Facets of Death Page 17

  “There it is.” Kubu pointed out Motswedi. The free corner of the map immediately rolled up, and Joy laughed.

  “You hang onto it, and I’ll get some books to hold the corners down.”

  A few minutes later, Kubu was studying the layout. The road the robbers had probably taken from the Sejelo roadblock led to Otse, and from there it wasn’t far to the border. Motswedi was nearby on the South African side. It all made sense.

  “Can I borrow this?”

  “I’m not supposed to…but I’m sure it will be safe with you, Detective Sergeant.”

  “Oh, call me Kubu. Everyone does,” Kubu blurted. He was simply so used to telling everyone that, he didn’t think twice. He expected her to laugh at him, but she just smiled.

  “Okay, Kubu. Please bring it back as soon as you’re finished with it.”

  Kubu thanked her and beat a hasty retreat, clutching the map.

  Chapter 63

  On the way back to his office, he looked in on Miriam and discovered that the fax had arrived.

  She’d used a guillotine to cut the glossy roll into separate pages that she’d stapled together. It was quite a thick wad.

  She handed him the document. “I tried to call a couple of times. The director said I should give it to Assistant Superintendent Mabaku. He said I should give it to you, but you’re to leave it with me as soon as you’ve finished reading it.”

  Kubu nodded, thanked her for her trouble, and moved towards the door.

  “Oh, Kubu,” she called him back. “Assistant Superintendent Mabaku left this for you also. He said you’d probably need it.” She held out a sealed envelope.

  Kubu thanked her again and made his way back to his office. He was keen to get into the report, so he set the envelope aside and turned to the fax.

  The first part concerned what the South African police had found out about the dead robbers. They were all South Africans who had been members of uMkhonto weSizwe, the armed wing of the African National Congress. Venter noted that there were several cases of jobless freedom fighters turning to crime. “Won the war but lost themselves,” as he put it. Two of the men already had records, one for assault and one for burglary, but nothing really serious.

  Kubu was more interested in what Venter had discovered at Motswedi. One could criticise his methods, but Venter had recovered a lot of money in South African rands and a couple of automatic weapons that hadn’t been turned in after the ambush. He also gave detailed directions to the spot in the border fence where the robbers had crossed. Apparently it was a hidden makeshift gate in the fence where smugglers could come and go. The colonel had secured it again but pointed out that anyone with a pair of wire cutters could get through almost anywhere.

  Kubu worked out roughly where the gate had been, using his map. Again, it seemed to fit with a direct route from Sejelo into South Africa.

  There’s one thing that doesn’t quite fit, he thought. The robbers went through the border the night after the robbery. Probably they’d spent the night of the robbery somewhere around Otse, then crossed the next night. And I’ll bet that was when they emptied the box of its cargo of diamonds.

  Suddenly he felt excited. Mabaku had handed him a plum assignment. If he could pull it off, he might even break the case. As soon as he’d finished a careful study of the report, he asked the switchboard to connect him to the number given at the top of the fax, and soon he had Colonel Venter on the line. He explained who he was, and Venter repeated that he was happy to answer any questions. Kubu asked about a few unclear points in the report, and then came to the issue that most concerned him.

  “Colonel, you mention that the Motswedi police acted on a tip from a reliable source. Could you tell me who that was and how to contact him? I think he may know some key facts about the robbers.”

  “Nee, jong,” Venter responded. “It’s not so easy. The Motswedi lot trust this man, and he’s given them some good tips before, but all he’d say to me was that it came from one of your people, a man in Botswana. I said I wanted to know who that was, but he was shit-scared. I told him the sjambok would get it out of him fast, but no dice, hey. Man, he was more scared of this Botswana kêrel than he was of me.” From the tone of his voice, he took that as a personal insult. “And now the fokker has disappeared altogether.”

  Kubu’s heart sank. He’d been sure that the informant would be the link to the diamonds.

  “Do you think it might be the local chief or some powerful person in Otse? He might be scared of someone like that.”

  Venter thought for a moment. “He’d be more scared of me than someone like that! But remember that thing tied on the diamond box? My guess is it’s the witch doctor thing. That’s what he’s so piss-scared of.”

  They talked for a short while longer, but Kubu realised Venter was almost certainly right. He thanked the colonel and then disconnected. He’d come full circle back to the witch doctor. With a sigh, he reached for Mabaku’s envelope and opened it. Inside was a set of photographs. Several were of the contents of the package that had been given to the pilot, and several more were of the fetish from the diamond transport box.

  * * *

  After he’d returned Venter’s report to Miriam and digested his conversation with the SAPS colonel, Kubu realised that he needed to know more about witch doctors, and that reminded him of the name his father had given him the night before. He dug out the slip of paper. There was a single name, Katlego, so he assumed it was a surname. Below it was a telephone number. He called it, and when it was answered, he went into his official routine. “Rra Katlego? This is Detective Sergeant David Bengu.” As usual, he enjoyed the ring of that statement. “I’m making enquiries about a certain witch doctor, and—” He broke off, realising that the line was dead. The person on the other end had hung up.

  After a moment’s thought, he decided that his approach had been too officious. He redialled the number and tried again.

  “Rra Katlego, this is David Bengu again. I’m Wilmon Bengu’s son. He gave me your number and said you might be willing to help me with a problem. It is a police matter, but I’m really asking personally for your help and advice if you’d be kind enough to spare me a little time.”

  There was a long silence, but at least the line remained open. Finally, he heard a deep voice. “I am Katlego. Meet me in an hour at Africa Mall.” There was a click, and the line went dead.

  Kubu put down the phone. Katlego meant success, and Kubu wondered if it was the man’s real name or one chosen to give his clients confidence. And how were they to meet at Africa Mall? Africa Mall was a sprawl of shops in the centre of Gaborone. How would he find the right man?

  “Well,” he said aloud, “maybe I must just hope that he has the power to find me.” He meant it flippantly, but the idea gave him a most uncomfortable feeling.

  Chapter 64

  An hour later, he arrived at Africa Mall. With no address to go to, he stood in the main walking street surrounded by small stalls selling colourful tourist mementoes or brightly patterned fabric. There were hawkers galore, pushing their faces into those of potential buyers. “Best price in town. Good quality! Buy three, get one free.”

  Kubu growled at anyone who came too close and waited for something to happen. After a few minutes, a tall, smartly dressed man approached him and looked him over.

  “So, you’re Wilmon Bengu’s son. Okay, you can buy me a coffee. That café over there will do.”

  Is this a witch doctor? Kubu wondered. Somehow, he’d expected an old man dressed in animal skins, not a fit-looking businessman. From the look of the man’s clothes, Kubu realised he was getting off cheaply if all he had to pay for was a coffee—assuming the man’s advice was any good.

  They settled themselves at an outdoor table. Kubu would have preferred somewhere more private, both to ask his questions and because he wondered what people who knew him would think if the
y saw him talking to a witch doctor. Suppose Joy came past, for example? However, it was midmorning, and his colleagues would be at work. He relaxed a bit, and Katlego smiled as though he knew the reason for Kubu’s discomfort.

  “Your father is well?” Katlego asked, after he’d ordered his coffee.

  Kubu nodded. “Very well, thank you, rra. He sends his regards.”

  “And your mother?”

  “She is also well.”

  “Good. Now what is this about?”

  Kubu explained the situation with the witch doctor and his fetishes, at least to the extent he felt was appropriate. Katlego asked no questions until Kubu had finished.

  “Show me the pictures.”

  Kubu gave a start, recalling that he had indeed brought Mabaku’s envelope with him. He slid out the photographs and passed them to Katlego. He studied them carefully for a few minutes while he drank his coffee, sometimes flipping back to a previous one.

  Eventually, he finished his coffee and passed the photographs back to Kubu.

  “These are Zulu fetishes. The first one is some sort of threat spirit. The second is a guardian. That makes sense with the box it was protecting.” He paused. “Avoid touching either of them.” It was said as a matter of fact, and Kubu felt a chill.

  “Did you say they were Zulu? How do you know? Why a Zulu fetish here in Botswana?”

  “Yes, I said so, and I do know. As for why Zulu fetishes here, I can’t say.” He shrugged. “Maybe your witch doctor needs others to help him with his spells.”

  “Would that be usual? To get help?”

  Katlego shook his head. “Of course not. That’s a silly question. How can a spell be potent if the person who weaves it does not cast it?”

  Kubu leant forward, interested. “Would people know the difference? I mean other than experts such as yourself.”

  “Probably not.”

  “So maybe this man isn’t a real witch doctor at all. Maybe he just uses this as a…a sort of disguise.”

  Katlego looked at him for several moments. “I see you aren’t stupid. Good. But let me tell you this. A disguise is clothes, or a false beard, stuff like that.” He waved at the envelope. “If you hide behind this sort of stuff, you will pay for it in the end and not with money.”

  He rose to his feet.

  “Good luck to you, David Bengu. If you want help again, it will cost you much more than a coffee. Give my regards to your father when you see him next.” He turned and walked off down the street.

  Kubu paid for the coffee and headed in the opposite direction back to the CID. He needed to look at the faxed report again. He wanted to check the tribal origins of the dead robbers.

  * * *

  When he returned to the CID, Kubu felt an idea playing around the edge of his mind, but he couldn’t quite pin it down. He spread the pictures of the fetishes on his desk and looked at them for a few moments, but it didn’t help. The idea wouldn’t crystallise.

  Eventually he grabbed his phone. “Mathew? Have you got a few minutes? I need your help.”

  “Now? I’ve got work to do. I’m following up the backgrounds of the Gaborone Cash in Transit guards.”

  “It won’t take long.”

  Neo sighed. “Okay. What I’m doing isn’t going anywhere anyway.”

  A few minutes later he walked in but stopped when he saw the pictures. Kubu waved him to a seat and explained what he’d discovered. Neo listened but looked more and more puzzled.

  “You’re saying these aren’t from a Tswana witch doctor?”

  Kubu nodded. “And maybe he doesn’t know much about the witch doctor business at all. Why did he give this to the pilot?” He indicated the picture of the decapitated crow.

  Neo suppressed a shudder. “So, maybe this man is from South Africa and maybe he’s not a witch doctor at all. So what?”

  Kubu said nothing for a few moments. “So maybe we’re looking for the wrong person. We’re looking for a witch doctor involved with the robbery. Maybe we should be looking for a robber playing the role of a witch doctor. A South African witch doctor. Maybe…”

  He climbed to his feet. “I need to ask Elias something. Thanks, Mathew. You’ve been a big help!”

  Neo shook his head and went back to his office, muttering that the longer he knew Kubu, the stranger he became.

  Kubu walked to reception and asked Elias for the file of old APBs. He flipped through them until he came to the one for Vusi Tuelo. He read it again carefully and stared at the pinched face that looked up at him from the sheet.

  The idea he couldn’t pin down suddenly came into focus.

  Chapter 65

  The drive south to Otse was hot, and Kubu was uncomfortable. He had all the windows open—the police Land Rover didn’t run to air-conditioning—and he often took gulps from a bottle of water he’d brought with him. But his mind wasn’t on the heat.

  In the first place, it was hard to keep his mind off Joy. If he was to get to know her, he’d have to ask her on a date. The thought terrified him. He was sure she would turn him down, but suppose she accepted? That was almost worse. He’d never been on a date and had no idea how to handle such a thing. Perhaps they could go to a movie, he thought. Then they wouldn’t need to talk much, and he wouldn’t make an idiot of himself. But if they didn’t talk, how would they get to know one another? Anyway, how would he know what movie to choose? He didn’t know what sort of thing she liked. No, he would ask her out to dinner. But then another problem arose. He didn’t want to take her for a hamburger at Wimpy, but rather somewhere classy like the Gaborone Sun. However, that was out of the question until he received his first pay cheque.

  With relief, he deferred the whole issue until the end of the month and focussed on the witch doctor instead. Colonel Venter had had no idea of the tribal connections of the robbers and had been uninterested in the background of the fetishes, believing it was all nonsense. Kubu thought so too, but the discussion with his father and his meeting with Katlego had changed his view of its significance.

  The best strategy seemed to be to start with the local police in Otse and see whether they had any suggestions. He also needed to find the spot where the robbers had crossed the border. Perhaps he’d pick up clues there.

  His stomach reminded him it was lunchtime, and as he reached the outskirts of Otse, he spotted a cheap-looking guesthouse with a few Formica tables lining the side of the road.

  He left half an hour later after an acceptable lunch, with a reservation to stay overnight. Fortunately, he’d managed to persuade the owner to put it all on account and to send the bill to the CID. Also, he’d learnt that the local police station consisted of a one-room office with a single policeman—a Constable Murewa from Ramotswa police station, but based in Otse.

  Kubu followed the owner’s directions to a small house in the town and introduced himself to the constable. He explained why the CID was interested in a witch doctor and why he suspected the man might be somewhere around Otse.

  The constable hesitated. “There are a couple of witch doctors in town, but they’ve been here for a long time. People respect them, and they don’t seem to do any harm. I steer clear of them myself.” He paused. “There is one other thing…”

  “What’s that?”

  “Probably nothing. There was a woman who came in here with a story of a witch doctor in a house out by Manyelanong Hill. She said her goats stopped giving milk, and she was sure it was this man’s fault.”

  “Did you investigate?”

  The constable shook his head. “Sometimes people make up these stories to get even with someone they don’t like. It was hot and dry. Sometimes goats don’t give milk.” He shrugged.

  Kubu fetched his map and spread it out on a table.

  “Can you show me where this witch doctor was supposed to be?”

  The constable had a r
easonable idea of where the woman lived, and thus where the man the woman had complained about would likely be. Before Kubu could stop him, he marked it clearly on the map. Kubu wondered how he would explain that to Joy. It gave him a sinking feeling. The constable also had a couple of tips for getting to the border road, but Kubu wasn’t concentrating.

  “You know the local pubs and guesthouses,” he interrupted. “Will you please check with them if they hosted four men on Monday evening, probably foreign and driving a white Toyota Land Cruiser?”

  “Sure,” the constable replied. “I can do that.”

  * * *

  Back in the Land Rover, Kubu headed out of the town in the direction of South Africa. The road rapidly deteriorated into little more than a cart track with the grass growing between the wheel ruts scraping the undercarriage of his Land Rover.

  Stopping from time to time to check the map, he eventually came to the road along the fence with South Africa. He followed it to the southwest, driving slowly in second gear so he could carefully examine the fence. Eventually he spotted a section where he could see that the wires weren’t tight and an extra post had been added.

  He was dripping with sweat, and it was a relief to pull over and get out of the vehicle, although it was even hotter in the afternoon sun. He examined the fence carefully. It was clear that the gateway had been there for a long time. Probably the locals knew all about it, he thought. Perhaps the robbers had entered Botswana that way also.

  His idea of finding clues there now seemed unlikely to him. Nevertheless, he scanned the tyre tracks on his side of the border, trying to make sense of them. It seemed a vehicle had pulled off the road and then turned back the way it had come. Perhaps it was lost, Kubu thought. But it was a strange coincidence to turn exactly at the illegal crossing point.