“Hello, Ian. Good to see you. Mr Botha here and a colleague of his found this body yesterday. Had the good sense to cover it with a tarp last night and left rangers to keep an eye on it. The hyenas were having a feast, it seems. I have photographed it and the area. I’m going to take a look in the dunes and leave you to do your work.”
Kubu motioned to Andries to join him, and they walked slowly to the top of the dune to look at the tracks. He agreed with Andries’ theory of a single vehicle that had come to the waterhole and then returned in the same direction. Kubu took a few more photographs, but decided that making casts of the tracks and boot prints would be a waste of time. They were too indistinct. He walked back along the tracks towards Kamissa for a short way, and then decided he had seen enough. He returned to the corpse to have a final word with the pathologist.
“When you’ve finished your dirty work, Ian, please have the rangers sift carefully through the sand to look for any more bones or clues and in particular, teeth. Also have them probe the area with a stick for any clothes that may have been buried.”
“Good thinking,” commented Ian without looking up.
“Why teeth?” Andries interrupted.
“If you look at the jaw bones, you’ll notice that there are no teeth. That is very unusual. If you find a skull that’s been in the desert for years, it usually still has most of its teeth, so I think someone may have removed them to prevent identification. I doubt if we’ll find any, but we must at least make the effort. I would appreciate it if you would help, both here and where the vehicle turned around.”
Andries was very obvious in his displeasure at being delegated to do the dirty work. He said nothing, but Kubu could see him clench his jaw.
“Also,” Kubu continued, “I’m going to head back now. Please wait until Dr MacGregor gives the word and then come back in the police vehicle. I’ll see you both back at Dale’s for supper. I’d better take someone back with me so that I don’t get lost.” Kubu selected one of the two nightwatchmen. The man looked tired and nervous, and Kubu thought that he might be ill and should get back to camp. Anyway, he had no intention of subjecting himself to another of Andries’ joy rides.
∨ A Carrion Death ∧
CHAPTER 3
Despite the unpleasantness of the previous afternoon, Bongani had enjoyed a successful day organising the game-count data gathered on his field trips around the area. When he returned to the university and obtained the QuickBird satellite data he had been promised, he would be able to register the data geographically and start making quantitative statements. Now he wanted time to catch up with his thoughts and then eat an early dinner. After that he would have the interview with the large policeman from Gaborone, who was entertaining the staff of the lodge by ordering Andries around. He would do what he could to help, but he really wanted to put the incident behind him and concentrate on his work.
As he walked back to his tent, he divided his attention between the purple clouds of the sunset and the myriad patterns of tracks in the sand. Long ago he had learnt to read the story of the past hours and days through marks in the sand. Here a wolf spider had left its scribblings; here a genet cat had walked a night or two before; here a jackal had passed within the hour, its tracks still mint.
Then Bongani noticed a new set of tracks on the path. A sandal print, but with a tyre tread of squares. Many of the locals wore homemade sandals cut from old tyres, with straps from inner tubes. Others resoled their shoes with strips of tyre rubber. It saved money, and the broad footprint worked well in the desert. However, he only knew one man who wore homemade sandals with this strange square tread—Peter Tshukudu. He noticed that the tracks went in one direction only. Tshukudu would be waiting for him at his tent. The path went nowhere else.
He stopped for a moment, analysing his own reactions. Surprise? Yes. Distaste? He wasn’t fond of Tshukudu, who held the low post of a new ranger, but seemed to be deferred to by others of the black staff who would normally regard themselves as his betters. Fear? He didn’t understand where that emotion came from, but it was present. Tshukudu had been one of the two rangers who had spent the night in the desert with the body. Only one had been needed, but no one was willing to do it alone. Perhaps his subconscious was playing games with him. He sucked in his breath and walked the rest of the way to his tent.
Tshukudu was leaning against the massive ironwood tree that supplied deep shade over the tent in the heat of the day. He was smoking a cigarette, but didn’t look relaxed. He still had on the dusty overalls he had worn when he was with the body. He must have just returned from the waterhole.
“Rra Sibisi,” he began politely, speaking in mother-tongue Setswana, “I need to speak with you.”
“I have an appointment with the police detective. Will it take long?” Bongani replied in the same language. He wanted this over quickly.
Tshukudu shook his head. “I need to tell you. That man out there.” He waved vaguely to the north. “He needs your help.”
“Who needs my help?” said Bongani, hoping that he didn’t understand.
Tshukudu said nothing, but fumbled in his pocket and withdrew a dirty piece of brown wrapping paper. He unwrapped it to show its contents, while Bongani watched with trepidation. It was a desiccated finger dislocated at the knuckle.
“That’s important evidence,” Bongani said, his voice a whisper. “You must give it to the police at once.”
“There were things last night in the desert.” Tshukudu shuddered. “I was sick. Like malaria, but not malaria. I took this when the other man was asleep. For the Old Man. I knew he would need it.” Tshukudu sounded frightened, and the digit was already wrapped and had disappeared back into his pocket. “After the policeman brought me back, I went immediately to the Old Man. He said I must show this to you right away. He said you must come to the Gathering tomorrow night, so that you can help this man.”
Bongani tried to protest again, but his mouth was dry and nothing came out. Tshukudu said something that Bongani didn’t quite catch about Kamissa being sacred or magic, and that it was very bad for the dead man to be there. The Old Man had told him this. Bongani must go there. The Old Man had told him this too. Then he asked, “Will you come to the Gathering?” Without any clear thought, Bongani nodded. Tshukudu started to walk away into the dusk. But he turned back and said, “Bring money.” Then he was gone.
Bongani went into his tent and sat on the bed, trembling. He would tell the detective. He would get Andries to forbid the Gathering. He would see that Tshukudu lost his job for tampering with evidence. But as his anger faded, he knew that he would do none of these.
∨ A Carrion Death ∧
CHAPTER 4
Kubu staggered into his tent, followed closely by the waiter with another two double steelworks. He was exhausted. He had driven six hours in the heat and dust and had also spent an hour examining the area around the body. And he had climbed dunes and wandered around in the sun looking for clues.
As the waiter put the tankards down, Kubu ordered two more. He drained the first two and set off for the shower. Fifteen minutes later, he emerged feeling much better and was cheered by the sight of more drinks. Dinner had already started, judging by the strange sounds that had come from the main lodge, emanating from what must have been a kudu horn masquerading as a trumpet. He settled into one of the chairs overlooking the waterhole and relaxed. Dinner could wait half an hour. He deserved a few moments of relaxation. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, ignoring the warning grunts of the springbok in front of him. Had he cared, he might have seen a leopard slinking through the grass and across the bare verge to have its evening drink.
Thirty minutes later he roused himself and dressed in a colourful African shirt, size XXXL, khaki slacks, a size even larger, and sandals. He examined the result in the mirror. A broad face looked back at him with a cultivated, slightly stern expression belied by laughter crinkles around his eyes. I need a shave, he thought, rubbing his well-filled cheeks,
but he couldn’t be bothered. The shirt had no buttons, and he didn’t tuck it in. It was cooler and less constraining that way, leaving a little extra room for expansion.
Satisfied, he headed for the dining area. A number of the guests looked around at the large black man who had come to join them for dinner. Kubu was sure that it was already well known that he was a detective investigating a murder. Since neither Andries nor Ian was there, he was shown to a small table at the far end of the room, near the door to the kitchen.
It was nearly nine when Kubu left the dining room. He had contemptuously rejected the mopane worm starter—clearly only there to titillate the tourists—but the springbok stew with local vegetables had been excellent. Apparently it was the chef’s speciality, and he had indulged himself with a second helping lest that worthy gentleman be offended. Now he carried a large brandy out to the lounge to join his coffee. So what if he was on duty, he thought. He had already been working for nearly fourteen hours, and there was more to come. He deserved a little something.
As Kubu was leaving, Ian MacGregor walked in, obviously recently showered.
“Did you just get back?” Kubu asked.
“About half an hour ago,” replied Ian. “I had to have a wee Scotch to calm my nerves. You are a rascal leaving me with that maniac Andries. He insisted on driving the police Land Rover!” His accent had thickened noticeably. “He was verra upset with you, bossing him around like that. And he took it out on me and the rangers.”
Kubu suppressed a grin. “Did you get everything you needed? Any idea when you will have your report?”
“We spent a wee bit more time sifting sand than we expected, but found nothing. Strange, those missing teeth! Recently knocked out, without a doubt; some of the roots are still in the jawbone. There are a few other things that seem odd too, but I don’t want to speculate now. It certainly looks like a murder, though. Killed by a blunt instrument to the skull, I should think. Anyway, I should have your report done the day after tomorrow.”
“Many thanks, Ian. I always appreciate your good work,” Kubu said. “I have to do another interview, so I’ll leave you to your dinner. See you in the morning.”
“I doubt it,” Ian replied. “I’m going to leave at six—before your rising time, I should think. Get the body to the mortuary as soon as possible.”
“Definitely!” Kubu said. “Have a good trip back.”
He walked on to the veranda and looked around to see if he could spot Bongani.
Away to his left sat a young black man, nervously sipping what looked like a Coke. He was in his late twenties, early thirties, Kubu thought. Of average height, lean but not muscular, he wore small reading glasses with no rims. He reminded Kubu of a black John Lennon. He was casually dressed in a T·shirt and shorts.
Kubu walked over. “I’m Assistant Superintendent David Bengu. Are you Dr Sibisi?” He addressed Sibisi in the vernacular rather than more formally in English, hoping Setswana would make the interview feel more like a chat than an interrogation.
Bongani stood up, shook hands, and introduced himself. “Bongani Sibisi.”
“I am delighted you have a first name.” Kubu smiled. “No one seems to know it. Least of all Mr Botha!” Kubu dangled an icebreaker, which Bongani accepted.
“Ah, yes. Andries isn’t sure what to make of me. But I think he’s a solid guy. Just a little old·fashioned in his views perhaps. Likes to be in charge.”
“So what are you doing out here in the middle of the bush?” Kubu enquired, watching Bongani closely.
“I’m a conservationtst doing research on animal populations and distributions. It’s related to carrying capacities in arid environments, so it’s particularly important for the Kalahari.”
“What are carrying capacities?” Kubu asked.
“Carrying capacities are the amounts of animals of different species a particular area can accommodate in reasonable health.”
“Ah. So why did you get Andries to take you out to Kamissa yesterday morning?”
“The Bushman people say that the Kamissa waterhole is a sacred place. They call it ‘the place of sweet water’. They say that’s why it’s the favourite place for all the animals. We’ve done some satellite imaging, and the vegetation is heavily overgrazed and overbrowsed there as a result of the high concentrations of herbivores around the waterhole. There must be something about the water that attracts them. I want to find out what it is.” He paused. “I have ordered much higher-resolution satellite data over the area for correlation purposes.”
Kubu had read about that sort of work. This fellow is clearly a respected scientist, he thought, if he uses such expensive technology in his research. He wondered if Bongani also had the common sense to be a good problem-solver.
“So what happened when you got to the waterhole?”
Bongani fidgeted with his glass of Coke, rattling the ice cubes. Kubu thought he should at least have asked for a twist of lime or lemon.
“Well, we saw the vultures circling and dropping down behind the dunes, so we went to have a look. Andries thought it might be some poaching going on, or maybe a lion kill. When we got there, we saw immediately that the kill was a person, not an animal. A hyena had been chewing on the bones. It was horrible.” Bongani took a deep breath and rushed on. “Andries thought it was a poacher, but I pointed out that the body seemed to have long, straight hair, which made it a white man. I also noticed that there were no clothes or boots to be seen. The only logical conclusion was that it was a murder, and the murderers had taken the clothes to avoid identification.” Bongani said this all in one breath and then gasped air.
“Take it easy, Dr Sibisi,” Kubu said. “This is not a race. We’ve plenty of time. Anyway, it seems that you should be in my shoes—you’d make a good detective.”
Bongani looked at him with his shoulders still taut and hunched. He was very tense, and not about to relax. Kubu wondered why.
“You said that there were no clothes or boots to be seen. In fact, there were no clothes hidden nearby either. I had the sandy area near the body either dug up or probed with a pole. I think we can assume that it was a murder.” He hesitated for a moment. “Don’t you think it’s an odd coincidence that the murder should be near the area you are studying?”
“What are you suggesting?”
“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m asking what you think.”
“Well, maybe it’s not a coincidence at all. Where there are lots of animals, there will be predators. That dry culvert is a highway to the waterhole. A good place to get rid of a body, I would guess.”
Now that, thought Kubu, is an interesting idea. It seems Bongani has the analytical skills of his chosen profession. Kubu was impressed. “That’s quite possible, I suppose. Is it common knowledge that the area attracts so much game?”
Bongani nodded.
Kubu continued. “How did you spot the vehicle tracks?”
“When we were standing at the body, I noticed that there was a different texture to the sand on one section, near the top of the dune. I thought it was strange, so Andries and I walked to the top, and we found the tracks. They’d tried to smooth them out at the top. I’m sure there was more than one man by the footprints.”
Kubu nodded. “Did you touch the body at all?”
“No. We’ took a big loop up the dune in case we disturbed something that might be significant. We did have to put the tarpaulin over the body, but were very careful where we stood. Our tracks should be quite obvious—all the rest were there when we arrived.”
Kubu nodded and smiled. “I’m impressed! Good job. As I said, if you ever want to change professions…” Bongani still looked tense, but managed a weak smile.
Kubu closed his notebook. “Thanks for all your help, Dr Sibisi. I’ve kept you up late, and it’s probably been a long day for you too. Have a good rest.”
After Bongani had gone to bed, Kubu beckoned a waiter and ordered another brandy. It had been a tiring day, and he didn’t have a
lot to show for it. When the brandy came, he took a sip, closed his eyes, and gently swirled it around his mouth. He loved its gentle sharpness, the hints of sugar and fire, and of course its delicious smell. He breathed in and out of his nose several times to enhance the taste. He sighed with pleasure.
That night, Kubu found himself over-tired. So he lay on the bed and tried to organise his thoughts. Bongani is a good chap, he thought, and very smart. He could be a big help. But what makes him so nervous? Some family or youthful indiscretion with the police? It seemed unlikely. After about fifteen minutes, he forbade himself to think about it any more. He needed his rest. As he lay with his eyes shut, Mozart took over, and he chased different tunes back and forth in his head. He even found his hand conducting an aria from The Magic Flute. At last he gave up and allowed his mind to return to the gruesome riverbed.
There were many important questions needing answers. First, who was the victim, and second, why had no one come forward looking for him? The third question was why the murderers had gone to so much trouble to make the body difficult—perhaps impossible—to identify. And the fourth question…but the fourth question eluded him. It had slipped out of his mind and taken even The Magic Flute with it. All that remained was the rhythm of his impressive snoring. Joy Bengu loved him dearly and missed him when he was on a trip, but when she went to her lonely bed it was with guilty relief.
∨ A Carrion Death ∧
CHAPTER 5
The next morning Kubu took the fourth question to breakfast: why had the body been dumped where it had been found—relatively close to a waterhole visited by tours from the game lodge? He guessed that Bongani had supplied the answer with his sweet-water theory. It was the perfect place to get rid of a body. The water attracted game. Where there was game, there were hyenas, and hyenas ate everything, including the bones.
Detective Kubu 01; A Carrion Death Page 3