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- Herausgeber: Orenda Books
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: A Detective Kubu Investigation
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017
When the body of a bushman with puzzlingly young organs is stolen from the morgue and a local witch doctor goes missing, Detective Kubu becomes involved in a life-threatening case.'Richly atmospheric … a gritty depiction of corruption and deception' Publishers Weekly'The African Columbo … a smart satisfyingly complex mystery' Entertainment Weekly'A wonderful, original voice – McCall Smith with a dark edge and even darker underbelly' Peter James_______________When the body of a Bushman is discovered near the Central Kalahari Game Reserve, the death is written off as an accident. But all is not as it seems. An autopsy reveals that, although he's clearly very old, his internal organs are puzzlingly young. What's more, an old bullet is lodged in one of his muscles … but where is the entry wound?When the body is stolen from the morgue and a local witch doctor is reported missing, Detective 'Kubu' Bengu gets involved. Kubu and his brilliant young colleague, Detective Samantha Khama, follow the twisting trail through a confusion of rhino-horn smugglers, foreign gangsters and drugs manufacturers. And the deeper they dig, the wider and more dangerous the case becomes…A fresh, new slice of 'Sunshine Noir', Dying to Live is a classic tale of greed, corruption and ruthless thuggery, set in one of the world's most beautiful landscapes, and featuring one of crime fiction's most endearing and humane heroes._______________'Detective David "Kubu" Bengu is a wonderful creation, complex and beguiling. Compelling and deceptively written' New York Journal of Books'My favourite writing duo since Ellery Queen' Ragnar Jónasson'Dying to Live is a skilfully plotted story of greed and its consequences; making the case for Detective Kubu absorbing, like the Botswana backdrop' ShotsMag'Under the African sun, Michael Stanley's Detective Kubu investigates crimes as dark as the darkest of Nordic Noir. Call it Sunshine Noir, if you will – a must read' Yrsa Sigurðardóttir'Intelligent, dark and compelling - among the best of today's crime fiction' Quentin Bates'Fascinating, dark and beautifully written … Kubu is a detective worth knowing. More please!' Northern Crime
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PRAISE FOR THE DETECTIVE KUBU SERIES
‘Saturated with local colour. Kubu is hugely appealing – big and solid and smart enough to grasp all angles of this mystery. Readers may be lured to Africa by the landscape, but it takes a great character like Kubu to win our loyalty’ Marilyn Stasio, New York Times Book Review
‘I was gripped and entranced from the first page. A wonderful, original voice – McCall Smith with a dark edge and even darker underbelly’ Peter James
‘The African Columbo … a smart satisfyingly complex mystery’ Entertainment Weekly
‘My favourite writing duo since Ellery Queen’ Ragnar Jónasson
‘Intricate plots and a cast of regulars well worth following’ Kirkus Reviews
‘Under the African sun, Michael Stanley’s Detective Kubu investigates crimes as dark as the darkest of Nordic Noir. Call it Sunshine Noir, if you will – a must read’ Yrsa Sigurdardottir
‘Kubu returns with a vengeance – but what is prowling in the darkness of Botswana is more dangerous than the four-legged predators. … I love it!’ Charles Todd
‘In a land where ancient superstition collides head on with breakneck modernisation, Africa’s dark side is revealed. Awesome!’ Paul E. Hardisty
‘The fifth rip-roaring mystery in the Detective Kubu series. If you haven’t read the others, the lovable return characters, exceptional police procedural plot and close-to-home Botswana setting will make you want to’ South African Sunday Times
‘Intelligent, dark and compelling – among the best of today’s crime fiction’ Quentin Bates
‘Detective David “Kubu” Bengu is a wonderful creation, complex and beguiling. The exotic smells and sounds of Botswana fill the pages as well as the changes and struggles of a country brimming with modern technology yet fiercely clinging to old traditions. Compelling and deceptively written, it’s the perfect summer read’ New York Journal of Books
‘Tight plotting is seasoned with African culture and the uglier presence of political corruption … believable and utterly menacing’ Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine
‘These darker, grittier entries featuring the portly and perceptive Detective Kubu blend intricate plotting and a compelling cast … Though the cat-and-mouse chase that ensues propels the novel ever forward, Stanley also peppers the tale with richly detailed descriptions of Botswana and the lively lives of its citizens’ Booklist
‘This book took me to a world I didn’t want to leave. It kept me reading, it kept me guessing, and it kept me gasping at its many twists and surprises. Highly recommended.’ R.L. Kline
‘… richly atmospheric … gritty depiction of corruption and obsession’ Publishers Weekly
‘A vibrant mixture of themes that infuses the traditions of old Botswana against the shock of the new. However, the real appeal of the book is the easy-going voice that Michael Stanley deploys, leading the reader into the darkest of places with little warning … one of the finest crime thrillers of 2013…’ Ali Karim, Strand Mystery Magazine
‘The best book I’ve read in a very long time … a fantastic read. Brilliant!’ Louise Penny
‘A wonderful piece of work, a novel that is quietly perfect in every way … one of those rare books that transcends its rich genre. While there is a mystery at its core, it is also a study of the human condition, of the best and worst of people who do what they do for the best and worst of reasons. And Kubu is one of the best friends you will make between the pages of a book’ Bookreporter
‘The perfect combination of “I don’t want it to end” and “I can’t put it down”. Great African crime fiction’ Deon Meyer
‘Wonderfully crafted … full of twists and turns’ Life of a Nerdish Mum
‘Botswana truly comes alive on the pages, with its aromas, sights and sounds, as well as political background, providing a fascinating culture to explore further … beautifully written and gripping from the first page until the last, with a few surprises along the way’ Off-the-Shelf Books
‘Written by a team of two, whose knowledge of Southern Africa comes across well, this story feels authentic and grips like glue’ Crime Thriller Hound
‘Fascinating, dark and beautifully written … Kubu is a detective worth knowing. More please!’ Northern Crime
‘A very different kind of crime read – intense and intelligent, and full of heart. I loved it’ Liz Loves Books
‘Magnificent! I know nothing of Botswana yet the authors made the country seem so real and vibrant. I look forward to meeting with Detective Kubu again in the future – a high bar has been set’ Grab This Book
‘An absolutely exceptional book … thrilling, captivating and I cannot recommend it highly enough!’ Bibliophile Book Club
‘This is a fantastic novel; a sumptuous narrative filled with twists, turns and a rich tapestry of Botswana culture and landscape’ Segnalibro
‘It’s pacey, exciting, a bit uncomfortable in places but full of surprises. You definitely need to read this book. I’d be lying if I said it was just an OK read – it was bloody brilliant!’ This Crime Book
‘Its location will be familiar to readers of Alexander McCall Smith’s bestselling series The No 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency featuring the irrepressible Mma Ramotswe. But Deadly Harvest has a much darker and grittier feel that already has it being cast as “sunshine noir”’ Claire Thinking
‘Dark yet colourful, this is crime fiction with a brilliant flavouring of Botswanan culture and life, sprinkled with a healthy dose of grit’ Christina Philippou
Dying to Live
A Detective Kubu Mystery
Michael Stanley
To our partners, Pat Cretchley and Mette Nielsen, with thanks.
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 the context, but for interest, we have included a glossary at the end of the book.
Contents
Cast of Characters
Words in square brackets are approximate phonetic pronunciations. Foreign and unfamiliar words are in a glossary at the back of the book.
Part 1
Chapter 1
Detective Sergeant Segodi looked down at the dead Bushman and frowned. He didn’t have much time for the diminutive people of the Kalahari. Somehow they always caused trouble whether they meant to or not, and this was a case in point.
The Bushman was very old. That much was obvious. His skin was a web of wrinkles, and there wasn’t a smooth area even the size of a thebe coin on his face. The lips were cracked and parched. But the most striking thing was the short, crinkly hair covering the wizened head. It was pure white. Segodi couldn’t remember ever seeing a Bushman with pure white hair before; it was a sign of age so advanced that few Bushmen, with their challenging lifestyle, ever attained it.
The detective cursed.
What was the man doing out here alone? he wondered. He should have been with his family group in nearby New Xade. Or, if he’d walked into the desert to die in peace, why had he chosen to do so in sight of the road into the Central Kalahari Game Reserve rather than somewhere private in the middle of nowhere?
Instead, a foreign tourist driving to the game reserve had spotted the body being checked out by a scavenger and reported it to the police station at New Xade, fifty kilometres up the road. Constable Ixau – who was the New Xade police force – had investigated and called the Criminal Investigation Department in Ghanzi. Which was why Segodi was sweltering in the Kalahari sun with a mask over his nose and mouth, instead of being in the relative comfort of his office.
Now there would be paperwork and aggravation, to say nothing of having to share the Land Rover with the corpse for 150 kilometres before it was disposed of in the public cemetery.
The area around the body was scuffed and trampled, which could have been caused by the shocked tourists. When he scanned the surroundings, he spotted something important – there were two sets of footprints coming out of the desert and ending at the body. This had been no lonely leave-taking; someone had walked with the Bushman to this spot before he died.
‘What do you make of that?’ Segodi asked the constable.
Constable Ixau followed the sergeant’s eyes. ‘Someone was walking with him in the desert.’
Segodi frowned, wondering why he wasted his breath. Ixau was clearly more than half Bushman. Surely he knew something about tracking in the desert. The detective examined the footprints more carefully. The sand was the soft, grey powder of the Kalahari, and it was difficult to make out much about the tracks.
Ixau joined him. ‘They came from there,’ he said, pointing to the left.
Looking down the road, the sergeant saw a second set of tracks – again of two people – some distance away. He walked over to check and, indeed, these were heading into the desert away from the road.
‘Fetch me the camera,’ he ordered the constable. ‘And bring the gloves.’ He was starting to have a bad feeling.
When he’d photographed the body from various angles and taken multiple shots of the two sets of tracks – the one leading into the desert and the other ending at the body – he put on the latex gloves and knelt next to the body. There were no obvious injuries. Without much difficulty, he lifted the right arm for a closer look. Apparently, the man had been dead for some time, and the rigor mortis was starting to recede. There were contusions on the wrist, perhaps because of how the body had fallen, he thought.
He checked the other hand, but it seemed fine. However, there was something odd about the neck. The angle didn’t seem quite right. And there was a scratch and other abrasions on the side of the face.
Segodi sighed. There was more trouble here than just paperwork. Someone had walked out of the desert with the Bushman, perhaps there had been a fight, and now the Bushman was dead.
What had happened to the other person? he wondered. Only a Bushman could survive out here on foot in the middle of nowhere.
Segodi glanced at the road. There were tyre marks at the side, but that was probably the tourists’ vehicle. Nevertheless, he took a number of pictures.
Segodi told the constable to be careful with the body when they lifted it onto the body bag. He was going to send it for an autopsy. That would have to be in Gaborone, seven hours away from Ghanzi by van.
The corpse was even lighter than they’d imagined, and they carried the body bag to the Land Rover without difficulty. Segodi told the constable to mark the area where the body had been with stones, while he noted the GPS coordinates. When that was done, Ixau drew the sergeant’s attention back to the tracks. ‘I think these are the victim’s,’ he said, pointing at the ones on the right. ‘He was a small man. You can see they are not as deep as the others, and not as big.’
Segodi turned to the footprints again. He examined them closely and realised that the constable was right. He grunted agreement.
An idea struck him. Was it possible one of the tourists had followed the Bushman’s tracks? He’d need to check if he could contact them. It seemed unlikely, but that would explain the double tracks very neatly. He was of two minds whether to follow them. They might go a long way, and the corpse was already stinking up his vehicle.
‘Shouldn’t we see where they go?’ Ixau asked.
Segodi gave him an angry look. Now he had no choice.
‘Come on then,’ he replied. ‘We’ll start where they head into the desert.’
‘Wait a minute,’ Ixau said. ‘Someone was running along the road here.’ He pointed at scuff marks on the verge.
To Segodi the marks could have been anything, but he was beginning to respect the Bushman’s observations. ‘How do you know he was running?’
‘The gaps between them are too long,’ Ixau replied.
‘The Bushman?’
Ixau shook his head. ‘The gaps between them are too long,’ he repeated.
Segodi frowned, puzzled. ‘Someone ran from there?’ he asked, pointing back to where the body had been. ‘Maybe after killing the Bushman?’
Ixau thought about it, then shook his head. ‘I think running towards the body.’
It made no sense to Segodi, and he shrugged it off. ‘Let’s follow the tracks.’
Moving parallel to the pair of footprints so as not to disturb them, they walked for about a kilometre through the desert. The tracks wandered to and fro, crossed themselves and then headed off again, as though the walkers had been looking for something.
In some places, the ground was the calcrete limestone common in this part of the Kalahari, and the tracks disappeared altogether. When that happened, Ixau headed straight on, and soon the tracks reappeared. The two people had made no effort to hide the signs of their progress.
Eventually they came to a depression surrounded by small sand drifts and calcrete scree. Apparently, the men had spent some time here, and it seemed that they’d taken samples, because there were several small pits dug in the stony ground. Prospecting? Segodi wondered. Someone looking for the hidden gems of the Kalahari? He snorted. Not that old nonsense again. Or was it something else?
He squatted and felt around in one of the holes, still wearing the latex gloves, but found nothing except a few root fibres, sand and calcrete pebbles. He let them run through his fingers and stood up.
‘You make anything of this?’ he asked the constable. Ixau shook his head.
After that, the tracks headed directly back towards the road without the detours and crossings that had marked their progress into the desert. After a short time, the two policemen were back at the vehicle.
‘Okay, let’s head back,’ Segodi said, wiping the sweat pouring off his face. ‘As soon as we get to New Xade, radio Ghanzi and tell them to drive a van towards New Xade. I’ll meet them on the way. We need to get that body to Gaborone as soon as possible.’
Chapter 2
It was a slow Friday. Assistant Superintendent David ‘Kubu’ Bengu was looking forward to the weekend with his family, especially as his mother would be joining them.
It’ll be a treat for the kids, he thought. In fact, for all of us.
He leant back in his chair and crossed his legs on his desk. He was feeling content – there were no serious cases awaiting his attention, and he’d caught up with the dreaded paperwork.
Then he heard the sound he didn’t want to hear: his telephone ringing. He grabbed it.
‘Assistant Superintendent Bengu,’ he said gruffly.
‘Kubu, it’s Ian. Have you got a moment?’
Kubu sat up. Ian MacGregor was the forensic pathologist for the Botswana Police and was very good at his job. He was also a friend and shared Kubu’s taste for interesting cases. Kubu would always have a moment for him.
‘Of course, Ian. What’s up?’
‘It’s very odd.’ Uncharacteristically, the pathologist hesitated. ‘It’s that Bushman they sent over from Ghanzi.’
Kubu sighed. He’d had his fill of cases involving the Bushmen. ‘It’s not my case, Ian. Ghanzi CID has the jurisdiction for that one.’
Ian hesitated again. ‘I know that. But this is very strange indeed. It’s hard to explain.’
Kubu relented. ‘Try.’
‘Well, when I did the autopsy, it’s true about his neck being broken, but…’ The pathologist trailed off. ‘I think you’d better come over and see for yourself.’
Kubu was intrigued. He’d known Ian for many years, more or less from when the pathologist had arrived in Gaborone from his native Scotland. He was many things, but certainly not indecisive. Kubu scanned his pleasantly clean desk. He had the time.
‘I’ll see you in half an hour,’ he said.
Kubu found Ian in his tiny office off the mortuary, sucking on his usual pipe full of unlit tobacco and contemplating a desert scene he’d painted himself. He’d pulled down his surgical mask and left it hanging around his neck.
After a perfunctory greeting, Kubu asked him what was so puzzling.
‘I’ll show you,’ Ian replied. ‘Get togged up.’ He pointed to a lab coat that had some hope of getting around Kubu’s bulk, handed him a mask, and passed him a box of latex gloves. He pulled on a pair himself, adjusted his mask, and led the way to the room where the autopsy had taken place. Kubu was glad that lunch was still a way off; he was not fond of dead bodies under the best of circumstances, and cut-up ones that had been lying in the desert for a few days certainly weren’t the best of circumstances.
They walked over to a corpse lying on a slab.
‘Cause of death is a broken neck, snapped between C2 and C3 – the second and third cervical vertebrae. The spinal cord is damaged there, so he would’ve stopped breathing and died within a couple of minutes. Now, take a look at this.’ He indicated the left side of the head. ‘It looks as though he was hit on the side of the face. There’s bruising, and there are abrasions as a result of the blow. It seems the blow was hard enough to break the neck. But that’s very unusual. There’s not that much damage to the face – no cracked cheekbones, for example – so I don’t think the blow was very severe. You’d expect the head to whip sideways, but not the neck to break.’
‘What if someone broke his neck deliberately? Held him and then sharply twisted his head? If the bones are as brittle as you say, that would’ve been easy.’
‘Well, there’s only bruising on one side of the face, and there’s no evidence of a struggle. He would’ve fought back, and there would’ve been evidence. Skin under the fingernails or the like. There’s nothing.’
‘Could it have been an accident? He was hit on the face and broke his neck in the fall?’
Ian shook his head. ‘I can’t see how he’d fall on his head. And look at this.’
He lifted the right arm and showed Kubu the wrist, which was badly bruised.
Kubu looked carefully at the damage and nodded.
‘He also has a distal radial fracture,’ Ian added. ‘That’s a broken wrist.’
‘What could’ve caused that?’
Ian shrugged. ‘Given how weak his bones are, a rough grip from a strong man might’ve done it. If you fall, that bone’s the one that breaks when you try to save yourself, but given the damage to his spinal cord, that’s very unlikely.’
‘When did he die?’
‘Judging by what Detective Sergeant Segodi said about the state of rigor mortis, probably the day before the tourists found the body. I can’t do much better than that at this point.’ He paused.
Kubu waited. So far nothing particularly strange had been revealed, but he was sure there was more to come.
‘He’s old, all right,’ Ian continued. ‘Bushmen always have faces like walnuts from all that sun, even the young ones. But look at the hair. Pure white. And his bones are showing signs of severe osteoporosis. That’s leaching of the calcium. It happens in old people and makes the bones brittle. That may be why that blow snapped his neck, and the radius cracked under a rough grip.’
Kubu nodded. So, the man was old. That was no surprise either.
Now doubt entered Ian’s voice. ‘And yet, look at this.’ He offered Kubu an unidentified organ in a glass jar filled with clear liquid. ‘Go on, take it. Look closely.’ Kubu did, then handed it back none the wiser.
‘That’s the liver of a young man, Kubu. Maybe a forty-year-old who didn’t drink. And then there’s this.’ He handed Kubu a container with what was clearly a heart. ‘That ticker would’ve gone on pumping for years. All of the internal organs are like that. It’s only the skin, the bones and the hair that belong to a seventy- or eighty-year-old.’
Kubu frowned. ‘How can he be forty inside and seventy outside? Could it be just genetics? He chose his parents well?’
‘I’ve never read of anything like this,’ Ian replied. ‘And here’s something else.’
He passed Kubu a Petri dish containing a blackened lump of what Kubu took for metal.
‘That’s a bullet, no doubt about it. I found it by chance when I got intrigued by the young organs.’ Ian paused and corrected himself. ‘The young-looking organs, I should say. It was lodged in one of the rectus abdominis muscles, a couple of centimetres below the skin. Probably pretty spent when it hit him, or it would’ve killed him. I was surprised.’
‘Surprised? Was it recent?’
‘Not recent at all. I was surprised because there was no scar. Nothing. I take photos as well as examining the body before I start the autopsy. I went back to the photos to check. No scarring at all.’
‘If he was a nomadic Bushman and someone shot him long ago, he wouldn’t see a doctor in the desert. If he didn’t die, he’d recover. How long would the scar take to disappear?’
Ian shook his head. ‘Never. The scar would never disappear. Certainly not without an expert plastic surgeon and proper medication at the time of the injury.’
Kubu was starting to understand why Ian was so puzzled. ‘Could he have swallowed the bullet or something?’
Again, Ian shook his head. ‘It would be impossible for it to get there from inside the body. And it’s badly corroded. It’s been there for a very long time. I’m surprised the lead didn’t cause him more problems.’
It was Kubu’s turn to shake his head. The Bushmen were strange people, and strange things happened with them, but a young man in an old frame, who seemed immune to bullets was another thing altogether. It didn’t make any sense.
Ian glanced at his friend and realised that Kubu had followed the same path he’d walked earlier that morning. He nodded slowly.
Kubu had had enough. ‘Well, let’s get out of here and go back to your office.’
‘So,’ Kubu summarised, after they’d washed their hands and disposed of the masks and gloves, ‘what we have is a very old man, apparently in good health except for his skin and his bones. He was killed by a blow to the head. And he was shot long ago, but that, presumably, has nothing to do with his death. Correct?’
Ian nodded, but said nothing.
Kubu brooded about it. ‘Is it possible we have the wrong end of the stick? Maybe he’s a middle-aged man, and had some illness that affected the bones. Maybe a nutrition problem? You said that Bushmen all have wrinkled skin.’
‘What about the white hair?’
Kubu shrugged. ‘Can’t that happen after an extreme shock of some kind, like being bitten by a scorpion or poisonous snake?’
Ian frowned. ‘I suppose it’s possible. But that doesn’t explain the bullet.’
Kubu was sure Ian had more to say. He leant back in his chair and waited.
Ian fiddled with his pipe and took a long draw. ‘You know I’m interested in the Bushmen, Kubu. Always have been. One of my colleagues at the University of Botswana told me about a visiting anthropologist from the US giving a seminar on what he called the ‘oral memory’ of the Bushman peoples. I wasn’t all that taken with the topic, but went along to see what he was talking about.
‘What made me think of it now was his story about a certain Bushman he’d met. He said the Bushman was a great raconteur of stories about historical events that had happened to his people. He’d tell them in the first person – as though he’d been there himself. The stories changed a little with each retelling, but all the main points stayed consistent. The anthropologist was fascinated by this. He postulated that it was a way history could be retained by a people without a written record – that they learnt the events as though they had actually been present. He thought perhaps that the storyteller visualised himself experiencing events that had actually been seen by his father or grandfather – maybe with the help of a trance or drugs.’
‘It sounds as though that would lead to exaggeration rather than accuracy. I don’t remember any Bushman doing that.’
‘His suggestion was that only special men were selected for this oral memory task.’ Ian shrugged. ‘I said I wasn’t convinced. And he got a lot of questions after the talk, some pretty pointed.’
Kubu caught on. ‘You think our corpse in there could be one of the Bushmen he was talking about?’
‘I don’t know, but I got to thinking. If he was some sort of genetic freak – and you’ve seen the evidence yourself – then perhaps he’s a lot older than he looks. Maybe he’s around ninety or even older. So, if Collins’s subject was also that old, perhaps he was telling those stories in the first person because he actually was present at the events.’ Ian looked uncomfortable. ‘I know it’s far-fetched, but just look at the internal condition this man was in.’ He hesitated. ‘One of the stories he told the anthropologist was of a hunting party from what is now Namibia that attacked his group and shot many of them. Men, women and children. Disgusting, but we know these things happened. He claimed to have been shot himself, but it wasn’t a bad wound. I was thinking about that bullet I found in him.’
‘But the last parties hunting Bushmen were nearly a hundred years ago!’
Ian nodded. ‘Yes, Kubu, I know. I said it’s far-fetched. But still.’
Kubu thought for a few moments. Ian’s speculation wouldn’t go down well with an unimaginative, by-the-book type of detective like Segodi. And why would Segodi care anyway? There was no reason to think there was any connection between the Bushman’s age and his death. No reason, but intuition told Kubu differently. He understood why Ian had called him.
The two friends sat quietly, each lost in thought pondering the anomalies they’d just talked about. Then Kubu’s stomach announced that it was time for lunch. He grunted and climbed to his feet. ‘I’d just stick to the bland facts with Detective Sergeant Segodi, Ian. Let’s see what he comes up with. I’ll let you know.’
They shook hands, and Kubu took his leave. When he reached the door, he hesitated. He’d learnt over the years to take Ian’s hunches as seriously as his own. He turned around.
‘Is there a way of accurately estimating a dead person’s age? Like that Bushman?’
Ian didn’t reply for several seconds. ‘I’ll have to look into it. I’m not sure there is. How long someone has been dead, yes. The longer the better. But not how long since the person was born.’
‘Well, send the bullet to Forensics. See what they make of it.’
Ian nodded. ‘I’ll do that.’
Kubu waved, and left the pathologist sucking thoughtfully on his pipe.
Chapter 3
Kubu ate his lunch in his office. His wife, Joy, had abandoned her efforts to get him to eat healthy salads – which had only led to clandestine visits to local fast-food restaurants – and now supplied a lunch that included Kubu’s favourites in modest amounts. This gave him something to look forward to and at least didn’t increase his weight.
There was cold bobotie with sambals and a little rice, a salad, pieces of fruit and an energy bar. Kubu washed it down with a cup of proper coffee from a flask filled at home, and settled back in his chair, more or less satisfied for the time being. He would have liked a second helping of the excellent bobotie, but there was none to be had. He consoled himself with the thought that Joy would cook something special for Amantle’s visit, and that they’d enjoy a glass or two of wine with it.
There was a perfunctory knock on the door and, almost before he could respond, Detective Samantha Khama was in his office.
‘I won’t have it, Kubu. I’m going to see the director right now, and I expect you to back me up.’ She looked at the debris of Kubu’s meal. ‘Even if it is lunchtime,’ she added with a hint of sarcasm.
Kubu sighed. Samantha was a fine junior detective – until something upset her. Then there was no holding her back.
‘Sit down, Samantha. What’s happened? Would you like a coffee? Joy makes it for me from real beans.’
Samantha settled into a seat, but declined the coffee. ‘Kubu, you know I’ve been pushing for the police to take crimes against women much more seriously, and particularly crimes against young girls. But you also know how male dominated the CID is, and how no one really cares anyway. I’m sure Detective Sergeant Seleke beats his wife, but the director turns a blind eye to it!’ She paused, but rushed on before Kubu could respond. ‘There’s rape and domestic abuse everywhere! And girls just vanish, often taken by witch doctors for their muti potions. What’s worse is that half the people in this office are scared of the very witch doctors who’re behind everything. Well, this is the last straw!’ She tossed a report onto Kubu’s desk.
He picked it up and read it, but was none the wiser about Samantha’s agitation.
‘It’s a missing persons report,’ he said. ‘A certain Botlele Ramala is reported missing by his wife. What’s the matter? I don’t get it.’
‘Haven’t you heard of Kgosi Ramala, Kubu? He’s a witch doctor! He calls himself a chief among witch doctors and promises to prolong life and heaven knows what else. Guess what he uses to try to do that. Muti, of course. We’ve been watching him, but haven’t been able to connect him to anything illegal so far.’
‘Well, even a witch doctor can go missing,’ Kubu said mildly. He shrugged. ‘Maybe he got into a disagreement with a competitor – another witch doctor.’
‘That Detective Sergeant Seleke just came to my office and said: “Here you are, my girl. You’re interested in disappearances.” I’m not his girl!’ Samantha paused for breath. ‘I know he sneers at me behind my back and makes nasty remarks. And now he expects me to investigate a missing witch doctor who’s probably off kidnapping some girl, or worse.’
Kubu sighed and spread his hands on his desk. Seleke did go out of his way to bait Samantha, and taking her the missing witch doctor report probably was his idea of a joke.
He tried to defuse the situation. ‘Samantha, calm down. Everyone has instructions to let you see copies of missing persons reports. At your request. And that’s been great, letting you get on top of the cases while they’re warm enough to follow. This Ramala has been missing since yesterday. He didn’t come home and didn’t have any plans to be away. He may not be your favourite person, but we have to investigate it. He’s also a member of the public, and we’re obliged to protect him.’
‘You’re not suggesting I actually follow this up?’ she said indignantly.
‘Definitely. Wait till Monday, and if he hasn’t reappeared, look into it,’ Kubu said. ‘That will show Detective Sergeant Seleke that you take your job seriously and follow up every case. Then he can’t go around saying…’ Kubu caught himself and made a show of finishing his coffee. It certainly wouldn’t do to tell Samantha what Seleke reportedly said behind her back.
‘Saying what?’
‘That you don’t follow up cases against men,’ Kubu improvised.
Samantha thought about it. ‘I don’t care if Ramala is missing. In fact, if he disappeared for good, I’d be delighted.’
Kubu spotted a way to turn Seleke’s teasing to Samantha’s advantage.
‘Samantha, you’re missing something. You’ve been watching this guy and suspect he could be in on something really bad. Here’s your chance to investigate what he’s been doing, interview his wife, his clients! You couldn’t do that before. Now you can. You’ve got a legitimate reason to investigate everything about him: to try to find him. Detective Sergeant Seleke has done you a favour.’
For several moments, Samantha considered that. Much as she disliked Seleke, Kubu had a good point. Whether Ramala’s customers and colleagues would actually cooperate was less clear, but now she had a solid reason to ask them questions and expect to get answers, at least until the odious man reappeared.
Grabbing the report, she headed for the door. ‘Thanks, Kubu,’ she said with a rare smile, and was gone.
Kubu relaxed. He’d redirected Samantha’s anger towards the case. Even if she realised how he’d done it, a blow-up in Director Mabaku’s office had been avoided.
Kubu poured himself the last cup of coffee from the flask, added sweetener instead of sugar – another compromise agreed with Joy – and stirred well. Then his mind drifted back to the mysterious Bushman.
He turned to Google for help and looked up ‘longevity’. Wikipedia seemed to be the place to start. He found some surprising facts there. For a start, there were documented cases of people who lived to over 120. That in itself was amazing. Then there was the genetics issue. Kubu subscribed to the popular belief that choosing your parents correctly was the most important factor determining longevity. That seemed to be false. Only around 30 percent was explained by genetics, the rest by lifestyle choices, such as exercise, healthy eating and leisure. There was nothing about differential ageing of the organs of the body, though.
Was it possible that the Bushman actually had been present at the events the anthropologist had described? He tried ‘Bushman hunting party’ but this produced hits about the Bushmen doing the hunting. But when he added ‘German’ he was more successful. The last permit to hunt a Bushman was issued by the South African Government in 1936. That was eighty years ago and not impossible to fit into a human’s normal lifespan. But Ian had said it was Germans who attacked the Bushmen, so that would move the attack back to the time of the First World War, twenty years earlier, or even before that. On the other hand, many Germans had stayed in what had become South West Africa, so perhaps the attack had happened later.
As usual with browsing the web, time passed quickly, and Kubu’s stomach started sending signals that dinner wasn’t far off. He turned off his computer and wondered what Joy would be making. Soon he was counting the minutes until it was time to go home for the weekend.
Chapter 4
When Kubu arrived home, he was met, as usual, with a frenzied welcome from Ilia, their fox terrier, who jumped into the car and sat in the passenger seat, panting happily. Normally, the barking would result in an equally enthusiastic welcome from Tumi, their daughter, and Nono, the daughter they’d adopted after all her family succumbed to the widespread AIDS epidemic.
Joy should be back by now, he thought. Probably the traffic was worse than normal for a Friday afternoon. Perhaps there’s a concert in Gabs this evening, or a big football match.
He parked the Land Rover in the shade, spent a few minutes patting Ilia, then went inside to change into something more comfortable. He’d barely reached the bedroom when Ilia started barking again. The others had arrived.
Kubu walked out to the veranda and was immediately rushed by Tumi, who gave him a huge hug. Nono followed in a more reserved fashion and hugged him too. When Joy had parked, Kubu went to help his mother, who was struggling to climb out of the car.
‘Good afternoon, Mother,’ he said quietly, taking hold of her hand. ‘Welcome to our home. It’s so nice to see you again.’
‘Thank you, my son,’ she replied. ‘I never get used to being here without Wilmon.’
‘That’s not surprising, Mother. You were married for nearly forty years. How are you?’
‘I am well, thank you. Sometimes I feel very old, but today I am strong. I think the children give me energy.’
‘And how is Mochudi? Are you still happy living alone there?’
‘Yes, I am. That is where my friends are.’
‘The traffic was terrible!’ Joy exclaimed as she lifted Amantle’s bag from the boot. ‘It took us at least an extra fifteen minutes. A herd of cows got loose on the road. They were wandering all over the place. I’m surprised none were hit.’
‘And I’m pleased to see you too,’ Kubu teased.
Joy rolled her eyes and came over to Kubu. ‘I’m sorry, darling. I’m feeling frazzled. So nice to see you,’ she said and gave him a peck on the cheek.
It must have been a really bad drive, he thought. She’s normally so affectionate.
‘Let’s go in,’ he said. ‘I’ll make drinks.’
For dinner, Joy had prepared a delicious chicken curry, not too hot because of the children, accompanied by yellow rice, a cucumber raita, chopped bananas, and mango chutney – Mrs Ball’s, of course. It was one of Kubu’s favourite meals.
‘Eat up, Nono,’ Joy said, noticing that she’d hardly touched her food.
‘I’m not hungry,’ Nono replied.
‘You need to eat. You’ve had a long day.’
‘But I’m not hungry.’ She paused. ‘I’m very tired. Can I go to bed, please?’
‘It’s too early to go to sleep. You’ll wake up in the middle of the night.’
‘I want to go to bed.’ Nono was beginning to whine, so Joy said she could leave the table.
‘Remember that you and Tumi are camping out in our bedroom tonight. Grandmother is using your bedroom for the weekend. And don’t forget to brush your teeth.’
Nono stood up and carefully pushed the chair back into position. ‘Good night, Grandmother. Good night, Mommy and Daddy.’
They all bade her a good night’s sleep.
‘She must be sick,’ Kubu said. ‘She always eats everything. Maybe it’s the flu that’s been going around.’
‘I hope that’s all it is,’ Joy said quietly.
Kubu knew immediately what she was referring to. Nono had been born HIV positive, but had controlled the disease through daily anti-retrovirals.
‘Finish up your dinner, Tumi,’ he said. ‘And go and read one of your books. Then I’ll come and read you a story, but you must decide which one.’
‘Isn’t there any pudding?’ she asked.
Joy shook her head. ‘Not tonight, darling. But tomorrow I have a big treat for you. One of your favourites.’
‘Ice cream?’ Tumi shouted.
Joy shook her head.
‘Milk tart?’
Joy shook her head again.
‘That’s all I like, Mommy. I want ice cream.’
‘I have something special. A big surprise. But you’ll only get it if you go and read now.’
Kubu thought Tumi was about to cry, but he was wrong. She smiled, said good night, and trotted off.
‘What’s the surprise?’ Kubu was curious.
‘Malva pudding,’ Joy answered. ‘She likes it a lot.’
‘Is it safe for Tumi to be with Nono?’ Amantle interrupted.
‘My Mother,’ Joy replied, ‘we’ve told you before that Nono doesn’t have AIDS. She’s what we call HIV positive. She takes pills every day to suppress it.’
‘And what happens if she forgets to take the pills?’
‘She can’t forget, because I give them to her. If she didn’t take the pills, she could get sick. But I don’t think that’s the problem. She’s very good about taking them.’
‘You should take her to my traditional healer.’
Joy bristled. ‘They know nothing, my Mother. They are part of the problem, persuading people to stop taking the anti-retrovirals. That’s why so many people die. The witch doctors don’t understand the disease.’
‘They have served our people for hundreds of years. I do not understand why you reject them.’
‘My Mother, HIV hasn’t been around for hundreds of years – only about thirty. The witch doctors know nothing about it. And all they do is give bad advice. They should take a lot of the blame for what is happening.’
‘Something funny came up at work today concerning a witch doctor,’ Kubu interjected, hoping to nip the budding disagreement before it got out of hand. ‘A witch doctor has gone missing. And what’s funny is that Samantha is in charge of finding him.’ He laughed. ‘You should’ve seen her face when I told her the case was hers. You know how much she hates witch doctors.’
‘Who is Samantha?’ Amantle asked.
‘You must remember her, Mother. She’s the detective who was responsible for finding the witch doctor who murdered that young girl from Mochudi for muti.’
‘I remember her. But I don’t understand why she isn’t married and having children. The girls these days do not know what is best for them.’
‘And there’s a second interesting bit of news,’ Kubu said and proceeded to repeat what Ian MacGregor had told him about the strange Bushman. ‘It doesn’t make sense,’ he said. ‘Being shot and having no scar; being old and having young organs. Ian didn’t have a clue about what was going on.’
‘Some witch doctors live a long time – a few hundred years, I am told,’ Amantle said. ‘They take muti made from the leaves of a baobab tree. You know those trees live forever. Perhaps the Bushman was taking the same muti.’ She shook her head. ‘You cannot trust those Bushmen, you know. He probably did not pay, and so the witch doctor made him pay with his life.’
Kubu decided not to comment. He’d given up long ago trying to change his mother’s old-fashioned ideas.
‘You say he was murdered?’ Joy asked.
Kubu nodded. ‘It looks like it.’
‘Another murder?’ Amantle frowned. ‘What is happening to our country? Not long ago, we were peaceful with each other. Now there are many murders. Look what happened to Wilmon.’ She turned to Joy. ‘And even worse things happen to women. God is angry with our people. You must be very careful when you go out.’
‘I’m always careful, my Mother.’
‘Would you like some rooibos tea before you go to bed?’ Kubu asked.
‘Thank you, my son. That will help me to sleep. I am not sleeping well these days. I still think of Wilmon.’
And so do I, thought Kubu as he went to put the kettle on.
Chapter 5
On Monday, Detective Sergeant Segodi set out to solve the case of the dead Bushman, at least to his own satisfaction.
He started with the report from the pathologist in Gaborone, carefully working his way through the details, grateful for Ian MacGregor’s straightforward style. It seemed the dead man was in very good health for someone of his age, except for the extreme brittleness of his bones. The peculiarities of the organs held no interest for Segodi, and neither did the bullet, which obviously had nothing to do with the Bushman’s death. On the other hand, he read the piece concerning the blow to the face and the broken neck twice; the death could have been an accident or an altercation that went wrong. Segodi was relieved. Something like that could be dealt with.
It was time to pay a visit to New Xade to get more information.
He went to his police Land Rover in the parking lot and checked that it had been properly cleaned since it had been used as a hearse. It had an overpowering smell of disinfectant, made worse because it had been closed up for the weekend and covered only by shade cloth against the sun. He grunted, climbed into the vehicle, opened all the windows, and put the air conditioner on full blast. Then he drove to the service station to refuel. While he waited, he bought a couple of packets of cigarettes as gifts. He didn’t smoke, but he had no objection to the Bushmen tarring their lungs if they wanted to. Then he set out to repeat the long drive he’d made the previous week.
Soon he was following the road to Hanahai. Initially, it was corrugated and potholed, then became narrower but smoother when he turned east towards the Central Kalahari Game Reserve. It was uninspiring country. Scattered acacias, small shrubs, and patches of spiky grass were the highlights. The rest was greyish sand mixed with shards of the lighter grey calcrete. For some reason the donkeys, with no fences to inhibit them, preferred the middle of the road to the verges. At one point, he spotted an ostrich heading off into the distance, muscular legs pumping.
It took him nearly two hours to cover the 120 kilometres to New Xade, and he pulled into the small town with relief. The town was a discouraging mishmash of different styles – small concrete-block houses in need of maintenance, mixed in with thatched huts, some neat, some dilapidated, built on a framework of branches. People sat along the road watching their goats, or squatted outside their houses. Recently, some problems with drunkenness and theft in the town had motivated assigning Constable Ixau there as a community police resource. Segodi thought it was a waste of effort; in his opinion, the Bushmen would be best left to their own devices.
The day was hot, so he found a group of trees in the centre of the town and tucked his car into the weak shade. He climbed out, stretched, and went in search of Constable Ixau. Segodi found him in the single office that constituted the police station, taking down a complaint from a Bushman woman, who seemed extremely angry. The exchange took place in Naro, the local language, replete with a variety of click sounds. Segodi had no idea what it was about.
At last, the woman seemed more or less satisfied and left. Ixau apologised for the delay and offered tea. When Segodi accepted, he went to a small bathroom adjoining his office to wash a couple of chipped cups.
‘What was all that about?’ Segodi asked when Ixau returned.
‘The woman?’ Ixau shrugged, as he poured boiling water from an electric kettle on his desk into the cups. ‘She says someone has stolen one of her goats.’ He dropped a rooibos teabag into each cup.
‘And is that so?’
‘Probably.’ He didn’t seem to be very concerned about it, although the woman obviously had been. ‘I’ve been asking around about that man we found last week, Sergeant. I think I know who he is. His name’s Heiseb.’
Well, that’s some progress, Segodi thought. ‘You had pictures of the dead man?’
Ixau nodded. ‘I took some while I was waiting for you.’
Segodi wasn’t sure if he should be pleased or annoyed. It seemed the man had initiative, which he didn’t expect in a Bushman constable, let alone one posted to the middle of nowhere. He drained his tea. ‘Well, introduce me to these friends of Heiseb,’ he said.
‘Well, they’re not exactly friends of his,’ Ixau replied, ‘but they know him all right.’
Ixau drove them in his beaten-up Land Rover away from the central group of modern buildings to the outskirts of the town, where there were a few roughly thatched huts that looked as though they’d been built overnight and might vanish as quickly. A small group of men of various ages was relaxing under some trees, drinking from a calabash that they passed around. Although it was still morning, it was obvious from the animated conversation that the calabash contained something alcoholic. The youngest of the group was just a boy, but he took his turn with the calabash. Segodi frowned. He can’t be more than fourteen, he thought. He should be in school, not loafing around drinking.
