have been happening under Ferraz's nose without him knowing
about it. But how did he get the money back to the smuggler? Afrika, did
you check their books?'
Afrika nodded. 'Nothing obvious. They're spending a fortune on
exploration - more than their profits. We haven't had time to check
exactly who's been paid and why, but we will. I think we'll find that a lot
of that money is finding its way to paying for the blood diamonds, and
probably back to Ferraz also. Not to any of his local accounts, though.
He's not that stupid. We've already checked. By the way, it's not a BCMC
company at all. The partners are Ferraz, Cecil Hofmeyr, and the Roland
Hofmeyr Trust.'
Kubu digested this unexpected information.
'The mine's a front,' he said quietly. 'It's used to launder the diamonds
and build a high profile for those exploration areas. Cash in hand by
laundering the diamonds, or a rich sale to a major mining company.
Probably BCMC, since Debswana wouldn't fall for it. Fifty thebe each
way - win or place! Gentlemen, thank you very much. I think I'm starting
to understand this case at last.'

CHAPTER 52



It was after five-thirty p.m. before Mabaku could see Kubu. Although it
was late, and he would displease Joy once again, Kubu was happy with an
evening meeting. He needed the time to organise his thoughts.
'Come in, Kubu. Sit down. I hope that this won't take too long. I've
had a hell of a day, what with that spate of robberies here and in Lobatse.
We aren't making any progress, but I think it may be a South African
gang. They're most probably across the border, enjoying their pickings.'
'If they have to cross the border each time,' Kubu said, 'they'll make a
mistake somewhere. Tell the wrong person what they are up to; get a bit
cocky after a few successes; spend too much money; something like that.
I bet you'll have them under lock and key within a week or two. Do you
have any undercover contacts in Zeerust or Mafikeng?'
'No,' replied Mabaku. 'But we're working with the South African
police. They're interested too because of similar robberies on their side of
the border. Of course, they think it is a Botswanan gang!'
Kubu snorted, and then got down to business. 'I learnt some very
interesting information today'
Mabaku nodded for Kubu to tell his story.
'I was briefed by Afrika Modise of the Diamond Branch and by a Dr
Waskowski from Debswana. Apparently De Beers has developed a
technique for fingerprinting diamonds, meaning that they're able to tell
quite reliably where a diamond comes from by analysing the trace
elements in it. More to the point, they can tell where it does not come
from.'
Kubu stood up, walked to the window. The sun was spreading reds and
purples into the clouds as it sank. Today is the equinox, Kubu thought.
Winter's on its way.
'Anyway,' he continued, 'the first revelation was that the big diamonds
they've been finding at Maboane are not from Maboane at all. Most
probably from Angola. So the theory that they were stealing diamonds
from the mine is wrong. Just the opposite. They were salting the mine
with valuable stones. Everyone benefited. Some diamond grubber in
Angola had a buyer, albeit at a price far lower than the legal market. The
person smuggling them in was making a nice profit. And the owners of
the mine stood to benefit, not just from the sale of these illicit stones, but
ultimately from the sale of an apparently profitable mine with big
prospects.'
Mabaku grunted. 'Never heard of a scam quite like that. I can't believe
BCMC would be involved with it. Is Afrika sure of his facts?'
'Just what I thought,' replied Kubu. 'Yes, Afrika is certain he's right.
Anyway, BCMC has nothing to do with the mine.'
'Nothing to do with it?' Mabaku asked with surprise. 'Cecil Hofmeyr
told me that BCMC was the owner.'
'I also thought that, Director, because that's what I understood from
Ferraz. However, it's not true. The mine's owned by Ferraz, Cecil
Hofmeyr, and the Roland Hofmeyr Trust. It only looks like BCMC owns
it because Cecil Hofmeyr is involved, but BCMC has no interest at all.'
Mabaku was silent. He was looking straight at Kubu, his eyes
unwavering. Kubu tried to match the gaze, but eventually looked out of
the window instead.
'What makes no sense now is why Cecil Hofmeyr went to such great
lengths to keep that letter secret - the one Kobedi had when he was killed.
Aron was wrong about diamonds being stolen from the mine, and his
criticisms of Jason were hardly dynamite. Cecil said that he didn't tell us
about it because it was so sensitive for BCMC. But BCMC is not
involved. Why would he lie to us? The letter is innocuous. I can't figure it
out.'
Mabaku stood up and joined Kubu at the window. All along I've been
convinced that Cecil Hofmeyr couldn't be involved in any of these goings
on. I know him quite well. But now I'm not so sure. From what you say,
he stood to gain a lot from this blood-diamond scheme.' He grimaced as
though the idea of Cecil's involvement in such a scam was physically
painful.
'We still have no proof he knew what was going on,' Kubu said. 'It's
possible Ferraz was playing him along. Getting his money for exploration
and so on. Window-dressing the mine for a sale - perhaps to BCMC itself.
Cecil would profit enormously from that, as would the Trust. So would
Ferraz, of course. Maybe safer all round if Cecil was kept in the dark.'
For a moment, Kubu thought Mabaku would grasp this straw to save
his friend, but he was wrong. 'Cecil must have known something, if not
everything. He's too smart to be fooled by the figures Ferraz must have
shown him.' Mabaku paused and gazed out at Kgale Hill. 'So how's this
connected to the murders?' he asked. 'They must be linked.'
'Here's my current theory,' Kubu said, crossing the room. He eased his
frame into one of the chairs. Mabaku remained standing.
'When De Beers pulled out of the mine at Maboane, Ferraz saw a
chance of making a lot of money. People thought De Beers had been in it
with BCMC, but they were wrong. Cecil had put trust money into the
initial venture. I'm not sure why. It's not the sort of thing trusts usually get
involved with. Maybe he used the Trust's money to finance his own
interest. Anyway, De Beers thought the mine would be unprofitable and
backed out. This happens more often than not, I believe. Few prospects
survive the scrutiny of a joint venture with a major player. Ferraz had been
involved in the joint venture and might have thought the mine could still
be profitable. But pretty soon he saw how a remote diamond mine like
Maboane could be used for other purposes.' Kubu paused, then
continued.
'Ferraz had worked on diamond mines in Angola before coming to
Botswana. By the way, his previous employers there were quite dubious
about him. When De Beers pulled out, he contacted old friends in Angola
and set up a beautiful scam. He bought, or stole, gem-quality diamonds
from Angola - blood diamonds - that couldn't be sold anywhere in the
world because they had no pedigree papers. Because they were essentially
impossible to sell, he'd get them very cheaply. A plane would bring them
close to the mine once every few weeks, literally under the radar. That was
the plane that the Bushmen heard from time to time.'
Mabaku didn't say a word, but sat down behind his desk.
'Ferraz then salted the mine with the quality diamonds from Angola,'
Kubu continued, 'making it look as though De Beers had made a mistake.
They issued Kimberley Process certificates for them, claiming they were
legitimately mined in Botswana, even paid the taxes, and sold them at a
tidy profit. So overall the mine looked appealing. Ferraz must have
persuaded Cecil that it was worth a bigger investment.' Kubu stopped to
gather his thoughts. 'It was beautiful. Everyone benefited and no one got
hurt--'
'Except the kids who were killed in Angola by guns financed by the
blood diamonds!' Mabaku interjected.
Kubu nodded. 'Yes, but everyone directly involved benefited. The
ultimate goal was to make the mine look like a great prospect and sell it
off at a big profit. Grab the money and run. The problem arose when an
honest, smart geologist showed up - that's Aron Frankental. Somehow he
stumbled on to the scam. Ferraz and his friends had to get rid of him. I
thought I'd figured out why they dumped the body so far away. I thought
it was because they knew of the high concentration of game at Kamissa.
So there would be lots of predators, particularly hyenas. They expected the
body to be completely destroyed. Frankental could simply vanish. No
body, no crime.' Kubu paused for breath. Uncharacteristically Mabaku
waited patiently.
'However, I was wrong. The Kamissa body is not Frankental's. His
parents confirmed that he'd never broken his arms. The Kamissa body had
both arms broken a long time ago. We now suspect that Frankental may
be buried near the farmhouse.' Kubu paused. 'The farmhouse seems to be
the centre of all this. The plane from Angola landed there, that's where we
found Frankental's Landy, and that's where we also found the yellow
Landy Bongani spotted from his satellite.'
Mabaku shook his head. 'How does the letter fit in?'
'Somehow Ferraz learnt about the letter. Maybe Frankental left a copy
in his room, or maybe it was with his missing notebooks. Perhaps Ferraz
thought it exposed the scam, so he contacted someone who could get to
Cecil. I've no idea how he found Kobedi, but he definitely found the right
man. Kobedi organised the theft of the letter from Cecil, but must have
tried to double-cross Ferraz by giving him a colour copy. As a result
Kobedi got himself killed. And nearly me too.' Without thinking, Kubu
gently rubbed his head. 'By the way, it's a point in Cecil's defence. If he
was in on the scam, why did he keep the letter at all? He knew Jason was
shady, but not that he was stealing the diamonds. I'm not sure why the hit
man was killed - he's called Sculo, by the way. Perhaps because he got a
copy instead of the original letter, perhaps just to remove a link to Jason
and the bearded smuggler. So Ferraz and his red-bearded Angolan friend
are responsible for three murders - Frankental, Kobedi and Sculo.'
'So who's the Kamissa body? Is that a separate case?'
Kubu shook his head. 'No, I'm sure it's all connected somehow. I'll bet
the yellow Landy at the farmhouse was the one used to transport the body.
Also, the garage attendant noticed the driver's heavy beard and got a
valueless tip in Angolan coins. But who the victim is, and why they went
to so much trouble to hide his identity, remains a mystery'
Kubu looked at Mabaku, who stared at him without saying a word.
That's my current theory, Director. The problem is that most of the
evidence is circumstantial. Even if I found Ferraz, I'm not sure I could
charge him, let alone put together a compelling case. Depressing.'
At last Mabaku spoke. 'I think your theory is plausible. You'd better
find both Ferraz and the Angolan and bring them in. Otherwise, you're
right. We don't have a case.' Mabaku stared at the rapidly darkening sky.
If I understand your theory, Cecil was not involved. He was just a source
of money, although he would've made a lot of money if the scam had
worked. Is that right?'
'Yes,' Kubu replied. 'Originally I thought he was involved - perhaps
even the kingpin - but now I don't think so. When I met him, he didn't
seem the sort to get involved in murder. Funny things with money and
contracts, perhaps - but not murder. I think you were right all along about
that, Mr Director.'
'Thank you, Kubu.' Mabaku said. 'It seems we may even have changed
sides about Cecil. Anyway, good work. I'll be talking to Cecil again very
soon. Give my regards to Joy'
Kubu left the office once more surprised by Mabaku. He wouldn't have
predicted Mabaku would abandon his friendship with Cecil so readily. He
might enjoy the benefits of knowing some of Botswana's rich men, Kubu
thought, but at the core he does what is right.
Kubu packed his briefcase, turned off his computer, and set off home
for his dinner.

PART EIGHT:
Rank Offence

'O, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven;
It has the primal eldest curse upon't.'

Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act III, Scene 3

CHAPTER 53

Knysna is a jewel set on South African's Indian Ocean coast. The town
encircles a wide lagoon, which itself bounds several small islands. The sea
enters through a passage guarded by the Heads, one packed with luxury
homes facing northwards to the Outeniqua Mountains and the other a
private nature reserve, a metaphor for the country's uneasy balance
between development pressure and unspoilt beauty. Lush coastal forest
jostles homes and escapes to the gorges running into the foothills from the
Knysna River.
The sun warmed Inspector Johannes 'Bakkies' Swanepoel in his office
in the central Knysna police station. He appeared to be studying a report,
his chair carefully positioned to catch the sunlight and to afford his great
frame maximum comfort. His rugby-playing days way behind him, he still
had shoulders that made him turn sideways to pass through a narrow doorway. Hands that could crack Brazil nuts rested on the desk, and his
head leant on the back of his office chair. His eyes were slightly open -- a
trick he had learnt in enforced periods in the South African army during
the worst days of apartheid -- but he was peacefully asleep.
The office phone rang. With a sigh, Bakkies leant forward and scooped
up the handset. 'Swanepoel,' he said.
'I'm sorry to disturb you, Inspector.' It was the desk sergeant, sounding
genuinely sorry. Perhaps he knew how Bakkies was spending a quiet
summer morning. 'I have a lady on the line. She wants to report a missing
person. He's only been missing for a few hours, though. I've explained our
procedures, but she's very insistent. She demands to speak to a senior
officer.' There was a pause. 'I thought perhaps you weren't too busy,' he
finished lamely.
Bakkies grunted disbelief, but his mood was relaxed. How often was he
disturbed only by a report of a missing person? No rape? No violent
robbery? The day was continuing quite well. 'Put her through,' he said
The sergeant, who had expected anything from a ticking-off to an
argument, obliged with alacrity.
'This is Inspector Swanepoel speaking.' Bakkies had a bass voice from
the middle of his enormous chest and an Afrikaans accent from the
middle of the Boer heartland.
'Inspector, my name is Dianna Hofmeyr.' There was a pause as though
this was supposed to mean something to Bakkies, but it didn't, and he
waited. 'I want to report Angus Hofmeyr missing, and I want something
done about it immediately. He is an extremely important person in
Botswana - head of the country's most important company. I want this
treated as an emergency. Your subordinates seem to think it's a joke.'
Bakkies sighed. The woman sounded more angry than upset. But she
didn't sound hysterical. 'Mrs Hofmeyr, how long has your husband been
missing? Was there an argument, anything like that?'
'It's Ms Hofmeyr, and he's my brother, not my husband. He's been
missing all morning. There was no argument. Don't treat me like a fool,
Inspector.'
'Of course not, Ms Hofmeyr. Please give me your address and the
telephone number.' She did so, and Bakkies whistled under his breath. She
wasn't calling from Knysna at all but from Plettenberg Bay, the fashionable
beach town up the coast, and her house was in the beachfront road often
referred to as Millionaires' Row. 'Perhaps you could tell me the
circumstances in detail?'
Dianna's voice calmed. 'He must have left early this morning. I was up
about seven. I thought he was still asleep. I looked in about nine, and he
wasn't in his bedroom. I guessed he had gone for an early swim or jog. He's
very into sports. He does that sort of stuff. But he hasn't come back.'
Bakkies glanced at his watch. It was near noon. 'Did you look for him?'
'Of course. I went down to the beach. But there's no sign of him. And
he didn't take the car,' she concluded, anticipating the next question.
'Could he have gone to visit a friend? Maybe pop into the Beacon
Island Hotel for a coffee or whatever?'
She hesitated. 'He would have phoned me.'
'Does he have a mobile phone?'
'Yes, I tried that but it rang in his room. He would hardly take it with
him for a swim.'
Bakkies changed tack. 'When did you last see him?'
At dinner last night. We chatted a bit afterwards, had coffee and
Calvados, and went to bed. He said he might go for a swim in the
morning if the weather was good.'
'He wasn't upset about anything? Gave you no reason to believe he
might want to leave the next morning?'
This time there was a long hesitation, but when the answer came, it
was unequivocal. Absolutely not.'
'Look, Ms Hofmeyr, we don't usually consider someone missing until
a couple of days have passed. I bet he went for a walk, and it went on
longer than he thought and he forgot his phone. I bet he'll be back for
lunch. But I can tell you are worried. What I'll do is phone the hotel, ask
around. Check the hospital. By the way, is he a good swimmer?'
'Very good. Competition good. Scuba-dives, too.'
Bakkies nodded, relieved. The day was calm, the sea in the bay would
be friendly, and the beach populated even quite early. 'Call me when he
gets back,' he said. "I'll get to those inquiries just in case. Good day, Ms
Hofmeyr.' He hung up before she could object.
Dianna phoned back two hours later. There was still no sign of her
brother. She sounded more worried, but also more angry. And Bakkies
had turned up nothing from the standard enquiries. He sighed and picked
up the note of her address. 'I'm coming out there to see you, Ms Hofmeyr.
I'm on my way,' he said.

The house unfolded down the dune as though it had started life as liquid
and been poured. The top floor was open-plan, bounded to the south-east
by curved glass affording a panoramic view of the ocean. Part of the area
was for dining, adjacent to a modern kitchen. The sitting area was flanked
by a well-stocked bar. Dianna Hofmeyr offered Bakkies a seat and
introduced him to an elderly but wiry lady of mixed descent. 'Zelda is our
maid,' she explained. 'She's been with us for years. She comes in the
mornings when we are here. I asked her to wait for you.'
Bakkies turned his attention to Zelda. 'Did you see Mr Hofmeyr this
morning?' Zelda shook her head, but it was Dianna who replied. 'I woke
about seven and went to work out. There's a gym on the bottom level. I'd
heard nothing from Angus and thought he'd decided to sleep in. Zelda
made some coffee at nine, and I suggested she take Angus a cup. She said
there was no response when she knocked on his door. So I went to wake
him, but he wasn't there. That's when I remembered that he'd said
something about an early-morning swim if the weather was good. So I
didn't worry, then.' She arranged herself on the couch. 'I'm seriously
worried now, Inspector. Just what are you doing about finding him?'
'I've checked hospitals, the morgue, accident reports. Nothing. I also
asked the Beacon Island Hotel to keep a lookout. Can I see his room?'
Dianna took him down a flight to a bedroom with a more restricted
but still stunning view. Obviously the room had been cleaned. The bed
was made, a pair of black silk sleep shorts folded on the pillow. Dianna
noticed his attention and said, 'He doesn't need to wear much in bed. He
doesn't sleep alone very often.' Bakkies didn't comment, but opened the
cupboard. Sports clothes. Toiletries in the bathroom. If Angus Hofmeyr
had left, he hadn't packed.
'Do you have a recent picture of your brother?'
Dianna nodded. 'Let's go back upstairs.' There she gave him a headand-shoulders
photograph. It showed a face that was solid rather than
handsome, but set off by eyes of an intense blue, almost indigo. The
shoulders were wide - rower's shoulders. Bakkies could appreciate why
Angus seldom slept alone unless he wanted to.
'Ms Hofmeyr, was anything disturbing your brother? Any recent
problems? Anything that might have made him take off without a word?'
Dianna seemed to want to dismiss this with the ironic superiority that
had characterised the conversation. But she hesitated. At last she said,
'Zelda, if the inspector has no more questions for you, perhaps you'd wait
outside.'
Zelda got up. 'I've missed my lift,' she said accusingly.
'The inspector will take you into the village.'
Zelda nodded and left, closing the front door behind her. Dianna
waited a moment. Then she said, 'My brother came here from a clinic,
Inspector. He hasn't been completely well recently'
'What was the nature of his illness?'
'Does that matter?'
'Perhaps. If he had heart problems, perhaps he had an attack while
swimming.'
'It was nothing like that. He needed to detox. It was like a health
hydro.'
Bakkies digested that. Then he got to his feet. 'Your brother has been
away since seven a.m. - pretty well eight hours. I'm going to get some
constables to look around here in the undergrowth, ask the neighbours if
they noticed anything unusual. We'll keep watching for any accident or
assault reports. We'll do everything we can.' He took his leave. Dianna was
polite but sceptical.
Driving Zelda into town, as much to make conversation as for
information, he asked her in Afrikaans when she had last seen Angus
Hofmeyr.
'Not on this visit,' she replied, shaking her head.
'How come?'
'He kept to his room yesterday. Didn't want to be disturbed.'
Bakkies thought that odd. 'Was the bed slept in last night?'
'Oh yes. And the clothes on the floor, and a dirty cup. Mr Angus all
right.'
And yesterday?'
The maid shrugged. 'I heard him talking to Miss Dianna in the
morning. They seemed to be arguing. They usually do.'
Bakkies nodded. 'Brothers and sisters are like that sometimes,' he said,
thinking of his own ambivalent relationship with his social-climbing
sister.
'Do you think he's okay? He's a good boy, whatever they say'
'Oh yes,' said Inspector Swanepoel. 'Probably met something young,
attractive and willing on the beach and went to her pad. I think he'll turn
up.'

But he did not. The next day passed with no reports, and the neighbours
had seen nothing untoward. Bakkies distributed copies of the picture and
released the story to the press. The police asked people on the beach. No
one had seen Hofmeyr, but one swimmer claimed to have seen a large
shark close to shore, and had rapidly left the sea to work on his tan. They
tried dogs, but although they happily followed the scent to the beach,
there they lost focus. Perhaps all the disturbance of people walking
barefoot. Perhaps Hofmeyr had gone straight into the sea. Against his will,
Bakkies began to believe that Angus Hofmeyr had not come out of it
again.






CHAPTER 54

Strings of expensive homes and holiday villas straddle the first dunes along
the sea of Plettenberg Bay. Behind are condominiums housing the
somewhat less wealthy. One of these belonged to a middle-aged divorcee,
Pat Marks. She shared it with Marcel.
Pat made a habit of an early jog along the beach with Marcel, followed
by a swim. After the exercise she felt refreshed and ready to face the day.
Marcel loved to jog. He was a standard poodle, black and boisterous with
a Latin temperament to match his name and breeding. Pat had no time
for toy dogs. Marcel provided protection as well as company and
entertainment.
As she jogged along Robberg Beach past the Hofmeyr house, Pat felt a
twinge of guilt generated by her previous twinges of envy. The house gazed
down from its lofty setting on the dune, its curving patios on three levels
seeking the ultimate view rather than architectural elegance. She had only
met Dianna Hofmeyr once, and had found her pleasant enough. Pat could
imagine her pain now, two days after the disappearance of her brother.
The agony of speculation without certainty.
After another kilometre, Pat was tiring. Usually she would catch her
breath and have a swim. Marcel would patiently wait, having discovered
long ago that he did not like the sea, and that his mistress did not welcome
being saved from it. But this morning she just slowed to a walk. The sea
wasn't inviting.
Marcel caught up and passed her. With more enthusiasm than grace,
he dived into a roll on the beach. He got up full of sand, shook himself,
and sat on his haunches. His pink tongue quivered as he panted. His
pom-pom tail wagged when Pat laughed at him. Then he was up again in
her footsteps. Suddenly he was off, haring across the beach. Pat laughed
again. She knew what he was about. His great joy was chasing seagulls,
and she could see three black-backed gulls some way off. Today, as
usual, the gulls took flight, but Marcel seemed to have lost interest in
them. He was sniffing a piece of grey driftwood where they had been.
Checking the male competition, Pat assumed. But then he lifted it in his
mouth. Pat was getting closer now, and it didn't look like driftwood any
more. Even before she was close enough to tell with certainty, she realised
what it was.
'Marcel! Leave! Come here!' The dog was not particularly well trained,
but reacted to the tone of voice. He dropped it, but instead of coming to
her, he sat waiting. Now Pat could see clearly what had been in his mouth.
It was part of a human forearm with the hand still attached, greyed and
swollen by the sea. The gulls must have been pecking it, and perhaps fish
had already nibbled it. But some of the wounds looked deeper. Perhaps
other dogs. Suddenly overcome by nausea, she ran to the bushes at the
edge of the beach and threw up. Feeling better, she rinsed her mouth in
the sea, biting the salt. After a few deep breaths, she rummaged in the
pouch on her belt for her mobile phone.
Pat wrapped her towel around her shoulders against her sudden chill.
She sat with her back against a dune and waited for the police. Marcel
barked when they came to take away his prize.

Bakkies hoisted himself out of his chair to greet the Hofmeyrs.
'Ms Hofmeyr. Thank you for being here. I know this must be very
unpleasant for you.'
Dianna nodded. 'Inspector Swanepoel, this is my mother, Pamela
Hofmeyr. She flew in from London last night. I asked her to come with
me.'
'Of course. That is most helpful. Are you all right, Mrs Hofmeyr? This
must be a terrible shock for you.' Pamela Hofmeyr looked in her late
fifties, but she was tall and still beautiful. In her youth she must have been
breathtaking. She had a dancer's figure and the features of classic
sculpture. She took the policeman's hand briefly, but ignored his concern
as beneath her.
'Will you show us the . . .' Dianna hesitated. Angus's hand?'
'No, I don't think that will be necessary. There were two rings on the
fingers of the hand. I would like you both to look at them. Your brother
didn't have any special marks on his left forearm, did he?' Both women
shook their heads. 'No tattoos or anything like that?' Dianna shook her
head again, but Pamela Hofmeyr spoke for the first time. 'Don't be
ridiculous,' she said. Her voice was melodious, but the tone was derisory.
Swanepoel just nodded.
He opened the top drawer of his desk and took out the rings. Both
were of twelve-carat gold. One was masculine, big and chunky, and had
the initials 'RAH' engraved on it. The other was more elegant with a wavy
frosted pattern.
Pamela spoke first. 'That's my husband's ring. "RAH" were his initials.
It's still a bit dulled from the fire after the plane crash. But Angus wanted
it.'
Then Dianna said, 'I gave him the other one for his twenty-first
birthday. He used to wear it on the ring finger of his left hand. He joked
that it sometimes attracted girls if they thought he was married.'
'We'll have to keep them for a while until this is all sorted out. Then,
of course, we'll return them to you,' Bakkies said. After a moment's
hesitation he added, 'Would you be willing to let us take a saliva sample
from each of you? I think it's hardly necessary now, but a DNA test could
establish the relationship, you see. Of course, we may find more of the
body, but so far it's just the arm.' He let the sentence fade away. Both
agreed to the test, and Swanepoel made a phone call. While they waited,
he asked, 'Did your brother wear a watch on his left hand, Ms Hofmeyr?'
Dianna seemed nonplussed by the question, and it was her mother
who answered. 'One of those big chunky diving things. He always wore
it. Did you find anything like that?'
Bakkies shook his head. 'Did you see it in his room?' he asked Dianna.
She shook her head and seemed about to say something, but the arrival of
the nurse interrupted her. It took only a minute to collect the samples.
After Bakkies had finished taking some more particulars, they got up
to leave. Pamela, surprisingly, took Bakkies' hand. 'My son is, was, a very
strong swimmer, Inspector. He excelled at all sports, but he was a first-rate
swimmer. He loved the sea - even the grey English sea. I don't believe he
got out of his depth and drowned.'
'Well, we think that he was attacked by a great white shark, Mrs
Hofmeyr. No human can escape one of those if it comes for you. We have
several attacks every year along this coast. It's just very bad luck to be in
the wrong place at the wrong time.'
'Do you believe that, Inspector?' Her voice was still melodious and
calm. She might have been discussing the dinner settings with the butler.
'I think it's the most likely explanation, madam,' he replied.
'Well, good day to you, Inspector.'
Outside the building, Pamela's control slipped, and she bit hard on
tears. But all she said was, Angus always wore his father's ring on his right
hand.' Then she turned away and took the passenger seat of Dianna's
rental car.

Dr Sizwe Nomvete was writing his report when Swanepoel came in.
'How's it going, Bakkies? Did she identify the rings?'
'Ja. I don't think there's any doubt about it. She brought her mother
along too. The initials that puzzled us were her husband's. It's the second
time it's been taken off a violently dead body, it seems. But I asked them
to give us saliva samples just to be sure. We'll get the DNA tests done in
due course.'
Sizwe scrabbled among the papers on his desk and selected a
photograph of the disembodied arm. It didn't look real. He tossed the
photo over and switched to Afrikaans to make Bakkies more comfortable.
'Where's the rest of the body, Bakkies?' he asked.
Bakkies snorted. 'The guess is that it's inside a satisfied great white.'
'If it was a great white, it doesn't make sense to me that the lower part
of an arm survived the attack. It's a tasty morsel. It would've been eaten.
There's a far greater chance that parts of the torso would be left.'
'Maybe the shark was eating the torso and couldn't be bothered by such
a small piece. Maybe the torso sank.'
Sizwe shrugged. 'It's possible.' He paused, and after a moment
repeated, 'It's possible.'
'But you don't believe it?'
Sizwe shook his head. 'I'm just the pathologist. You're the damn
detective! Get out there and find some more pieces, and I'll put the puzzle
together for you.'
But the days passed, and no more pieces appeared. Bakkies felt
uncomfortable with that too. Few sharks consumed an entire body. But
the magistrate would be satisfied with what they presented at the inquest.
He would have to be.


CHAPTER 55

Luiz took a week to get the mobile phone number. He had friends from
the old days, friends who owed him favours. But this time it took all his
contacts to get the information. After this he expected Red Beard to owe him a favour, a big favour.
Luiz respected Kubu and had received favours from him too. The big
detective had got him off a drug conviction, albeit to help convict a drug
dealer. But there was quid pro quo. Luiz was frightened of Kubu, but he
was much more scared of Red Beard. The bartender had seen him talking
to Kubu and had talked to Kubu himself. He would know they had been
talking about the Angolan gangster. And the bartender was Portuguese
too. Somehow, sometime, that information would get to Red Beard. But
Luiz was going to pre-empt that.
He dialled the number and recognised Red Beard's gruff 'SinV Luiz
rapidly explained who he was and what he had learnt from Kubu,
overstating how close the police were on the trail. He very much wanted
Red Beard as far away as possible as quickly as possible. Red Beard listened
intently; he had played the Botswana police for fools, but it looked as
though the jest might be on him. Once he was sure Luiz had told him as
much as he knew, he told him to keep his eyes and ears open. He'd see
Luiz right.
Red Beard headed down to the hotel bar for a beer to help him think.
This was a tight spot. He couldn't afford to be a suspect. Of course, the
police might be after someone else, but he wasn't going to wait to find out.
It was time to cover tracks and disappear.
He worried about the loose ends. Just two people could link him to the
murders. Jason Ferraz was one. He was in it as deep as quicksand and
would soon be meeting some of Red Beard's business acquaintances in
Lisbon. That loose end was nearly tied off. But the mysterious Daniel was
another kettle of fish. It seemed that nothing happened without him
knowing. How did he know? Where did he get his information? Surely
not from Jason, whom Daniel had casually thrown to the wolves? How
could he persuade Daniel to reveal himself? He ground his teeth through
the warming beer.
He ran over his conversations with the Friend in his head. A snatch
came to him. Hofineyrs the key to all this. We mustnt touch. He smiled.
Here was bait. He swallowed the beer.
Why was Daniel so concerned about the Hofmeyrs? Was there a
relationship, perhaps? And who had gained from all these moves?
Certainly not Jason. Only two people. Dianna Hofmeyr and Cecil
Hofmeyr! Hofmeyrs the key to all this. But which one? The more he
thought it through, the more convinced he became of the answer.


CHAPTER 56

On some Sundays, Kubu and Joy joined his parents at their local church,
still presided over by Father Theophilus Thekiso - who had been Kubu's
benefactor. Often, after the service, they drove to Gaborone for lunch,
where Pleasant joined them. The women gathered in the kitchen and made a wonderful meal that reflected their different personalities.
Everyone enjoyed a mug of steelworks - now a family favourite after its
introduction by Kubu. Kubu would have liked a glass or two of red wine
as well, but his father would be scandalised by such a thing on the
Sabbath, and Kubu wanted nothing to disturb the family harmony.
Wilmon always enjoyed a cup of tea after church while waiting for his
lunch, and Kubu made it for him. His father liked his tea strong with
plenty of milk and three full teaspoons of sugar, well stirred. Kubu would
join him on the veranda with a cup of tea (weak and black, if sugar and
milk were forbidden by his current diet), and they talked. They were
father and son for half an hour.
This Sunday Kubu had a mission. He wanted his father's help. But he
wasn't sure if he could get it.
'Did you see the Sunday newspaper, Father? Do you remember Angus
Hofmeyr, who used to be my friend at school?' He held up the Sunday
Standard. The front page screamed: Angus Hofmeyr - Grisly Find on the
Beach' over a blurred aerial picture of a luxury house with a beach below
it. Because Kubu's father read slowly, Kubu read the story aloud:
' "Residents of the luxury Plettenberg Bay Millionaires' Row were shocked
today by the grisly discovery of the severed arm of Angus Hofmeyr. It
washed up on the beach about half a kilometre from where he went for an
early-morning swim two days ago. Police have warned the public that
other body parts may be found along the coast. There seems little doubt
now that Angus Hofmeyr, heir to the Botswana Cattle and Mining
Company empire, was attacked and killed by a great white shark. The
hand evidently wore distinctive rings that, police confirmed, Angus's
sister, Ms Dianna Hofmeyr, identified. Ms Hofmeyr was too distraught to
speak to the press." '
Wilmon sipped his tea, looking with distaste at the newspaper.

'Father, this death reminds me of the Kamissa murder I'm
investigating. The body was cut up. A forearm was missing, and some
limbs were separated. Then the body was left for the hyenas to destroy.
Perhaps Angus's body was also cut up. Perhaps it was left for the sharks to
eat. The story feels wrong. You know about traditional things, the Old
Ways. I wonder what you think.'
His father was expert with herbal medicines and knew the secrets of
desert plants. People regarded him as a traditional healer, but he wasn't a
witchdoctor. He was a deeply Christian man, so his medicines never came
with a spell or incantation, only a modest blessing. If appropriate, he
would say a short prayer. But Wilmon knew about witchdoctors and their
deeds, both good and evil.
'You think that your friend was killed? Was murdered?'
'I think perhaps both men were murdered. I'm wondering if their
bodies were destroyed so that certain parts taken away would not be
noticed. Parts taken for dipheko!
His father winced at the word and the things it conjured. 'This isn't a
proper conversation for your home,' Wilmon said firmly. 'Especially not
on the Sabbath with your family around you. These men are wicked. They
do the devil's work. It's best not to be curious about it.'
'Father, I'm a policeman. It's my job to catch these people. To stop
them, and put them in prison.'
But his father shook his head. 'You can't stop them. You are just a man.
They have the power of their victims as well as their Master. Only the love
of God can protect us from them.'
'Father, help me with this. Would these men murder my friend?'
His father said nothing while he finished his tea. Kubu thought
perhaps Wilmon was offended. At last he said, 'David, you do not
understand these things. You have been to university, and you're an
important man now, even though you're young. I'm very proud of you.
But the witchdoctors work in another world. A world of fear and of
control. Every part of any animal has power, and the most powerful
animals have the most power. Humans most of all. Evil witchdoctors suck
that power from their victims. But they need the victims to believe, even
to accept. The victims are usually children, usually girl children, who can
be controlled easily by their power. Not grown white men who don't
believe.' The older man shook his head. He seemed to regret he had said
so much. They sat uncomfortably for some minutes, far apart. They were
both relieved when Joy cheerfully called them for lunch, and the tension
broke.

After lunch Kubu took his parents back to their home, kissed his mother,
and received his father's blessing. He had left Joy and Pleasant to deal with
the aftermath of lunch and to enjoy each other's company. His depressed
mood would only spoil their afternoon. He had told them he would spend
some time at the office to finish a report.
When he got to the CID headquarters, he discovered that the baboons
had come down from Kgale Hill and were clambering all over the
buildings. They were climbing on the wall around the complex,
rummaging in the gardens, and even balancing on the edges of the metal
barrels holding water at the neighbouring building site. Kubu liked the
baboons. They cheered him up. Where else, he thought with satisfaction,
would you find the CID headquarters of a respected police force used as
a Sunday playground for baboons?
But once in his office, he couldn't work. He reread the story in the Sunday Standard. He checked his e-mail. Nothing was worth reading. He
took out the files but didn't read them. Eventually he gave up. He
punched out a mobile phone number.
'MacGregor,' said the voice with the irrepressible Scottish burr. 'Can I
help you?'
'Ian. It's Kubu. How are you today?'
"I'm reasonable, Kubu. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure? Not
another in your epidemic of dead bodies, I trust?'
'No, Ian, nothing like that. Would you have time to talk? I know it's
Sunday, but it may be important.'
'Oh, that's fine, Kubu. Come on over. I'm at the office, actually,
writing up some stuff. Nothing urgent. See you in a quarter of an hour?'
Almost exactly fifteen minutes later, Kubu knocked on the door of Ian's
office, which was a humble affair in a prefabricated building near the
prison. MacGregor spent most of his time at the hospital or in the field.
Ian bellowed, 'Come in.' Kubu entered and shook hands with the
grizzled Scotsman. MacGregor settled himself behind his desk and started
sucking on his briar. He had stopped smoking about fifteen years earlier
after a stormy interview with a lung specialist, but it still supplied visceral
comfort and another thread in the Scottish tapestry. Ian would go to a
formal dinner wearing a kilt, Kubu thought, just to keep up appearances.
'So, young David, what can I do for you?'
David spread the Sunday newspaper on the desk. 'Did you read this,
Ian?'
Ian nodded. 'Very nasty business. They would have been forced to cut
the rings off, you know. Swelling, d'you ken.'
Kubu put down the newspaper. 'He was my friend, Ian. At school we
were close. Odd match, wasn't it? The mega-rich white boy and the son of
a black share farmer. Two cricket buffs. Maybe cricket attracted me so
much because it came from this other world that was opening up to me.
Like opera. I fell for it as soon as I met it. Angus gave me my nickname,
you know. "Kubu. You're Kubu," he said. And then I was Kubu. Just like
that.'
'Och, I had no idea you had even met him. I'm most dreadfully sorry.
You need a drink. I keep something here for emergencies. This qualifies.
No, don't argue.' Kubu had not argued and had no intention of doing so.
He watched while Ian opened a new bottle and poured two half-tumblers
of neat Scotch. It was a whisky Kubu had never heard of, but it was good.
Trust Ian.
'Laphroaig. Single malt from Islay. Taste the peat. Do you like it?'
Kubu did. After a while he said, 'I didn't actually come to cry on your
shoulder, Ian. There's something else. It struck me when I read the
newspaper article. It's another body of a white man, apparently
dismembered. This body eaten by sharks instead of hyenas. It's somehow
a mirror image of the Kamissa murder.' Kubu paused as if this would
mean something to MacGregor. Ian nodded sagely and drained the rest of
the tumbler. He was beginning to think that one whisky might not be
enough to put Kubu right.
'You know coincidences happen in real life, Kubu. It's only people who
write detective stories who aren't allowed that sort of thing.' He took a few
reflective draws on the empty pipe. 'You're looking fragile, Kubu, under
that rough black exterior. Drink up. You need another.'
'Ian, what I'm wondering is, what did they do to those bodies that
made it necessary to destroy them so completely?'
MacGregor looked interested. He knew Kubu was as sharp as they
came and had intuition to go with it. 'You think they were both
murdered, do you? Perhaps by the same people? Or a copycat crime?'
Kubu nodded. 'Does this idea make any sense? You've been around a
long time, Ian. You've seen pretty much what there is to see. Could these
murders be ritual murders? For human organs?'
Ian flinched, remembering several infamous cases of such ritual killings
of humans. After a few moments he replied. 'Kubu, I can't recall any
example of adults being the victims, let alone white men. I don't think it's
likely. That's my professional opinion.'
Kubu nodded and rose to go. 'Oh no you don't.' Ian waved him back
to his chair. 'You've spoken of unspeakable things here, Kubu. We need to
put them to rest. You must join me in another drink. To your friend. To
Angus. Good Scottish name, Angus. Does the family have a Scottish
background?'
Kubu shrugged. 'Western Cape, I think.' He ostentatiously checked
that his glass was empty.
By the time they went home, neither man should have been driving.
Ian called it a 'private wake', which was only terminated by the emptying
of the bottle. As they left the building, they attempted the Anvil Chorus
from // Trovatore. Fortunately, it was Sunday and the area was deserted.
When he got home, Joy accepted Kubu's drunken and maudlin state
without comment and put him to bed. 'Wonderful wife,' he told her not
very clearly. 'Don't even mind if I get drunk.' He tried to say 'wonderful'
again but it came out all wrong. He was still struggling with it when he
fell asleep.

CHAPTER 57

Mabaku looked at Kubu unsympathetically. 'You should know better than
to drink whisky with a Scot! They get it with their mother's milk. Ian's
probably as bright as a bird this morning, and look at you!'
Kubu had to admit that he wasn't at his best. It had been decidedly
difficult to get out of bed, and his head hurt again - almost as much as it
had after being knocked out at Kobedi's. At least he wasn't in hospital.
'You're probably right,' he conceded. 'But I wanted to talk about Angus
Hofmeyr. I'm worried about his death. Why did they just find bits of the
left arm? One of the pieces we did not find with the Kamissa body'
'Kubu, I know Hofmeyr was an old schoolfriend of yours.' How does
he know these things? Kubu wondered for the hundredth time. 'When did
you last speak to him?'
'Last week.' It seemed ages ago.
'Did the call suggest he was concerned about his safety? Anything that
sounded a warning?'
Kubu shook his head. From the perspective of a few days, the fact that
Angus had forgotten Lesley Davis after all these years didn't seem worth
mentioning.
'Well, the South African police are looking into the matter,' Mabaku
said. 'I phoned them as soon as I heard about it. An Inspector Swanepoel
is handling the case. There'll be an inquest. Give him a call if it will make
you feel better.'
Kubu said he'd do that. 'There can't be any connection with our case, can
there?' he added. But Mabaku was already concentrating on a document.

Tweedledum and Tweedledee, Cecil thought. T&T - his private nickname
for the two BCMC directors appointed by the government. Both heavily
built and overweight, they wore good quality suits that, if they didn't
match, at least never clashed, as though they compared notes in the
morning before getting dressed. Today they were both wearing navy
pinstripes. Their contributions at meetings were always consistent, as
though each was carefully planned in advance - which it probably was. He
had only seen them nonplussed once; they had not known how to react to
Angus's speech and Dianna's putsch at the last board meeting.
T&T had served since BCMC had become a public company. They
obviously had good connections in both the party and the government, as
this job was a plum. They probably kept their generous directors' fees. They certainly pocketed their side bets on their weekly golf games with
Cecil, and enjoyed their luxury game-lodge trips with contrived side stops
to inspect mines or cattle ranches. They had reciprocated by representing
BCMC's interests to the government and by firmly supporting Cecil on
the board - until Dianna's play. But as far as he could recall, they had
never asked for a private meeting in his office. Instead they usually
reserved some time on the nineteenth hole to discuss upcoming business.
He rose, crossed the office, and greeted them warmly with a firm
handshake. 'Nama! Rabafana! What a pleasure to see you both. Do come
in. Sit down. I'll have my secretary send in some coffee. Unless you'd
prefer something stronger?' Both smiled, returned his greetings, and said
they would love a cup of coffee. They regretfully turned down the
selection of single malts in the drinks cabinet. It was only eleven in the
morning, and they were on business, after all.
'Cecil, we wanted to come personally to express our condolences
concerning your nephew. A horrible shock. Such an awful death for
someone so young and promising. And I'm sure a great personal disappointment.
He was your heir apparent, after all.' Nama summed up their
feelings while Rabafana nodded continually, in case there was any doubt
that he fully agreed.
'Thank you, gentlemen,' Cecil said with as much graciousness as he
could muster. 'It was devastating news. I was shocked beyond belief. One
questions the existence of God when such a tragedy happens.' He turned
away and blew his nose. Nama and Rabafana shook their heads
sympathetically.
But Cecil wasn't interested in sympathy. He was wondering whether
they had already forgotten how his 'heir apparent' had helped Dianna stab
him in the back. Everyone loved Angus, no matter what. They always had.
He allowed the words to ripple past him until the coffee appeared, and
they were settled at his conference table. The purpose of this meeting lay
ahead; they could have phoned their condolences, perhaps on a
conference line so that they could do it together, Cecil thought wryly.
They ran out of consolation and coffee at about the same time. Nama
clasped his hands, signalling to Rabafana. 'Cecil,' Rabafana began, 'we
know this is an inappropriate time to raise business matters. But you know
that we have a joint responsibility to the board, our minister, and, indeed,
all the citizens of Botswana.' Nama nodded. He couldn't have put it better
himself. 'We really want to discuss the future management of the
company. We accepted the model of you continuing to run the company
while Dianna concentrated on what the South Africans like to call
transformation issues.' Cecil thought this a rather charitable interpretation
of what had actually happened, but didn't comment.
'Mind you,' Rabafana added, 'I must say that our minister was rather
taken aback by some of Angus's comments. Not really appropriate when
we have been so successful at integrating the Bushmen and protecting
their rights. And embarrassing with this UN issue going on. Still, the
board was impressed with his passion and commitment.'
Nama nodded with appreciation and took up the narrative. 'Frankly,
Cecil, we are wondering how things stand now. Angus voted the Trust,
and we regarded Dianna as his frontperson.' Cecil winced at the political
correctness. 'But where do we go from here?' Rabafana added.
Are you asking what the situation is for the Trust and the company
now that Angus is dead?' T&T nodded in unison, looking serious. 'Well,
I have a copy of the trust deed here somewhere.' He fussed about and
eventually extracted it from the appropriate filing cabinet, although he
knew it by heart.
Returning to his seat, he opened the document. 'Pretty straightforward.
Angus's share of the Trust - and so control of it and thus of
BCMC - goes to his heirs. In other words it goes into his estate. I haven't
seen a copy of the will, but I'm informed that apart from a number of
bequests, the estate goes to Dianna. She'll have nearly three-quarters of the
Trust. So back where we started, I suppose. No longer a frontperson,
though.' Neither of his visitors looked pleased. 'Looks like the minister
will have to learn to live with her,' Cecil added, unable to resist a small dig.
But Rabafana's next question took him by surprise.
'What would have been the situation if Angus had died before his
thirtieth birthday? That was when he became entitled to his share of the
Trust, was it not?'
Cecil searched through the trust deed. At last he said, 'If he'd died
without children - which I presume is the case - his fifty per cent would
have gone to various charities. I would have been the executor with an
increased share myself. Why do you ask that? Rather academic, isn't it?'
'I suppose so,' Rabafana agreed.
'Yes, academic,' said Nama. Then, as if an afterthought but
deliberately, he asked, 'What if something happens to Dianna now? Is it
the same?'
Cecil gave him a sharp look and consulted the document again. 'It
doesn't spell it out,' he replied eventually. 'Probably goes into her estate.
We'd need a lawyer to look at all this. But why do we care?'
Neither said anything for a few moments. Then Nama changed the
subject.
'Cecil, the minister is very concerned about the disruption that has
occurred over this issue.

 First Dianna taking over the chairpersonship
without consultation with us, then the issue of Angus's unexpected
accident, and now uncertainty around your position and that of Dianna.
We can't afford any instability in this company. It is too central to
Botswana's economic well-being.'
Rabafana took up the thrust. 'The minister feels it would be better if
the people of Botswana had a larger say in the company, more ownership.
We feel it is time to restructure the ownership of the company and make
things more transparent, more democratic. How would you react to that?'
Cecil shrugged. Angus seemed sympathetic to that sort of approach.
You should ask Dianna rather than me.'
'Perhaps we will. For the moment, we are asking you.' Nama's voice
held no trace of obsequiousness. This wasn't window-dressing. He wanted
a straight answer.
'You're talking about a new company with broad Batswana and perhaps
Bushman shareholding and a serious stake in running BCMC? It would
be hard to find appropriately skilled and knowledgeable people to form
and run such a company' Finally some light dawned. 'Unless the two of
you would be willing to add to what must already be demanding duties?'
Nama looked at him without smiling. 'This will be a matter for the
minister to look into,' he said. 'What I'm asking is this. Would you be
willing to support such an unbundling and the restructuring of the
shareholding? The rest is details.'
Cecil was as surprised by the use of the singular pronoun as by the
authority in Nama's tone. Was Rabafana after all the junior partner? I
misjudged them too, Cecil thought. I thought they were civil servants who
could be kept happy with a few perks and nice treatment. But they were
after much bigger fish all along, and they can see large ripples on the
surface of the pond.
'The minister would have my full support in this matter,' he declared
firmly. 'Even if it means reducing my own shareholding somewhat. Of
course, I can't speak for Dianna.'
He had no hesitation about throwing in his lot with T&T; with Angus
gone, Dianna had all the trump cards. What did he have to lose? 'Should
I talk to Dianna about this proposal when she gets back to Botswana?' he
asked.
Nama shook his head. 'That won't be necessary. We'll handle that
aspect ourselves.'
Now it was Rabafana's turn. 'There is another matter, Cecil. The
minister is most concerned about the Thembu Kobedi affair. There are
insinuations, unpleasant innuendos, talk of certain materials.'
Cecil's heart sank. Would he never be free of the wretched pimp? And
why on earth was the Minister of Trade and Industry involved?
'The minister is clearing the issue up as quietly and quickly as possible
with the police,' Rabafana continued. 'It's my responsibility to take care of
the whole matter. I want your assurance that you had nothing to do with
it and that you will report anything that you find out directly to me. Is that
clear? Of course I will pass any information on to the police immediately'
'What sort of materials?'
'There are some tapes - probably faked - with compromising material.
It doesn't matter. Do I have your word?' Cecil gave it.
Suddenly all was good humour again. There were handshakes all
round, and Cecil heard himself inviting them to join him at the club for
lunch and them regretting that they had another appointment, but they
would all get together soon. They were looking forward to golf on Friday.
They could discuss strategy for the new structure of the company. They
would see if the minister could join them for an informal lunch
afterwards. Then they left.
Cecil needed a small celebration. Somewhere in the world, the sun was
below the yardarm. He selected a favourite Scotch, added half a dozen
drops of water and relaxed in an armchair while he decided where he
wanted to go for lunch.

CHAPTER 58

Kubu had failed to reach Swanepoel, but left a message. The South African
police inspector had not phoned back by lunchtime, and Kubu had tried
to put the matter aside. But his case was stalled. A decent lunch at the Fig
Tree might change his luck.
When he returned, the phone was ringing. He had to rush to reach it
before it cut off. 'Yes?' he said irritably.
'Hello. Is that Superintendent Bengu?'
Assistant Superintendent Bengu. Can I help you?'
'Yes, well, this is Detective Inspector Johannes Swanepoel speaking
from the CID in Knysna, South Africa. But my friends all call me
'Bakkies'. I'm quite a big "oke", you see. A bakkie is a pick-up truck in
South Africa,' he finished almost apologetically.
Kubu laughed, the ice broken. 'Well, Bakkies, you can call me Kubu that
means hippopotamus in my language. I'm also quite a big 'oke',
you see!'
Now it was Swanepoel's turn to laugh. 'Kubu. I like that. Well, you're
the person I need to talk to all right. I spoke to your boss - Director
Mabaku -- when I returned your call at lunchtime. He said I'd better hear
it from the hippo's mouth. I didn't understand that then, but it's clear
now.' He laughed again. 'Well, how can I help, Kubu?'
Faced with explaining it aloud, Kubu felt at a loss. He told Bakkies
about the Kamissa body and the odd reflected symmetry between it and
Angus's accident. He had a skeleton missing the left arm from the elbow.
Bakkies had nothing but a lower left arm. The Kamissa body had been
carefully stripped and hacked to disguise its identity. Bakkies had a hand
that came complete with signature rings. But the bodies were separated
inconveniently in time and space. Perhaps because his story sounded so
lame, Kubu came up with an idea as he spoke.
'Is it possible that someone's pulling a scam? Killed someone here,
hacked off the arm and used it with Angus's rings to fake his death?'
Bakkies considered this for a few moments. 'Well, I don't know, Kubu.
First of all, what's the point? The point of a fraud like that is to claim on
insurance or to disappear from the police. Neither would apply to Angus
Hofmeyr. He didn't need extra money, from what I hear. And why go to
the trouble of getting body parts in Botswana? We have plenty of murders
right here.' He gave a wry laugh. 'But there's more. We ran an expedited
DNA test. The comparison with Dianna Hofmeyr and her mother
indicates that the arm was more than likely Angus's.'
Kubu didn't know what to say. He felt like a fool.
'Now here's a thought,' Bakkies offered. 'Suppose your body is Angus
Hofmeyr? Murdered in Botswana, and now they are trying to cover up the
crime by planting evidence of a shark attack here?'
Kubu shook his head. 'No, that doesn't wash. His sister would have to
be lying about him being at Plettenberg Bay with her. What could she
gain by killing him? He has just handed her one of Botswana's premier
companies on a platter. And he spoke at the board meeting and to who
knows how many other people - including me - long after we found the
Kamissa body'
That interested Bakkies. 'Did he say anything to make you suspicious
when you spoke to him?' Kubu had to admit that Angus had been relaxed
and confident of his plans. Bakkies thanked Kubu for his input, made an
inevitable hippo joke, and said goodbye. He had obviously come to the
conclusion that they were wasting their time.

But Kubu couldn't let it go. He didn't know why. All he knew was that
when his subconscious was this insistent, he'd better listen to it. Every
successful detective harbours a spark of the mystic. He phoned Ian
MacGregor.
'Hello, Ian. How's your head?'
'Fine,' came the slightly puzzled response. 'Why shouldn't it be?'
Mabaku was right, as usual. 'Ian, I keep thinking about these two
bodies. The one in the sea off Plettenberg Bay with a missing forearm, and
the one in the desert with the same forearm missing. But they're mirror
images. In the desert we see the body; on the beach we see the arm.'
'Yes, we talked about this yesterday, didn't we? I thought we put it to
rest with that bottle of Laphroaig.'
'I don't know. It's the arm. The missing arm and the missing body. I
don't believe in coincidences.'
'Suppose they find some more body parts on their fancy beach?'
'Then it's a coincidence.'
Ian waited for Kubu to continue.
'I spoke to an Inspector Swanepoel of the South African Police. They've
done a DNA analysis on the arm, and it seems likely that it is from Angus
Hofmeyr. I want to compare it with the DNA from the body here. Could
you get a sample to them for comparison? It seems to take forever to get
a DNA test done here. Confidentially? I'm not sure why, but I really need
to check this.'
And you don't think Director Mabaku would sanction this hunch of
yours?' said Ian shrewdly. 'So the mad Scotsman can take the blame?'
Kubu felt ashamed and started to apologise, but Ian interrupted him. 'Oh,
of course I'll do it. It may take a while, though; I don't have as good
contacts down there as I have here. I'll get back to you.'
Kubu looked out of his window. I've made an idiot of myself to an
inspector from the South African police. I've asked my friend to do
something inappropriate that I can't justify in any logical way. And I now
have six bodies, or parts of bodies, and missing persons - count them, six
- and I don't know why or who or what is going on. But I'm going home
to the wife I love, and my dog, and my dinner. I think I'll treat us to a
decent shiraz. So the hell with all of them!
He locked his office and left.

CHAPTER 59

Cecil crossed the parking lot to his car, his head full of ideas. Angus's death
left Dianna as the chairman of the Trust and therefore firmly in control of
BCMC. But Tweedledum and Tweedledee had suggested otherwise. Was
there a way he could wrangle a strategic advantage between the competing
parties now gathering around BCMC like vultures around a stricken
beast?
His mind was on these matters as he climbed into his Mercedes. In
that vulnerable instant, the passenger-side door opened, and a heavy-set
man wearing a leather jacket and a hat pulled low over his head slid in
next to him. The man had a scarf wrapped around his lower face and neck,
but Cecil could see the rest of a tanned face, green eyes, and the escaped
parts of a thick ginger beard. He was certain he had never seen this man
before. The man wore latex gloves and held a pistol in his right hand.
Cecil had a few hundred pula with him in cash. He was afraid it wouldn't
be enough.
'Drive out gate, wave to guard like usual, turn left like heading home,'
said Red Beard. He'd done his homework. Cecil didn't argue and followed
the instructions.
'Now just drive straight out of town, nice and slow. We talk.'
'What do you want? Money?'
'Oh, I want money all right, Friend Or should I call you Mr Daniel?. I want the money you owe me. Job's done, some problems, yes, but all
sorted now, not so, as you say?' Red Beard smiled. He was enjoying
outsmarting Cecil Hofmeyr - chairman of Botswana's largest company who
had thought he could hide behind an anonymous phone and a silly
false name. 'But let's talk, Mr Daniel. Good friends should get to know
each other.'
Cecil's heart raced. Whoever this man was, he obviously had the wrong
victim. Cecil didn't give himself a high probability of survival when this
thug realised his mistake. He wondered if he could throw himself out of
the vehicle.
Red Beard read his thoughts and shook his head. 'Not good idea,' he
said, prodding Cecil in the ribs with his gun. And anyway, what for? I
know who you are and where I find you. You not going anywhere.'
'Look, I don't know who you think I am, but you're wrong. My name
is Cecil Hofmeyr, and I work for BCMC. I don't know a Daniel. I don't
know you. I have some money I can give you. Cash.'
Red Beard laughed. 'Oh, Cecil Hofmeyr, all right. And you the boss at
BCMC! I take the money, but I want two hundred and fifty thousand US
dollars. Do you have that with you? Cash?'
Cecil almost drove into the gutter. 'Of course not.' His voice was a
whisper. 'Why would I have that sort of money with me?'
'Then we better talk about when you have that money and when I get
it. Otherwise we not friends after all.' All the ironic pleasantness left Red
Beard's voice. He had won the cat-and-mouse game and wanted Cecil to
acknowledge that.
'Look, I don't know what you're talking about! Who the hell are you,
anyway? I have friends very high up in the police, you'd better--' Red
Beard hit him hard across the face. Cecil swung the car, which hit the kerb
and stalled.
'Look, no games!' Red Beard shouted at him. 'You're Daniel. You the
one with the plan. You think I'm stupid? I know you get BCMC! Get the
company away from Angus Hofmeyr. You got Ferraz to set that up for
you, not so? But then you had better idea, didn't you, Mr Big Knob? You
wanted him out the way permanent. Well, you got what you want. Now
pay me the rest of my money!'
Blood dripped from Cecil's upper lip. He started to reach for a
handkerchief, but Red Beard stopped him with a look, so he wiped his
mouth on his hand.
Angus was murdered? He didn't just drown in the Cape?'
Red Beard experienced a moment of doubt. Was Hofmeyr such a good
actor? But he had been a good actor all along, hadn't he? And the
aristocratic English voice was right.
'Shall I tell you whole story, Mr Daniel? Waste time. You know it
already. And if you don't, I have to kill you afterwards.' He didn't recognise
this as the punchline of a stale joke.
Cecil's voice quivered. 'You killed him, didn't you? You killed him, and
you think I hired you to do that? But it's crazy. I had nothing to gain from
Angus's death. I had already lost everything. His sister took over the
company at the board meeting while Angus was in hospital. She kicked
rne out. I'm just her manager now'
Red Beard ground his teeth. 'Drive,' he said. Several people walking on
the pavement near them were noticing the odd couple.
Cecil pulled into the traffic. A loud hoot from a passing minibus taxi
emphasised that his mind was not on the driving. 'Look, Dianna Hofmeyr
became the boss of BCMC! Somehow she persuaded her brother to let her
have a go at running the company. Perhaps he was still on drugs? I don't
know. But that's not like him. He would've wanted it back. Perhaps they
had a fight about it at the beach house? How the hell should I know?
That's probably when she got this Daniel to hire you.'
'Just drive! Shut up!' A note of doubt had crept into Red Beard's voice;
also a hint of panic, which Cecil found more frightening. His only chance
of surviving was to persuade his captor that he wasn't the mystery Daniel.
But what would happen after that?
'How do you know it wasn't Dianna all along? Did you ever meet this
Daniel?'
Red Beard shook his head. 'Spoke on phone. Several times. Man with
a fancy accent, just like yours, Mr Big Shot.' He tried to sound confident,
but he was no longer sure. Perhaps Cecil Hofmeyr really didn't know what
had happened. Was it possible that Daniel was working for the Hofmeyr
woman? Now he had a problem with Cecil. Shit! He didn't need more
police activity at the moment. And Cecil was very high-profile and
probably did have senior friends in the police.
It was Cecil's turn to surmise what Red Beard was thinking. He knew
he was fighting now for his life. 'It must have been Dianna who was
behind it. She was the only one who benefited. She and that Jason Ferraz
character she liked. She got control of the whole company. Angus would
never have given it to her. Never! Probably Ferraz was your Daniel.' But
without explaining why not, Red Beard shook his head firmly.
Then a brilliant idea struck Cecil. Suddenly he saw things clearly.
Nothing focuses the mind like a hanging, he thought wryly. He drove for
a few minutes in silence, almost ignoring Red Beard while he thought it
through. The outskirts of Gaborone slid past as they drove down the busy
road to Molepolole. Cecil felt relatively safe in the traffic. At last he spoke.
'I know how it was done. All of it. I could never understand why Angus
would hand over the company to her. It was the last thing I expected. It
threw me completely. Now it finally makes sense. I can tell you who
Daniel is, too.' Quickly and confidently he explained to Red Beard what
he thought had actually happened.
Red Beard listened and then turned it all over in his mind. Without
enthusiasm he decided that Cecil was probably right. So he had been
wrong all along. He had been cheated and played for a fool! 'Drive!' was
all he said. He smashed his fist on to the dashboard.
Cecil jumped. But his fear was now mixed with anger. He, too, had
been cheated. And robbed of his company. Now he was going to be killed
by the monster hired to achieve that. He wanted to live. And he wanted
revenge. He had to get Red Beard on his side.
'Turn in to that dirt track to the left up ahead,' Red Beard said,
gesturing with the gun.
Cecil knew he was going to die unless he could offer Red Beard two
critical things - money and safety.
'I think we can help each other,' he said urgently. 'BCMC is my
company. I earned it, and I killed for it. It used to belong to my brother,
but he cared more for his own pleasures than the company. I had him
killed. Blew up his plane.' God forgive me, he thought. 'Now we've both
been double-crossed, haven't we? I lose the company I've worked years to
build, and you don't even get the money you've earned for all the risks
you've taken. We get nothing. But it doesn't have to be like that.' He
glanced at Red Beard as he drove. He said nothing, and the gun still
pointed at Cecil's chest. But Red Beard looked thoughtful. He ignored the
fact that Cecil had kept on driving past the turnoff. He was listening.
He'll believe me. Or will he? Now he regretted all the lies about Aron's
stupid letter. My God, how the stakes have changed, he thought. He
refilled the empty whisky glass and went through all the possibilities in his
head. Would there be enough evidence? Or would he be left high and dry
with no money and this bloodthirsty maniac after him?
At last he stood up and walked to his desk. He knew what he had to
do; he had to stop Red Beard before he carried out his side of their deal the
deal with the devil that he'd made to save his life. He looked up
Mabaku's home number in his address book. Mabaku had given it to him
when their relationship was that of friends. He dialled the number. It rang
three times, and then Mabaku answered. 'Hello, Mabaku speaking. Whos
there?'
Cecil cleared his throat. He thought about how he had been cheated.
How they had made a fool of him.
'Who's there?' Mabaku repeated, sounding irritated now.
Cecil saw the faces at the board meeting watching him slink away
defeated from the company he had built.
'Hello. Who is this? What do you want?'
Cecil thought of Angus being kidnapped and murdered in cold blood.
And that made him think back to his conversation with Nama and
Rabafana that morning. Was it possible that this was what they actually
wanted?
He knew he should stop Red Beard. But suddenly he knew he wasn't
going to. Very deliberately, he hung up.


When Cecil got home, he was shaking so badly that he could hardly open
the door. The reaction had set in as soon as he dropped Red Beard at a minibus taxi rank. He told the staff he had had a nasty fall at work and
had come straight home. They were alarmed by the blood on his face and
shirt. He'd started bleeding again in the car, he explained. No, he wasn't
hungry. He would have a couple of drinks and go to bed. No, he would
fix the drinks himself.
At last they left him alone. He poured a double Lagavulin (more like a
triple) and settled into an armchair. I'll drink this to steady myself, he
thought. Then I'll phone Mabaku. He'll believe me. He'll go after this red
bearded devil. They'll catch him. I'll be safe. I'll tell him the rest of it too.



CHAPTER 60

The next morning Kubu sat in his office, totally distracted. No Mozart
passed his lips. When anyone spoke to him, it was obviously difficult for
him to focus on what they were saying. His mind was on puzzles.
He had loved jigsaw puzzles as a child. His father had bought him a
used one from a street vendor, and they had solved it together. It had
become almost a craving for them. Whenever he could afford a pula or
two, Wilmon brought one home. They became experts, finishing the
puzzles almost too quickly. But once the box had contained two puzzles
with their pieces mixed up. One was the rightful inhabitant of the box, the
other something quite different. It had been really hard to do either puzzle
until they realised what had happened.
Of course, Kubu thought. That's why I can't make the Kamissa body
fit. Because it's not part of the Frankental puzzle at all. It's part of the other
puzzle. The Hofmeyr puzzle. Despite all the missing pieces, it suddenly
started to make sense. The pieces are all on the table, he thought. I just
have to match them to the right puzzle. To do that, I'm going to have to
pay Bakkies a visit.
After several minutes of reverie, Kubu shook his head, picked up the
phone, and called Swanepoel.
'Bakkies? This is Kubu. There's been a turn in the case that we need to
discuss face to face. We're pretty certain that Angus Hofmeyr was
murdered and that the murder took place in Botswana.'
'Jislike! How's that then?'
'I can't go into details now, but I'll see you tomorrow, or Thursday at
the latest, and explain everything. You'll help me, won't you? I'll need to
interview a few people, and pick your brains, and see what you've found
out. I hope that's okay?'
fa, Kubu. Come on down. I'll be pleased to hand the case over to you.
We don't really have anything to go on here.'
'See you soon, then.'
'Good,' Bakkies responded, making it sound like the Afrikaans cgoed' with the G like a smoker clearing his throat. 'Be careful, Kubu. See you
soon.'
Next Kubu phoned Pleasant. 'I have to go to a place called . . .' He
hesitated. 'Not sure how to say it. It's spelt KNYSNA. It's in the Western
Cape. I'd like to leave tomorrow if possible.'
'It is pronounced with no A" and the S sounds like a Z,' Pleasant said.
'The flight actually goes to George, which is about fifty or sixty kilometres
away. Then you'll have to rent a car and drive.'
That suited Kubu admirably, because he wanted to visit a certain
private hospital nearby. He made the arrangements and asked Pleasant to
have the tickets delivered to him. 'I'll bring them to the house this
evening,' she said. 'Joy and I have lots to catch up on.'

There was still a big hurdle to cross. Somehow he had to convince Mabaku
to let him play his hunch. And a costly one it would be. He headed for the
director's office. Mabaku seemed in a good mood, waved Kubu to a chair
and looked encouraging. 'Well, Kubu, how's the case progressing?'
'You know, Director, I think there were two different cases all along.
What confused us, and made us think it was one case, was that the same
people were involved in both.'
'I don't understand. Doesn't that make it one case?'
Kubu shook his head. 'Let's take the mine. That was one case. Red Beard
was using it as a laundry for blood diamonds. He was in it with Jason.'
Kubu looked down at the floor. 'I don't know if Cecil Hofmeyr was
involved or not.' He waited, but Mabaku didn't comment, so he continued.
Aron caught on to what they were doing, and they had to shut him up.
So they killed him. Somehow disposed of his body. Then Red Beard
discovered that Aron had written that letter. Perhaps Aron tried to use it
as a lever to talk them out of killing him. Anyway, Red Beard had to get
it back. So he commissioned Kobedi to do so. But Cecil guessed what had
happened. He didn't want that letter floating around either. Kobedi
thought he was smarter than everyone else, and he was greedy. So he
double-crossed Red Beard and tried to fob. him off with a colour
photocopy. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Then Red
Beard tied off the loose ends and bumped off Sculo, whom I had seen. All
neat and tidy'
Mabaku nodded. It all made sense. 'But that doesn't explain the
Kamissa murder.'
Kubu nodded. 'That's the other case, you see.'
Mabaku waited, but Kubu didn't continue. At last Mabaku lost
patience.
'Yes? And that is?'
'Well, I've got some ideas on that.' He crossed his fingers and pushed
on. 'Inspector Swanepoel thinks the Angus Hofmeyr death and the
Kamissa body are connected, but I'm not really sure. I need to follow up
some things. In South Africa.' He slid the travel requisition across the desk
to his boss.
'Why do you need to go to South Africa? What's wrong with their
police? We work together these days, you know.'
Kubu had expected this. He tried to look put out. 'Director, this is our
case. Our reputation is at stake. We can't let the South Africans come in
and make fools of us. I suppose I have a personal stake in this too. After
all, Angus Hofmeyr was my friend.'
'But what do you hope to find out? You should be after this red
bearded maniac'
'Director, Angus Hofmeyr came here to inherit a massive company. He
dies a matter of days after taking control of BCMC. Kobedi dies, leaving
a treasure trove of blackmail tapes. Jason Ferraz disappears although he
doesn't know we're after him. Do you really think all this is coincidence?'
'You think that something much bigger is going on? That someone
much bigger is behind this so-called second case?'
Kubu said nothing, but he met Mabaku's eyes.
'Shit!' Mabaku signed the travel requisition and shoved it back to
Kubu. 'You work strictly with the South Africans. We don't want an
international incident. And be careful. If you are wrong, you'll have me to
answer to. But if you are right ... be careful.'
Kubu thanked him and headed for the door.
'Bengu!' the director called out as he got there. 'See if you can find it
in my secretary's office.'
'Find what, Director Mabaku?'
'The printing press. The one that does the hundred-pula notes that you
all seem to think I have an inexhaustible supply of.'
Kubu grinned. 'I'll look,' he said.

CHAPTER 61

Jason's body was aching with overexertion. It had been a long time since
he'd spent countless hours surfing on the beaches of Mussulo Island off
Luanda. Then he was fit and hard. Botswana had softened him.
Nevertheless, he'd thoroughly enjoyed the afternoon testing the waves
of the Inferno, one of the Lisbon area's famous beaches. He shouldered his
board and walked up to the rental kiosk. The attendant looked the board
over and returned Jason's deposit.
'Will we see you tomorrow?' he asked in Portuguese.
Jason smiled. 'Yes, if I can get out of bed! It's been a long time since I
surfed like that.'
'Take a hot shower this evening, then stretch until you hurt. Tomorrow
you'll be fine.'
Jason waved and set off for his apartment in the centre of Cascais, an
upscale town just outside Lisbon. He walked down the Avenida Rei
Humberto II de Italia towards the marina, enjoying the views of the
Atlantic. Yachts were heading back for the night, their sails glowing in the
sun. He was pleased that he had spent the money for the lovely twelfth
floor apartment overlooking the bay towards Estoril. The views were
spectacular, and he looked forward to enjoying the sunset with a bottle of
chilled Dao wine. Soon, he believed, he would be able to afford the best
anywhere in the world.
He walked down the Avenida Vasco da Gama, turned on to the
Avenida Emidio Navarro, where his building was situated. He nodded to
the receptionist and took the elevator to his apartment. He opened all the
windows, took cheese out of the fridge to warm up, and headed for the
shower.
Twenty minutes later he settled on the balcony with his wine and
sighed with content. This was the life. All that was missing was Dianna.
As he thought of her, he felt a stirring in his loins. She was a different
person when it came to sex. All the British reserve dissolved, and she
turned into an uninhibited animal with a deft touch and an insatiable
appetite. He smiled at the thought of a life with a woman like that.
And if not her, he would settle for the money. He would find other
women.
Half an hour later, the bottle of wine empty and only a small portion
of cheese left, the doorbell rang. Puzzled as to whom it could be, Jason
went to the door and peered through the security peephole. An attractive
young woman was making faces at the door. Wrong apartment, Jason
thought. But maybe she would like a glass of wine. He would certainly
enjoy some female company.
He opened the door with a smile. Before he could say a word, a man
who had been out of sight jumped forward and knocked Jason back into
the apartment. The girl followed, shutting the door behind her.
'Not a sound,' the man hissed, holding the sharp blade of a flick knife
hard against Jason's neck. 'Turn around!' Jason complied, terrified.
'Take everything,' he whispered, scarcely able to breathe. 'There's some
money in my wallet. I'm just a tourist. My camera is on the table.'
'Where's your wallet?'
Jason pointed to the kitchen table. The girl flipped through the wallet
and shook her head. She dropped it in her handbag, as well as the camera.
'Where's your passport?' The man increased the pressure on the knife
at Jason's throat.
'In the safe,' Jason gasped, pointing to the bedroom. The man pushed
him into the bedroom. 'Open it!'
Jason swung the cupboard door open and punched in his code. The
bolt purred back. The man pulled Jason back while the girl rifled through
the safe.
'Got them,' she said, holding up two passports. She grabbed the rest of
the contents - traveller's cheques, a few hundred pula, some pounds and
dollars, a bunch of receipts, a mobile phone, and an old-fashioned paper
airline ticket. They joined the wallet in her handbag.
Still holding him from behind, the man pushed Jason towards the bed.
'Please don't kill me.' Jason's voice was barely loud enough to hear. 'I
can get you more money. Lots more money!'
As they reached the bed, the man jerked the knife into Jason's throat
and slid it sideways. Blood spurted out as he pushed Jason on to the bed.
Jason grabbed at his throat, gargling sounds coming from his mouth.
Seconds later he was motionless. Blood continued to pump on to the
sheets. The man and the girl watched until it stopped. Satisfied, the man
wiped his knife on the bed, closed it, and slipped it into his trouser pocket.
The girl opened the door, holding the handle through her dress. They
headed for the elevators, hand in hand, letting the door close behind
them.


CHAPTER 62

Kubu left home early on Wednesday morning, giving himself plenty of
time. At the airport, he checked in his overnight bag and got his boarding
pass. With directions from the reception desk, he walked firmly through
the swing doors marked Authorised Personnel Only'. No one tried to stop
him. Once on the tarmac outside, he followed the directions to the
BCMC hangars. And indeed, a sleek Learjet was sunning itself on the
apron. A man in a khaki uniform was fussing around it and giving
instructions to the maintenance crew. He turned out to be the pilot who
had flown Dianna down to the Cape coast. Kubu felt that his luck was
turning. He showed the man his police identification and asked about the
flight to Plettenberg Bay. It had been uneventful. Then Kubu asked, as if
it was an afterthought, 'Did she have a lot of luggage?'
The pilot looked surprised, and then shrugged. He looked down and
kicked a loose piece of tar out of the way. 'Not specially'
Anything like a Coleman cooler or one of those camping fridges?'
The man looked up sharply, 'fa, as a matter of fact she did. How did
you know that? One of those little freezers you can run on gas or twelve
volts. It was off, of course. But tied up tight with rope.' He grimaced.
'Seemed hellishly cold,' he added with unintended irony. 'Water
condensed on the outside.'
'Did you ask what was in it?'
He shrugged. 'I didn't. Not my business. But she told me anyway. Said
the meat in South Africa isn't as good as ours. Liked to take her own from
here. Just volunteered it. Odd. She wasn't very chatty otherwise.'
Kubu realised that he should be getting ready to board his flight. He
thanked the man for his help. But the pilot's attention was already elsewhere.
He was shouting at the attendent fueling his plane. The earthing
cable hadn't been connected. He waved to Kubu over his shoulder as he
ran back to the jet.
At George airport Kubu rented the cheapest car available. It was quite a
way to the Fairwaters clinic, and the drive was uncomfortable. The seat
was too narrow for his frame, and his legs touched the steering wheel even
with the seat pushed back. He had given up on the pathetic air
conditioner and lowered the windows. The clinic was off the beaten track,
and he was surprised that he hadn't got lost.
At the imposing gates, a polite but firm security guard insisted on
phoning to confirm his appointment. He parked next to a Mercedes
convertible, and tried not to touch its virginal whiteness with the brick red
of his door as he squeezed his bulk out.
Nearly half an hour early, instead of heading straight to reception, he
walked around the side of the building. He wanted to get a feeling for this
high-class clinic. Lawns ran down from the front of the main building to
a large 'infinity' swimming pool. It wasn't crowded, but a variety of
patients were tanning or chatting in the pool. The only black faces were
those of waiters rushing fanciful drinks to the clients. Alcohol-free, no
doubt, Kubu thought sourly.
'Excuse me, sir, can I help you?' One of the waiters was at his
side.
'Umm, yes, I was looking for reception.'
'It's at the front of the building. Allow me to show you.' He shepherded
Kubu back to the front entrance and took him inside. He didn't leave
Kubu until a woman came to take charge of him.
'I'm Superintendent David Bengu. I have an appointment with the
manager, Ms Kew?'
The receptionist nodded and phoned through. 'She'll see you now,
Superintendent.'
Kubu was taken to a large office, formally furnished, with a
magnificent view across the lawns to the Outeniqua Mountains.
'Wonderful!' he said to the strait-laced Ms Kew. She nodded but
seemed disinclined to chat.
'You said you were from the CID, Superintendent. Do you have some
identification?'
He handed his identification card to her, which she examined carefully.
When he had made the appointment, he hadn't mentioned that his CID
was in Botswana, not South Africa. He held his breath. She might refuse
to talk to him; if she did, he could do nothing about it. He was out of line
being here without a host from the SAP. But she seemed satisfied and
passed the ID back to him.
'You understand, Assistant Superintendent, that I can't discuss
anything about my patients. There is the usual doctor - patient privilege,
and our patients are particularly concerned about their privacy. That's why
they come here. It's hardly a public facility.'
Kubu nodded. He had checked the rates. At around two thousand US
dollars a day, he could well believe her. As I told your secretary when I
phoned, Ms Kew, it's all quite routine. I need to check on someone's
movements, that's all. I don't want to know anything about his illness.'
'I'll try to help you, Mr Bengu. But even that may be difficult. Many
of our clients use assumed names. We don't mind; it's all part of the
confidential nature of our work here.'
Kubu nodded. 'I'm interested in the dates Mr Angus Hofmeyr was
here. I don't think he used an assumed name.'
Ms Kew seemed to soften. 'Such an awful business. He was a very nice
person, you know. Not at all the standoffish prima-donna type. A
gentleman, and very cooperative.'
'He was a friend of mine, actually. We were at school together.'
'I'm sorry.' She sounded as though she actually was.
Kubu nodded. 'Can you confirm that he was here from Wednesday,
the fifteenth of March to Tuesday the twenty-first?'
She consulted a file in front of her. 'Yes, that's correct. He left on
Tuesday morning.'
'While he was here, he made a contribution to a meeting in Gaborone
by phone. Did you know about that?'
'Oh yes. He brought his own equipment with him. Earphones, tape
recorder, fancy phone set. We discourage patients from carrying on their
usual business commitments, but we made an exception in this case.'
'What was the tape recorder for?'
'I don't know. I suppose he wanted to tape the conversation so that he
would have his own record of it.'
Kubu nodded. 'That's probably right.' He hesitated. 'Under the
circumstances, I don't suppose you could tell me why he checked into the
hospital?'
'I'm afraid not, Mr Bengu,' Ms Kew said defensively. 'Mr Hofmeyr's
death doesn't change our commitment to confidentiality.' She checked her
watch. 'I have a staff meeting shortly. Is there anything else?'
Kubu made no effort to get up. His considerable bulk would be
difficult to shift without his cooperation. 'How did you learn of Angus's
death?'
'It was on the radio. One of the nurses told me.'
'Did you see it in a newspaper?'
'No, we don't get them delivered here. It often disturbs the patients,'
she said, impatience creeping into her voice.
'Just one last thing, Ms Kew. You've been very helpful, and I won't keep
you from your work any longer.' Kubu pulled an envelope from his jacket
pocket and extracted a passport-size photograph. He passed it to Ms Kew.
'Have you ever seen this man before?'
The manager looked at the picture carefully, thought about it. Then
she returned it to him. 'No. We have a lot of patients here for relatively
short periods, but I don't usually forget a face. I'm pretty sure I've never
seen that man before.'
Kubu nodded, took the photo back and put it in the envelope. Then,
almost as an afterthought, he withdrew another and handed it to Ms Kew.
And this man?' he asked.
She glanced at it, and then looked at him sharply to see if he was
having her on. But she met only a bland and marginally interested look.
'Well of course I know him. That's Angus Hofmeyr. He didn't have a
beard when he was here, though.' Kubu nodded again, and returned the
second photo to the envelope.
She rose, indicating that the interview was at an end, and this time
Kubu took the hint. 'I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help,' she said. Kubu
shook her hand warmly. 'You've been very patient,' he said. 'Thank you.'
And silently he added that she had been very helpful indeed. For now
he knew for certain that Angus had been murdered, and roughly how,
when and why it had been done.


CHAPTER 63

Kubu found the Knysna police station on Main Street without much
difficulty and parked right outside. He stretched, allowing his body the
space the sub-compact car had denied it, and enjoyed the warmth of
the morning sun. He had spent the night in George and had driven along
the beautiful coastal road to Knysna. There was a denseness to the air
that he found unfamiliar. It must be the proximity of the sea, he decided.
The building looked as though it had once been a 1930s tourist hotel.
A balcony ran along the front, defined by an ornate wrought-iron railing,
the windows evenly spaced. He walked into the reception area, which
certainly could have been the reception for a hotel. The constable on duty
told him that Detective Inspector Swanepoel's office was upstairs to the
right. He buzzed Kubu through a security gate and pointed out a set of
wide stairs. Slowly Kubu went up, wishing that the station's budget had
included a lift. He took the stairs slowly, not only because of his bulk, but
because each time he put his weight on a step, the staircase creaked
ominously.
He found Bakkies in a small office overlooking Main Street. The room was cluttered with filing cabinets, but it looked as though all the files were
out on the desk. It hardly seemed possible the massive Bakkies could fit
amidst all the chaos. However, he rose with surprising grace and greeted
Kubu warmly.
'You must be Kubu,' he said with his guttural accent. 'Your nickname
fits you well! I'm Bakkies, but I guess you already worked that out.' He
laughed. 'Let's get some coffee. I've got a couple of doughnuts.' He
indicated a white cardboard cakebox almost hidden by the mess on his
desk. 'Then we can chat.' Kubu thought this a most attractive proposition.
They got to know each other while they drank their mugs of instant
coffee and demolished the jam doughnuts. Kubu was pleased that there
were two each. And, after all, breakfast was already two hours behind him.
It seemed unfair that Bakkies converted the food to muscle while he
turned it to fat. But that's life, he thought philosophically. At last there was
silence while they examined the empty cakebox.
'So, Kubu, what's the story with your case?'
Kubu wasn't sure where to begin, so he started with their first contact.
'You remember our telephone conversation? You said: 'Suppose the body
is Angus Hofmeyr? Murdered in Botswana, and now they are trying to
cover up the crime by planting evidence of a shark attack here?' I think
you hit the nail on the head. I just wasn't ready to see it. I'm sure now that
the body found near the Kamissa waterhole was that of Angus Hofmeyr.'
'But you said that was impossible!'
'Yes, because we were supposed to think it was impossible. If the arm
belonged to Angus, so did the Kamissa body. I'm certain the DNA
samples will match.'
Bakkies frowned. 'I don't remember that you asked for a DNA sample.'
'Oh, I think our pathology people dealt directly with yours,' Kubu said
quickly. 'The point is, I'm sure that the arm you found was the missing
arm of our body'
Bakkies was trying to take it all in. 'If that's the case, then Hofmeyr was murdered. There was always something funny about the so-called shark
attack. But the murder didn't happen here.' He shook his head. 'But what
about Dianna Hofmeyr? She was with Angus the day before he
disappeared.'
Kubu looked grim. 'There are only two possibilities. Either the body is
not Angus, and he was kidnapped, or she is in it up to her neck. I think
we'll find out when we talk to her. I'm looking forward to interviewing the
new chairperson of BCMC.'
Bakkies hesitated. 'Yirrrr,' he said finally, rolling the Rs of a traditional
Afrikaans response to something awkward. 'Yirrrr. There's bad news,
Kubu. Ms Hofmeyr has just left. She flew out of Plettenberg Bay this
morning. There was no reason for me to stop her.'
Kubu grimaced. 'Did she say where she was going?'
'I didn't speak to her, but one of my men reported that she and her
mother left in their private Learjet. We can find out from air traffic
control.' He busied himself on the phone for a few minutes. 'The flight
plan is to Johannesburg,' he told Kubu. 'Lanseria airport. But the pilot
mentioned they are going through to Gaborone after a couple of days.'

'Perfect. I can be back to meet them.'
'Should I alert the police in Johannesburg?'
Kubu thought for a minute. 'Don't do anything that might scare them
off. Just ask traffic control to watch that plane and alert us as soon as it's
off somewhere.' He changed tack. 'Where exactly did you find the arm?
Did you take pictures?'
'We did, but I can do better than that. I'll show you. Good to get out
of the office for a bit. You can explain all this as we drive. Then we can go
up to the house. They have a maid there. If there's time, we can have some
lunch in Plettenberg Bay' Kubu thought that a fine suggestion.

Knysna was a village that had outgrown its quaintness, Kubu decided. It
seemed to be buzzing with people, most of them white, which Kubu
found quite different from Botswana. Main Street had only one through
lane and one turn-only lane at each major intersection, and the traffic
lights caught one every time. Bakkies was stopped at one of these behind
a huge South African Breweries truck that took up the entire road when
Kubu noticed two beggars working the traffic. A shabbily dressed young
black woman - really only a child herself- guided a blind boy from car to
car. She held out a scruffy red plastic bowl. He stumbled along with a
rough-cut stick and vacant eyes. You don't see this often in Gaborone,
Kubu thought. It would be too shameful to have a relative - no matter
how distant - begging in the public road. They would get some sort of
support from their extended family.
Bakkies noticed Kubu's attention on the couple. 'Most of them are just
faking,' he said. He sounded irritated. Despite his stick, the boy missed
the edge of the road divider and stumbled. To Kubu, he didn't seem to be
faking. Bakkies cursed. He dug in the change pocket of his pants and
found a one-rand coin. He held it at arm's length out of the car window
until the two beggars shambled over and he could drop it into the plastic
bowl, where it joined a few other small coins. The beggars accepted it with
the same stoic indifference they had shown to the tight-shut windows of
other drivers. The lights changed to green, and Bakkies drove on.
'So, what do you think happened?' Bakkies had his mind back on the
case.
'I believe Angus was murdered, and his body was dumped in a game
reserve area. The killers went to a lot of trouble to hide the identity of the
body in case it was found. And finding it was just chance. If the game
ranger hadn't been out that way helping a scientist from the university,
there would have been nothing left to find.' Kubu paused, remembering
that the mess of bone, sinew and dried blood had been his friend. 'Then
they staged the shark attack here to make it look like an accident.'
Bakkies shook his head. 'Why not just stage an accident immediately
in Botswana? Why go to the trouble of disposing of most of the body and
taking the rest halfway across Africa?'
This had worried Kubu too. 'I think that they needed Angus alive for
the board meeting of the big company I was telling you about - the
Botswana Cattle and Mining Company. I'm not sure why, but I think
we'll find the answer in the will of Angus's father or in the deed of the
Hofmeyr Trust. The accident had to happen after that meeting.'
'Then why not just kill him after the board meeting? Couldn't they
have arranged a car accident? Surely those happen in Botswana?'
'They certainly do!' Kubu recalled his close encounter with the mother
pig. 'I think that was probably their plan. But something went wrong, and
Angus was killed too soon. That's when they had to come up with this
other idea.'
'But you said that you spoke to Angus yourself, and he spoke at the
board meeting. How could he have done that if he was already dead?'
'That part I wasn't sure of until yesterday. You see, Angus was supposed
to be at a rehab clinic north of George. I popped in there yesterday on the
way here.' He took a sideways glance at Bakkies. The clinic certainly wasn't
on the way between George and Knysna, and he knew he should have
reported to the South African police first. But Bakkies only nodded,
waiting for him to continue. 'I showed the manager a picture of Angus,
and she didn't recognise it at all. Then I showed her one of Jason Ferraz,
and she identified it at once as Angus Hofmeyr. He had a lot of electronic
equipment with him too. Tape recorders and such like.'
'So someone impersonated Angus? Was that to provide Angus with an
alibi?'
'What for? Angus didn't need money or power. He could have had as
much as he liked. And the alibi would collapse as soon as it was checked.
Just as it did yesterday. No, I think Jason Ferraz was being Angus. For the
board meeting, and for talking to people like me. He was damn good too.
I was almost fooled.'
In fact, he'd been completely fooled, apart from the tiny Lesley Davis
mistake. 'He knew Angus, so he could practise his voice and intonation.
But he needed to have lots of help with background. That's where Dianna
Hofmeyr came in. Jason's lover, by the way' Kubu smashed his right
fist into his left palm. 'It's all falling apart for them, Bakkies! Once
Interpol tracks down Ferraz - we think he's hiding out somewhere in
Portugal - and I get my hands on our Ms Hofmeyr, we'll get the answers
to all this.'
They drove in silence while Bakkies negotiated the winding road down
to the coast at Plettenberg Bay. Kubu admired the lush vegetation. This
country is so rich, he thought. Bakkies turned into the town, drove
through the small commercial centre, past the famous dolphin statue,
down the hill, and pulled into the public parking at the Beacon Island
Hotel. The sun was high now, glittering off the water. Kubu watched the
waves with the near disbelief of a man who has grown up in a dry and
landlocked country. He had seen the sea before: once in Cape Town,
where he had taken Joy on their honeymoon, and once in Namibia on a
fishing holiday. But it wasn't natural to him. The humidity was higher
here too, and the air smelled of salt. Bakkies looked at his face and smiled.
'Take off your shoes and socks,' he said, starting to do so himself. 'We can
walk a bit on the beach. I'll show you the spot where we found the arm
and point out the Hofmeyr house.' He carefully locked his vehicle, and
they set off down the beach towards a long peninsula, part of which
seemed to have collapsed. 'That's Robberg,' Bakkies said. 'It's a nature
reserve with hundreds of seals and birds. Great place to watch for whales.'
They walked for a few hundred yards. 'Who are the they who planned
all this and committed the murder?' Bakkies asked. Kubu had difficulty
taking his mind off the endless breaking sea.
'I'm not sure of all of them. But here's the key question: Who benefits?
Cecil Hofmeyr stood to lose BCMC to Angus. Now he's still the CEO.
Dianna is ambitious and ends up chairman of the company, ostensibly
through Angus's support. Jason Ferraz was in danger of being caught
smuggling blood diamonds through the mine that belonged to him and guess
who? -- Cecil Hofmeyr. Jason had a red-bearded Angolan partner.
Then there was a bruiser who was even bigger than you. I had a meeting
with him,' he added euphemistically. 'But I think he was just part of the
hired help. He ended up dead in a not very savory part of Gaborone.'

'This is it,' Bakkies interrupted. 'That dune is where Pat Marks waited
for us. Her dog found the arm. It was just about there.' He pointed to a
spot on the beach near a dried kelp frond, half buried in the sand. Kubu
looked out to sea again. The damp sand started about one metre from
where they were standing, and the sea was fingering an area about four
metres farther out.
Bakkies smiled his boyish smile again. 'I know what you are thinking.
Where was the tide? I checked after we spoke on the phone. It was high
tide about one a.m. that night. If you placed the arm out at - say - four
a.m., before dawn, the tide would be going out and the arm would be
found well before the tide was high again and threatening to take it away.
This is a busy beach, even early in the morning.'
Indeed, even at lunchtime on a weekday, joggers, sun-worshippers and
swimmers were plentiful. Some of the younger girls wore swimsuits that
left nothing to the imagination, and would not have been acceptable in
public in Botswana. Bakkies offered them appreciative glances. For their
part, the girls found the two fully clothed men carrying their shoes and
socks an odd couple.
'If someone was going to plant the arm here, where would he have
come from? Were there any tracks?' Kubu naturally thought of sand as a
source of tracks.
Bakkies indicated the way they had come. 'If someone walked along
the beach barefoot, there would be no way to identify the tracks.
Hundreds of people walk along here. There's a gate into the Hofmeyr
property farther along. It wouldn't have been a problem to come down
from the house and plant the arm.' He indicated the beachgoers. AH this
lot would have been in bed at four in the morning. Probably not alone.'
They walked on. Bakkies still found it hard to see Dianna as a
murderess. 'Dianna Hofmeyr had to know, though, didn't she? She had to
lie to us about Angus being here. Do you have enough to arrest her and
grill her?'
'I will as soon as we get the DNA match.'
Bakkies said nothing. Five minutes later, he pointed to an ostentatious
mansion grasping the top of the dune. 'That's their beach place. Money
certainly wasn't a motive, was it?' Kubu looked up at this manifestation of
another world.
'Let's take a look,' he said.


Zelda watched the two men lumber up the path from the beach. Both
looked hot after the climb. They stopped to put on their shoes, and then
made their way to the bottom-level sliding door. She recognised
Swanepoel, but the large black man with him was new. One of his
colleagues, she decided. She opened the doors.
'Madam Pamela and Dianna aren't here,' she said. 'They've gone back
to Botswana.'
'Hello, Zelda,' said Bakkies. 'This is my friend Assistant
Superintendent Bengu from Gaborone.' He hesitated, then improvised.
'We know that the Hofmeyrs aren't here. We wanted a word with you.'
Zelda looked suspicious, but let them in. They took their time looking
around on their way up to the kitchen. There Zelda gave them cold
drinks, and looked expectant. Bakkies was at a loss, but Kubu had a
question. 'Zelda, did you ever see Mr Angus Hofmeyr while he was here?'
Zelda shook her head. 'No, I already told Inspector Swanepoel that, so
you could have saved yourselves the walk. I heard them arguing the day
before Mr Angus was' - she bit her lip - 'attacked.'
'Did you hear what they were arguing about?'
'I don't eavesdrop on people.'
'But any idea?'
Zelda shrugged. 'They always fought. Ever since they were kids. Why
change now?'
'Did they bring a freezer with them when they came? A small camping
one?'
Zelda shook her head. It was clear that these men were wasting their
time and hers. 'I have work to do,' she said. 'I have to close up the house.'

Kubu and Bakkies sat outside at the Lookout Restaurant overlooking the
sweeping beach with mountains in the background. Each enjoyed a
plateful of calamari and a glass of white wine. Pale visitors from Europe
sunned themselves to painful red, while tanned surfers challenged the
waves. It's as though I'm on holiday, Kubu thought with a touch of guilt,
rather than closing in on a gang of vicious murderers.
'I must get the first plane back to Gaborone tomorrow,' he said to
Bakkies. 'I want to welcome Dianna Hofmeyr home when she lands.'
Bakkies nodded. 'What do you want me to do?'
A number of things. See if anyone recognised either Angus or Jason at
the beach estate. I'll leave you the photos. Get a warrant and search the
house. Dianna came down here with a camping freezer. They may have
got rid of it, but if it's there, check it for traces of seawater and blood. I'll
bet the DNA will match the arm. Look for Angus's passport too. They'd
be crazy not to have destroyed that, but if you find it, it'll show Jason's
picture. Finally, would you ask your pathology people to do a histolysis
test on the tissue? See if they can determine if it was frozen before it was
soaked in seawater.'
Bakkies was impressed. 'You've really thought this through, haven't
you, Kubu? I wish you could help me with some of my cases.'
Kubu laughed. 'Some other time, Bakkies. I haven't tied this one up
yet.'

Back in Knysna, Kubu reviewed the statements and evidence Bakkies had
obtained. Then he checked in to the bed-and-breakfast Bakkies had
recommended - Bond Lodge on Bond Street. It was a lovely old house more
than a hundred years old - with beautiful yellowwood ceilings and
floors and furnished with an eclectic collection of antiques. It was not on
the sea, but halfway up the hill behind the town. The upstairs offered a
magnificent view of the lagoon for which Knysna was famous. In the
distance stood the Heads - the precipitous cliffs on either side of
the lagoon's narrow channel to the sea.
The friendly owner offered him a glass of wine and gave him the
rundown on the nearby restaurants. Kubu commented on the beauty of
the area. Even if it was outrageously moist.
He phoned Joy, assuring her that all was well, and that he would be
home the next day. He promised he was sticking to the spirit of his diet,
although the letter was more elusive on a business trip. Then he chose the
restaurant to which Bakkies took his wife on special occasions - also
recommended by the owner of the B&B. She made a reservation for him
and gave him a ride.
The restaurant was called the Firefly Eating House, and Kubu
understood the name when he arrived. The entrance and garden of the old
house that hosted the restaurant were festooned with streamers of tiny
lights giving an otherworldly feeling which was to carry through the whole
evening. A tall lady in a simple dress with a hint of the Orient showed
Kubu to a tiny table on the narrow veranda, nestled against the firefly
lights and bougainvillea. The table had to be moved perilously close to the
edge of the veranda so that Kubu could fit.
The fare was an eclectic mixture of curries and spiced foods from
various countries, fused into intriguing combinations. Kubu's mouth
watered as aromas wafted from the kitchen. To start, he chose babotie
spring rolls - Eastern wrappings filled with the Malay-inherited dish of
the Cape of Good Hope. For the main course he ordered tiger prawns
from Mozambique with a sauce from Goa. He wanted a wine that would
hold its own with the spices, and the waiter suggested a gewurtztraminer
from Stellenbosch.
The unlikely spring rolls were delicious; the prawns firm with a delicate
flavour enhanced rather than swamped by the coconut-curry sauce. He
took his time to finish the piquant wine. Then he ordered homemade
cardamom ice cream and a cappuccino with cream not froth.
After finishing his coffee, Kubu stayed at his table, enjoying the
afterglow of the wine, the lingering flavours, and the strangely peaceful
ambience of the packed restaurant. At last he paid the bill, pocketed the
receipt for Mabaku's scandalised perusal, and caught a taxi back up the hill
to the B&B.

PART NINE:
Deceivers Ever

Then were deceivers ever,
One foot in sea and one on shore.'
Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing, Act II, Scene 3


CHAPTER 64

Although he caught the seven a.m. flight from George, Kubu nearly
missed Dianna. His flight from Johannesburg was delayed, and she was
already at Johannesburg's Lanseria airport when Kubu's flight took off. By
the time he had cleared Customs and Immigration at Gaborone, her
Learjet was only minutes behind him. Just long enough for him to toss his
overnight bag into his car and get back to the terminal.
He watched the BCMC Learjet land and then went into Arrivals. He
knew that VIPs came through a side entrance after clearing Customs and
Immigration. He would intercept Dianna and her mother there. A man sporting a Grand Palm Hotel uniform and holding a neat sign was also
waiting for them, presumably to help with the luggage and to drive them
to the hotel. That will have to wait, thought Kubu.
Soon two smartly dressed women came through. He recognised
Dianna at once and presumed that the mature but still beautiful woman
with her was her mother. He had met Pamela Hofmeyr briefly long ago
with Angus, but he wasn't sure that he would have recognised her now. He
approached Dianna.
'Ms Hofmeyr? I'm Superintendent David Bengu. We spoke recently on
the phone about a murder case I'm investigating.'
Dianna looked at him with mild surprise. 'Oh yes. Kubu, isn't it? Is this
a chance meeting?'
'No, I'm afraid not. We need to ask you some questions in connection
with a murder we are investigating.'
'Oh. Aron Frankental. Well, my mother and I have just flown in
from South Africa. We'd like to settle in at the hotel. Perhaps I can see you
later on in town.' At this point the waiting hotel driver approached. 'Oh,
hello, Demi. I have my usual suitcase, but Mother has several. Let me
show you.' She started towards the luggage collection trolley, but Kubu
stopped her.

'I'm sorry, Ms Hofmeyr, but we need to talk to you at once. It's very
important that we get your input immediately. I don't need to detain your
mother; perhaps the driver can take her and the luggage to the hotel. We
won't keep you long.' He hoped that the last comment would prove
untrue.	
At first Dianna was inclined to argue, but she thought better of it.
Kubu was standing right in front of them, symbolically barring their way.
Dianna looked at her mother doubtfully. 'Will you be all right, Mother?'
Pamela Hofmeyr shrugged. 'Of course. I lived in Gaborone for fifteen
years, you know.' The way she said it suggested familiarity rather than
nostalgia. She offered no corresponding support to her daughter. She
seemed content for Dianna to finish her business - whatever it was - with
the police and find her own way to the hotel. She pointed out her suitcases
to Demi. His trolley bulged.
'Very well, Superintendent. Since you won't allow us the courtesy of
recovering from the trip, let's get down to it. What is it that you want to
know?'
'I would like you to accompany me to CID headquarters. I'll explain
there. May I carry that for you?' He nodded towards Dianna's laptop case.
Dianna handed it to him. She made sure her mother had all her
belongings before she allowed Kubu to lead the way to his vehicle.
'Really, Superintendent, I'm trying to help despite your poor manners.
You must tell me what this is about if you expect me to cooperate.'
Kubu stopped and faced her. 'Very well. We have conclusive forensic
evidence that your brother was killed. In fact, he was murdered.' He
watched her face. Fleeting hints of fear and shock crossed her face. Then
they were gone. Or was it just his imagination?
'That's impossible,' she said flatly. 'What evidence? How come the
South African police know nothing about this?'
'I'd prefer to explain it at the CID,' said Kubu, walking on so that she
had no option but to follow. He wanted her to brood about what lay ahead. At last I'm going to get to the bottom of all this, he thought.
Dianna accompanied him to his vehicle without further protest, and they
drove in silence to the CID headquarters at Kgale Hill.

Kubu settled Dianna in the interview room and left her there with Edison
while he went off, ostensibly in search of tea. Actually, he needed to let
Mabaku know what was going on. He had been unable to reach the
director the night before and had had no chance to contact him that
morning. He was feeling guilty about that. He walked down the corridor
to Mabaku's office to invite him to join the interrogation. But the director
was out, and his secretary was not in her office either. He bumped into her
at the tea urn.
'Oh! Miriam! Where's the director? I need his help interviewing a
witness.'
'He's gone to Lobatse. They've caught some of the gang from South
Africa. He's been there since early this morning.'
'Please call the director on his mobile phone and tell him there is an
important breakthrough in the Kamissa case. He must return here as soon
as possible.' He smiled as he carried the tea back to the interview room.
Mabaku didn't take orders from his assistants. This would give Kubu the
time to handle the interview himself.
He put the cups of tea on the table and sat down opposite Dianna. She
took her polystyrene cup and took a sip. Her face grimaced with distaste.
Edison, on the other hand, excited in anticipation of the interview,
swallowed most of his while it was still too hot. Kubu set his cup aside.
'Ms Hofmeyr, I want to thank you for your cooperation. I know what
I am going to tell you will be a big shock. You will understand why this
meeting was so urgent.' Kubu paused, watching her face. About a month
ago a body of a white male was discovered in an arid region near the
Khutse game reserve. The body had been there for a few days and was
badly eaten by wild animals. Little more than the bones were left. At first
we thought it was the body of the geologist you mentioned - Aron
Frankental - but we know now that it wasn't. In fact, we've recently
positively identified this body.' He paused, letting this sink in and
watching Dianna's silent face. 'I'm afraid the corpse was that of your
brother, Angus Hofmeyr. I must caution you that I am making inquiries
into his death and I believe that he was murdered. I want to know
anything you can tell me that may help me with this matter, and I must
warn you to be careful what you say.'
At last Dianna reacted, and her reaction was extraordinary. She laughed
out loud. 'Superintendent, that's absolutely ridiculous! Is that the story
you've wasted my afternoon on? You said this body was found a month
ago. Angus was with me last Tuesday at the coast in South Africa. Do you
think I wouldn't know my own brother after thirty years? Is this some sort
of joke?'
God, she is a cold fish, Kubu thought. And damn convincing. But not
to me. Not any longer.
'Ms Hofmeyr, this is no joke. There's a positive match between a DNA
sample from that corpse and a DNA sample supplied by the South African
police from the arm you identified as being from Angus.' Kubu prayed
fervently that this would turn out to be true.
'But Angus was with me that night! He went for a swim early the next
morning!'
'Ms Hofmeyr, that is simply not possible.'
Dianna appeared at last to understand the implications of what the
detective was saying. Are you suggesting, Superintendent, that Angus was
not with me that night? That I'm lying about this?'
'Is there another explanation?'	
'I don't think this is funny, Superintendent, and I don't know what
you are trying to do or why. You say the body was discovered a month
ago? During that month Angus was hunting in Botswana, travelling in
South Africa, and with me in Plettenberg Bay. He must've been seen by
dozens of people. He spoke to even more on the phone. He even told me
he had a call from you! You know perfectly well he was alive during all that
time.'
'No, Ms Hofmeyr, I think someone impersonated him during that
period. Someone who did a very good job, and had a lot of help from a person who knew Angus very well indeed. That person would have to be
a family member. Of course, an impostor would never have been able to
fool you. As you say, you have known your brother for thirty years.'
'I want to call my solicitor.'
'You have that right. I think it would be best to cooperate, though.
Murder is a capital offence in Botswana.'
'I have nothing more to say until my solicitor arrives. I won't help you
with this ridiculous vendetta.'
And true to her word she said nothing more until her attorney arrived
half an hour later, a tall, thin man wearing a pinstriped suit - almost a
caricature of the corporate lawyer. He introduced himself as Donald Price.
Another man accompanied him, shorter and fatter, with bright, piercing
eyes. Kubu recognised him at once. Jeffrey Davidson was Gaborone's best
criminal defence lawyer.
Kubu explained the situation to the two lawyers. They listened
carefully and then requested some time alone with their client. Kubu
fumed, but couldn't refuse. He used the time to try to reach Mabaku
again. It turned out the director was still busy in Lobatse. Then he phoned
Ian MacGregor.
'Ian! How are you?'
'Kubu! I have news for you. What you wanted to know.'
'The samples matched.'
'Yes. How did you know?'
'I finally used my head and worked it out.'

When Edison called him back to the interview room, it was obvious that
the lawyers had no intention of allowing the interrogation to continue.
Price started.
Are we to understand that Ms Hofmeyr is a suspect in this murder
investigation, Superintendent? If so, how come the South African police
seem to have no interest in the matter?'
'I haven't said she is a suspect. I believe she is lying about seeing her
brother before the alleged drowning. That may make her an accessory. The
South African police don't have access to the evidence we have recently
obtained.'
Davidson came in next. And all the other people Angus spoke to, or
saw, during the month after he supposedly shuffled off this mortal coil?
Are they also suspects and accessories? Including yourself?'
'Of course not. Someone posed as an impostor during that period,
including a week stay at the Fairwaters clinic. We know who that person
is, and we expect to arrest him very soon.'
'Superintendent, Miss Hofmeyr says you are an old school friend of
Angus,' Price commented. 'Let's leave aside the fact that, as a result, you
may not be as objective about this as you should be. Did you have a formal
interview with Angus, or did you just chat a bit?'
'We chatted on the phone. He knew a lot of personal stuff, but made
some key mistakes.' Kubu realised that he was getting defensive. He tried
to recover the initiative. 'In any case, Ms Hofmeyr is supposed to be
answering the questions. I'd like to get back to where we left off

Davidson changed the subject again. 'Do you have a shred of evidence
to suggest that our client was involved in murdering her brother or anyone
else, Superintendent? Do you have a motive?'
'It's possible she was covering up for someone else. Someone she cared
for a great deal. Yes, I think we have a motive.'
Davidson let that be. 'The only thing that makes this connection
between Angus's remains at the beach and your body in the desert is a
DNA test you claim to have had done. I presume you've done several tests
from different sources?'
'So far we've done one test.'
'Superintendent, at the risk of being insulting, mistakes can be made.
Similarities can be misinterpreted. A single test is anything but conclusive.
If this was the final nail in the coffin, perhaps it would justify us being
here now. But your coffin has no wood at all. You have nothing but this
one nail to support this incredibly far-fetched story. You are the detective,
but may I suggest you obtain a sample you know comes from Angus
Hofmeyr? From his home, perhaps? A sample we can be sure is his DNA?'
'We'll be doing all that. And we'll be matching the sample against
samples taken from Ms Hofmeyr and her mother. Meanwhile I want to
hear Ms Hofmeyr's side of the story rather than continue this courtroom
drama.' Kubu was getting testy.
'No, I'm afraid not, Superintendent,' said Price. 'You have not a shred
of evidence for this unbelievable theory. You are simply harassing Ms
Hofmeyr. We will be taking her back to the hotel now. Please do not
interfere with her again unless you have some real evidence, and at least
one of us is present.'
'Now wait a minute. Ms Hofmeyr isn't going anywhere until I find out
what I want to know!'
Are you arresting her then?' Davidson asked quietly. 'Exactly what is
the charge?'
Kubu was tempted, but he thought it through. He glanced at Edison's
impassive face. No help there. What do I actually have? Conspiracy to
commit murder? It hinges on Angus being dead when she said he was with
her. He wasn't at Fairwaters, but then she hasn't said he was. The case
hangs on the one DNA test, and even that's informal. I certainly don't
want these two Rottweilers attacking Ian.
Kubu cursed himself for being an overconfident fool. With Jason or
the red-bearded creature from Angola in custody, he would have an
unassailable case. As it was, he just didn't have enough to hold her.
'Ms Hofmeyr, you are free to go. For the moment. I shall require your
passport in the interim, however.' He held out his hand, knowing that she
must have it with her as they had come straight from the airport. Dianna
looked at her legal eagles, but they could see no grounds for objecting. She
dug into her laptop case and handed Kubu the passport. He had his one
small triumph.
The three rose to go. 'Superintendent,' said Dianna, 'you may wish to
consider something else. If the DNA really does match between the arm
at Plettenberg Bay and your body in the desert, then perhaps it isn't
Angus's arm. I didn't see the arm. The South African police didn't show it
to me. I only saw his rings. It may be that someone was trying to fake
Angus's death. Did you ever consider that?'

'Why would anyone do that?'

'I've no idea. But at least it is less unlikely than your scenario of mass
hallucination.'
Davidson indicated to Dianna that they should leave. He wanted the
police to move on at their own pace without any helpful suggestions. But
Price couldn't resist a last jab. 'Next time you go on a fishing expedition,
Superintendent, I can suggest some excellent spots for tiger fish on the
Chobe River. Have a good afternoon.' Kubu ignored him and directed his
own parting shot at Dianna.
'I hope you will reconsider your position, Ms Hofmeyr. We will be
meeting again very soon.' But Kubu was quite wrong about that.

CHAPTER 65

Red Beard hung up and put his mobile phone on the copy of the
newspaper that lay open on the table. He had circled three items in the
second-hand-vehicles-for-sale column. The first would suit him best, but
any one would be acceptable. He grunted, picked up a worn briefcase, and
added the newspaper and his mobile phone to the contents - some papers,
a stuffed envelope, and a pistol.
He put on a worn leather jacket and walked the short distance to catch
a minibus taxi to the Gaborone bus station. He was staying in a
downmarket hotel in Lobatse and didn't stand out in the eclectic mixture
of impecunious guests. It was inconvenient staying seventy kilometres
from Gaborone, but the inconvenience bought safety.
It was nearly noon before he reached Gaborone and found a minibus
to the right part of town. The other passengers objected when he asked to
be dropped off at a specific address rather than somewhere nearby, as was
the custom. However, an extra ten pula to the driver settled the matter.
A shabbily dressed man answered the door. He was clearly pleased to
have a white potential buyer for his bakkie and would increase the price
accordingly. Red Beard disliked him immediately. Without any
pleasantries they went to look at the ageing white Toyota four-by-four.
Many dents and scratches testified to a hard life. The upholstery was faded
and torn in places, and chicken feathers covered the passenger seat. Still,
the engine looked well maintained.
'Need new tyres,' said Red Beard giving one a vicious kick. The owner
shrugged. 'I take for drive.' The man nodded and settled himself among
the chicken feathers without complaint. Red Beard drove the bakkie around the block a few times and tried the low range. The engine and
transmission seemed sound. He was satisfied.
When they got back, the seller invited Red Beard into his house and
seated him at the kitchen table. Red Beard waved aside the offer of tea.
'How much do you want?' he asked. The man named a figure, higher
even than the one listed in the newspaper. Red Beard snorted and named
a much lower figure. 'Cash, right now,' he added. 'You sign papers, I take
truck. I do transfer and roadworthy'
The man bit his lower lip and thought. Cash was nice. And right
now was even nicer. But he wanted to hold out for a better price. He
shook his head. Red Beard opened his briefcase, pulled out the newspaper
and the envelope, and showed the seller the money. 'I need to buy
truck today. Start building job tomorrow. You take cash or I go to next
place.'
The seller folded. Red Beard asked for the vehicle's papers and
examined them carefully. In his experience there were a disgusting number
of dishonest people about. But everything seemed to be in order. For his
part, the seller surreptitiously examined the banknotes. He didn't mind if
they were stolen - which he thought likely - as long as they were neither
stained with dye nor forgeries. At last, both parties satisfied, Red Beard
took the keys and left. Soon he was heading back to Lobatse in his new
purchase.
Back at the hotel, his mobile phone rang. He recognised the stilted
English voice.
'Good you call. Owe me lot of money. Good you don't make me come
after it.'
'The whole thing was a complete bloody disaster!' Daniel shouted.
'The police know that the man you dumped in the desert was Angus
Hofmeyr. They nearly arrested his sister this afternoon. Once they start
checking on the people who were supposed to have seen him, they'll
realise what happened. After that, they'll get the sister, and after that
they'll get you. If I were you, I would be more worried about my skin than
the money I didn't earn.'
'Funny. Not worried,' Red Beard growled. 'Like to finish things
properly. No loose ends. Money is a loose end.'
'Forget the money. We have to get the Hofmeyr girl out of the country.
She's scared half to death, I shouldn't wonder. And she has plenty of
money. I think she'll be very grateful.'
Red Beard was pleased to hear the panic in Daniel's voice. 'You owe me
money. I want all of it.'
'Where do you think the money comes from, anyway? I told you
before that she is the kingpin, didn't I? We need to get her out of the
country. She'll pay up. Perhaps a nice bonus if this goes as planned, for
once.'
Red Beard was enjoying himself. He much preferred the role of cat to
that of mouse. 'Don't know. Very difficult. Does she still have passport?'
'No.'
'Very expensive for new one. And credit lousy, not soV
'I'll have her bring money with her. I don't know how long it'll be
before the police arrest her. After that, it's over for all of us.'
'Tell her be ready tonight. I phone her at hotel with details where to
meet. Somewhere out of the way. Midnight. Hundred thousand dollar in
cash.'
'Where the hell am I going to get that? It's already four in the
afternoon!'
'You don't get it. She gets it. Just tell her. More important for her than
us, hey, Mr Daniel? She in Gaborone with no passport. She stay here, she
has rope around her neck and nothing under her feet. She get the money.
Oh yes, she get it!'
Red Beard broke the connection. He started to laugh. Deep in the chest at first, it developed into a sound reminiscent of hyenas.

CHAPTER 66

If leaving for Lobatse Mabaku had breezed out of the office like a zephyr,
he returned to the CID like an electric storm. He did not even summon
Kubu, but thundered into the detective's office.
'Bengu! What the hell has been going on here since I left? I'm away for
a couple of hours, and you create an international incident!'
'I suppose Dianna Hofmeyr's lawyer phoned you?'
'No. Her lawyer did not phone me. The commissioner did not phone
me. The minister phoned me!'
'I did try to reach you,' said Kubu weakly.
'The message was that you were interviewing a witness. There was
nothing about arresting the new chairman of Botswana's most important
company!'
'I didn't arrest her.'
'Not for want of trying, from what I heard!' Mabaku shouted. His face
was flushed.
I've never seen a black man with a red face before, Kubu noted. That
effect was usually reserved for whites who sat in the Kalahari sun for too
long or lost their tempers because the drinks were delayed. At this rate,
Mabaku might have a seizure in the middle of my office.
'Director, please sit down and listen to my side of the story. I'm sure
you'll agree with me. Sit down, please.'
Mabaku collapsed into a chair in front of Kubu's desk and took several
deep breaths. He unclenched his jaw and said in a controlled voice,
'Bengu, you better hope I do. Because if not, you'll be busted down to
constable, and you won't give a parking ticket without a superior present.'
He smiled in a friendly way to show he meant it.
Kubu told him the whole story, starting with his hunch, persuading Ian
to do the DNA test, and concluding with the shocking DNA match.
Despite himself Mabaku was absorbed. His colour and breathing returned
to almost normal. 'But why pull in Dianna Hofmeyr?' he asked. If he
hadn't been so upset, it would have been obvious.
'She told the South African police that she spent a day with Angus
before the fatal swim. How could that be true if he was in the morgue here
at the time? That means she must have been involved in a cover-up at the
very least.'
Mabaku digested that for a few seconds. Then he counted on his
fingers. 'One. Are we absolutely sure about the DNA match? It sounds
like a bit of a back-door job to me. Two. Are we sure that it's Angus
Hofmeyr involved here? Could the beach body parts have been planted for
some other purpose? Obviously they would have been taken from the
body here and must have been frozen. Have we done the histology check?
Three. What do the South African police think about all this?' He waited
for Kubu to finesse these questions.
Kubu answered with a confidence he did not really feel. 'I don't think
the DNA match is in doubt. Of course we'll do additional tests to
confirm, follow up with the histology on the tissue from the beach, and
try to get samples from something that points directly to Angus. It will be
easy to prove that Dianna is lying. All we have to do is check the people
Angus is supposed to have seen here and in South Africa.'
'Couldn't you have waited to discuss all this with me?'
'Director, there wasn't any time. I only arrived at the airport a few
minutes before the Hofmeyrs did. What choice did I have?'
Mabaku didn't answer that. 'Did you have her followed?'
'Yes, the lawyers drove her straight to the Grand Palm Hotel. I think
she'll hole up there while they decide what to do next.'
Mabaku shook his head. 'If you are right, and you'd better be, or we'll
both be giving out parking tickets, she must know that her story is going
to fall apart. I think you'd better keep a close watch on what she's up to.
Discreetly for a change. Very discreetly.'
'I already have a man at the exit gate checking comings and goings,'
Kubu answered. 'I'll send another to the lobby immediately'
Mabaku stood up. 'I'm going to try to smooth things over with our
bosses, Kubu. Keep a low profile.' He eyed Kubu's bulk. 'Not that that's
really possible,' he added nastily. Then he headed back to his own office.
Kubu winced as the door slammed.
Edison had been keeping out of the way, awaiting the end of this
exchange. He had more news for Kubu.
'Interpol has found Ferraz,' he said. 'That's the good news.'
'Where did they find him?' Kubu asked with elation. Then, with less
enthusiasm, 'What's the bad news?'
'Well, he was in Portugal after all. Near Lisbon. Just as he was supposed
to be. He was renting a holiday flat, it seems. The bad news is that he's
dead. His throat was neatly cut.' Edison offered Kubu a fax.
Collapsing into his desk chair with a grunt, Kubu asked, 'Did they find
plane tickets, passport, money?'
Edison looked glum. 'None of the above. It's all in that fax. It seems he
arrived three days ago and rented the flat for a week, paid cash in advance.
The cleaning lady found him yesterday and called the police. They
recognised him from the photographs we sent out and called Interpol.'
'So we have another murder and another dead end.' Kubu banged the
fax on to his desk. He could read the details later. He had to find the red
bearded Angolan. Just about his last hope of making this case stick.

CHAPTER 67

When Dianna explained that she was being pestered by reporters about
Angus's death, the manager of the Grand Palm, helpful as always, showed
her where to catch the service lift from the executive apartments on the fifth floor and how to get out of the hotel past the kitchens. He ensured that the
security staff knew she was entitled to use it. Dianna thanked him and
rewarded him with a grateful smile. She returned with him to reception.
Having cleared out her safe deposit box, she went to her room and
packed her valuables and money into her computer case. Some clothes
and other essentials went into a carry-on bag. The rest she left in the room.
As long as one has access to money, everything is replaceable. Red Beard
would have to be satisfied with the cash she had with her now. Once she
was safe, she could plan a new future.
She and her mother decided to have dinner in Dianna's suite. Pamela
ordered smoked salmon followed by lobster thermidor. Dianna warned
her that it would be frozen crayfish tail from South Africa, but as usual,
Pamela ignored her advice. Dianna chose shrimps in pastry and then
gemsbok fillet. There is a last time for everything, she thought. She
opened a bottle of Dom Perignon for an aperitif, remembering the time
she drank it with Jason. She felt her pulse quicken with sexual arousal at
the recollection of her climax with him that night, the taste of his blood
on her lips mixed with the champagne. He would be dead by now. The
sexual feeling intensified.
She tried to concentrate on her mother. Where's her mind? Here,
opposite me on the zebra-skin couch? Somewhere in England with her
new lover? Like Angus, she had no shortage of those. Like son, like
mother. Somewhere in the British Raj - the governor's wife? I'll never see
her again after tonight. Do I even care?
'Did you sort out the issue with the police?' Pamela asked matter-of
factly.
'Yes. They had some weird theories. They were trying to link Angus, a body in the desert and a geologist from one of Cecil's mines. All nonsense,
of course.'
Pamela accepted this. She had little interest in goings-on in Botswana.
'What will you do?'
'Mother, I need to get things sorted out in my life. I don't want to run
BCMC. That was Angus's idea, you know. He thought that you and Dad
would have wanted it. He pushed me into it. But I think I want to build
my own business. From the bottom up. Somewhere quite new.'
Pamela thought about this. She had no interest in the company. It was
a source of income, that was all. She knew that Roland had felt differently,
had wanted Angus to take over the reins. There had never been any
suggestion of Dianna's involvement. Dianna was Daddy's little girl.
Nothing more. Nothing less. 'Whatever you want is fine, my dear. Cecil
can run the company. He seems quite good at that. He's quite sensible
when he keeps his pants on,' she concluded nastily.
Dianna nodded. 'I thought you'd feel that way.' She wanted this
evening to be different. To mean something. To resolve something. To get
beyond politeness and formality. She looked down at the floor. 'Do you
miss him?' she asked.
'Your father? I did at first. He was a very powerful man. His attraction
was in that power, confidence, control. I found that irresistible. I sound
like a schoolgirl, don't I? We were good together, but I hated Africa. I
always wanted to go home. But he was a superman here. In England he
was just another rich man without the connections or breeding. England
was full of kryptonite for him.'
'I meant Angus.'
Pamela turned her head away. Tears started to squeeze from her eyes.
'My mascara will run,' she said, her voice unsteady.
The starters arrived, and they settled around one corner of the dining
table for six. They ate in silence and then waited for the main course to
arrive. Why is pain the only point of contact? Dianna wondered. It's
always been that way.
'He's here, Mummy. Angus is here. We're all here. I could show you.'
But she did not. Her mother wouldn't understand. She never had.
Pamela looked at her blankly. Not knowing this person with whom she
was dining. 'I don't understand,' she confirmed.
Dianna shook her head. 'It doesn't matter any more,' she said sadly.
The main courses came. Dianna had ordered the most expensive
chardonnay for her mother and the most expensive shiraz for herself. 'You
can't get decent wine in this country,' Pamela complained. She took a
mouthful of the thermidor. 'The sauce is all right, but the lobster was
frozen.'
Dianna was enjoying the gemsbok. She had asked for it rare, and the
blood leaked into the mushroom sauce. She thought of Jason with a
moment of regret. There will be lots more men, Angus had told her.
Anyone you want. She smiled. 'It'll be all right, Mummy. You'll see.'
'No,' said Pamela. 'The flesh is quite soggy.'

Pamela went to her own suite at about ten thirty p.m., claiming tiredness.
Dianna kissed her mother good night and gave her an unusual hug, long
and clinging. She didn't expect to see her again after that night. In her
room, Dianna booked a taxi, explaining to the dispatcher exactly where to
meet her, and then watched television. She was calm. She had gambled
and lost, but she was young, smart, beautiful and rich. And she had Angus
and Daniel! Plenty of opportunities lay ahead.
At last she picked up the two bags, used the service lift, and left
through the delivery entrance. She gave the security guard twenty pula,
and he let her out. He would tell the police the next morning that it was
around half past eleven. He had recently checked the time because he was
going off duty at midnight. He watched her get into a taxi and drive off.
When his passenger told him where she wanted to go, the driver was
concerned. It was a poor area on the outskirts of Gaborone, and the street
she wanted was an access road to the area. It wasn't the sort of location that
a smartly dressed white woman would frequent in the middle of the night.
But she said she was meeting someone there.
They arrived at a bus stop in a dip on the ill-lit dirt road just before
midnight. It was deserted. The driver insisted on staying until his
passenger's friend appeared, and she relented to the extent of making a call
on her mobile phone. 'He's a few minutes away,' she told the driver.
'Thank you, I'll be fine. Please go now.' She paid, adding a large tip. With
a doubtful shrug, the driver headed back to the city.
A vehicle came over the rise in the other direction. As Red Beard had
told her, it was a white pickup truck. It roared down the road fast, trailing
a cloud of dust. That must be him, she thought. But her next thought was
that it couldn't be. Because the vehicle was not slowing down.

CHAPTER 68

Bongani is tired. He reads a draft of a student's honours project. While
there is nothing really wrong with it, it seems pedestrian and poorly
thought out. Much of it is quoted from textbooks, with little evidence of
original thought. He isn't enjoying it. He puts it aside and turns his attention
to the television, which has the sound turned low. The late news is
on. Some minister is opening a new school, his speech reported in painful
detail. Bongani leans his head on the back of the couch and tries to relax.
A banging on the front door jerks him out of his reverie. It's after
eleven o'clock at night! What could this be about? He pulls open the door
and glares at the intruder.
'What is it?' he says too loudly. He looks down on an old wizened man,
neatly dressed. He is holding a walking stick in his left hand, while his
right draws patterns in front of his face, so that Bongani cannot see him
clearly. The man's eyes are unblinking and intense. Suddenly Bongani feels
completely confused. He feels he should know this man, should know
him well, yet also that he should fear him. But then, just as suddenly, his
confusion clears.
'Father! How wonderful of you to visit me. Come in. Come in and sit
down. I'll make us some tea. The way you like it.'
The old man nods, smiles, and sits down at the dining table, while
Bongani busies himself in the kitchen. He returns soon with two mugs of
strong tea and an opened can of sweetened condensed milk, which he
spoons liberally into each cup. He remembers that when he was a boy, his
father would come to him at bedtime with hot milk or perhaps hot
chocolate for a special treat. Then he would tell a story of the birds or the
animals of Botswana. How Mokoe becomes Man's friend and warns him
of danger. How Morokaapula takes over other birds' nests and cheats them
into rearing its young. How Morubise is bewitched and brings bad luck in
the night.
'Father, are you well? This was a long journey' The old man just nods
and says nothing. He smiles, takes a small paper packet from his pocket,
and adds something white to both their mugs. Extra sugar, Bongani
supposes. They both have a sweet tooth. They drink in companionable
silence. When the tea is finished, the old man speaks for the first time.
'My son, I will tell you what I see. Do you want that?'
'Oh yes! Please, Father!' says Bongani Sibisi, PhD, expecting a story.
'Will you promise to go straight to sleep after that?' He waits for the
nod of acquiescence.
'This is how it is,' he begins. 'You know of the bird serotheV
Bongani says he knows it well. 'It is the bird all in black with the forked
tail. It is drongo in English.' He is proud that he knows this.
The old man nods and says, 'Indeed. Here is a feather to remind you
of it.' He produces a black tail feather. Bongani, an eight-year-old boy
again, takes it and carefully fixes it upright in a crack in the table.
'Now this bird is not only pretty, but also very clever. Because he can
copy the other birds. He will sit in a tree and make calls that belong to
them. Then everybody thinks there is a different bird there because he
does it so well. Indeed, that is his magic. You sometimes see the herd boys
watching the cattle listen to him. Most of the time the cattle can watch
themselves, so the boys get lazy and bored. So they listen to the bird and
guess what it is. Then they throw little stones into the tree until it flies out.
And most times it is indeed the serothe, which is just teasing them! Lazy
boys! So the serothe enjoys being other birds sometimes, and it makes
people laugh. And that is how it should be.' Bongani nods quickly,
enjoying the tale.
The old man closes his eyes. His voice deepens, losing inflection,
becoming almost a chant. 'Now this is what I see,' he says. He grasps
something in his pocket and pulls out a closed fist. 'This is at the centre,
my son. I see one of the serothe birds that is different. It thinks that if it
can talk like another bird, it is indeed that bird. Thus it thinks that it can
be segodi - a hawk. It flies high, making the calls of the hawk. Other birds
are fearful. Indeed, a little part of it becomes a hawk. It thinks it can be ntshu - an eagle. So it flies high against the sun and cries eagle cries and
the others believe, perhaps, that it is an eagle. So a little part of it becomes
an eagle. Then it is no longer serothe, but neither is it Hawk, nor is it
Eagle. It is something else altogether. Something made of three.' The old
man takes a deep breath and continues.
'It doesn't know what it is, nor where it belongs. It wants to be with
eagles, but instead it finds itself with manong -- vultures -- and wants to
share their meat. So it flies very high and follows them down to the dead
flesh they are eating. It sits and cries to them in their language and
demands flesh. And some are fooled and think it is a vulture, and some
are fooled and think it is an eagle.
'But there is one very evil vulture with its face all on fire. It is kgosi
yamanong - the king of the vultures. The dead meat is its find. It is not
fooled by the magic. 'Why, you are just Serothe!' it says. 'How dare you?'
This vulture is eating and has a piece of bone in its beak.' The old man
opens his fist to reveal a small bone. Now he holds it between his thumb
and forefinger, held curved like a beak. But to Bongani it becomes kgosi
yamonong - the largest of the vultures - holding a bone in its vicious bill,
the feathers on its face stained blood-crimson.
'He drops it. Thus.' The old man opens his fingers so that the bone
clatters to the tabletop and rolls and topples before it is still. Bongani
watches, mesmerised. And NOW he grabs the serothe and bites it dead.'
The old man bangs his hand on the table with such force his tea mug falls
over. Bongani jumps. Cold tea thick with whitish sludge trickles on to the
table.
The old man says nothing more. Bongani realises that is the end of the
story. It has frightened him. Usually his father would add something
humorous to take away the sting of a tale with a bad ending, or explain
the moral. But tonight there is nothing but silence.
'But what does it mean, Father?' asks the eight-year-old son at last.
The old man opens his eyes. 'It means what it says. It is its own truth.'

'I don't understand it,' says Bongani, a bit testily. He wants to be
tucked up in bed and forget about the evil vulture. He feels tired, woozy,
unsettled.
'Now you must go to sleep as you promised.'
Gratefully Bongani gets up, walks back to the couch, and slumps
down. He is really very sleepy. 'Good night, Father,' he says. 'Thank you
for the story,' he adds, remembering his manners. But there is no response.

CHAPTER 69

Bongani jerked awake, disoriented. His head ached a little, and his mouth
felt like the Kalahari. The television displayed a test pattern and played
some background music. It must be very late, he realised. They've already
played the national anthem. He checked his watch. It was nearly two
o'clock in the morning. I must have fallen asleep on the couch, he
thought. The stiffness in his neck testified to that. Then he remembered
his vivid dream. An extraordinary visit and story from his beloved father,
who had died nearly four years ago. Perhaps the dream was important? He
knew how quickly a dream - even one so clear at first - could fade and be
lost. So he began writing the outline of the dream and the details he
remembered. He used the back of the hapless honours student's project.
Only when he had it all down did his mind turn to other things. He felt
the urgent need for bed and the rest of the night's sleep. But first he
needed a big glass of water and some aspirin.
Turning off the persistent television, he walked towards the kitchen
through the dining area. There he stopped, frozen. On the dining table
were two empty tea mugs, one knocked over, a black feather, and a small
bone. He guessed at once the identity of the bone, and shuddered. He
righted the mug, smelling a bitterness not of the tea.
He checked the front door. It was closed and locked. It locked
automatically if the catch was on and the door shut. He checked all the
rooms to ensure he was alone. Then he found the card Kubu had given
him with the detective's home number handwritten on the back. His hand
shook as he dialled.

Kubu came at once. Bongani sounded frantic on the phone, and Kubu
was concerned. The young man had always seemed highly strung, but this
time he sounded close to breaking point. The two sat on the couch while
they each drained half a tumbler of Scotch. Kubu poured; Bongani's hands
had been too unsteady. Kubu read the notes about the dream while the
young man tried to pull himself together.
'Do you feel better now?'
Bongani nodded. His face was still grey and drawn.
Kubu stood and walked around the room, rubbing his eyes. Bongani's
little house was neat but lacked the feel of a home. You need a woman for
that, Kubu thought. He picked up a framed picture from the sideboard.
It was a black-and-white photograph showing a younger Bongani. To his
right stood a big man, slightly taller than Bongani, with his arm rather
charmingly holding a petite, smiling lady. The men looked very formal
and a little embarrassed.
Are these your parents?'
'Yes. That was taken about two years before my father died. When I'd
been accepted to go to the University of Minnesota.'
'In your notes you say you looked down at the man at the door. There
are no steps up to your house, and your father was taller than you. It
couldn't have been your father. He didn't look that old, either.'
'Of course it wasn't my father! My father is dead. It must have been the
Old Man, the witchdoctor. Look at the finger bone on the table, for God's
sake.'
Kubu was relieved. This sounded more like the rational scientist again.
He nodded. 'That white sludge will turn out to be some sort of hypnotic
drug. You both took it. It made you more open to the suggestion that you
were a youngster again hearing a story, and that he was your father. And
that you really saw a vulture, for that matter.'
'Why does he haunt me like this? I can't help him. What does he
want?'
Kubu shook his head. 'I don't know. He hasn't been seen up at the
lodge since the Gathering after the body was found. I tried to find him
after your last encounter, but he'd vanished. But now he has left the finger
bone - if that is what it actually is - so perhaps this is the end of it. He's
never tried to harm you or get money from you.' Kubu wondered why he
was giving the benefit of the doubt to this charlatan who was terrorising
his young acquaintance.
Kubu's mobile phone rang. It made him start; he had forgotten he had
it with him. And it was nearly three a.m.! He checked the screen, and his
heart sank when he saw it was the director. 'It's my boss,' he whispered to
Bongani as he took the call.
Some minutes passed as he spoke to Mabaku. When he ended the call,
he looked as shaken as Bongani. He finished his Scotch in two gulps.
'I'm sorry, Bongani, I have to go. I'll send over a constable to stay here
until morning and collect the evidence. Don't touch anything. I'd try to
get some sleep if I were you.'
'What's happened?'
Kubu hesitated. 'They've found Dianna Hofmeyr. She's been the
victim of a hit-and-run. She's in critical condition, and they've taken her
to hospital. I need to get to the scene. The place will be crawling with
reporters in no time.'
'When?'
'When what?' Kubu was already collecting his jacket and car keys.
'When did it happen? The attack?' Tension was back in Bongani's
voice.
'We don't know that it was an attack. Probably a drunk driver. They
think it was between eleven and midnight. Why?'
Bongani shook his head. 'I'm going to have another Scotch and wait
for your constable.'
Kubu nodded. 'I'll let myself out.' He was already halfway to the door.
Bongani stood up and followed him. 'Kubu!'
'Yes?'
'Please take care of yourself
Kubu glanced back and nodded. Then he was gone.

Kubu took in the walls of glossy lime-green paint, the worn plastic
covered chairs, and the pervasive smell of disinfectant. The haggard man
waiting for him wore a paramedic uniform, stained, faded and smeared
with blood.
Kubu introduced himself. The man said he was Mandla. Humbly he
said, 'I'm tired, Rra. I've been on duty since my shift started at six.' Kubu
checked his watch. It was nearly five a.m. now. At least I've had four hours'
sleep, he thought. This poor devil must be dead on his feet.
'I'm sorry you had to wait for me, Mandla. It's important that we speak
while everything is fresh in your mind. I won't keep you long.'
Mandla nodded. His look said that if anything was fresh, it would have
to be his mind, since no physical part of his body would qualify.
'Can you tell me about picking up the lady who had been hit by a car?'
'We got an emergency call and rushed straight there. She was lying in
the road, and a motorist had stopped, blocking it so that no one else could
hit her. He'd called on his mobile phone. His car was clean; no dents or
blood, so it wasn't him who'd hit her. We always check. She was in a hell
of a way and unconscious. But she came round when we tried to move her.
The pain, I guess. We gave her drugs to knock her out, but it took a while.
Once we got her into the ambulance, we tried to stabilise her. But she was
a hell of a mess.'
'Did she say anything?'
'She was raving. Like she was having a conversation with herself. I
couldn't hear the words most of the time. But there was one thing. She
said it very clearly, a few times. "It was Daniel's fault. It wasn't me." I
remembered that because I thought maybe this Daniel had been driving
the car. But it was probably some drunk bastard. It usually is.'
'Did she mention any other names?'
'I think she said something about Angus. Would that make sense?'
Kubu nodded. Anything about a man with a red beard? Or Angola?'
Mandla shook his head. 'Nothing I heard. I wasn't really listening, you
know. A lot was going on once we had her in the ambulance. Finally the
drugs knocked her out. The pain must have been really bad. She said, "It
was Daniel's fault" again, and then lost consciousness. I don't know what
happened after we got her here.'
Kubu sighed. 'She never regained consciousness. They tried to operate.
She never came out of the anaesthetic'
Mandla looked down at the floor. 'I hope you get the bastard. You
know, he didn't just knock her down, he actually drove over her, the pig.
She was a beautiful lady, too. Young.' He shook his head. 'I don't know
why I do this fucking job. Who was she, anyway?'
Kubu looked at the defeated young man and put a bulky hand on his
shoulder. 'Her name was Dianna Hofmeyr. But I'm not sure I know who
she was.'
He gave Mandla his card, asked him to phone if he remembered
anything else, and told him to go home.
Then he drove to the CID. He was going to start a manhunt for a
Portuguese man with a red beard. A man whose first name might be
Daniel.


CHAPTER 70

When he reached his office, Kubu dragged himself to his desk, struggling
to keep his eyes open. He found enough energy to put out a highest
priority alert for Red Beard. Then he turned his chair away from the door
and stared out of the window for several minutes, watching the other
policemen and policewomen coming in to start their day. He hadn't had
breakfast, but he didn't notice. Was this what depression was like? You
stare into space with your mind in neutral.
What went wrong with that family, with the Hofmeyrs? Was it Roland?
Did he care too much about money and not enough about the things that
really mattered? Or was it the money itself that spoilt everything? Roland's
death? Cecil's ambition? Probably no one would ever know.
Edison bounced in. 'Hey, Kubu, you don't look so good. Did you get
any sleep?'
'I'm okay'
'Can I get you something? Coffee?'
'Coffee would be good.'
'Have you had breakfast?'
'I'm fine. I'm not hungry.'
Edison was dumbfounded. 'You must take care of yourself, Kubu,' he
said seriously.
That's what Bongani had said, Kubu thought. His mind went back to
the witchdoctor.
'He knew all along,' he said to Edison. 'The witchdoctor knew. How
the hell did he know?' He swung his chair round to face his colleague.
'There were three episodes,' he continued. All with Bongani. There
must be some connection. The first time was right after the body had been
found. The witchdoctor told him the murderers had stolen the victim's
name. Bongani thought he meant that it was the soul that had been taken.
But they had just stolen the name. Just his name.'
Edison had no idea what Kubu was talking about. Coffee would be the
best option. He beat a retreat. Kubu went on talking, not noticing he was
now alone.
'Then the second time was about the hands. The one warm from the
desert. The other cold. Cold as ice. No, colder than that, I'd bet!'
And then last night. The little bird and the vulture. The vulture with
its face stained with red. Killing the little bird. Last night . . .' I'm not
thinking clearly, Kubu thought. I should go home. Thank God I have a
home and a wife who loves me.
Edison returned with the coffee, and they drank together in silence.
Edison had found a pastry somewhere, and Kubu was grateful for it. They
chatted.
'I'm going to the gym,' Kubu said. He laughed when he saw Edison's
astonished face. 'Just for a shower. I got up at two this morning to go to
Bongani's house. I need to clean up.'

CHAPTER 71

Mabaku accepted the responsibility of telling Cecil. It was Saturday, so he
drove to Cecil's house. There was a guard on the gate. That's a new
development, thought Mabaku.
When he heard the news, Cecil put his head in his hands. Mabaku was
surprised. He hadn't thought Cecil's relationship with his niece was
particularly close. Still, he thought, it comes on top of Angus's death. A
few moments of silence passed before Cecil lifted his head. At last he
asked, 'Was it an accident? It wasn't, was it?'
Mabaku raised his eyebrows. 'Hit-and-run. Superintendent Bengu is
investigating it. He is suspicious. We'll have to wait for the pathologist's
report.'
'Does Pamela know?'
'We thought that you should tell her. It's going to be a terrible blow for
her, so soon after the death of her son.'
Cecil stood up behind his desk, balancing himself by leaning forward,
his hands pressed on the leather top. 'I need a drink. Calm myself. Will
you join me? Please?'
Mabaku shook his head. 'I'm on duty, Cecil.' Then he relented. 'I'll have
a mineral water. You've had a nasty shock. Pour yourself something stronger.'
Cecil handed Mabaku a Perrier in a crystal tumbler. He walked to the
window with his drink and stared out at the garden. 'I can't believe it. I
thought he was a madman. It never occured to me that he might be
anything but a cheap extortionist.'
'Who are you talking about, Cecil?'
Cecil turned to face the CID director, swallowing his drink. 'The man
who hijacked my car. My God, Mabaku, if I'd taken it seriously, Dianna
might still be alive.' He walked to the drinks cupboard and refilled his
glass before he collapsed again behind the protection of his desk.
'Cecil, you've lost me completely.'
Cecil sighed. 'I'd better tell you the whole story. I've been a fool. Yet
again.'
Mabaku waited. The meeting had taken an unexpected turn, and he
was anything but happy about that.
'On Monday evening when I left work, a man was waiting out of sight
next to my car. As soon as I unlocked it, he jumped in. He had a gun. I
thought he was after money, and I had a few hundred pula with me. I was
terrified.' Mabaku was grinding his teeth. He wanted to ask questions, but
decided to let Cecil get through the whole story first.
'But that wasn't it at all. He thought I was somebody called Daniel. Or
rather, he knew who I really was, but thought Daniel was an alias. He
claimed that Daniel was behind a plot to murder Angus and that he had
come to collect his share of the money. I thought it all nonsense, that the
man was insane. Angus had been killed by a shark. There was no plot.
There was no Daniel. I told him he had the wrong man, that I wasn't
involved in any of this, and that I didn't know what he was talking about.
He became angry and hit me in the face. He demanded two hundred and
fifty thousand dollars. For God's sake! As if I have that sort of money to
dish out! He threatened to kill me. I told him that there was nothing I
could do about that. Then he said he'd kill Dianna unless I came up with
the money. I told him I would, if he'd let me go and not harm Dianna. He
took all the money I had, and he made me drop him at a minibus taxi rank
near the central bus station.'
'What happened after that?' Mabaku asked, deceptively calm.
'I never heard from him again.'
And you didn't report this to the police?'
'I was sure the man was mad! He just wanted to shake me down for
what cash I had. Why take this lunatic seriously?'
Mabaku fought to control his own temper and swallowed his mineral
water before he spoke again. Cecil refilled his Scotch and walked back to
the window. He always does that when he's lying to me, Mabaku thought.
He thinks I'll read it in his face.
'Cecil, an armed man gets into your car and threatens your life and
your niece's life. He takes your money. That's a very serious crime. It
doesn't matter a damn whether his story was true or not. Didn't you think
he might try the same trick again? How did he get into your parking lot?
We should have been after him ten minutes after you dropped him at the
taxi stand!'
Cecil hesitated. Then he said to the window, 'He threatened to kill me
if I went to the police. He said he had already proved how easy it was to
get to me. I'm not proud of it, but I suppose I was a coward. And dragging
all his nonsense up would hurt Pamela. I didn't think it was worth it. I
thought he was after a few hundred pula.' He turned to face Mabaku.
'Look, I may have been right. I don't know. But now I am worried. What
if he ran Dianna over? Murdered her? He might be a homicidal maniac. I
might be next.'
'Cecil, you lied to me about the letter. For no reason as far as we can
see. Now you expect me to believe that an armed man hijacks you at work,
and you shrug it off? It didn't occur to you that the man might come after
you again if you gave in to him? What are you not telling me? You always
hold something back. I'm warning you, this time you could find yourself
an accessory to a murder. Maybe two murders. Maybe more than two.'
Strangely, Cecil's taut shoulders relaxed, and his voice regained some of
its normal authority. 'I've told you the whole story, Mabaku. There was
some other stuff. I just agreed to everything the man said. I wanted to stay
alive. Now I feel I may be in serious danger. I expect you to do something
to protect me and to catch this maniac'
Mabaku sighed. 'We'll arrange a twenty-four-hour guard until we catch
him. Can you describe him?'
'He was wearing a hat and had a scarf wrapped around his face. But he
was a white man, heavy-set, with a tanned face. About a metre eighty tall,
I'd guess.'
'Did he have a beard?'
'Yes, as a matter of fact. Quite a bushy ginger beard. And he had an
accent. Could have been Spanish or Portuguese.'
Mabaku finally lost his temper. 'Cecil,' he shouted, 'the man who was
in your car is wanted for at least three murders! He almost certainly was
involved in the murders of your friend Kobedi and your geologist Aron. It
sounds as though he murdered Angus too. Very likely Dianna as well! But
you didn't think it important enough to inform the police that he was in
your car holding you at gunpoint! Do you detect a common thread in all
this, Cecil? Your enemies and family rivals end up dead. But Red Beard
tamely lets you go for bus fare! Forget the twenty-four-hour protection. I
think you'll be safest in a police cell.'
'Mabaku,' Cecil stammered, 'as God is my witness, I never saw or
spoke to this man before last Monday. I swear it. If he wasn't behind
Angus's murder himself - and he seemed to think that it was this Daniel
character - then I don't know who was. I had absolutely nothing to do
with it. Nothing. I swear that too. Yes, I was wrong not to go to the police,
but I was scared and shocked. I intended to contact you if I ever heard
from him again. I just wanted it all to go away. If you want to arrest me,
I'll come with you now. May I tell my solicitor what charge I'll be facing?'
'We could start with concealing evidence to defeat the ends of justice,
and accessory to the murder of Dianna Hofmeyr. More will come to mind
as we go along.' But then Mabaku sighed and slumped in his chair. "I'm
not arresting you, Cecil. I want you to go to Pamela Hofmeyr right now
and break the news to her. Then I want you to come down to the station
and make a full and complete statement of what happened, with nothing
left out or glossed over. Do you understand?' Cecil nodded. 'I'll leave that
job to Superintendent Bengu. I'm sure he will be happy to do it. And we'll
need to fingerprint your car.' He stopped at Cecil's headshake.
'He wore latex gloves, like a dentist.'
'Well prepared, your petty hoodlum, wasn't he?' Mabaku said
sarcastically. 'We'll also want the name of the guard who was on the gate
that day. I want to find out how Red Beard got into the parking lot.' He
didn't add that he wanted to check that when Cecil left, there actually had
been a man with him in the car. 'I'll wait for you outside. We'll drive to
the Grand Palm together. For the moment, I'm not letting you out of my
sight.'


PART TEN:
A Villain's Mind

'I like not fair terms and a villain's mind.'
Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice, Act I, Scene 3
APRIL 2006

CHAPTER 72

The bus sputtered and coughed and then roared unevenly into diesel life.
That it still ran at all was testimony to the skill of the bush mechanics who
did their work cut off from replacement parts by Zimbabwe's financial
crisis. The bus looked tired. It was tired. It was battered and bruised by
bad roads, altercations with other vehicles, overloading and over-age. Its
roof rack was piled high with tatty suitcases and boxes stuffed with goods
unavailable across the border ten kilometres away.
The bus kicked up gravel as it pulled out of the dirt parking lot at
Kasane, Botswana's most northerly town. A passenger who had been
chatting to friends scrambled on at the last minute to much laughter from
his comrades. The bus was nearly full on this homeward trip, but it was
always packed on the trip into Botswana, a differential that had not
escaped the attention of the Botswana authorities.
The passengers talked loudly, happy to be under way, not more than
half an hour behind schedule. Surrounded by packages and carrier bags,
some were digging something to eat out of these, sharing with their
neighbours. Four American backpackers were enjoying the local colour
and chatting with the friendly group around them.
Towards the back of the bus a white man sat alone, his folded denim
jacket firmly occupying the seat next to him. He wore a rumpled brown
T-shirt, which could have been cleaner, and dusty jeans. His arms were
heavy and darkly tanned, his face closed and unwelcoming. His stained
canvas holdall was stuffed into the luggage rack above his head.
Halfway to the border they came to an army roadblock. No one took
much notice. Such checkpoints were common around cities and near
national borders. The bus slowed, but a soldier casually carrying a submachine
gun over his shoulder waved them through. The bus driver called
out something cheerful in Setswana. The soldier just scowled and waved
them on in a more peremptory fashion. There was little love lost between

347

Michael Stanley

the Batswana of northern Botswana and the Ndebele of western
Zimbabwe. The driver shrugged and concentrated on getting the bus back
to its top speed. He started singing cheerfully to himself. His shift would
be over once he got the bus to Victoria Falls.
Two kilometres farther they pulled up at the border post of Kazungula.
It was midday, and hot. Animals and people crowded into whatever shade
could be found. The driver dug out the wad of papers he would need and
waited for his passengers to disembark. They all knew the drill. No
difficulty on the Botswana side, but customs on the Zimbabwe side could
be a problem. He hoped that in lieu of time-consuming searches and
customs levies, they would accept a share of the substantial and informal
cash fee that he charged passengers for bulky merchandise. The white man
at the back of the bus was one of the last to get off. He carefully jammed
his bag more tightly into the rack and put on his jacket. Then he followed
the others, adding himself to the group of American backpackers.
John Pule was the immigration officer who dealt with the American
group. They told him they loved Botswana. They had been to Chobe
National Park, to the Okavango Delta, and into the Kalahari. They would
love to come back and would tell all their friends. He nodded and smiled,
checked each face against the photograph in the passport, banged the
stamp on a blank page, and wished the youngsters a good time in
Zimbabwe. He checked his watch. It was nearly time for his lunch.
Fortunately, they had dealt with most of the bus passengers.
He looked up at the next person in the queue, another white man but
darkly tanned. Something about his face struck Pule as odd. The man
offered his passport and exit form. It was a travel-worn Angolan passport
in the name of Antonio de Vasconcelos. Pule glanced at the picture and
then flipped through the pages. There were stamps from Namibia and
Zambia as well as Botswana and Zimbabwe. The man's home address was
given in Luanda.
'Where have you been in Botswana?' he asked.
The man shrugged. 'Kasane,' he said.
Anywhere else?' The man had been in Botswana for over a month.
'Come from Luanda,' the man said, apparently not understanding the
question.
'What do you do?' Pule suspected the man of working without a work
permit.
'Holiday'
'What do you do for work?'
'Seaman. In Luanda. Work docks.'
Well, it was unlikely that he'd been doing that in Botswana. The closest
Botswana came to the sea was the Bushman painting of a whale in the
Tsodillo Hills. Pule's intuition told him that something was wrong, but it
was nearly lunchtime. Let Zimbabwe have the problem. He reached for
his rubber stamp, trying to find a blank page for the imprint. The passport
eluded his one-handed attempt and flipped to the front page. Pule looked
at the picture again, his stamp poised for action. Of course, that was it. In
the black-and-white passport photo Vasconcelos had a heavy beard; now
he was clean-shaven. That was what looked wrong about his face; his
cheeks and neck were much lighter than the rest of it. The beard had come
off very recently.
'Beard?' he asked the man casually, touching his own cheeks.
Vasconcelos laughed. 'Hot!' he said. He pretended to cut it off, with
two fingers of his right hand playing scissors. Pule wasn't amused. He had
noticed the ginger hair on the man's arm. The midday stubble looked
ginger too. The top of his head was smooth and brown - bald, not shaven.
He got up and directed the man towards a side door. 'This way, please.
Just a short routine check.'
Vasconcelos looked alarmed. 'Bus! Me on bus!' He pointed in the
direction of the parking lot.
'Don't worry. Bus will wait. Just five minutes.' Pule held up five fingers
to confirm this. Reluctantly the man followed him into the supervisor's
office.
Speaking quietly in Setswana, Pule told his supervisor about his
suspicions. And the police in Gaborone are looking for a heavy-set bald
man with a red beard from Angola. He fits the physical description too.'
'What would he be doing up here? It's two days' drive to Gaborone.'
Pule shrugged. 'He doesn't speak much English.'
'Go and get Rosa. Her family came from Angola. She speaks
Portuguese.'
Pule nodded and left to fetch her.
'Sit down,' the supervisor told Vasconcelos. He waved to the chair
when there was no response. Vasconcelos looked very agitated. 'Miss bus,'
he said loudly. 'Victoria Falls. Miss bus.' He approached the immigration
officer as he said this and suddenly pointed to the door and shouted, 'Bus!'
as if it was about to join them in the office. Despite himself, the officer
looked over his shoulder. And in that moment of inattention, Red Beard
hit him.

Having quickly retrieved his passport, Red Beard left the office and
walked casually out of Immigration as though his formalities were
complete. He cursed himself for leaving his vehicle in Kasane. He had
been sure he would have no trouble getting across the border on the bus
to Zimbabwe. Now he was in trouble. He had only a few minutes at best
before the immigration officer returned with Rosa. There was nowhere to
hide in this tiny town. Somehow he had to get back to Kasane.
He saw a small Toyota parked nearby. An elderly man was locking the
driver's door. He seemed to be alone. Red Beard walked quickly up to him
and pulled a knife from the inside pocket of his jacket.
'Give me keys! No one gets hurt.' The man hesitated. 'See that man
over there?' Red Beard nodded towards a man dressed as a cleaner who was
resting on a tree stump about twenty metres away. 'He works with me.
Give me keys, and you stay here quiet until he lets you go. Then you claim
on insurance and get nice new Toyota. Otherwise you need funeral
insurance.' He prodded the man's ample stomach with the knife. The
unfortunate man handed him the keys and started to back away. 'But what
about my luggage?' he asked plaintively. Red Beard laughed. He had
already started the car.
He did a U-turn and accelerated away. He didn't race but kept just
above the speed limit. He would be back in Kasane in fifteen minutes.
Once at his vehicle, he would have several options. He laughed again.
Wait until they started to interrogate that cleaner!
However, as he rounded the bend towards Kasane, he saw soldiers
spread out across the road. He had forgotten about the roadblock, but he
had no alternative now. It couldn't be more than five minutes since his
escape from the immigration officer. Almost certainly they were still
looking for him at Kazungula. He pulled up smoothly, rolled down the car
window, and smiled. 'Good afternoon,' he said. A couple of soldiers
lounged behind their officer. They all looked relaxed.
'Good afternoon, sir. Just a routine check. Please turn off your engine
and show us what is in your car boot. It will only take a minute.'
Red Beard turned off the engine and took out the keys. He might need
them to open the boot. He hoped that the elderly little man wasn't a
smuggler. As soon as he got out of the car, the sergeant stepped back, and
the two soldiers levelled their weapons at his chest. 'Put your hands on
your head and link the fingers together. If you move, my men will shoot
you at once. Do you understand?' Red Beard nodded as he obeyed. He
heard a two-way radio crackling in the background.

Kubu was feeling better. After a relaxed weekend, he was more
philosophical about the deaths of the Hofmeyr twins. Neither was his
fault; perhaps neither was avoidable. But he wanted resolution. Perhaps
even revenge. And Edison burst in offering both.
'They've got him! They've got Red Beard!'
Kubu sat up. 'Who's got him? Where is he?'
'He's in Kasane. In jail. Caught him trying to sneak out of Botswana
at Kazungula. He got a bus from Kasane going to Vic Falls. Hoped to slip
through as part of the crowd. One of the border guys remembered our
alert and pulled him aside and started questioning him. He didn't speak
any English, or at least pretended not to. He went berserk. Punched the
poor border guy. Knocked him cold. Then he made a run for it. Hijacked
a vehicle parked at the border and headed back towards Kasane. The
Immigration people radioed the police, and the army fortunately already
had a roadblock in place. They picked him up just outside Kasane.'
'It has to be the right guy,' Kubu said with elation. 'Nobody would run
like that unless he thought he was in serious trouble. Made it worse for
him too. We can throw the book at him just for the crimes he committed
making his escape.' He took a deep breath. 'It looks as though we have our
first real break!'
'They got his bag off the UTC bus too. It had a pistol hidden in it. We
shouldn't be quite so critical of the border guys in the future,' Edison said.
He displayed a wide array of perfect white teeth lighting up his dark face.
'I wouldn't go quite that far,' Kubu said, laughing. 'Edison, I'm off to
Kasane first thing tomorrow. I'll bring back the pistol in the evening. I
want it tested against the bullet in the big black guy's head as soon as
possible. I'll bet there's a match. I must say I'm looking forward to meeting
Mr Red Beard. He's got a lot to tell us.'

CHAPTER 73

Cecil spent the weekend locked in his house, petrified that Red Beard would
come after him. He would want his payoff - a lot of money. Money that
Cecil didn't have. Although he had little confidence that the two constables
Mabaku had positioned outside would stop Red Beard, he was thankful
they were there. They would at least make a break-in more difficult.
On Monday morning, Cecil had to get to work. He had an
appointment with Tweedledee and Tweedledum. He sent one of the
policemen to check the car and garage, and one of them accompanied him
in the passenger seat.
At his office, Cecil sat at his desk, physically and emotionally drained.
He asked his new assistant to bring him a big pot of coffee and drained
three cups, one after the other.
When the caffeine kicked in, he roused himself and began thinking
about the upcoming meeting with the government board members. He
wondered what Tweedledum and Tweedledee had in mind, and why the
urgency. Certainly it had to do with Dianna's death and the restructuring
of the company. The Trust could not be dissolved since it had been set up
by Roland. He assumed that Dianna's shares, which now included Angus's
as well, would go to Pamela. So Pamela now controlled the trust, and
through it the company.
He wondered whether he should approach her and offer to vote her
shares - then he could reinstate himself. After a moment, he dismissed
that possibility. He had never got on well with Pamela, and she wouldn't
change her opinion now.
Nama and Rabafana were formal, almost restrained. After they all
shook hands, Nama cleared his throat and said, 'Mr Hofmeyr - Cecil once
again, on behalf of the government, my wife and family, and myself,
I offer our greatest sympathy on your recent losses. Your family has
suffered more tragedy than anyone should be asked to endure.'
'Thank you, Nama,' Cecil murmured.
'Please accept my deepest sympathies too,' Rabafana added quietly.
'It has been a very difficult time, not only for me but also for BCMC,'
Cecil said. 'But the past is the past. Now we have to look to the future,
not only for the family but also for the company. We must make it
stronger and more profitable than ever before - for the benefit of all
Batswana.'
There was a moment's silence. Nama and Rabafana looked at each
other. Then Nama cleared his throat once again. 'Cecil, the government is
very grateful for all you have done - guiding the company since the
founder died, growing it to where it is now. We know that the changes the
board agreed to a few weeks ago must have been very difficult for you.'
Cecil's face revealed nothing of the growing excitement he felt. I'm
going to get it all back, he thought. He looked down demurely.
'In consultation with the minister, we now ask you to call a board
meeting as soon as possible so we can move the company forward.'
'I will call one for ten o'clock next Tuesday morning, a week from
tomorrow,' Cecil interjected, his voice strong with authority. 'That should
give everyone enough notice.' He looked at the two officials, who stared
impassively back. 'What would you like on the agenda?'
'We believe we should be proactive,' Rabafana answered for the two of
them. 'We should present a strongly supported set of proposals to the
minister for his approval. First, the issue of the ownership of Angus and
Dianna's shares in the Trust. We think control of the company should be
more equitably spread. Second, the appointment of Mr Nama and myself
to the executive of BCMC. I will be chairman, and Mr Nama will become
an executive director. You will, of course, stay on as CEO. We believe the
minister will support this if it has the board's unanimous endorsement.
Third, the disbanding of the subcommittee looking at issues of the
Bushmen. We need to indicate that BCMC has no intention of interfering
with the policies of the government.'
Cecil stared at Rabafana. 'Gentlemen, as we agreed last time, I support
your wish for greater involvement by the government and community in
the shareholding of BCMC. It will be at the top of the agenda. But a trust
has inalienable rights. The issue will need negotiation. Of course you can
count on my support. As for the issue of the Bushmen, I agree it should
be quietly dropped.'
Discarding the cloak of acquiescence, Cecil stood up to assert himself.
'With respect to the management structure of BCMC,' he said more
loudly, 'it would be best for the company, and hence the government and
the country, if I reverted to my previous role of chairman with executive
powers. The two of you should assume executive roles, but should work as
understudies to experienced personnel for a year or two so that you can
pick up the ropes. Running a company such as BCMC is very complex,
requiring a variety of technical and personal skills, not to mention
personal contacts. You are both very talented, and I can easily see you as
my successors in due course.'
Nama and Rabafana looked at each other uncomfortably. Rabafana
said, 'Cecil, I don't think you understand. This is not negotiable. We insist
on your support. You don't have any choice.'
Cecil felt a chill pass through his body. Despite his anxiety, he smiled
and said, 'Gentlemen, don't take this personally. You know how much I
admire you, but I have to put the health of BCMC first. Pamela Hofmeyr
would never agree to such a move. Believe me!'
This time Nama spoke. 'Cecil, listen to me. You do not have a choice.
Believe me"
Now Cecil's anger started to rise. 'Listen to me. I have been running
BCMC for nearly twenty years, very successfully, I may add. I know what
it takes. You just do not have the votes to get this through. You only
control ten per cent of the votes on the board. Pamela Hofmeyr and I now
have a majority, and we can pass whatever we want.'
Cecil stared at Tweedledum and Tweedledee. They stared back. After a
minute Rabafana opened his briefcase and pulled out a small packet, and
handed it to Cecil.
'Take a look at this videotape before the board meeting, Cecil. I have
the original. It was found in Kobedi's safe. I think you will find it quite
graphic. You certainly were much trimmer in those days, Cecil. And quite
adventurous too, it seems. I doubt if the board would keep you on in any
role if this found its way into the wrong hands. Take a look at the tape,
Cecil. Then I'm sure you will persuade Mrs Hofmeyr to vote her shares
with yours in support of what we have proposed. We are confident that a
man of your experience can do it.'
The two stood up in unison and walked out.

CHAPTER 74

Kubu's flight arrived at Kasane's new international airport just after noon
on Tuesday. Kubu remembered the old airport - airstrip was a better
description - next to the Chobe River. It was one of those dirt strips that
rich South African pilots like to reminisce about and locals detest. Often
elephants or buck grazing on the runway had to be shooed off by doing a
low pass over the field. One refuelled by using the plane's radio to call
Heather, who ran a transport clearing service and filling station. The fuel
arrived in drums on the back of a pickup and was hand-pumped into the
plane's fuel tanks. They would carefully strain the fuel to avoid dirt
blocking the lines and causing the engine to cut out. Engine failure was
not a pleasant prospect, particularly as the end of the runway was at the
edge of the crocodile-infested river.
The new airport was quite an improvement. Kasane International
Airport. What a grandiose name, Kubu thought. The terminal - also a
euphemism - could hold about fifty people if they didn't mind crowding.
It did have regular commercial service. However, private charters bringing
tourists to the area's magnificent game parks accounted for most of the air
traffic.
Kubu was met by Robert Dingalo, a detective whom he had known for
years. They greeted each other warmly and caught up with each other's
news during the short drive to the police station. It was more attractive
than he expected, with the street front lush with multicoloured
bougainvilleas. Two massive hundred-year-old baobabs had been spared
the axe, and the two-winged red-brick building had been positioned
between them. The baobabs were part of Botswana police history. Holes
that had been hollowed out in the trees had been used for many years as
prison cells - one tree for men, the other for women.
Upside-down trees, Kubu mused. That's what the Bushmen call them.
They looked as though some wanton giant had grabbed the massive trunk,
wrenched the unfortunate tree from the ground, and sunk the foliage back
into the earth, leaving the winter-bare roots grasping skyward.
The new station was large. Dingalo told Kubu they had nearly one
hundred offices and a staff to fill them. A major reason for the size was
Kasane's strategic location, close to the borders with Namibia, Zimbabwe
and Zambia - borders increasingly porous, as the Zimbabwean political
and economic crises deepened. More and more, the police were being
called on to help stem the flow of illegal immigrants, many of whom had
appalling stories to tell of brutality and starvation.
As they walked through an elegant tiled entrance, spotless and shiny
polished, Kubu nearly slipped. 'Watch your step!' Dingalo warned. 'The
cleaners here are very proud people!'
After greeting his former colleagues, Kubu sat down in Dingalo's office
to be briefed. A large pot of tea arrived with a plate of biscuits. Things
could be worse, he thought.
'I know you're eager to see your Mr Red Beard,' Dingalo said. 'But let
me tell you what we know already' Dingalo quickly recounted what
had happened. He mentioned that Red Beard was in possession of
two passports - an Angolan one in the name of Antonio de Vasconcelos,
and a Portuguese one in the name of Manuel Fonseca. The Angolan
one was well used, with several entries into Botswana. The Portuguese one
was almost new, with two entries into Lisbon several months earlier.
He also had a Portuguese driver's licence and about five hundred pula
and six thousand new kwanza, but nothing else of interest except for a
firearm.
'Where is it?' Kubu asked.
Dingalo unlocked a sturdy cupboard behind his desk and handed
Kubu a plastic bag. Kubu did not open the bag, but examined the heavy
gun in it. 'Beretta. Nine-millimetre, semi-automatic. I think it's called a
Mini Cougar because it's so small. Beretta makes lots of different models.'
He paused. 'One of our bodies was shot in the head with a nine
millimetre slug. I'd like to take this back for testing, if that's okay with
you?' Dingalo nodded his assent and locked the weapon back in the
cupboard.
'You can pick it up and sign for it when you leave,' Dingalo said. 'Let's
go and meet Red Beard.'
Kubu jumped up, eager to question the man who had caused so much
mayhem.
They walked to the rear of the building to an interrogation room. 'I
had him moved from the holding cell when we arrived,' Dingalo
explained. 'I have to warn you that he's not very cooperative.'
When they approached, two policemen who had been chatting outside
the room stood up and greeted them. Dingalo turned towards Kubu.
'Constable Mosime will join us inside. He speaks pretty good Portuguese
and may be of help. We've read the prisoner his rights in English and
Portuguese.'
Normally Kubu preferred to work without the presence of an armed
guard, but decided having a backup would be a good idea, especially one
who spoke Portuguese. It wouldn't bother Red Beard to add a detective to
his list of victims. Kubu nodded to the policeman to open the door.
Red Beard was a stocky bald man about six feet tall. He was shaven,
but red stubble was rapidly laying claim to his face. His mouth was small
and unfriendly, with thin lips. A small gold ring hung from his left ear.
The prisoner's hands were handcuffed and rested on the table in front
of him. Kubu glanced down. Red Beard's legs were strapped to the legs of
the chair.
Kubu and Dingalo sat down opposite Red Beard. Kubu stared into his
envy-green eyes. Red Beard stared back. Kubu knew he wouldn't win this
contest, and put his pad on the table. 'Mr Antonio de Vasconcelos, or is
it Mr Manuel Fonseca? I'm Assistant Superintendent Bengu from the
Botswana CID. I've been looking for you for some time. I'm delighted to
meet you under these circumstances.'
Kubu took a pen from his jacket pocket. He leant over, turned on the
tape recorder, and provided the necessary introductory information for
such an interview.
Kubu looked again into Red Beard's eyes. 'Please give me your full
names. Como se chama? he said, drawing on one of the few phrases he
knew in Portuguese. No reply. 'You know we will find out all we want to
know, given time, so there is no benefit to your silence. In fact, the less
you cooperate, the more determined I will get.'
Silence, with a hint of a sneer on the thin lips.
'For the purposes of this interview, I will call you Mr Fonseca, which
may or may not be your real name. More than likely it is not.'
Kubu shifted to get more comfortable on the small wooden chair.
'Fala Ingles?' He tried one of his remaining Portuguese phrases. Red
Beard made no indication that he understood. 'Fala Portuguese?' Again no
response - not the vaguest indication that Red Beard had even heard the
question.
'Mr Fonseca,' Kubu said. 'We can and will charge you with assaulting
a border official, assaulting the driver of the car you stole yesterday, and
hijacking his vehicle. Also various immigration violations, including
travelling on false documents and illegal entry into Botswana. I am sure
those will keep you in jail in Botswana for ten to twenty years. And that
is without the charge I really want to bring - murder. I am quite sure that
by this time tomorrow, I will have a match on the bullet that killed a
person whose nickname we believe to be Sculo. We think it came from the
Beretta you had with you yesterday. Then it's life inside. If you don't
cooperate, we may decide to push for the death penalty. To some extent,
your fate is in your own hands.'
Red Beard remained impassive, not even blinking. Kubu began to feel
the stirrings of anger.
'Mr Fonseca.' He raised his voice. 'Your silence is not helping your
case.' He stood up and leant towards Red Beard, his face but a few inches
away. 'Mr Fonseca, or whatever your names is, you really should
cooperate. It will be much easier for you.' Red Beard's response was
unexpected. He spat in Kubu's face. Kubu's anger burst into the open, and
he raised his fist.
'Easy, Kubu. Easy!' Dingalo jumped up and grabbed Kubu's arm.
'Don't do it. He wants you to hit him. He's playing you.' Kubu struggled
for a moment, then relaxed and sat down.
Kubu looked at Red Beard, who now had the hint of a smile on his
face. 'You can play games, Mr Fonseca. But I will win in the end. You will
wish you had cooperated with me.'
Kubu leant over the tape recorder. 'The time is eleven-thirty a.m..
Interview is over.' He turned the recorder off. 'Until next time.' He looked
once more at Red Beard and walked out of the room.

'Bastard! Bloody bastard!' Kubu said vehemently. He and Dingalo were
sitting in the canteen with cups of coffee steaming in front of them.
'Bastard!'
Dingalo said nothing, and both men sipped their coffee.

'What an animal!' Kubu continued to rant. 'He nearly got to me!'
'Nearly?' Dingalo said quietly and took another sip of his coffee. Kubu
didn't reply for a few moments.
'You're right, Dingalo. He did get to me. Spat right in my face, the
bastard! Hitting him would have been a huge mistake. Thank you.'
The two men drank their coffee in silence. After a few minutes Kubu
said 'Dingalo. I want Red Beard in Gaborone. I want to have an official
Angolan embassy translator with me when I interrogate him again. I want
to make sure the Angolans see that everything is above board. Would you
be willing to release him to us?'
'I'll have to talk to my boss about that,' Dingalo replied. 'But I don't
think keeping him here is going to move things forward. The paperwork
will take a couple of days. Do you want to work on what happened
yesterday as well?'
'No!' Kubu said. 'You're closest to all of that. I'd be happy if you could
prepare those cases. Let's keep in touch.'
'Of course,' Dingalo said. 'I'll call you when we are ready to ship Red
Beard off.' Kubu grunted - his mind already planning his next steps.
'I'll give the airport a call,' Dingalo continued. 'Let the pilot know you
are ready to leave.'
'Tell him we can leave at three,' Kubu said. 'I can't fly on an empty
stomach! Show me what eating establishments Kasane has to offer.'

CHAPTER 75

Red Beard's break came on Thursday morning at breakfast time. The wife
of one of his guards had severe cramps at breakfast, and her husband
thought she might be having a miscarriage. It was their first child, and
they were understandably anxious. He took her to the local hospital.
Meanwhile Dingalo was expecting an army plane from Gaborone. He
had sorted out the paperwork, and he wanted the two guards to take Red
Beard to meet the plane. When the duty sergeant told him one of them
was at the hospital because his wife seemed to be in labour, Dingalo lost
his temper.
'Why can't the men leave their wives to get on with these things?' he
said angrily. 'There's not much they can do, you know. They've done their
bit already'
The sergeant nodded and went on with his paperwork. He had seven
children.
'Well, we can't hang around. Is anyone else available right now?'
There wasn't. The sergeant took some time to explain why this was so.
'Oh, all right. They're already getting Fonseca - or whatever his name
is - up here. Mosime will have to go by himself. At least he only has a
pregnant girlfriend! He can take the van and drive the prisoner to the
airport.' But he felt uncomfortable. He would have preferred two men on
this job.
Ah, Mosime, there you are. I want you to take the prisoner out to the
airport. Park at the drop-off area and wait for the guys from Gaborone.
Don't leave the vehicle. I'll get them to come out to the car and take
delivery of our silent friend. Make sure they sign these forms, or we'll be
in big trouble from the boss.'
Mosime nodded proudly. He was very young, thrilled by the
responsibility. He saluted smartly. Dingalo winced and had second
thoughts. 'Perhaps we should wait for someone to go with you?' he asked.
The young man's face fell. He could not have been more wounded if the
sergeant had slapped him. Dingalo took a deep breath.
'No, it should be fine. Check out a firearm. Here's Fonseca now. Just
follow your orders,' he said. He would regret the decision for the rest of
his life.

Red Beard slumped in the passenger seat in shackles and handcuffs. The
fight seemed to have gone out of him. He said nothing until the constable
had turned the van out of the police station. Then he turned to the young
man and spoke to him in Portuguese.
'I won't talk to them. Not the fat cats. They're only after the money
anyway, you know. As though they don't get enough from turning their
backs on children being murdered for dipheko. That's what they want, just
the money. Sometimes the dipheko too. That's how they get to be big
wheels.' He shook his head sadly at the evil of the world. Then he went
on.
'I won't talk to them.' He shook his head again. 'Once they know
where the money is, I'll be dead meat.' He noticed the sideways look from
Mosime. 'They didn't tell you about the money, did they? Some bullshit
about me trying to escape from Gaborone? Why drive halfway across
Africa?' He sat glumly as they negotiated the traffic.
'I don't mind talking to you, though. Because we share a language,
don't we? A language they don't understand.' He pointed with his head to
the two-way radio. And I can tell you are okay. You would be fair with me.
I know I made a mistake.' He slumped again. The earnest young man said
nothing and concentrated on the driving.
'I'll tell you where the money is. How to get there. It's close. I can
show you.' Red Beard moved his hands, causing the chains to clatter and
jerk, emphasising his helplessness. 'You can be a hero, if that is what you
want. Get fast promotion. Go work in Gaborone and fetch sandwiches for
the fat superintendent.' The car had slowed down. The muscles in
Mosime's cheeks were tensed. He had yet to say a word. Red Beard looked
at him like a father. 'Or you could be rich,' he said quietly. 'Very, very
rich.'

The plane landed fifteen minutes late. The pilot radioed police
headquarters at Kasane and asked for instructions.
'Welcome!' said a friendly female voice. 'Constable Mosime will be
waiting for you at the drop-off zone at arrivals. He radioed in about
twenty minutes ago to say he was on his way'
'Will he bring the suspect to the plane?'
'No, he is on his own. Please send your constable to the police van, and
then both of them can take the prisoner through to the plane. I'll tell him
you are on your way'
But the dispatcher couldn't raise Constable Mosime, and no police van
waited at the airport. They found it about an hour later in a small clump
of trees outside the town. Constable Mosime was there too. He lay on his
back with a bullet hole in his head.

The Toyota Hilux four-by-four drove unhurriedly out of the Chobe
National Park exit gate at Ngoma. From there it headed south-west along
the rutted dirt road paralleling the Chobe River. It was early evening, and
the driver did not want to attract attention. His passenger seemed very
nervous, tugging his ear and shifting his feet. Periodically he looked back
to see if they were being followed.
Soon they arrived at the river. The passenger pointed to a smaller road,
a track that took off to the right. Half a kilometre farther, the passenger
pointed to some dense trees. The driver negotiated some low-hanging
branches and parked out of sight of anyone on the river or flying
overhead. The two jumped out. The driver pulled out a police-issue
revolver. He waved it at the passenger. But the man stood his ground. 'I
want the rest of my money now,' he said. Red Beard shook his head.
'When I'm safe across, you get money. Perhaps bonus. You don't trust. I
don't trust.' The man looked sullen but led the way.
The two pushed through bushes and reeds to the river's edge, where a mokoro lay hidden. It was a carefully seasoned hollowed-out log from a
sausage tree, which would slip silently through shallow water, propelled by
a poler standing at the back. Local tribes had used mokoros for transport
in the area for centuries.
The passenger pulled it on to the water and motioned to Red Beard to
get aboard and in front. Red Beard complied, handgun still at the ready.
The other man pushed the mokoro out into the water, jumping on at the
last minute, pole in hand. He was grateful the river was still low; when
the floods came, the area would resemble a lake.
A three-metre crocodile watched, just his nostrils showing above the
water. This was his patch of water, and he resented intruders. He wasn't
very hungry; fish were plentiful. But alone among the African predators,
crocodiles regard man not only with fear, but also as food.
Red Beard scratched his developing red stubble, anxious to get into
Namibia on the other side of the river. From there it would be a two-hour
hike back to the Linyanti road. There should be a vehicle waiting for him
there. It was a hundred kilometres across the Caprivi Strip, a tongue of
Namibia licking Angola and Zambia, resting on Botswana, and with its
tip touching Zimbabwe. The plane should be at Katima. That is, if they
had managed to get out of Vic Falls in time, and if they hadn't given him
up as a bad job. He wouldn't blame them if they had. But he'd still hunt
them down. It would be a matter of pride.
The young black man expertly poled the mokoro around some
sandbanks and rocks. He remained very nervous. The tricky part would
come when they crossed the deeper water. But he judged it expertly and
manoeuvred past the sandbank and across into the shallows on the
Namibian side. Soon he had them into a backwater where they could pull
the boat ashore.
The boatman was keen to get back while there was still some light.
'You here now,' he said. 'Give me my pay'
'Yes,' said Red Beard. And the bonus I promised you.'
The shot disturbed the roosting water birds, which took to the air with
a flurry of indignant calls and screeches. The croc sank deeper in the water
and waited. Then he swam over to the far bank to investigate the splashing
of something big and injured in the water.

CHAPTER 76

The service was disappointing, somehow bland given the extent of the
tragedy. The minister had clearly never met the Hofmeyr twins, and his
comments, prompted by notes he found hard to read, were impersonal
and generic. Kubu was glad when it was over.
After the service, the congregation gathered in the old graveyard in the
middle of town, not far from the BCMC headquarters. Kubu and
Mabaku drove from the church and followed the other mourners towards
the open graves. Kubu caught sight of Bongani and waved, but the
ecologist was soon lost in the crowd.
'The whole of BCMC seems to be here,' he said to the director.
Mabaku nodded. 'They are probably scared of the future. Where does
the company go from here? Does Cecil take over again? What of the will
and the Trust? No one would want not to be seen here.'
People come to funerals for different reasons, Kubu thought. The staff
for solidarity, friends to support the family, the family for closure, and the
police to watch the mourners for clues. Many come for the food! No one
comes for the deceased. They are already in other hands. Why had
Bongani come? Well, he had found Angus's body. Perhaps he also came for
closure. Kubu, too, wanted to say farewell to his friend. He had accepted
that there was nothing he could have done to save Angus. It had always
been too late for that. He was glad that guilt was behind him. But Red
Beard still eluded him - now with six murders to his name, they believed.
And who, in the end, was Daniel? A code name for Red Beard? Kubu
didn't think so. A code name for Cecil? That seemed unlikely too. Would
Dianna have been talking in riddles as she lay dying in the ambulance?
'Don't worry, Angus,' Kubu said softly. 'We'll get them, Daniel and
Red Beard, whoever they really are.' Mabaku glanced at him sideways but
said nothing. Daniel meant nothing to him; he believed that Red Beard
was the kingpin, and that Red Beard had long since slipped through their
thinly stretched net. Botswana had over four thousand kilometres of
borders. They had only caught Red Beard the first time by sheer luck.
Now they had to rely on the unenthusiastic cooperation of the Angolan
police.
The graveside services were short, one for each of the twins, who had
entered the world together and now entered the earth together. The
policemen couldn't see what was happening - they were too far back - and
only heard the words because there was a public address system. After that,
most of the mourners offered a handful of the sandy soil of Botswana to
the graves, and then started to drift away. Kubu and Mabaku were among
the last. Once they had sprinkled their soil on the already hidden coffins,
they expressed their condolences to the family.
'Thank you for coming today, gentlemen,' Pamela Hofmeyr said. Are
you making any progress with this matter?' Mabaku assured her that they
were doing everything in their power.
At least you don't think he drowned swimming in the sea, as the South
African police did. Idiots. Be sure to let me know if there is anything I can
do to help.' She glanced across at the open graves. 'This is the end of the
Hofmeyr clan, you know. All my children lie here now, and my husband.
All died unresolved violent deaths. Roland wanted us all to be buried here.
But I won't be joining them. I doubt I'll ever come back to Botswana.' She
gave her brother-in-law a spare look. 'Of course, Cecil may want a spot
here when the time comes. He's always wanted to match Roland.' There
was an uncomfortable pause. Cecil broke it by stiffly inviting the two
policemen to the Gaborone Sun for refreshments. Both accepted, and
Cecil walked off without another word, the warmth in his relationship
with Mabaku a thing of the past. Pamela was already talking to another
couple, and Kubu and Mabaku moved out of the way.
'Well, I'll see you at the Sun, then,' Mabaku said. They had come in
separate cars. Kubu nodded, but had no intention of actually going to the
wake. He wanted to be alone at the grave after everyone had left. But as
Mabaku walked off, another man approached. It was Bongani.
'It's strange, Kubu. To be next to his body again. It's more dignified
here, but somehow so public' Kubu understood. They waited together in
silence until the gravediggers had filled in both graves and built a mound
over each. Then Bongani said, 'The witchdoctor was here too, you know.'
Kubu had certainly not known, and looked at his young friend sharply.
But Bongani seemed calm, even peaceful.
'He was dressed in his suit again. Looked as corporate as the rest of
them! I bet they all wondered which division he was in charge of!' He
smiled.
'He spoke to me, though. He said it was all right now. I didn't
understand, but he said the three were separate again - the drongo, the
hawk and the eagle - even though they were here together. He said he
didn't see them any more. I think I misunderstood all along. I thought it
was all aimed at me. But I was just the canvas on which his visions were
painted.'
'Do you think this is the end of your witchdoctor visits, then?'
Bongani nodded. 'I know it is. He wished me well and said goodbye
when we parted. He never did that before.'
Are you going to the Sun?'
'No, I don't know any of those people, and they don't know me.'
r
'Neither am I. Anyway, let's meet next in better surroundings. Why
don't you come over to my house for supper a week from Saturday? About
sevem
'I'd like that, Thank you.' For no particular reason, they shook hands
formally. Bongani walked off, leaving Kubu alone. For a while he looked
at the two as-yet-unmarked graves, wondering which one was which, and
how it had all got so confused. He turned away, glanced at the next grave,
and then realised that Dianna and Angus had been buried next to their
father. There was one smaller grave between. Casually he read the
headstones. Then he read them again with more attention:

Here lies Roland Anthony Hofmeyr, beloved husband of Pamela,
and deeply mourned father of Angus, Dianna and Daniel
1939-1990

The headstone of the smaller grave read simply:

Daniel Henry Hofmeyr, beloved son of Roland and Pamela,
and brother of Angus and Dianna
1980-1989

CHAPTER 77

Kubu was shown into Pamela Hofmeyr's suite at the Grand Palm. She was
drinking tea, sitting on the couch in the lounge area looking out over
Kgale Hill.
'Sit down, Superintendent. Would you like some tea?'
'That would be very nice. Thank you, Mrs Hofmeyr. Milk and two
sugars.'
She poured the tea and passed him the cup and sugar bowl.

'Now, how can I help you?'
'Mrs Hofmeyr, I'm trying to understand the relationship between
Angus and Dianna. I don't know how much you've been told, but Dianna
must have been aware that something had happened to Angus, and she
lied to cover it up. He was never at the house in Plettenberg Bay'
'Superintendent, I've had a long talk to your superior, Director
Mabaku, and I accept that Dianna not only knew about Angus's death but
in fact was involved in some way' She sighed. 'I'm not going to pretend I
understand that. Not all was well in our family, Superintendent Bengu,
but few families are perfect. My husband doted on Angus. I suppose we
both did, and perhaps Dianna felt neglected and was jealous. Dianna was
the smarter of the two, but Roland didn't care about that. He was always
grooming Angus to take over the company. After Roland died, Angus
naturally became the head of the family. He felt Dianna was his special
responsibility. They were twins, you know. Sometimes they were so close
they seemed to be thinking the same things. One would start a sentence,
and the other would finish it. Other times they couldn't stand each other.'
She took a sip of her tea. Kubu said nothing, hoping that she would
follow her thoughts.
'Perhaps I left them too much together. Too much alone after their
father died, and we left Botswana. I had my own life to rebuild in
London.' She paused.
'They had a big row about a year ago. Dianna had finally found a man
she liked. He was quite unsuitable. An American gold-digger. But she
couldn't see that. So Angus made sure it broke up - never mind the details.
Dianna reacted violently, screaming, hitting out at nothing, talking to
people who weren't there. I think she had what people call a nervous
breakdown, although I don't know what that means, really. We wanted her
to see a psychiatrist, but she wouldn't hear of it. She would phone Angus
in the middle of the night, horrible, hate-filled calls. Eventually he had to
change his phone number. After that she didn't speak to either of us for
months. When we did see her, she still wasn't well, though I think she'd
come to accept that Angus was right about the man. But I don't think she
ever forgave him. Then she came out to Botswana to hunt and visit Cecil.
She seemed better after that. She was keen to get involved with running
the company. I think Cecil encouraged it.'
Are you comfortable with Cecil's role in all of this?'
'Cecil? I don't trust him, and I don't like him. But he hasn't the guts for
murder. Do you know that there was a rumour that he had sabotaged
Roland's plane? It was laughable. I knew it was nonsense. Dear pretty-boy
Cecil? Oh no.'
Kubu turned to another issue that had puzzled him. 'I remember
Angus having a number of injuries from his sports, but not a broken limb.
Did you know that he'd broken both his arms?'
Pamela laughed. 'Oh yes, that's easy. He had a pet genet at the estate
when he was about twelve. He thought it was stuck up a tree. I told him
it would come down when it was ready, but he insisted on climbing up to
rescue it. He fell and broke both arms. The genet just scampered down
when he fell.'
Kubu nodded. Angus had never told him this story. He was never keen
to relate experiences where he came out looking the fool.
He turned to what might be the most sensitive issue. 'Mrs Hofmeyr, I
know this must be very painful for you, but I really appreciate your
frankness. Would you tell me about Dianna's relationship with your other
son?'
'Well, there's not much to tell. He died when he was nine. A leopard
attacked him on the estate. That is when I told Roland I was going to leave
with the children, whether he came with us or not. Dianna was very upset
after Daniel died. Actually, I took her to see someone to help her get over
it. For a while she was really depressed, but then suddenly her personality
seemed to change. She only wanted to do boy things. She talked her father
into getting her a rifle, and Angus taught her to shoot. She was always a
Tomboy, always trying to compete with her brother, I suppose, but she had
never shown any interest in killing things before. It was the boys who were
keen on hunting. Roland used to take them, to make men of them, he
said. But Angus said that Dianna was quite a good shot. When she was
older she shot a leopard and said it was the one that killed Daniel. She said
she recognised its markings. She was very pleased about that.'
Something about this story struck Kubu, but he couldn't put his finger
on exactly what it was. Dianna had said it was 'Daniel's fault'. But what
was his fault, and why did she think that?
'Mrs Hofmeyr, on the way to the hospital, Dianna repeated the phrase
"It was Daniel's fault" several times. Do you know what she may have
meant?'
'I've no idea,' Pamela replied. 'Perhaps it was a fleeting memory from
long ago.'
'Do you remember the name of the person you took Dianna to see?'
Kubu asked.
'It was a psychologist here in Gaborone. I can't remember her name. A
recommendation from one of Roland's friends at the university. I suppose
you could trace her if it's important.'
Kubu nodded. He wondered if the doctor still practised. He would
find out.
There was one more question he needed to ask. 'Mrs Hofmeyr, did you
receive any calls supposedly from Angus during March?'
'Of course, I thought about that too. I had three calls from him. I can't
remember them word for word, but it never occurred to me that it wasn't
Angus, that in fact . . .' Suddenly her control broke. Biting her lower lip,
she turned away from the policeman, hiding the tears. 'She must have
been so unhappy,' she said.
Kubu got up. 'I don't need to worry you any longer, Mrs Hofmeyr. I'm
very grateful for the opportunity to see you, and you've been very generous
with your time. Don't worry, I'll see myself out.'
And what have I to show for it? he asked himself as he left. Just a
strange story and an odd feeling about it. Kubu climbed into his vehicle,
but he made no move to drive off. What was Daniel's fault? he asked
himself yet again. There was one person left who might still be able to
provide an insight into the strange Hofmeyr childhoods.

CHAPTER 78

On Monday Kubu was able to satisfy his curiosity. He went to the
Hofmeyr estate where Roland and Pamela had lived. Cecil now used it
only as an occasional weekend retreat, preferring his comfortable property
in town. Kubu wanted to see Young Tau.
Kubu had not expected a warm welcome at the Hofmeyr estate and did
not receive one. The maid who answered the call from the gate insisted
that Mr Hofmeyr was not available, and that he should come back some
other time. Eventually he managed to get her to call Cecil's housekeeper
and explained that actually he wanted to see Young Tau. She was no
friendlier, but agreed to let him in.
The maid met him at the front entrance, told him where to park, and
without another word took him around the main building to a separate
suite of servants' quarters at the back. An old man was sitting on a plastic
garden chair, eating his lunch at a table covered with newspaper in the
shade of an umbrella thorn tree. The maid pointed to him and left.
Kubu walked up to the man and extended his right hand, touching his
right arm with his left hand as a sign of respect, and said in Setswana, 'Rra
Tau? I am Superintendent David Bengu of the police CID.'
Tau looked up. Two pots steamed in front of him, one of maize meal
and the other of a gravy-like stew. He had spooned some of the stew into
a soup bowl and was rolling balls of the meal with his fingers to mop it
up. He smiled, revealing strong gums but no remaining teeth. He was
carefully shaven, and his head was covered with curly stubble now white.
He wore an ironed white shirt, already spotted from the stew.
'I am Young Tau,' he said. 'You are Kubu. I remember you.' And
indeed they had met once, a long time ago. Kubu had spent one weekend
with Angus at the estate when they were at school together. While
everyone had been polite, the Hofmeyrs didn't seem to know quite what
to make of Angus's older black friend, and Kubu had felt uncomfortable.
The weekend had not been a great success, and he had not come again.
But he did remember the gardener, who had a lot of time for the two boys,
told them stories of the bush and of the past, and seemed to know
everything about plants. Everyone called him Young Tau. His father, Old
Tau, had been the chief gardener before him and was long dead. Young
Tau himself was already elderly then, although no one knew his actual age.
Now he must be ancient. Kubu had hardly expected to be remembered
from that one visit.
'Sit down. Do you want some pappa le namaV
Kubu had grown up on food like this and accepted with enthusiasm.
He pulled up another plastic chair and rolled up his sleeves while Young
Tau called for another plate and spoon, soon brought disapprovingly by
the same maid. For a while they ate in silence. Then Kubu asked after Tau's
family. It seemed that they were all well, but the litany of extended
relations took some time.
Then it was Kubu's turn to run through his family's health. Tau was
very disapproving of the fact that he and Joy had no son as yet, and
pointed out that this would be a great sorrow to Kubu's parents. He
himself had six sons. Kubu inclined his head, accepting this rebuke. He
decided to change the subject before Tau started to recommend
witchdoctor potions.
'Young Tau, I want to ask you something about Miss Dianna,' he said.
The old man nodded and waited. 'Do you remember when she was
young? She used to like to spend time with you and learn from you about
plants and birds and animals?' Young Tau nodded again with the nostalgic
smile of an old man remembering.
'She learnt well. She listened carefully. Not only to me. She used to
listen to the birds calling. I'd tell her how the thekwane called, flying to its
big messy nest in the dead tree in the cattle dam, and she'd say: "No,
Young Tau, it's not quite like that, it's more like this," and she'd do the call
better than me. She did it too well.' He shook his head. 'It's the bird that
tells of Death.'
He shook his head again, and then continued. 'She could call some of
the birds to come to her. The little owl was easy. Prrrp, prrrp, prrrp. Prrrp,
prrrp, prrrp. Prrrp, prrrp, prrrp. She'd call at night for a few minutes, and
he would come - sometimes two. They would sit on the branches and
listen. She could call horses too. And once when she was on a camping trip
she tried to call lions at night. I was quite scared they would come, because
it sounded so real. But perhaps it wasn't loud enough or not quite right. I
don't know.' He remembered how glad he had been that a guard with a
gun accompanied them.
'Did she imitate people also?'
'Sometimes for a joke. She could do me very well.' Young Tau gave a
toothless laugh. 'Specially me scolding her for something.' He grinned. It
was obvious he had been fond of the girl.
'What about her brothers? Could she imitate them?'
Tau shrugged. 'Perhaps for a joke,' he repeated. 'She didn't like Master
Daniel, though. Their mother spoilt him. He was often rude to me. Once
he called me bad names and told Miss Dianna that they were rich, so she
was stupid to learn about birds and plants.' He paused, lost in the past.
'He would get her into trouble if he could. She could do his voice very
well. He didn't like that. Sometimes they were very bad enemies for a
while, but children get over these things. But after the leopard got Master
Daniel, she changed a bit. She didn't copy people after that. And she didn't
laugh so much. Sometimes she would get angry for no reason, and her
voice became hard and harsh. There was a darkness there.' He shook his
head with the sadness of it.
'Did she ever talk to you about what happened with the leopard?'
'She told me what happened.' He nodded. And when she was older,
she killed the leopard herself,' he added with pride.
'Did she ever pretend to be Master Angus?'
Young Tau just shrugged.
Kubu was pleased he had come. Dianna had clearly been an
accomplished mimic. Perhaps she herself had been Angus's voice after he
was dead - perhaps even for some time before. Also he was glad to have
seen Young Tau again. He imagined there was a lot more interesting stuff
in Tau's head, but he didn't know the right questions to get it out.
'He itumetse, Rra Tau,' he thanked his host formally. 'Thank you also
for the lunch and your wisdom. Perhaps I may come again to see you?'

But Tau had a question of his own. Are you going to catch them?
These evil people who killed Master Angus and Miss Dianna?'
Kubu nodded. 'First I have to find out who they really are,' he said.


CHAPTER 79

This is becoming a bad habit, Kubu thought as he once again headed for
the Wimpy at Game City. It was only six-thirty a.m. when he arrived.
Once again he ordered the steak-and-egg breakfast and settled down with
the Daily News. By coincidence, today's headline also announced a BCMC
board meeting. Last time, the newspaper had reported Dianna's
ascendancy to head of BCMC. This time the headline was very different:
'Shake-up At BCMC'.
Kubu read on with great interest.

Meeting yesterday morning, the board of BCMC brought about
major and unexpected changes to the executive of the company.
The board confirmed its previous decision to make Mr Cecil
Hofmeyr CEO of the company - a step down from his previous
position of chairman, which had included the function of CEO.
The position of chairman, recently made vacant by the untimely
death of Dianna Hofmeyr, who had held the position for only a few
days, was filled by longtime government-appointed board member
Mr Peter Rabafana. The other government-appointed board
member, Mr Robert Nama, was appointed as an executive director.
Sources who wish to remain nameless told the Daily News that
surprisingly little discussion preceded the new appointments. Local
analysts had expected Cecil Hofmeyr to pull together enough
family votes to vote himself back in as chairman and CEO.

Kubu shook his head. 'What's going on?' he said to himself out loud,
catching the attention of two young patrons at the next table. They were
not sure whether the question had been addressed to them. They decided
to remain quiet and see whether it was repeated. Kubu shook his head and
again asked out loud, 'What on earth is going on?' The two youngsters,
who were the only people within earshot, looked at each other, picked up
their trays, and moved to the far end of the restaurant.
Kubu speculated on what had happened. Cecil must have been caught
on one of Kobedi's tapes, and senior government members were using this
to control him. He wondered whether Mabaku had seen the tape, and if
so, what he had done with it. Good riddance, thought Kubu. Cecil's
history was one of sleaze and tugging at the edges of what was ethical. He
may have made BCMC very successful, but there was always an angle that
benefited him. Kobedi was obviously a benefit that Cecil thought he could
keep under wraps. But he had underestimated Kobedi - and the ambition
of some government officials.
As he wondered about BCMC and its politics, his eye caught another
front-page headline: 'Spate of Civil Service Resignations'. Kubu's eyebrows
arched.

In an unexpected development yesterday afternoon, three more
senior civil servants resigned from their positions. This adds to the
resignations announced yesterday. Reasons for the resignations
include early retirement and a wish to pursue other interests. One
of the people retiring, Mr Thapelo Sengwane, has decided to
emigrate to the UK. A spokeswoman for the Ministry for
Presidential and Public Administration described the five almost
simultaneous departures as 'coincidence'.

The article went on to discuss the careers of the gentlemen concerned,
but there was no real clue as to their motivations.
Kubu shook his head yet again. More chums of Kobedi's, I bet, he said
to himself. I wonder what other heads are going to roll?

Shortly after Kubu got to the office, Mabaku summoned him. They talked
about the cases for about half an hour. Kubu told Mabaku who Daniel
really was, and what Young Tau had told him about Dianna's ability as a
mimic. And that the web of forensic evidence was tightening. The bullet
from Sculo matched the gun taken from Red Beard at Kazungula; mobile
phone traces linked Dianna to Ferraz and both to Red Beard; and it was
Red Beard's thumbprint on the petrol slip Kubu found at Kamissa.
Zanele had confirmed that Angus had been murdered at the
farmhouse. The unknown fingerprints in the upstairs prison and on the
coin belonged to him. Kubu paused, imagining his friend's desperate and
ultimately unsuccessful efforts to escape. As yet there was nothing
concrete linking Ferraz and Red Beard to Axon's death, but Kubu had no
doubt there would be once they found the body. Red Beard was at the
centre of the web. But he was still at large. The world's police forces had
been alerted, but nothing had turned up. They could only wait.
Mabaku seemed distracted, his mind elsewhere. To Kubu's surprise, he
called Miriam and ordered coffee and biscuits for both of them. After the
coffee had been poured and a few biscuits savoured, Mabaku asked, 'Have
you seen this morning's paper?'
Kubu nodded and remained quiet, waiting for Mabaku to take the
lead.
'I am sure that you realise that the two lead stories are related?' There
was a hint of a question in Mabaku's statement. Kubu nodded.
Mabaku continued, 'You know how worried I was about the potential
for misuse of Kobedi's tapes. As I am sure you surmised, one of the tapes
had Cecil as co-star. Somehow that was connected with the result of the
board meeting. I wonder how he survived at all. And I'm sure you figured
out that the current spate of resignations is also related to the tapes.
Kobedi must have been a very persuasive character.'
'He was disgusting,' Kubu responded. 'He thought he had enough on
everyone to keep them all quiet, not to mention guarantee a steady
income. His is the one murder I don't hold against Red Beard! Kobedi was
well organised; I have to give him that. To have all those tapes made in
secret without anyone ever knowing. What a racket.' He continued in his
most innocent voice: 'What happened to the tapes in the end?'
Mabaku stared icily at Kubu, 'This goes no further than this room,
understand?' Kubu nodded. 'I'd looked at several of the tapes to see who
was implicated. There were two or three with really high-profile people,
including the one starring Cecil. I decided to take the lot to the
commissioner. He's honest, and I trusted him to do the right thing. He
was very shocked and told me to leave the tapes with him and to erase any
copies. There were a variety of other senior people in the private and
public sectors involved. I think we'll be seeing more departures pretty
soon.
'The commissioner told me yesterday he had destroyed all of the tapes,
in the national interest. Do you think I should believe him?'
Kubu decided this was a question he shouldn't answer. Suddenly
Mabaku stood up and went to the window overlooking the Kgale Hill.
'You and I, Kubu, will bide our time on this. I mean to keep my word
about everyone adhering to the same standards. Keep your eyes and ears
open. We will have to be patient, but I think we will prevail.'

CHAPTER 80



Business parties are a mixed bag for most people, but not for Ilia. For the
fox terrier, they were wonderful. She could greet a stream of unknown
people at the gate, barking loudly to show who was in charge. Then for
the duration of the evening, she could pester them until they made a fuss
of her and slipped her tasty morsels. What could be better?
Pleasant was the first to arrive, about an hour before the appointed
time of seven o'clock. Ilia met her at the gate with raucous delight. It was
all that Pleasant could do to keep her from jumping into her arms. She
fended Ilia off with a chilled bottle of South African sauvignon blanc from
the Steenberg vineyard, something that the manager at the bottle store
had recommended. She had also bought two bags of ice, which Kubu had
forgotten.
Pleasant was a little nervous because she knew the nice young lecturer
from the university was also going to be there - the one Joy and Kubu had
told her about on a few occasions.
'Just be yourself,' Joy had admonished her. 'Don't be nervous. Get to
know him. Ask him a lot of questions. Pretend to be interested.'
Pleasant had to laugh at Joy's efforts to find her a man. Joy must think
that she sat alone at home every night. In reality, Pleasant dated frequently
and knew a number of delightful young men. She just hadn't yet met one
that she wanted to marry.
Much to Joy's delight, Bongani arrived next. When he walked into the
house, he looked a little nervous, but it was unclear whether this was from
running the gauntlet of Ilia's vociferous welcome or from the daunting
reality that he was early and so had no crowd to use as cover. He too
brought a bottle of wine. He had seen Chateau Libertas before and had
tried it once. He quite liked it, and it was within his budget. He thought
a French wine would be an unusual gift. He didn't know that, despite its
name, it was merely one of South Africa's less expensive offerings.
Joy welcomed Bongani at the door and introduced him to Pleasant,
whose first impression was positive. Good height, lean body, and an attractive
face. She did not have much more to feed her first impression, because
Bongani mumbled something and clamped his mouth firmly shut.
'Can I get you a drink?' she asked him. He nodded. 'Give me a hint as
to what you would like,' she teased. 'Scotch, water, wine, soft drink?' He
stood without answering. She waited for a few seconds, then said, All
right, then, if you can't make up your mind, it will have to be a surprise.'
She turned and walked into the kitchen. Bongani felt his face flush as he
heard Joy and Pleasant burst into laughter.
A few minutes later, Pleasant walked back, carrying a glass of white
wine. 'I hope you like it,' she said. 'It's a South African sauvignon blanc comes
highly recommended.' He took the glass and stammered his
thanks. He was relieved to see Kubu approaching. Pleasant was about to
ask him a question when the next guests, Director Mabaku and his wife,
Marie, arrived to a prolonged yapping from Ilia.
'Good evening, Joy, Kubu. Good evening, everyone.' Kubu shook
hands and offered drinks.
'I would like a small glass of white wine, please,' Marie said.
Kubu turned to Mabaku. 'Mr Director. What will you have? I have
some nice whisky, if you like.'
'No thank you, Kubu. I'll try one of your famous wine offerings. How
about a nice red with some soda water?'
'You want the soda in the wine?' Kubu was barely able to ask the
question.
'Of course!' Mabaku said.
Kubu managed not to shake his head as he walked to the kitchen.
There's no way I'm going to put soda into my wine, he said to himself.
Not even into the Chateau Libertas.
A few minutes later he handed Marie her white wine and Mabaku a
glass of red wine and a glass of soda water.
'I put the soda separately,' Kubu said. 'I wasn't sure how much you
wanted.'
Mabaku took the two glasses with an abrupt 'Thank you.' Immediately
he poured the soda into the wine, the mixture back into the soda glass,
and then back again, leaving him with two glasses of bubbling rose
coloured liquid.
He turned to Kubu, glared, and said, 'Spritzer! Wine spritzer! You've
heard of them, haven't you?' Kubu didn't know what to say, so he nodded
and retreated to talk to Bongani, who was still looking lost. Mabaku tried
without success to suppress a smile.
A few minutes later, Ilia raced out of the house, skidded on the veranda
and returned with Ian MacGregor. He was alone, a confirmed bachelor,
although a woman or two had tried to change that. Kubu introduced him
to the people he didn't know.
'My, my,' murmured Ian to Kubu. 'The only glass of milk on a tray of
hot chocolate!' Kubu burst out laughing. He took Ian by the arm and led
him into the kitchen to choose his Scotch.

Bongani wasn't going to initiate conversation with anyone, least of all
Pleasant - a vivacious young woman who took delight in teasing him. He
was experiencing the familiar turmoil that surfaced at such parties. He
wanted to be liked and be part of the group, but had no confidence in his
ability to fit in successfully. He couldn't understand how mature adults
could talk such trite nonsense for hours on end. He was sure he couldn't
last more than a few minutes of such frivolous exchanges. He would run
out of things to say. He wished he could sit down one-on-one with
someone and talk about something interesting, something serious, such as
global warming or deforestation.
On the other hand, Pleasant quite enjoyed Bongani's discomfort and
found herself charmed by it. Most men she knew were flip with their
praise and compliments, but she rarely felt that they meant what they said.
A compliment from Bongani, however, would be meaningful. Actually, a
word - any word - from Bongani would be meaningful. With Joy's notso-discreet
urging, Pleasant set herself the goal of making Bongani laugh
once during the evening.

After pouring his Scotch, Ian walked over to Bongani, who was standing
against the wall, eating olives with his fingers.
'Mind if I join you, laddie?' he asked. 'I think we're the odd ones out
here. We should stick together. I'm Ian. I cut up all the dead bodies the
police bring me and try to work out how they died.'
Bongani pointed to his mouth to indicate he couldn't respond right
away. 'Pleased to meet you,' he replied when he had swallowed. Ian
seemed interested, so Bongani told him about his ecological research and
satellite work.
Ian shook his head in admiration. 'I'm pleased someone understands
all that stuff. I certainly don't.'
'It's not that hard,' Bongani said. 'It just takes some time and effort.'
Ian was pleased to see Bongani relaxing. 'Kubu told me something of
your experiences with a witchdoctor. I'd be very interested to hear about
them. We Scots are very superstitious lot and have a long history with the
occult and witches and the like. We were a very tolerant lot until Mary,
Queen of Scots, and her son, James, started burning them at the stake, for
all the wrong reasons. It has always interested me how much influence
witchdoctors have in Africa, even amongst people with a Western outlook
and often a Western education. What actually happened to you?'
'I found myself getting caught up emotionally in all the illusions. I got
really scared of how much influence he had over me. My rational mind
kept telling me that the man was a fraud, but it seemed quite different,
and very real at the time.'
Bongani paused and continued with greater energy. 'I can rationalise
most of it, and the effect on me. But how did he know so much about
what was going on, the stolen identity, the murders, the frozen arm,
Dianna's mimicry? Witchdoctors are masters at using words and phrases
that seem clear, but actually lend themselves to each person's own
interpretation. But this was the other way around. The words were
opaque; the meaning only became clear in retrospect.'
Bongani paused, taken back by his own soliloquy. 'I'm sorry if I am
boring you with this nonsense,' he said. As you can see, it had quite an
impact on me.' He paused, then continued: 'It's very different from the
witches. The witches were burnt for religious or political reasons. Nobody
wants to burn the witchdoctors. Most educated people dismiss them as
rogues, in it for their own enrichment. But we're all scared of them: the
spells they may cast on us, their knowledge of the unknowable. Things
like this challenge our rational view of the world. My rational side is
weakening, beginning to accept that there may be "spirits" or things that
we can't see or understand, but which still are real in some way'
'Isn't that just the basis of religion - belief in a spirit or god that we
don't understand?' Ian took a sip of his Scotch, swirled it around his
mouth, and swallowed it with pleasure.
'But we don't worship witchdoctors the way people worship a god. We
call on their powers and influence to help us, and they keep showing us
that they are powerful and influential. There is no rationale behind ritual
murders, for example, except to keep alive the myth that witchdoctors
have supernatural powers.'
'It's like a powerful superstition, isn't it?' Ian said. 'I touch wood and
throw salt over my shoulder. And I am a scientist, like you. We do it, I
think, because of a deep-rooted fear of the unknown. Sort of hedging one's
bets.'
'I also touch wood.' Bongani grinned. 'We really are confused, aren't
we?'
At that moment, Pleasant joined the group, offering a plate of cold,
thinly sliced steak, marinated in a combination of soy and sesame oils.
'Confused about what?' she asked, smiling at Bongani.
Bongani stammered a response: 'Nothing really. Just talking.'
'Nonsense!' Ian interjected. 'Bongani is too modest. We were talking
about how strange it is for educated people in Africa to still believe in the
power of the witchdoctor. Bongani says that half of him believes in their
powers; the other half doesn't. What do you think about them, Pleasant?'
She shuddered. 'They scare me. They seem to make people behave in
ways they normally wouldn't. I don't think I'd be affected if a witchdoctor
put a spell on me, as long as I didn't know it. But if someone told me
about the spell, it would affect me - it's all in the mind, I think. Have you
had a run-in with a witchdoctor, Bongani?'
Bongani looked at Ian, who nodded almost imperceptibly. 'I take it
Kubu hasn't told you anything about our recent spate of murders?' he
asked.
'Nothing much. You did have a run-in with a witchdoctor! Tell us
about it.'
Bongani hesitated and then gave a quick synopsis of his three meetings.
When he finished, Pleasant said, 'You must've been scared out of your
mind, especially when he came to your house and pretended to be your
father. How did he do that?'
By this stage, Bongani had forgotten his shyness and Pleasant's teasing.
'He drugged me or hypnotised me, or both. He didn't pretend to be my
father. He sort of suggested it, and I did the rest. He didn't look like my
father or talk like my father. He just behaved like a father, and my mind
took over.'
'I would've been terrified,' Pleasant said. 'I'm impressed that you are
taking it all so calmly'
'Well, it hasn't been easy. I've had sleepless nights thinking about it.
But at the funeral, he said goodbye to me. I think it is all over. I won't see
him again.'
Pleasant put the plate of beef on a table and said, 'I see your glass is
empty. I know where Kubu hides his good wine. Let's go and get some.
Another Scotch, Ian?'
Perceptive as ever, Ian declined. 'No thanks. I'm going to prowl around
and see who I can latch on to. I'll help myself later. Kubu showed me
where he keeps his stash.'
Pleasant and Bongani went to the kitchen, chatting, and Ian walked
out on to the veranda, where Mabaku and Kubu were enjoying the
unusually cool evening temperature.
'Hello, Ian,' Kubu said. 'I noticed you talking to Bongani. What's he
got to say for himself?'
'Och, I was interested in how he felt about his encounters with the
witchdoctor. Must be very hard for a scientist whose traditional culture
keeps intruding into his rational mind. I'm not sure he's worked it all out
at the moment, but I think he's discovered there's more than simply a
brain in these bodies of ours.'

Some time later, Joy called over to Pleasant with a smile. 'Pleasant. Sorry
to interrupt! Please ask everyone to sit down. The soup's ready'
Pleasant showed Bongani the dining room and went to gather the men
from the veranda. It only took a few minutes for everyone to be seated
around the table, which had been extended with a side table to seat seven.
'Be careful,' Joy said as she brought in a tray of cold squash soup.
'There's a ledge where the tables meet. If you put a glass there, it'll fall
over.'
Kubu said grace, and the group fell silent for a few minutes as they
enjoyed the soup. Joy was the last to finish. As she put down her spoon,
Mabaku stood up.
'Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention.' He tapped the side
of his glass with a knife. 'May I have your attention, please.' Kubu groaned
inwardly. Why did Mabaku always want to take centre stage?
'Ladies and gentlemen,' Mabaku continued. 'The main reason we are
here tonight is the resolution of the murders that have blighted our
country over the past few months. We have all been involved in the cases,
even our spouses, who had to put up with our unusually long hours,
nights alone, and frayed tempers. So, my first toast is to my darling wife,
Marie, and to Joy. Thank you for your patience and understanding.' The
group raised their glasses and toasted the ladies. He always surprises me,
,Kubu thought. That is a very nice thing to do. I should have thought of
it.
'I also have to thank another person, who made a number of valuable
contributions to our work, not because it was his job, but rather because
he felt a responsibility. I am referring, of course, to Bongani, who is trying
to slide under the table. Sit up, Bongani, so everyone can see you.'
Bongani waved sheepishly, the wine supplying Dutch courage.
'Kubu tells me that you have a detective's mind,' Mabaku continued.
He paused for effect. 'Poor man!' Polite laughter rippled around the table.
'Seriously, Bongani, we were all very impressed with your satellite
wizardry. I'm very sceptical about such things, but you even convinced
me.' The group clapped heartily and threw out words of encouragement.
Bongani stood up and made an ironic bow.
'I am not sure whether to thank you for your stories from the other side
- your encounters with the witchdoctor. They were very perplexing and
disturbing for all of us. Even as a reasonably rational species - at least that
is what I think we are meant to be - humans hover close to the edge of
the occult, of witchcraft and the world of spirits. Your experiences brought
us to that edge.' Mabaku paused to let everyone reflect on his profundity.
Then he continued: 'Ladies and gentlemen, a toast to Bongani, with
thanks for his help.'
A chorus of'Bongani' ran around the table. Everyone took another sip
of wine or Scotch - no one was drinking soft drinks at this stage.
'However, Bongani, in case you get the wrong impression of the police,
I must tell you that the next time you conceal evidence in a murder, we
will have to arrest you and throw you in jail!' There was more laughter, but
this time it was tentative - nobody was quite sure that Mabaku was joking.

'This was a very difficult case - very embarrassing for everyone
concerned, not to mention the country. And to be frank, we didn't exactly
cover ourselves in glory. Dianna Hofmeyr is dead, a victim of her own
creature - the red-bearded monster. We have the Angola police scouring
their country for him, Interpol has distributed his picture and fingerprints
worldwide, and if he sets foot in Botswana, we'll have him at once! But
right now there is no sign of him. He's hiding out in the bush somewhere
or sneaking through Africa's porous borders. But we'll get him sooner or
later.
Anyway, everyone pulled together and worked hard. I appreciate that,
so drink a toast to Kubu and Ian!' If this goes on much longer, Kubu
thought as the others raised their glasses once again, everyone will be
plastered before the main course.
'Finally,' Mabaku said, 'I can't let this moment go without a toast to
our hosts. Joy and Kubu, thanks very much for your hospitality; and to
Pleasant, for all the help I know she provided.' Once again, everyone made
the appropriate noises and sipped their drink. Kubu stood up in case his
boss decided not to finish and headed into the kitchen to get a bottle of
wine. Joy followed with the soup plates.
'He scares me when he stands up like that,' Kubu murmured to Joy.
'You never know what he's going to say. He could just as easily have ripped
us all apart for not solving the case before all the suspects turned into dead
bodies!'
'I think he likes to put on a mean face sometimes. Underneath he is a
softie,' Joy replied.
Kubu grunted. You don't know him as well as I do, he thought, and
walked back into the dining room with a bottle of wine in each hand.

The main course was roast kid, and everyone was impressed by this local
delicacy. Joy had surpassed herself, keeping it moist and flavourful, and
surrounded each helping with generous servings of vegetables. Nobody
said much until the plates were clean, and the men had worked on
seconds. Then, inevitably, the dinner conversation returned to the case
they had been working on. Ian started the ball rolling.
'Kubu, when I spoke to you early on in the case, you told me how
Angus had used his new control of the Hofmeyr Trust to push the board
into appointing his sister as head of BCMC. You told me how surprised
you were. I confirmed that the first body you found was Angus, which was
found before the board meeting. I understand these board meetings are
rather dull and formal, but even so I would have expected them to notice
that Angus was actually dead!'
Kubu laughed. 'When I first spoke to you, Ian, I didn't mention that
Angus did not attend in person, but via telephone conference call. We
now know that someone was impersonating him, mimicking his voice
almost perfectly. Also, a speech he made was probably pre-recorded. The
South African police found a tape recorder at the Hofmeyr house in South
Africa. Jason Ferraz checked into the rehab place near George, pretending
to be Angus, and the call to the board meeting came from there.
At first I thought that Ferraz was doing the mimicry too. But that was
Dianna! It turns out that she had a natural talent for it; she used to imitate
her brothers as a child. Cecil Hofmeyr's PA told me that during the board
meeting, Dianna left, ostensibly to take a call from her mother. Our
colleagues in South Africa later confirmed that the call actually came from
Ferraz at the rehab. Dianna was patched into the board meeting via that
call. Some of what were thought to be Angus's contributions were
recordings, and some were actually Dianna imitating his voice live.
Probably she also made the recordings.
'She was really good at it. She would answer Angus's mobile phone too,
and she fooled her mother, as well as several other people, including me.'
Mabaku joined the discussion. 'Kubu's real breakthrough was
understanding the connection between Dianna and the mysterious
Angolan causing the mayhem. Dianna Hofmeyr repeatedly called out the
name Daniel after she'd been hit by the car. We thought that Daniel may
have been the name, or pseudonym, of the red-bearded creature. But Cecil
Hofmeyr told me that the Angolan had accused him of being Daniel and
of trying to renege on the payment for killing Angus. So Red Beard
couldn't be Daniel.'
Kubu took over again. 'The breakthrough in my thinking came at
Dianna's funeral. Next to Roland Hofmeyr's gravestone was a smaller one
- for Daniel Hofmeyr. That jogged my memory. Daniel was the youngest
of the Hofmeyr children. He was killed by a leopard when he was nine,
but in strange circumstances. I'm sure now that Dianna used him as
another persona to interact with Red Beard - like a Chinese wall. Daniel
and Dianna were one and the same person all along.'
'Good God,' exclaimed Ian. 'But why did she do all this? She had
plenty of money of her own.'
'That's a puzzle,' Kubu said. 'I wish I knew whether she was just a
calculating psychopath, or whether there was more to it than that.'
Mabaku harrumphed. 'I don't put too much stock in the insanity
defence. Too many times it's the only way out. I assume that everyone is
sane unless very compelling evidence is produced to the contrary. I haven't
heard a shred of evidence from her past behaviour that she was crazy.
What do you think, Ian?'
'Lady Macbeth is my yardstick!' He nodded at Mabaku. 'Just look at
how Dianna planned everything - Angus's murder, the recording at the
board meeting, the mythical Daniel - it was premeditated. She really stuck
it to Cecil, who'd built up the empire for Angus and her. Such ingratitude!
She must've hated him. For motive, it's always power, money or sex. It
must've been the first, since she had plenty of the others! Insane? Not on
your nellie!'
'How can a sane person be so ruthless?' Joy said. 'Especially a woman.
To murder her brother and deliberately cause all that violence means she
was sick in her head. No normal person could do that! I wonder what
made her that way.'
'My dear Joy,' Ian said with feigned sympathy in his voice, 'just
remember that the only normal people are those you don't know well!'
The group burst out laughing. 'Not original, unfortunately. I read it
somewhere. True, though.'
'I didn't know her very well when I was at school,' Kubu interjected.
'But I remember that she and Angus had a strained relationship. She
seemed to resent all his successes, particularly because they were so lauded
by their father. She complained that anything she did well was ignored.
Angus told me on several occasions that she also despised her mother for
not standing up to her father. She thought a woman should be equal to a
man. And as strong.'
And as ruthless,' chimed in Pleasant. 'I wonder if she actually knew
what she was doing. Isn't it possible, Ian, for a person to have several
personalities who don't know what the others are doing? I mean, she must
have been more or less normal most of the time to have been as successful
as she was - in her studies and so on.'
'I don't cut up people's minds, Pleasant. Just their brains. There is
nothing left in the brains when I get to them. No thoughts, no ideas, no
emotions. Nothing. Just dead meat.'
'Oh, Ian!' Joy interjected. 'Not at dinner, please.'
Mabaku shifted his chair a little and said, 'You are thinking of classical
schizophrenia, Pleasant? Multiple personalities and all that? Dianna one
minute, Daniel the next? The thing is, those different persona are always
in conflict with each other. That's the whole point. They don't cooperate
to carry out a plan.'
He paused, and then continued, 'I'm really sorry we didn't have the
chance to interrogate her. I'm not sure we'd have won a court battle,
especially with the legal talent she could have hired. But we might have
learnt why all these people died.'
Strangely, it was the retiring Bongani who had the last word.
'The witchdoctor said there were three, and then there was one.
, Almost as though the three Hofmeyrs were absorbed into something else
completely. Something evil. Or something insane.'
The group lapsed into silence, each lost in uncomfortable thoughts of
madness and possession.

After dinner, the mood lightened, and the party continued with convivial
conversation. An hour later, Joy served coffee and deliciously light wafer
biscuits she had baked herself. After the guests had eaten the last of these,
Pleasant and Bongani decided to leave at the same time. As Pleasant kissed
Joy goodbye, she winked and whispered, 'Progress! We're going to the
Grand Palm for some more coffee.'
Joy squealed with delight and pinched Pleasant's arm affectionately.
'Have fun. But be careful,' she said with a glint in her eye. Kubu
admonished them to drive carefully, with a joke about the police being
ready with a roadblock. Ilia barked her encouragement.
Back on the veranda, Joy and Kubu found Ian and Mabaku nursing
glasses of Scotch, and Marie a glass of red wine. 'Topped up everyone's
drinks. Hope you don't mind?' Ian said.
'Of course not,' Kubu replied. 'I'll go and get one for myself. A glass of
wine for you, my dear?'
'No thanks. I must start clearing up.'
Ian stood up and took Joy by the arm. 'No, no. Come and sit down
and relax. You've been working hard this evening, lassie. Time to put your
feet up. Kubu, get her some wine, or even better, a Scotch.'
'No, no,' Joy protested. 'Wine is strong enough for me. I don't want a
hangover in the morning.'

When Kubu returned with the drinks, the five relaxed and gossiped about
Pleasant and Bongani.
'I am not sure Bongani has any idea that he's being reeled in,' Ian said
with a smile. 'Perhaps I'll have to take him to lunch and educate him
about the wiles of women.' He raised his glass. A toast! To young love!'
No one had the energy to stand up, so they just raised their glasses and
drank.
For the next few minutes, everyone enjoyed a convivial silence, all lost
in their own thoughts. Kubu wondered whether the others were wistfully
recollecting young loves, or whether, like him, they were merely content
to enjoy the moment without much thought.
Mabaku broke the silence by standing up and walking over to the
table, where Kubu had thoughtfully put a bottle of Scotch. He poured a
generous helping.
'What a mess this case has been,' he said, more to himself than to the
others. 'Seven people dead and nothing to show for it. The only suspect
we had in our hands kills a cop and escapes across the border. I doubt if
the Angolans will ever find and extradite him. What a fiasco.'
Mabaku walked over to the steps and gazed out into the darkness.
Eventually he turned and said, 'There are still loose ends. For example, for
the life of me, I can't work out why the letter Cecil Hofmeyr got from
Frankental caused so much trouble. Just think of it. It caused a break-in
at BCMC; it probably caused the deaths of Frankental, Kobedi, and the
hit man from Angola. Cecil was willing to pay thousands of pula to
retrieve it, and yet it had nothing of real importance in it.'
'What letter was this?' Ian asked. 'I didn't hear about it.'
Kubu replied, 'It was a letter Frankental sent to Cecil Hofmeyr. I agree
with the director. I've no idea why it was such an issue. Some negative
comments about the mine manager Ferraz - which I strongly suspect were
entirely justified - and a suggestion that some of the best diamonds were
being stolen. But the response should have been an investigation, not
bribery, blackmail and murder!'
'Do you have a copy of the letter here?' Ian asked him.
Kubu rubbed his chin, feeling the roughness of the lengthening night.
'I think I have a copy in my briefcase. I took it down to the mine in case
I wanted to confront Jason, and I haven't taken it out.' He stood, pottered
around in the spare bedroom, and came back waving the copy. 'There you
are, Ian. Let's see what brilliant insights you have to offer, then!' Having
parted with the letter, he went off to open another bottle of red wine. He
was thankful the other men were into hard tack, leaving him to enjoy
something really decent in peace.
Ian fished in his pocket and took out his pipe. He then extracted a
small tin of tobacco and stuffed some into the bowl, prodding it firmly
down with his little finger. As much as she liked Ian, Joy was upset at the
idea of pipe smoke. But Ian made no move to light it; he merely put the
stem of the pipe in his mouth and sucked contentedly as he started
carefully reading the three typed pages of Aron Frankental's letter.
While Ian read, Marie asked Joy how Kubu had held up under the
growing number of unsolved murders. Joy pursed her lips. As time passed
he got more and more tense. He was still very attentive to me - that's the
way he is - but I can tell that he's stressed when he stops singing. He loves
to sing, mainly opera. Yes, opera,' she repeated in response to Marie's
raised eyebrows. 'He thinks he's great, but he's really only enthusiastic. But
I haven't heard him sing for weeks.'
'Mabaku is the same. He doesn't talk about his stress or the problems
at work. He just goes into the garden and digs holes for new plants.
Normally it's like pulling teeth to get him to do anything.'
Both women laughed at the foibles of men.

At last Ian put down the letter, and everyone's attention turned to him.
'It's written in a very scholarly fashion,' he began. 'One of the things about
a German education is that there is no compromise. A scientist must be
trained as a real scientist, not as a technician. Used to be that way in
Scotland too. His English is a bit rough here and there, and perhaps that
gives the impression that his analyses are rough also. But that's certainly
not the case. I know very little about geology, but it seems that he's
carefully identified each possible hypothesis and broken it down and
analysed it. So when he comes to the more contentious stuff on the last
page, all the obvious alternatives have already been dealt with. Impressive.'
He nodded in admiration.
'Yes,' said Mabaku. 'You're also a pretty careful scientific chap, so I'll
take your word for it, but that brings us no farther. Why all the fuss about
it?'
'Oh, that's easy,' said Ian, enjoying the limelight. He took a few sucks
on the cold briar.
'Well?' asked Kubu. He would be annoyed with himself if he had
missed something.
'It's the wording,' said Ian at last. 'Kubu, you said that "some of the
best diamonds were being stolen". But that's not what he wrote. It's here
right at the end: "Perhaps some of the best quality diamonds are actually
stolen." He meant to write that the best quality diamonds are actually being stolen, but left out the participle. The German sentence
construction is different. If you know the context, as we do, you come to
the right interpretation, which is that he wants to alert Cecil Hofmeyr that
someone - and he is suggesting Jason - is stealing diamonds from the
mine. But Jason, seeing this letter cold and knowing that the mine was
being salted, would think Aron had found that out and was telling Cecil that the diamonds used to salt the mine had been stolen. From some mine in
Angola, for example? Jason would have thought his scam had been
discovered. I don't know how he came to know about the letter - perhaps
Aron kept a copy - but he couldn't afford to have it floating around.'
Kubu was impressed. 'But why was Cecil so concerned?' he asked. This
time Mabaku answered. 'Originally we thought Maboane was a BCMC
mine - Cecil even told us that. But it wasn't. Cecil had his own money in
it. It wasn't BCMC's at all. He knew Ferraz wouldn't steal the diamonds
because he was a significant stakeholder himself, so he may have
interpreted the letter the other way too. I think we'll find, if we look into
Cecil's finances a lot more closely - which we will - that he had a lot to
lose if the mine went down. And he needed that letter for leverage with
Jason. That, and keeping it private, was easily worth a few thousand pula
to him. But Kobedi got greedy. He thought Red Beard and Jason just
wanted to know what was in the letter. So he thought he could get away
with selling them a high-quality colour copy. That was a mistake. A fatal
mistake, as it turned out.' He swallowed the rest of his whisky. His face
became grim. 'I think we'll take a careful look at Mr Hofmeyr's affairs over
the next few weeks.'
Kubu shook his head. 'So Aron's false deduction about Jason was
twisted into the truth by the way he incorrectly wrote the English! And we
were too smart to see it at the time. But probably Cecil and Jason did see
it. That missing word indirectly may have killed Kobedi and Sculo, as well
as Aron, and nearly killed me! Words can be more important than we
might think!'
Ian nodded, took the pipe out of his mouth by the bowl, and pointed
to Kubu with the stem. 'Don't forget that, young David. There isn't
anything more important than the right words!'

EPILOGUE:
Painted Devil

'The sleeping and the dead,
Are but as pictures; 'tis the eye of childhood
That fears the painted devil.'
Shakespeare, Macbeth, Act II, Scene 2

MAY 2006



390

Kubu sat in the waiting room, wondering why he couldn't let go of the
Hofmeyr case. Everyone else seemed to have returned to a normal life.
Bongani was relaxed, no longer haunted by the witchdoctor, and getting
on well with Pleasant. Mabaku was back to his usual grumpy self, keeping
his distance from the commissioner, and closing in on Cecil. Ian was
waiting for his next dead body.
Mabaku had insisted that the Maboane mine use a bulldozer to move
the recent tailings at the mine dump. It had only taken a couple of days
of careful work to unearth Axon's decomposed body. The autopsy showed
that he had been shot with the same gun that had killed Sculo. The
remains were then transported to Germany to the Frankentals, who now
had closure and could start to heal.
Only Kubu remained frustrated by the need to understand what had
happened to the young Hofmeyrs. Once he put his mind to it, it hadn't
taken him long to locate the psychologist who had treated Dianna so
many years before. I'm fortunate, he thought, to live in Gaborone and not
in a similar-size city in America. I would never have been able to contact
all the shrinks there.
After a short wait, the receptionist ushered Kubu into the inner office,
where comfortable chairs and ordinary couches were strewn below
colourful abstract paintings. In one corner stood a cluttered desk with a
formal but empty desk chair. A friendly elderly lady was sitting relaxed in
an armchair, whose upholstery depicted little Red Riding Hood patting a
friendly wolf.
'Superintendent Bengu?' she said without rising. 'I'm Hilary Mayberry.
You look a little surprised?'
Kubu laughed. He walked over to her and they shook hands. He chose
an armchair. Its upholstery had a greenish background and seemed to have
something to do with leprechauns.

'I was looking for the psychiatrist's couch, I suppose.'

Hilary smiled. 'I'm not a psychiatrist, Superintendent. I'm a
psychologist. I don't pretend to be able to treat mental illness. Basically,
I'm a counsellor specialising in helping children. They don't appreciate the
sort of formality that their parents might expect. Now, how can I help
you?'
'I want to talk to you about someone who came to see you quite a few
years ago. A little girl.'
'You understand that I can't talk about what my patients tell me or do
here? Just because they're children doesn't mean that they are not entitled
to a confidential relationship.'
'Yes, that's quite clear. I only want to talk about the facts of the
situation, which you may be able to help me with. If you feel I'm going
too far, just say so, and I'll back off
'That's fair enough, Superintendent. What was the child's name?'
'Dianna Hofmeyr. She--'
'I remember her,' Hilary interrupted. She looked more alert, almost
tense.
'I think she came to see you after her brother died?'
'Yes.' It was more acknowledgement than agreement.
And she would've been about thirteen at the time?'
Hilary nodded. 'What do you want to know, Superintendent?'
'I want to ask you about the leopard.'
'This was about seventeen years ago. I don't remember the details.
Please give me a few minutes.' She retrieved a file and reviewed it, nodding
as the story came back to her.
Kubu said nothing until she was done. Then he asked, 'Would you tell
me the story more or less as she told it to you? Just the facts. Particularly
about the leopard.'
Hilary considered this, reaching into her superb memory.
All right. She didn't say much about the leopard, you know. It was very
traumatic. I wouldn't have been surprised if she'd refused to talk about it
at all. But she did. She said it was very large and had big teeth and attacked
them from behind a rock.' Kubu waited, and the psychologist realised he
wanted the whole story. She shrugged and said, as if to herself, 'What's the
harm now? It was so long ago.'
Then she continued: 'She told me that she liked to explore the koppie on the family farm. She called it the farm, but it was actually her father's
estate - several hundred hectares, I think. It was security-fenced and
patrolled by guards, and I suppose they thought it was pretty safe for the
kids. So she and her brother took a picnic lunch and went up the koppie. They were to be back for dinner. They climbed up the side farthest from
the house, deliberately taking the more difficult route to make it more
exciting. About halfway up they had their sandwiches and spent time
playing with the lizards on the rocks, tossing them scraps of the meat from
their sandwiches. So it was getting late when they went on, and they got
stuck in a thicket of thorn bushes where they got quite scratched. Daniel
was tired and wanted to go back, but she persuaded him that they should
push on to the top. Then they could take an easier route that they knew
on the house side and still be in time for supper. And when they came out
of the thorn bushes, they were nearly at the top. They found a narrow path
that went past some large granite boulders. The leopard sprang at them
from behind one of those. They both fled, but got separated. Dianna
thought she was running down the koppie towards the house, but it was
getting dark, and she must have become disoriented and then completely
lost. She was very scared. She climbed a tree and spent the night there. She
was crying, but very quietly because she was afraid the leopard might be
just below her. She knew they are excellent climbers. She even heard
people calling in the distance but didn't answer. They found her the next
morning.'
And the boy?'
'They found his body about halfway down the koppie. He'd fallen off a
ledge near the top.'
'Was he mauled?'
'No. There was no sign of that, thank God.'
'Did they find tracks? Any signs of other kills?'
Hilary shook her head. 'No one ever found any signs of the leopard.
But it was dry, and the ground was baked hard. And anyway it was up
among the rocks.'
'Why did she come to see you?'
'Her mother brought her. She said the child was depressed and
unusually quiet. Dianna was suffering from feelings of guilt. She was the
older child, and her brother had wanted to turn back. She blamed herself
for his death. There were a lot of other things that I wanted to work
through with her, but I don't think the mother liked the idea of her
daughter seeing a "shrink", as she put it. She didn't bring her back. 
than a year later, Roland Hofmeyr died in a plane crash, and she took her
children back to the UK.'
r
'Thank you, Dr Mayberry. You've been very helpful and generous with
your time.' But Kubu didn't get up. He moved the fingers on each hand
one by one, as if trying to check that he really had ten. Then, still looking
at his hands, he said: 'Did you believe her story? About the leopard, I
mean:
Hilary looked surprised. 'Of course. Why shouldn't I?'

'Don't you think it's odd that it didn't catch one of the children? It
sounds as though it was very close to them. That there were no tracks?
That it got over the security fence?'
Hilary shook her head. 'I grew up on a cattle ranch out here, Inspector.
I know a bit about leopards. They are survivors, and their behaviour can
be almost uncanny. They have been known to climb game fences to get in
-	or out. Cattle fences they simply jump. They are hard to track, and they
are tidy and secretive. And they hunt small buck or, failing that, baboons
-	also survivors. If even that fails, they are quite partial to domestic dogs.
So of all the world's large cats, these are the ones most able to live near
man and survive.' She sounded as though she respected leopards, but
didn't really like them. As for catching the children, I don't think it was
really after them. I think that by sheer bad luck they just got too close to
it - into its personal space - and so it went for them. But when they ran,
it let them go.'
'Wouldn't a "survivor" have wanted the free fresh meat available at the
bottom of the cliff?'
'We don't know when he fell. I think the leopard was scared and
probably heard the searchers calling. It probably took itself off What are
you getting at, Superintendent?'
'Is it possible that she made the leopard up? That Daniel just fell over
the cliff?'
'Yes, it's possible, but why would she do that? Why not just go back for
help as quickly as she could? She didn't know then that her brother was
dead.'
'Is it possible that he didn't just fall?'
She hesitated for a few moments. Then she answered: 'I think Dianna
was very focused on the leopard. She said that if they didn't find it and
shoot it, she would kill it herself when she grew up.'
'She did, you know. She claimed she recognised it.'
A CARRION DEATH

The psychologist shook her head. 'It's very unlikely. Leopards don't live
that long in the wild. And they are very hard to tell apart, anyway. The
one she bagged was probably just a large leopard with similar markings.'
Kubu nodded and got up to leave. The leprechauns gratefully regained
their usual shape. But Hilary had one last piece of the puzzle to give him.
She hesitated before she spoke.
'There is one more thing, Superintendent. Dianna talked about killing
the leopard when she was about to leave with her mother. When she said
it, it didn't sound at all like her voice. It sounded more like a boy talking.
Her mother went as white as a sheet. She said it was Daniel's voice.
Dianna just seemed confused, unaware of what she'd done. It worried me
quite a bit, though. We agreed to meet again the following week, but she
didn't come back. I never saw either of them again.'

Kubu walked to the parking lot and climbed into his car. He didn't start
the engine, but sat thinking of a boy and a girl alone on a koppie. Something had happened there that had destroyed them both, and then
later swallowed Angus too. He shook his head. It was time to move on. In
fact, checking his watch, he realised that he would be late for a meeting
with Edison on their new case. He started the car and reversed into the
street. He started to sing the bird-catcher aria from Mozart's Magic Flute.


Authors' Note

Botswana has a dedicated and efficient police force, and a judicial
system that believes in punishment as well as rehabilitation. The Criminal
Investigation Department is based in the capital, Gaborone. Its offices are
in a newer area of the city to the west, between the reservoir and a small
group of hills erupting from the plains. From one of these offices,
Assistant Superintendent David 'Kubu' Bengu would look out at Kgale
Hill.



Botswana is a country of breathtaking variety, from the semi-desert of the
Kalahari to the lush waterways of the Okavango and the riverine forests of
the Linyanti. The peoples, too, are diverse. The Bushmen, or Barsawa or
San, eke a living from the arid areas by skill and knowledge, and have been
doing so for over twenty thousand years. The Batswana people constitute
more than half the population and speak Setswana, regarded as the
national language, although English is the official language.
The country was granted independence from Britain in 1966, and has
enjoyed a stable and peaceful democracy for forty years, despite unrest in
all its neighbours. This is not to say that tensions are absent between race
groups and cultures, nor that twenty-first-century technologies have
overwhelmed ingrained superstitions, beliefs and prejudices. In which
country is that not true?
The people are friendly, and believe in courtesy and in dignified
traditional ways. In the early 1960s, the country had a subsistence
economy, but after independence the economy grew as a result of beef
exports and mineral discoveries. The stability and natural wonders
attracted tourists from abroad, and the economy began to improve. But it
was the development of fabulously rich diamond mines in the 1970s and
early 1980s that propelled the country on to a rapid growth path,
sometimes in conflict with traditional values and beliefs. These mines are
run by Debswana, a joint venture between the government and the
international De Beers diamond giant. Diamond miners and traders have
their own agendas throughout Africa, and Botswana is no exception.
We invented a conglomerate - the Botswana Cattle and Mining
Company - privately owned and ubiquitous in the south of the country,
and used it as a pivot for the financial tensions of the story. Such
companies and their impacts are common elsewhere in Africa, but,
perhaps fortunately, not in Botswana.

398
399

Acknowledgements

It takes a lot of luck for a first novel to see the light of day. We are
extremely fortunate to have a superb agent representing our work. We
cannot thank Marly Rusoff enough for her enthusiasm and guidance, and
Michael Radulescu for his invaluable behind-the-scenes support. We are
grateful to Judy Healey for her encouragement, and particularly for
introducing us to Marly.
More good fortune followed when Claire Wachtel, Senior Vice
President and Executive Editor at HarperCollins in New York, liked,
bought and edited this book; her vision and professionalism have
greatly improved it. Sherise Hobbs, Senior Commisioning Editor at
Headline Publishing Group in London, bought subsidiary rights from
HarperCollins. Her input, too, has been been invaluable. We are also
grateful to Jane Selley for her meticulous copyediting. Indeed, we are
grateful for all the support and encouragement from the people at
Headline.
So many people read various versions of the manuscript that we hope
there are still a few readers of the genre left to buy it! All of them
generously gave their time to provide helpful feedback and suggestions.
Particularly valuable detailed feedback on style and language came from
Brunhilde Sears and Bonnie Nelson. Holes in the plot, inconsistencies of
character and numerous other blunders were caught by Stephen Alessi,
Linda Bowles, Tom Cooper, Patricia Markley, Toni Rosen and Esther
Youtan. Forensic physiologist Dr Stanley Tarlton provided much-needed
help with the medical aspects of the various murders. Sethokgo Sechele
and Andy Taylor, headmaster of Maru-a-Pula school in Gaborone, helped
add authenticity to our story, as did Botswana pathologist Dr Salvatore
Mapunda. All of these receive our especial gratitude, as do the others, too
numerous to mention, who provided helpful input.
Peter Comley and Salome Meyer not only made many suggestions, but
A CARRION DEATH

gave us the benefit of their encyclopedic knowledge of Botswana, formed
in a lifetime of living and working there.
Director Tabathu Mulale (now retired) of the Botswana Criminal
Investigation took a full day to show us the ropes, despite being in the
midst of a gang bust and about to travel to an Interpol meeting in Mexico!
We were overwhelmed by his kindness and help. The Commissioner of
Police, Thebe Tsimako, has added his help and support to improve the
factual aspects of the book. We are extremely grateful.
If, despite the efforts of all these talented and generous people, and the
breadth of their knowledge and experience, the book still contains errors,
we are confident that we will be able to find one of them to blame!
We received much help, input and support from our wives, Annette
Sears and Jeannine McCormick. This book is for them.

Michael Sears
Stanley Trollip