THUGLIT Issue Twenty

by Justin Bendell

  At three o'clock, Munatsi went home, collected her 1963 Land Rover. It was a Series IIA, hard metal, cracked seats and burning steering, as it had been parked out in the sun. She rolled a cigarette using the day's copy of the Sunday Mail and smoked it as she drove out to Bluffhill.

  Detective Munatsi's Nokia 5110 rang as she sped along Lomagundi Road. She rolled down the window and flicked the last of her cigarette out, fumbled in her handbag on the passenger seat, keeping one eye on the road until she found the phone. It was Supt. Chiweshe on the other end.

  "What have you got for me? I'm taking heat from up top and fielding calls from Christians. Who gave them my number?"

  "Nothing yet, but I'm looking."

  "This thing has to be wrapped up soon or it'll come crashing down on our heads." His voice was gruff, that's how he dealt with stress. "What kind of lowlife murders a preacher anyway?"

  "You've got any news yet on our salaries? The khakis are getting restless."

  "How the hell should I know? I'm not in the Ministry of Finance. I haven't been paid either. They'll get paid when they get paid."

  The line went dead. A text had come in from her flatmate complaining that Munatsi had left Tata at the salon. She typed SORRY xx and pressed send. Detective Munatsi pulled up outside 21 Flame Lily Drive and honked her horn.

  A group of women dressed in black filled the living room of the colonial-style house. Those who couldn't find a place on the leather sofas sat on the white carpet. The men milled about in the yard, wearing somber faces. Detective Munatsi was sent up to the bedroom where the First Lady of Sweet Chariot of Fire Ministries, Mavis Miracle, was lying in bed. In Harare, the police were seldom the first to break bad news to the family, the well-oiled rumour-mill always got there first.

  "It's important that I speak with you. Time is of the essence, if I'm to find out who murdered your husband," Munatsi said, looking at the woman lying on the tear-soaked pillow, trying to decipher if this was real or an act. "Did your husband have any enemies, had he received any threats? Can you think of anything at all?"

  Mavis only sobbed louder, covering her head with the blanket. Pictures of the happy couple lined the room. The dressing table was split evenly, his/hers imported toiletries in multi-coloured bottles.

  "I'll come back another time," Munatsi said.

  "No, stay," Mavis said, speaking for the first time. She sat up, red-eyed from crying. The weave on her head looked like some dead animal was attached to it.

  "I will find out who did this. But I need your—"

  "Serving God was everything to Milo. His whole life. We met at the Prophet's Temple ten years ago. Milo had been a hustler, but he found God through the Prophet."

  Munatsi nodded to let her continue.

  "It was the Prophet, through God's grace who discovered Milo's gifts and he served as deacon for the Temple before God called him to his own ministry. If it wasn't for the Church, we'd never have met. There were many girls there, but he chose me."

  "I'm sorry to ask this, but did he have any girlfriends, anything on the side?"

  Mavis hesitated. "No, never. Not Milo, he wasn't like all the other men."

  "Did you notice any change in his behavior or anything unusual, out of the ordinary, different in the last few weeks?"

  "Elder Gumbo was stealing money from the Ministry, and my husband knew it. He was going to confront him today. If Elder Gumbo didn't pay the money back, Milo was going to call the police."

  "How much was it?"

  "Milo knew of forty thousand dollars, but it could have been more over the years. He decided to be merciful because Elder Gumbo was one of the first to hear the call and join our flock."

  The women in the living room sang gospel music that reached Munatsi's ears. She probed and asked questions, going back over several events. She didn't see a murderer in Mavis, but nothing could be ruled out yet.

  At dawn, Munatsi drove out to Emerald Hill to see Elder Gumbo. He was an accountant with a city firm, which is why the church had appointed him treasurer. If Pastor Miracle had exposed him, he would have been ruined, not only at the church, but in his professional life too.

  The three Alsatians in the yard barked as Munatsi honked her horn. A drowsy-looking garden boy in green overalls opened the gate for her.

  The maid gave her a cup of tea while she waited for Gumbo to get ready.

  "Is this really the right hour to visit, Detective? You could have called and made an appointment," he said, finishing the half-Windsor knot on his tie.

  "I apologize. It's just that I'm taking a lot of heat from up top to get this case resolved swiftly."

  "Then you should be out there catching the criminals!"

  "Is it true that you stole something in excess of forty thousand dollars from the church?"

  Gumbo stopped. He fiddled with the gold cufflinks on his shirt for a moment, collecting his thoughts.

  "This is Harare, lady, everyone's wheeling, dealing, cheating n' stealing."

  "But not everyone's murdering," she said, imitating his accent.

  "Whoa, whoa, hang on for just a minute. Do you really think…" His voice trailed off. He loosened his tie. "Look, I know nothing at all about it. I came in at the usual time, you saw me on Sunday."

  "Doesn't mean that you hadn't come in earlier."

  "I think I should have a lawyer here."

  "Only guilty people need lawyers," Munatsi said and realised her misstep straight away. He was far too educated and middle-class for that.

  "Am I under arrest?"

  "No."

  "Then you should leave. I will only talk in the presence of my lawyer."

  Munatsi nodded and stood up. She walked over to the door, touched the handle and pushed it down. Then she turned round and walked back in again. She reached into her handbag, withdrew a pair of handcuffs and said, "I'm arresting you for the theft of forty thousand dollars."

  Gumbo gritted his teeth and held out his wrists. In his arrogance, he'd overplayed a weak hand.

  The fuel gauge on the Land Rover was nearly empty. There were few cars on the road, the city was nearly dry of fuel. She had an allocation of state petrol at the VID, but at times like this she couldn't be certain she'd get it. While she was thinking of this, Gumbo in the back seat was speaking in tongues, praying for salvation. It made it hard for her to concentrate. Her case was a priority, so she could lean on Supt Chiweshe for more fuel.

  Her mobile rang and she picked it up. It was Nigel from the Herald.

  "Show me yours and I'll show you mine," he said. There was an air of excitement in his voice. "What's that noise in the background—are you slaughtering a goat?"

  She told him about Gumbo and the forty thousand dollars. It was a bone that would get Nigel in tomorrow's print. And now she wanted something in return.

  "I've got something juicy," Nigel said.

  "I want substantial."

  "You'll have to make up your mind about it. It turns out Sister Grace was getting a bit of divine loving from the Man of God. They'd rendezvous first thing in the morning, hook up before the service started. Turns out Pastor Miracle had promised her he was going to leave his wife, but when push came to crunch, he buckled. But get this—she's married, and her husband knows all about her thing with the Pastor. It's a crazy world we live in. I ain't never getting married."

  "You and me both," she said and hung up.

  She hit a pothole on The Chase, but the sturdy Land Rover just shrugged it off. Then she turned off onto Second Street Extension on her way back to the city centre. The side of the road was lined with commuters waiting for combis. A long-distance bus in front of her was belching out thick black fumes.

  Sister Grace lived in a modest two-bedroom flat in Zimre Park, paid for by the church. The building was a two-story affair, light yellow walls capped with a green sheetmetal roof. Munatsi approached and studied the spacious windows protected by burglar bars.

  She was craving a cigarette, but decided to hold off until a
fter the interview. She knocked, and the door was answered by a short man with whiskers for a beard. Munatsi introduced herself and was invited in.

  "My wife is just in the bathroom. Can I make you a cup of tea?"

  "Water please," Munatsi replied.

  The furniture in the house was modest, perhaps even secondhand. The only property of real value the burglar bars seem to have been protecting was a 42-inch LCD TV and a DVD player.

  "I hear you left the church," Munatsi said to the husband.

  He seemed timid, whiskers quivering like a mouse in a trap.

  "These things are best discussed with my wife. I don't know anything," he said.

  "Did you hate Pastor Miracle?"

  The man paused and looked aside before answering.

  "He is the Man of God. He has done a lot for us."

  "It seems he has," Detective Munatsi replied coolly.

  Sister Grace came in wearing a purple satin dressing gown and a towel on her head. She had a curvy body showing under the gown and moved gracefully, aware of her own sensuality.

  "Why don't you go to the kitchen and make supper and leave the grown-ups to talk," said Sister Grace. Her husband obeyed without protest. She sat opposite the Detective. "Have you found the killer yet?"

  Munatsi waited for the husband to leave before she asked, "What happened between you and Pastor Miracle?"

  Pastor Miracle had fallen for Sister Grace three years ago. At first it was chaste, affection between two people who were the pillars of the church. Sister Grace's renowned vocal talents helped bring the punters in. Detective Munatsi had seen her sing on TV and she admitted the voice was angelic. With his oratory skills and her singing they were a winning combination. Already people were leaving other churches to join them, especially from the Prophet's church where Pastor Miracle was known and loved. And once the new building was complete, they could accommodate thousands. Sister Grace said she felt a preacher like Pastor Miracle needed a First Lady like her to help carry the ministry forward. It was God's will that they be together. She suspected Mavis had set up the murder to stop them.

  Detective Munatsi let her speak, only occasionally guiding her back on course when she strayed. For a cop, it was always good when the suspect was a talker. A lot could be gleaned from their words.

  The Land Rover had a puncture on Harare Drive. Detective Munatsi pulled into a bus stop shaded by tall eucalyptus trees whose scent filled the air. The front left tire had been pierced by a screw. It was a slow puncture and she might have been traveling on it for days before she realized there was a problem.

  She took off her jacket and threw it back in the car through the open window. Then she rolled up the sleeves of her white shirt, went to the boot and brought out the jack. She found two large rocks nearby to wedge under the rear tires in case the handbrake failed.

  The spare wheel was heavy and she had to carry it against her chest, ruining her shirt. Her mind was on the case, even as she knelt on the dirt and set about loosening the bolts on the wheel. It took all her strength because they were tight.

  Her phone rang, she stopped, checked the number, and only picked it up when she saw it was Billy.

  "Hello… no prints on the shell you say… that's a rare model though. Run a check on the database see who owns that type of firearm legally. I bet there wouldn't be more than two dozen in the whole country… You're always way ahead of me… Yep… Well, guess where I am. I was on my way there anyway, but you've given me more ammunition… Thanks Billy, I owe you one… No, I haven't been paid yet… Bye, bye, okay, bye."

  A Santana pulled up just as she finished changing the tire. The Santanas were an inferior Spanish-made 4x4 vehicle the government had bought in the nineties. They couldn't stand the terrain and had started breaking down at a phenomenal rate. The few that remained on the road were chimeras made out of cannibalized parts. The constable inside had seen her government plates and decided to stop.

  "Masikati. Let me help you with that," he said.

  "Here, take this." She gave him the punctured tire to put in the boot and lowered the jack. "Which unit are you with?"

  "I'm at the dog section."

  Munatsi snorted. She felt a bit of condescension for that arm of the force. In her mind, they were only good for parades and not much else.

  Once the Land Rover was back on all fours, she thanked the officer, dusted her knees and set off towards the northern suburbs.

  Greystone Park was a first-world country within a third-world country. There, Harare's wealthiest elites huddled together in incredible mansions hidden behind impenetrable hedges and tall walls capped with razor wire. The properties sloped off hills and manicured lawns ran alongside the road.

  Detective Munatsi pulled up to an electric gate, reached out her window and pressed the intercom.

  It took a few minutes before they let her in. The security guard had to check with his boss first. Munatsi didn't mind as she drove up the gradient towards a house she could never afford, even if she worked a hundred years including overtime. There was a C Class Merc, BMW X5 and a red Porsche, all in varying states of newness, in the carport where she parked her rust-bitten Land Rover.

  A maid in a yellow uniform complete with doek, escorted her to the back yard.

  Masasa trees swayed in the cool breeze as she reached the gazebo. A little removed from the swimming pool was a group of ten or so adults sipping on soft drinks, watching their kids play in the water. Munatsi became self-conscious of her dirty shirt and her blackened hands.

  "Welcome, welcome, Detective," said the Prophet.

  He was the centre of the circle. In his mid-forties, his immaculate hair was sprinkled with grey. He smiled, with charming dead eyes fixed on Detective Munatsi and pointed to a chair. His every move had the elegance of a viper biding its time.

  "May we speak in private?" the Detective asked.

  "Would you like a Coke, some Mazowe?"

  "It's about the murder of Pastor Milo Miracle."

  "Then I have no need for privacy. This is my flock, there are no secrets here," the Prophet replied, smiling still.

  His audience nodded. They were used to agreeing unquestioningly with everything he said. This was the inner circle of his church. His overseers, elders, the true disciples, wearing uniforms of Louis Vuitton and Jimmy Choo.

  "Where were you on the morning he was murdered?" Munatsi pushed away the glass a maid had placed for her.

  "Why, here at home, preparing my sermon. I work on Sundays, you know." This elicited a laugh from the faithful.

  "Do you own a gun?"

  "No I don't, why would I?"

  "Well, here's the thing. I know for fact that your wife has a rare Francotte 6.35 registered in her name. You're lying to me."

  "Detective, you asked if I own a gun. I do not, my wife does. Secondly, that gun was reported stolen after a break-in we had…umm, was that seven, eight years ago?"

  Billy had missed that. Munatsi sighed.

  "I have nothing to hide, Detective." His daughter, a pretty five-year-old girl in a bathing suit, ran from the pool and jumped onto his lap wet. He kissed her forehead.

  "Do you mind if I smoke?"

  "Not at all, air is free, cigarettes you have to buy."

  The man was charming and cold. His group fixed their eyes on Munatsi as she rolled her tobacco into a small cigarette which she lit with matches.

  "Pastor Miracle used to be a member of your congregation, is that correct?" she asked, blowing smoke in the air.

  "He was a hustler and a pimp when I met him. If I hadn't saved him, he'd have ended up in Chikurubi or a ditch somewhere."

  "He was very popular in your church."

  "We all loved him dearly. He was like a son to me."

  "Amen," someone said.

  "He was also poaching from your flock. He took a good many people with him when he left. He was muscling in on your turf. Next thing you know, he was planning to build a mega-church to rival your own. How did you feel abo
ut that?"

  "We were both tending God's garden. It makes no difference to me where people go, so long as their hearts are pure and they walk in the light."

  "He was the bright young thing, charismatic. You were afraid he would usurp your place."

  "If I am Moses, he was Aaron. Elijah—Elisha. Detective, I resent the tone you're using and the direction this is going. Milo Miracle was like a son to me."

  "A son who betrayed you. There were texts on his phone and records of phone calls between you two. Some very harsh messages passed back and forth. Shall I read them out to you?"

  "Look, I want his murderer caught just as badly as anyone. In fact, I have a good mind to pray about it right now."

  The Prophet set his daughter on the ground and stood up. His people all knelt down. The children in the pool came out and joined their parents, knees down on the grass or the gazebo floor. Only Detective Munatsi remained sitting, puffing away on her cigarette. He raised his hands to the air like the crucified Christ and prayed for the "killer of Pastor Milo Miracle, the one stained by the mark of Cain," to turn himself in.

  Detective Munatsi blew smoke in the air, studying the earnest faces lifted up to the heavens, eyes shut. The show went on and on and she patiently sat it out. She dropped some ash onto the grass.

  Her Nokia 5110 rang and she fished it out of her handbag, ready to turn it off.

  The Prophet opened his eyes and pointed at her. "Answer it, Detective!" he cried out.

  She checked the screen and saw it was Superintendent Chiweshe.

  "Hello."

  "Munatsi, where are you?" Supt. Chiweshe asked.

  "In Greystone Park."

  "Leave whatever it is you're doing. There's been a big breakthrough. We have the murderer."

  "What?"

  A smile spread out on the Prophet's lips. Munatsi frowned, confused by what was happening. She stood up and walked a short distance into the garden where she asked Supt. Chiweshe to repeat himself.