Deadly Harvest Read online

  Eventually Samantha stood up to leave.

  “I hope you’re successful,” Kubu said. “Let me know how it goes. Come and see me anytime. Cases like this need to be solved.”

  She thanked him and left.

  Kubu sat quietly for several minutes, reflecting on what had just happened. The CID will never be the same, he thought. I just hope that what emerges is a better place.

  THREE

  KUBU GLANCED AT HIS watch. He had about an hour and a half before his meeting at Marumo’s house. He turned on his computer and went to get another cup of tea while it booted. As he walked back into his office, he heard the familiar Windows start-­up sound. Ignoring his e-­mail, he went straight to the Internet. Google is my friend, he thought as he typed in “Bill Marumo.” He had more than seventeen thousand hits in a fraction of a second. I’ll start with Wikipedia, he muttered. He picked up his pen and started to take notes.

  “William Mishingo Marumo. Born Maun 11/11/1972.

  “Only child. Father killed in mine accident in 1984.” Kubu wondered whether it had happened in Botswana or South Africa.

  “Graduated Maun Secondary School, 1990. BA (Honours) Political Science, University of Botswana, 1995. Member of Student Representative Council, 1993–1995, president 1995.” That’s where he got started in politics, Kubu mused.

  “Mochudi, January 1995: arrested in protests against alleged police cover-­ups in investigation of ritual murder of Segametsi Mogomotsi.”

  Kubu put down his pen. Now there’s a coincidence, he thought. Not half an hour ago Detective Khama and I were talking about the murder of Segametsi Mogomotsi, and now I read that Bill Marumo was arrested in the ensuing protests. He scratched his head. It’s impossible that the two are related. Still, he felt a niggle of discomfort. He really didn’t believe in coincidences.

  He continued to browse the numerous reports about Marumo—­newspaper articles in all of the Botswana newspapers, blogs, and even some coverage overseas.

  “Junior reporter at the South African Sunday Times, 1996–1998. News reporter Botswana Radio, 1998–2000, then Botswana TV, 2000–2004.” Kubu made a note to check what types of programs Marumo had worked on.

  “Joined the BDP in 2002. Elected to parliament 2004 representing BDP in Gaborone West-­North constituency. Left BDP 2008 to found Freedom Party. Charismatic speaker and fund-­raiser. Only Freedom Party representative in 2009 elections.”

  Kubu read some of the reports of rallies and speeches Marumo had given in his reelection campaign, as well as a number of editorial comments. Even after the election, Marumo had managed to stay in the public eye. He’d worked feverishly to support his candidates in two by-­elections, although both had lost badly in the end. In parliament he constantly challenged the government’s “same old way” approach, and he wrote a weekly column in Mmegi newspaper.

  There was no doubt that Marumo was getting a lot of attention with his attacks on what he called the BDP’s arrogance and lack of sensitivity to the plight of ordinary ­people. But even more than his attacks on the government, he was gaining supporters with his message of hope. He called for sharing the prosperity of Botswana, claiming that there was enough money to uplift all, to reduce the incidence of AIDS, to improve education, to create jobs, to protect retirement. His slogan: “Believe in yourselves, and we can change the world!”

  Sounds like Obama, Kubu thought.

  AS KUBU DROVE TO Marumo’s house in the upscale suburb of Phologolo, he hoped that the interview wouldn’t last long. He was feeling hunger pains and wanted to put them to rest. He was about to turn into Pela Crescent, where Marumo lived, when he was stopped by a ­couple of policemen.

  “Assistant Superintendent Bengu, CID,” he said opening the window and showing his badge.

  “Okay, rra. Please park on the street. It’s that house up there.”

  As though I could miss it, Kubu thought, seeing a crowd of ­people and two television trucks.

  Kubu looked around as he heaved himself out of his old Land Rover. An upper-­middle-­class suburb. Very little traffic. Nice trees. Secluded. A low probability that anyone would have seen whoever left the dog’s head, he thought. But if someone did see something, there was a decent chance they’d pay attention.

  He walked to the house and skirted the crowd, which was in a semicircle around the gate to the driveway. Marumo was standing on a chair, pumping his hand in the air. Camera flashes were reflecting off his sweating face. “Whoever did this—­they won’t silence me,” he shouted. “The ­people want change, and nobody is going to stop us.”

  Kubu walked up to a man standing behind Marumo and whispered in his ear: “Assistant Superintendent Bengu for a noon meeting.” The man looked at Kubu but did nothing.

  “Tell him!” Kubu hissed.

  The man pulled a piece of paper from his shirt pocket, scribbled something on it, and handed it to Marumo, who had paused to take a drink from a bottle of water.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, that’s all for now. Thank you.” Then he added sarcastically, “The government has sent its ace detective to solve this great mystery.” He jumped off the chair and extended his hand to Kubu. “Nothing personal,” he grinned. “Couldn’t resist taking a shot at the government.”

  “It sounded more like a shot at me,” Kubu replied without a smile. “Can we go inside?”

  “I’M REASONABLY FAMILIAR WITH your political career,” Kubu said after they had settled down in the living room. Kubu liked the feel of the plush leather chair that he’d lowered himself into. “Do you think it’s at all possible that the BDP would try to intimidate you by leaving a dog’s head at your front door?”

  “Of course. They’re very nervous about the gains we’re making. They’ll be in real trouble at the next elections if they continue to lose support.” He took a deep drink from his water bottle. “It was a BDP supporter all right but, even if you find who did it, you’ll never be able to tie it to the party. They couldn’t afford any connection to come out. That would be a disaster for them.”

  “Do you think the threat is serious—­you know, the ‘your next’?”

  “No. My party would tie it to the BDP. If it is the BDP behind it, killing me would backfire. Besides, it won’t happen.” He took another swig of water. “I’m well protected.”

  “You have bodyguards?”

  “Oh, no. It’s my destiny to be president. Nobody can stop that.”

  What arrogance, Kubu thought.

  “Is there anyone else who might want to kill you? Ex–business partners, ex-­girlfriends?”

  Bill shook his head.

  “Have you ever had an affair with a married woman?”

  Bill didn’t flinch. “No, never. That wouldn’t be good.”

  “Do you owe anyone money?”

  Again Bill shook his head. “It can only be politics related. I’m sure of that.”

  Kubu read through his notes and was satisfied he’d written down all the important facts.

  “When did you find the head?”

  “I didn’t. My girlfriend did. I was working out in the back room, and she leaves for work around seven. When she opened the front door, there it was. When I heard her scream, I came running. It was disgusting.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Jubjub Oteng.”

  “Did either of you hear anything or see anything?”

  “No. We were up at six, so it must have been left during the night.”

  “And the gate? I see you’ve got an electric gate across the driveway. Was it open?”

  “No. We always shut it at night. If the government spread the wealth around a little more, there wouldn’t be so much car theft.”

  “So, whoever left it must’ve climbed over the wall.”

  “That’s what the lady detective said this morning. They found footprints as well,
next to the tree at the gate. She thought whoever it was scaled the wall to get in and used that tree to get out.”

  Kubu frowned. “Lady detective?”

  “Very attractive woman. Didn’t ask many questions, but poked around and took a lot of photos . . .”

  “Oh! You mean Zanele Dlamini. She’s not a detective. She’s from Forensics.”

  Bill shrugged.

  “Well, thank you for your time, Rra Marumo. We’ll be in touch if we learn anything.” Kubu struggled out of the low sofa. It’s like a sports car, he thought. Nice to be in, hard to get out.

  “I think it looks like something that a witch doctor would do—­or someone imitating a witch doctor. You know, a spell for bad luck,” Kubu said. “Do you believe in that sort of thing?”

  Marumo smiled. “No, Superintendent. I do not. We live in the twenty-­first century now. That’s stuff of the past. The country would be better off if it paid more attention to accurate information than to the rantings of old men and women who think they’ve got special powers. Have you been to a kgotla? Chiefs and their advisers—­all ancient—­invoking the spirits to help them mete out justice.” He shook his head. “No, we must move our country into the present. Make it energetic. Make our ­people energetic, not lazy as they are now. Then the country will prosper. Everyone will improve their lot. Have a roof over their heads, and food on the table.”

  He can’t get off his soapbox, Kubu thought. I wonder if he’s still on it when he’s in bed with his girlfriend.

  “Rra Marumo, please call me if you are suspicious of anyone. Or if you remember something you’ve not told me.” Kubu shrugged. “But on the basis of what you’ve said, I don’t have anything to go on—­unless Forensics found something useful, like fingerprints that we can match. But I doubt they will, unfortunately.”

  Marumo nodded.

  “And you may want to hire a night watchman. That may be enough to scare off anyone who wants to do this again. Or put barbed wire on the wall and the gate, like your neighbors.”

  Kubu handed him a business card and shook his hand. “I hope something like this doesn’t happen again.”

  He started to leave, then stopped. “Please ask your lady friend to call me as soon as possible. I’m sure I won’t learn anything new—­but you never know.”

  As he walked back to his car, Kubu thought the chances of finding who’d left the dog’s head were slim. He shook his head. He remembered when politics in Botswana were clean. And that wasn’t long ago.

  “I hope this isn’t a sign of things to come,” he muttered to himself.

  FOUR

  BY THE TIME HE’D navigated around the crowd of reporters and was heading back to Millenium Park, Kubu was ravenous. Mabaku would just have to wait for his report; Kubu needed lunch. He settled for the Wimpy at Game City and had steak, eggs, and chips, but skipped dessert because he was pushed for time. Then he rushed to see Mabaku and was glad to find him free. He had to fetch Joy at 3 p.m.

  Mabaku glanced up from the paperwork that seemed to be swallowing his desk and waved Kubu to a chair. “What did you find out?”

  “Not much. I haven’t had a chance to check with Zanele, but there are no obvious clues.”

  “Do you think it was political?”

  “It was political all right, but not necessarily the BDP. The smaller parties fight even more bitterly between themselves.” He hesitated. “Frankly, I wouldn’t be surprised if Marumo set it up himself for the publicity.”

  Mabaku’s eyebrows shot up. “What? Decapitate a dog and leave it for his girlfriend to find? That’s pretty extreme.”

  Kubu shrugged. “He’s a born showman. He was performing for the reporters when I arrived. And we only have his word that his girlfriend, Jubjub, found the thing. I want to question her about that. He’s not at all worried, either. Apparently he’s destined to be president of Botswana. No one can stop him. Can you believe the arrogance of the man?”

  “Kubu, I know you dislike him, and I can’t say his politics appeal to me much, either, but he could become president of Botswana. We have to take this seriously.”

  Kubu nodded. “I’m going to follow up with Zanele once she’s had a chance to look through what they collected. And we’ll go door-­to-­door around the area to see if anyone saw anything. And the dog’s a mongrel. No hope of tracing it unless someone comes up with the rest of the body.”

  “Well, keep on it.”

  Kubu climbed to his feet, but Mabaku had a question on a different topic.

  “Have you spent any time with Detective Khama? I suggested she chat with you to get some guidance.”

  “Yes, actually I spoke to her this morning. She’s on the lost-­girl case from Mochudi. A bit much for a novice, I’d say.”

  “Maybe you can keep an eye on her. Mentor her a bit. Give her some tips.”

  “I haven’t really got the time to mentor a new detective, and I’m not sure she’ll listen.”

  Mabaku paused. “Is that how she came across? It can’t be easy for her settling in here as the only woman detective. She’s very persuasive and talked me into letting her take on that case, but I know some ­people wouldn’t mind seeing her in trouble with it. Give her a chance, Kubu.”

  Kubu said he’d see what he could do. He hesitated and then turned to another matter.

  “Mr. Director,” he said. “Is it true that Deputy Commissioner Gobey is retiring?”

  Mabaku stared at him for a few moments. “Yes. As of the beginning of June, I’m told.”

  “Will you be the new deputy commissioner?”

  “It’s impossible to know what the commissioner will do. There’ll be others in the running, too. I’m not sure I really want the job, in any case.”

  “You’re the best man for the job, Director. I’ll be very disappointed if you don’t get it. You deserve it.”

  “Thank you, Kubu. If I get it, it may open an opportunity for you, too.”

  Kubu looked at the sea of paperwork threatening to drown the director’s desk. “Thank you, Jacob, but I’m happy with my role as detective.”

  Kubu checked his watch and left in a hurry. It was already a quarter to three.

  AS HE DROVE, KUBU thought about Seloi, the young woman whose funeral he was about to attend. She was the older sister of one of Joy’s charges at the day-­care center and hardly more than a child herself. They were orphans; their parents had already succumbed to the same killer. Kubu fumed. How had this been allowed to happen? Why had Seloi not been on a stable regimen of antiretroviral drugs? Why had she been allowed to waste away before their eyes? What crack had opened in Botswana society for these unfortunate ­people to fall through? Now Seloi’s little sister Nono—­also HIV positive from birth—­had lost the last of her family and was alone in a frightening world.

  Joy and Tumi were waiting when Kubu arrived. He kissed Joy, and picked up Tumi to receive a big kiss and a huge hug around his neck. This, Joy would say with amusement, was the only part of Kubu’s anatomy that the three-­year-­old could reach around. Kubu would just laugh.

  Once Tumi was settled in the car seat, they headed to the cemetery. The traditional and religious parts of the funeral had already taken place; only the actual burial remained.

  “What did you do today, Daddy?”

  “I was at work, darling.” Kubu didn’t think Tumi would want to hear about a severed dog’s head.

  There was a moment of silence, and Joy took her opportunity.

  “Did you think about what we discussed, Kubu? About Nono? There’s no one to look after her, now her sister’s dead. She’s with a distant relative now, but they don’t want her. They’re very poor, and there’s no room, and they can’t afford another mouth to feed. They say she has to leave.”

  “I didn’t have much time today, darling, with all the fuss about Marumo.” He hesitated. “The socia
l ser­vices—­”

  “Will just dump her somewhere. She’ll lose her friends and the ­people at day care—­the only ­people who still care about her. That’s all she has left, Kubu. She’s only four. If we can just look after her for a few weeks, a month at the most, we can find her a proper home. And Tumi loves her.”

  “Please, Daddy. Please can Nono visit us for a while?”

  So Joy had enlisted Tumi in this plan, too. Well, he couldn’t deny that the child desperately needed help, and who else could she turn to?

  “I suppose we could do that,” he said at last. Joy leaned over and hugged him, and Tumi yelled with pleasure from the backseat.

  When the excitement died down, it was quiet for a few minutes while Kubu negotiated the traffic. Joy checked her watch. “I hope we’re not late for the funeral.”

  Tumi piped up. “What’s a funeral, Daddy?”

  “Where we go to say goodbye to ­people who’ve left us. Like Seloi.”

  “Where has she gone?”

  Joy said nothing. She’d had this all day; it was Kubu’s turn.

  “She’s died, Tumi. Gone to another place.”

  “Mummy says she’s with Jesus.”

  “Yes, I’m sure that’s right.”

  “Can we go, too? To Jesus?”

  Kubu glanced at Joy imploringly, but she just smiled.

  “One day, darling. Not yet. We’ve a lot of fun to have together first.”

  “Why must we wait?”

  Joy took pity on Kubu. “We have to wait till we are called, darling. Now let Daddy drive. The traffic’s bad.”

  THE CEMETERY WAS SEVERAL acres of grassless sand, with mounds in straight lines like soldiers on parade. The graves of the more affluent had an awning supported by a metal frame. A few had elaborate gravestones, but most were inexpensive wooden crosses. The area where the burial was to take place had many small mounds—­a sad reminder of the scourge of AIDS.

  There was quite a crowd of mourners at the graveside, many of whom had made the traditional walk from the girl’s home. Kubu and Joy greeted the few ­people they knew and took the opportunity to socialize. Tumi was somber, clinging shyly to Joy’s dress. She kept staring at the open grave with the large pile of sandy soil next to it.