Deadly Harvest Read online

  Dikeledi didn’t recognize the man at the front desk, but she blurted out the story to him. He found the constable she’d spoken to earlier. He was eating a sandwich, and wasn’t pleased to be disturbed.

  “What is it now, Dikeledi? What do you want?”

  “Look. I found her shopping list! Where the road goes up the hill. That proves she was there and something happened to her.”

  The constable carefully examined the piece of paper on both sides. He shrugged.

  “Are you absolutely sure it’s hers? Anyway, she could’ve dropped it on the way down the hill in the morning. And even if she was on her way back, it’s only a few hundred yards from the shops. Maybe she threw it away when she decided she wasn’t going home.” He shook his head. But when he saw the girl start to cry, he added: “I’ll get one of the men to look around there and see if we can find anything else.” He pushed the list back at Dikeledi.

  Dikeledi grabbed the paper and left, hopeless, ashamed of her tears. She walked home up the hill with the list tucked into her dress. She knew that the list meant something, despite the constable’s dismissal. One day it would be important. Until then, she wouldn’t tell anyone else about it. Certainly not her aunt. Not even the boys. No one.

  It was several days before she had the courage to return to the police station. Again there was nothing new, and she forced herself to wait another week before she went back. The constable grew tired of her and became short and unhelpful. It was clear to Dikeledi that the police were no longer working on the case.

  A week went by and Christmas came. Dikeledi and Lesego had always celebrated together. In the past, they found happiness together with their small, secret gifts. But with this lonely Christmas, Dikeledi finally gave up.

  She knew she would never see her sister again.

  TWO

  IT WAS THE TUESDAY morning after the four-­day Easter holiday. Assistant Superintendent David “Kubu” Bengu drove to work with a smile on his face and a song in his heart. Actually the song was in his throat—­Rossini’s “Largo al factotum” from The Barber of Seville. He loved the piece with a passion, often startling other drivers with his slightly off-­key, booming rendition. In some ways he saw himself as the factotum of the Criminal Investigation Department.

  Just after passing the Game City mall, Kubu turned right off the Lobatse road into the Millenium Park offices of the CID. Every day that he came to work, he was grateful that the detectives had their offices at the foot of Kgale Hill—­a wild enclave with the city lapping around its base, a rocky outcrop of natural bush that offered walks with wonderful views and provided homes for baboons, small buck, and other wildlife. Not that Kubu had ever been very far along the walks; his bulk and general belief that the best exercise involved lifting something delectable to his mouth rather dampened his enthusiasm for clambering up the hill. Nevertheless, as he squeezed himself out of his old Land Rover in the narrow parking bay, he could enjoy the wildness of the hill above him and hear distant calls from the baboons.

  Kubu had spent a quiet weekend with his wife and daughter, and had particularly enjoyed the pleasure three-­year-­old Tumi had given his parents when they were all together on Easter Sunday. They were besotted by her.

  He had barely walked into his office, however, when he realized that the day was not going to be a quiet one. There were already four messages on his desk.

  The top one read, “The Director wants to see you—­immediately.” The word immediately was underlined many times. The director’s assistant was not shy about making a point.

  The second was from his wife, Joy, reminding him not to forget to pick up Tumi at noon for her doctor’s appointment. He felt a twinge of irritation. Stop nagging, he thought. You told me about it as I was walking out the door.

  The third message read, “Detective Khama would like to speak to you.” Kubu raised an eyebrow. Samantha Khama was new to the Criminal Investigation Department and the only female detective. Kubu had met her briefly when she joined the CID a few weeks earlier, but he hadn’t worked with her on any cases. Already the rumor mill was active, with ­people whispering that she disliked men and was possibly a lesbian. This was a dangerous reputation to have in a country where same-­sex relationships were illegal. What did she want? he wondered.

  The final message was in his own handwriting—­he’d left it for himself on Thursday afternoon, before the long weekend. It had but one word on it—­“Funeral.”

  “SIT DOWN.” DIRECTOR MABAKU was not known for his pleasantries.

  Kubu carefully lowered his considerable frame into the armchair that faced the desk. Mabaku took a folder from the stack on his desk and opened it.

  “What do you know about Bill Marumo?”

  Kubu frowned. Marumo was a charismatic politician who had defected from the ruling Botswana Democratic Party to found the Freedom Party. Disgruntled voters were flocking to him, and pundits were beginning to think that he could become a real threat to the BDP. But Kubu didn’t think much of Marumo, regarding him as an upstart with no respect for tradition. A crowd pleaser with no substance.

  “He’s getting a lot of attention. Swaying a lot of voters. Even Joy’s talking about supporting him.” He rolled his eyes. “And as for Joy’s sister, Pleasant, she and her husband—­they’ve actually joined his party.”

  “Who would want him dead?”

  “He’s dead?” Kubu gasped.

  “I didn’t say that! I asked who would want him dead.”

  “Obviously the BDP would be delighted if he went away. There’s no other real opposition. But they’d never do anything as stupid as that.” He paused. “I don’t know much about him otherwise. He may have some private enemies. Why? What’s happened?”

  “There was a dog’s head at his front door this morning. And a message smeared on the door in blood. Here’s a photo.”

  Kubu looked at the print. The words “your next” were scrawled across the door. The writer had obviously dipped his hands in the dog’s blood to write the warning.

  “At least we know whoever wrote the message wasn’t well educated,” Kubu said with a smile.

  Mabaku didn’t appreciate the joke. “I want you to dig around and see what you can find. Marumo will see you at his house at noon. The address is on the back of the photo. This had better not be the BDP’s doing!”

  “Has Forensics been there?”

  “Yes. Your friend Zanele Dlamini had her ­people there right away. She may still be there. The head was only found two hours ago.”

  Kubu heaved his large body out of the chair.

  “And, Kubu,” Mabaku growled, “this is very important. I want to know what’s going on. And quickly. Report to me when you get back.”

  “Yes, Mr. Director.”

  IT’S GOING TO BE one of those days, Kubu thought as he walked back to his office. How am I going to pick up Tumi, take her to the doctor, and be at Marumo’s house at the same time? I’ll bet Marumo will be an hour late anyway. Maybe I should get Tumi to the doctor half an hour early and hope he can see her right away. I may even be at Marumo’s on time—­fifteen minutes late at most.

  He shook his head. He knew it was wishful thinking. The doctor liked to talk about criminal behavior with Kubu and always dragged out Tumi’s appointments when he was there. If Marumo was on time, and he, Kubu, was late, Mabaku would banish him to a distant village like Tshwane or Shakawe, where he’d be far from his family and the food would be inedible.

  No. He’d better reschedule Tumi’s appointment for later in the week. Joy would not be happy.

  He sat down behind his desk with its orderly piles and picked up the phone.

  “Joy Bengu, please. It’s her husband speaking.” He held the phone away from his ear to minimize the noise of shouting children. Joy worked at a day-­care center.

  After a few minutes, she came to the phone. />
  “Hello, my dear,” Kubu said in his most loving voice.

  “Don’t tell me you can’t take Tumi to the doctor!” Joy’s voice was not loving.

  “Something’s come up, and the director’s made an appointment for me at noon. There’s nothing I can do.”

  “Since when has the director made your appointments? You know I can’t take Tumi today.”

  “I feel terrible about it, my darling. I hadn’t forgotten.” He paused. “Confidentially, a threat was made against Bill Marumo this morning. Mabaku’s given it top priority. I’m sure the commissioner is worried that ­people will accuse the BDP of intimidating the opposition. It could all blow out of control if it’s not well handled. I’m sure that’s why he wants me involved.”

  “Is Marumo all right?”

  “Yes. It was just a threat. I’ll tell you about it later. Promise me you won’t tell Pleasant. It’s really confidential at the moment.” Joy and her sister Pleasant were inseparable. They shared everything, sometimes to Kubu’s embarrassment.

  Kubu sensed the reluctance in her voice as she promised.

  “I’ll call the doctor and reschedule.”

  He heard Joy sigh. “I’ll do it,” she said. “And you’d better make sure that nothing happens to Marumo. He’s going to save this country, if anyone can. And don’t forget the funeral. You’d better pick us up at three. And you promised to think about the little girl. Will you do that?”

  “Yes, dear. I will. Thank you, dear.” Kubu was indeed grateful.

  BEFORE KUBU COULD SETTLE down, there was a knock, and a short, thin woman walked in, her police uniform hiding any hint of femininity.

  “Good morning, Assistant Superintendent,” she said. “I’m Detective Khama.” She extended her arm to shake hands, touching her right forearm with the fingers of her left hand in the respectful way.

  “Ah, yes. We met the day you arrived.” He was surprised by the firmness of her grip. “Please sit down. How are things going?”

  “Thank you for seeing me. It’s been a hard two weeks—­so much to learn. So much bureaucracy. I’m glad I took all those computer courses. I can see some of the older detectives really struggling.”

  “I’m one of them!” Kubu smiled. “So how can I help you?”

  “Rra, I’ve been assigned—­”

  “Please call me Kubu. Everyone does. I’ve had the nickname since I was about fourteen. A friend of mine told me that I wasn’t a David—­my real name—­but a Kubu. I was really upset at first at being called a hippopotamus, but soon everyone was using the name, and it actually made me feel a little special. I came to like it. Now I barely know my real name.”

  “That’s a nice story. As I was saying—­”

  “You’re older than most of our new detectives. What did you do before coming here?”

  “Ever since I was a teenager, I wanted to be in the police. But my family is poor, so I couldn’t go to university. And I’m small, so they didn’t want to take me as an ordinary constable. So I worked for seven years as a secretary in a law firm so I had enough money to get a degree through the University of South Africa.”

  Kubu nodded, impressed. UNISA was a correspondence university, and the degrees were challenging. Samantha must have been very focused.

  “That’s impressive. But how did you get into the CID?”

  “I made an appointment with the commissioner of police and told him I wanted to be a detective. He wasn’t very helpful at first, but when I pointed out there were no women in the CID, and the constitution gave women equal rights, he changed his mind.” A glimmer of a smile flitted across an otherwise impassive face.

  I’m sure the conversation didn’t go quite like that, Kubu thought. Maybe that’s where the rumors started. Taking on the commissioner of police!

  “We always need new blood.” He hesitated. “And new perspectives. I’m sure you’ll be a great asset. Now, how can I help you?”

  “Director Mabaku gave me this case. It’s my first. I’d like as much help as I can get. I want to do well, and everyone says you’re always willing to help. So here I am.”

  Kubu nodded. “Tell me about it.”

  “About four months ago, a young girl, Lesego Betse, disappeared in Mochudi. I’m told you know the town well.”

  “I was born there, and my parents still live there.”

  “I’m from there, too. Anyway, the local police never found any trace of her. After a while they assumed she was dead and cut back the effort to look for her. Then a bit later they declared the case cold and stopped looking altogether.”

  “Hmm. I wonder why the director gave you a cold case. He should’ve given you something straightforward to cut your teeth on—­a grocery-­store robbery or a holdup at a gas station.”

  “I asked for it.”

  Kubu stared at her for a few moments. “A cold case is the hardest to tackle, even for experienced investigators. You could be setting yourself up for failure.”

  “I know it’s a risk. But I’ve sacrificed a lot to become a detective, and I want to make a difference.”

  “And I admire that, Samantha. But sometimes it’s better to take things a little slowly. Take time to learn the ins and outs of the business. I was lucky. I hung around detectives while I was getting my degree. I learned more from that than I did at university. Experience really does make a difference.”

  “Assistant Superintendent, you’re a man. I don’t think you understand what it’s like to be a woman in a man’s world. All we ever hear is to take it slowly, not to rock the boat. You know what that means? It means men don’t want to change, and anyone who pushes, threatens their cozy lifestyle.”

  “Not all men are like that . . .”

  “Women who complain are branded as nuisances. I hear what the other detectives are already saying about me. ‘A troublemaker,’ they say. They resent an intrusion into their male club. How do you think it feels? I want to make a difference for women. To give crimes against them the same attention as the police give crimes against men. Is that unreasonable?”

  Kubu sat quietly, pondering the truth of what Samantha had said.

  “Kubu,” she said in a quieter voice. “I’m told you have a daughter. Do you want her to be a second-­class citizen? What if she wants to be a detective, and then is treated like me? Could you sit back and do nothing?”

  “Samantha, I appreciate what you want to do. But I think you’ll have more chance of success if you get to know the other detectives first and earn their respect. Then they’ll listen to you. Change is always a slow process. Nobody who joins the force and immediately rocks the boat accomplishes what they want. They get ­people’s backs up.”

  Kubu felt the atmosphere chill. “And I was told you would be sympathetic, that you weren’t like the others! But you’re the same, aren’t you? In favor of women’s rights in words, but not in action.”

  Kubu felt a flush of anger. Nobody talked to him like that, let alone someone new. She didn’t know him; didn’t know what he believed. Look at his relationship with Joy. They were equals. He took a deep breath. “I do want to help. I’m going to get a cup of tea for myself. And then we can talk. Can I get one for you?”

  “No, thanks.”

  A few minutes later Kubu returned. He opened the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a tin of mixed cookies. “I’m on a diet, actually. So I only eat these on special occasions. Welcoming a new detective is one of those.” He picked out his two favorites and offered the tin to Samantha, who refused. “In fact, it’s two special occasions, as you’re our first lady detective.” He extracted two more cookies. He carefully replaced the top and slid the tin back into the drawer.

  “I do want to help, so let’s get to work. I remember reading about the case you’re talking about. My mother was very upset. She thought it was another Mogomotsi case. You know about that
one? Segametsi Mogomotsi was fourteen when she disappeared while trying to sell oranges to raise some money for a church excursion. Her dismembered body was found months later.”

  Samantha sat perfectly still for several moments, eyes unfocused. “I know about it. It was also in Mochudi.” She looked into Kubu’s eyes. “The government was forced to call in Scotland Yard to take over, but never made their report public. Why do you think that was? Because high up men in Botswana were involved. That’s exactly what I’m talking about. Justice for some, a blind eye for others. Who cared that a little girl was murdered for body parts, when the reputation of men had to be protected. The same thing may have happened to Lesego Betse, and the trail is fresher.”

  What happened to her that makes her so intense? Kubu wondered. He made a mental note to ask his mother whether she knew Samantha’s parents.

  “We need to keep all the possibilities in mind,” he said. “With no word after four months, we have to assume she didn’t just run off. Someone abducted her. That could have been for a variety of reasons. It could have been for sex, or to take her out of the country and sell her as a sex slave. There have been cases of that. The fact that we haven’t found a body suggests that might be the case.”

  “Or it could be a witch doctor who’s taken her. For muti.”

  Kubu nodded. “In any case, this is how I would proceed.”

  For the next hour Kubu gave Samantha insights about undertaking such an investigation—­the ­people she should speak to, the evidence she could trust, the evidence that might be unreliable, and the hostility she would encounter, both from ­people she would question and from Betse’s family, who likely thought the police had not taken the investigation seriously. He also suggested that she check on unidentified bodies of children that had turned up since December. If she could find Lesego’s body, that would be her best break.