One of the men stepped forward, recognising Kubu as the leader of the three. “We are allowed to be here,” he said to Kubu in Setswana. “What do you want with us?”
“Of course,” Kubu responded. “We apologise for the intrusion. We hope that you can help us.”
“We cannot help the army.”
“We are from the police, and you do not yet know our request. May we come to your village and tell our story?” Without waiting for a reply, Kubu introduced the others. “This man is Mahongo. He is of your people and speaks your language. I speak very little and would make you laugh with my bad pronunciation.” Actually Kubu had picked up some Bushman words from Khumanego when they were boys together, but it suited him to appear very humble. And indeed his handling of the complicated clicks of the language would be an embarrassment.
“You speak very good Setswana,” he continued politely, “but perhaps some of your people would be more comfortable speaking in their own language. And this man is Mike, our pilot who flies the helicopter.” Kubu deliberately omitted Mike’s military rank.
The Bushman unbent a little. It would be inhospitable to turn these people away after the introductions, and he understood Kubu’s attempt to come as a supplicant. “My name is Tchixo,” he said at last. “I am the headman. You may come to the village.”
They set off across the and and stony ground to the watercourse a short distance away. When they reached the village, Kubu’s group were introduced to several of the men and invited to sit in a circle with them. The mood could hardly be called welcoming, but at least the Bushmen were willing to listen. Kubu used Mahongo to interpret; he had no idea who might be able to help and didn’t want everything to be filtered through Tchixo.
“We are searching for a man,” he began. “I believe this man might be a friend of some of you. The man’s name is Aron Frankental. He works at the diamond mine.” He waited for Mahongo to translate, but had already noticed some reaction when he mentioned Aron’s name.
“Why do you seek this man?” asked Tchixo.
“He is missing from the mine. He has been missing for some time. His friends are worried about him. The desert is not a friend to those who do not understand it as you do.”
The Bushmen discussed this among themselves for a few minutes. A very gnarled little man suddenly started talking animatedly, and Kubu was sure that he recognised the name ‘Hofmeyr’ in what the man said. “What did he say?” he asked Mahongo.
But the headman interrupted. “Gobiwasi is very old. Sometimes he walks already with his ancestors.” Kubu understood that this was an elegant way of expressing that Gobiwasi’s mind wandered. He was always impressed by the respect these people showed to each other. Mutual support was essential for survival. He bowed his head respectfully.
One of the younger men said, “Aron visits us sometimes. He is our friend. He talks about the rocks. He brings us small presents, as is the custom.” He looked with disapproval at Kubu’s empty hands. Kubu wished he had thought to bring some cigarettes. Unfortunately, none of the three of them smoked.
“When did you last see Aron?” he asked, to get over the uncomfortable moment. Once again there was some discussion among the group, but it was the exact date that was in doubt. When the answer came, it turned out to be disappointingly long before Aron’s disappearance. In the midst of the discussion, Gobiwasi said something about ‘Hofmeyr’ again. Kubu managed to understand that he had said that Hofmeyr was also their friend.
“Who is he talking about?” he asked. Mahongo spoke to Gobiwasi.
“He is talking about the Hofmeyr who had the cattle farms. He says he was a good friend of the Bushmen and stayed with them many times. He always treated them with respect. Not the way they are sometimes treated today by the farmers. He says this man is dead now.”
Kubu realised he was talking about Roland Hofmeyr, the founder of BCMC. Was this just another coincidence? Why did the Hofmeyrs always seem to be involved?
“Does anyone know anything to help us to find your friend Aron?” he asked. “Did anyone hear of him or see anything unusual?” He knew the Bushmen would know most, if not all, of what went on in their section of the desert. They considered this question, but eventually heads shook all around.
Kubu wondered if there was much point in going on with the meeting. It seemed that he would leave empty-handed and have to face Mabaku’s “I told you so.” Suddenly Gobiwasi spoke again. Kubu couldn’t understand, and he queried Mahongo with his eyes.
Mahongo shrugged. “He says that maybe the big bird took him, as it took Hofmeyr.”
Kubu was intrigued at once. It sounded nonsense, but perhaps it was not. The ‘big bird’ was probably an aeroplane; Gobiwasi would know what a plane was, it was just that his language did not have the word for it. Kubu asked the interpreter to get Gobiwasi to explain. The whole group became silent and focused on this wizened man of the desert as he told his story.
“It was long ago. I was the headman then, although I was already old.” He grinned, revealing hardened gums and the absence of teeth. “Hofmeyr was my friend. We would talk about the desert, and about its animals, and about the cattle. He came in a big bird. But one day the bird killed him. I saw it. It was quite small in the sky, and then it stopped singing. It was sick and started to come down. It made sounds like vomit. It moved from side to side.” He illustrated the motion by swaying jerkily and the engine by making sputtering coughing sounds.
“I thought it would find a place to settle. But then one wing hit the top of a tree, and the bird spun over and fell hard. It was quiet, and for a moment I thought it would be all right and stand up. I started to run. Then there was a big loud noise, and there was fire everywhere. Even the sand was on fire. How can that be?”
When Mahongo had finished translating, Kubu said, “It was the fuel from the broken wings burning on the sand.”
Gobiwasi nodded as though he had understood, but repeated, “Even the sand was on fire.” Kubu remembered the horror of the crash, and the devastating sorrow of his friend Angus, Roland Hofmeyr’s son. He wondered if this unlikely eyewitness had ever been interviewed about the crash. What he had said corroborated the findings of the accident report, but his words might have allayed some of the doubts with which the family had to live. With an effort he pulled himself back to the present.
“Ask him why he thinks Aron was taken,” he said to Mahongo.
But it was Tchixo who replied. “We’ve seen a plane flying here. Sometimes late in the day. It comes from there”—he pointed more or less to the north—“and goes there.” He pointed southwards.
Kubu got excited. “How many times? How often?”
Tchixo thought for a moment and said, “Perhaps three times we’ve seen it. But sometimes we hear it but do not see it. Perhaps once every two weeks.”
Of course there could be many explanations. It could be a plane going to the mine, or a well-off cattle rancher flying to and from his property. Kubu relaxed.
For the first time the pilot spoke. “How high was the plane flying?” This caused discussion, but the answer when it came was consensus. The plane had been flying low, very low. Mike looked at Kubu. “It might be that it was staying below radar. I’ll fetch the sectional map.” He headed back to the chopper.
After much discussion as to where and when they had seen the plane, they sketched a wedge on the map in which the flight paths appeared to lie. The direction was consistent with flying to the mine, but the mine was twenty-five kilometres away, so that wouldn’t explain why the plane was so low. In fact, if it was flying that low in order to land, the pilot thought that the Bushmen would have heard it doing so. They deduced an area—open to the south—where the plane might have been headed. Kubu badly wanted to have a look at that area, but it rapidly became large as the wedge fanned out. A lateral thought occurred to him, and he turned to Mahongo.
“Ask Gobiwasi where Hofmeyr slept when he visited the village.”
Mahongo did so. “Some
times here in the village in a tent. Sometimes at the farmhouse.”
“Where is the farmhouse? How far away is it?” But Gobiwasi just shrugged and looked bored. Kubu had a last question for him before they took their leave. “Why,” he asked, “did you think Aron might be on the plane?” But when Mahongo put this question to Gobiwasi, the only response was that they had lost their friend—whether he was speaking of Roland Hofmeyr or Aron Frankental was unclear. After that, he would say nothing more.
When they got back to the helicopter, Mike studied the map again.
“Look at this,” he said to Kubu. “The survey for this map was done nearly twenty years ago. At that time part of our area of interest was tribal land, but the rest was designated for commercial farming. I think this part of the country was abandoned about ten years ago, though; too little rainfall. There are some tracks marked here too. But they may be hard to find if unused for all that time. Still, we could try.”
“You’re thinking that if Hofmeyr stayed at one of the farmhouses, it would be near a road? And that now it could be abandoned? That was why I asked Gobiwasi that question in the first place.” Kubu really liked the pilot. He was smart and working on the police problem, not just on the flying.
Mike nodded. “Let’s have a go,” he said. “We’ve got enough fuel for a few sorties.”
In fact, it turned out to be relatively easy to find the disused tracks. Nature uses water to take back its own. Blowing sand helps but is unable to start regrowth on its own. They followed one track for about ten kilometres until well past the border of the wedge, but found nothing. Then they followed branches that went off to the south. Two just faded into the semi-desert. The third led to what had once been a dwelling. Its roof had collapsed, and all around it was dust-dry. There was no sign of any recent activity.
“We’d better head back,” Mike said. “Maybe this wasn’t such a smart idea after all.”
“Let’s try one more southern track,” said Kubu, unwilling to give up. As for Mahongo, he was managing to doze in the back seat of the chopper, despite the noise. Towards the eastern border of their wedge, they found a better track leading due south. The track faded out a couple of times but they managed to find it again by cross-searches and by flying higher. At last in the distance they saw a house. As they got closer, they also spotted a track leading towards the west—in the direction of the mine.
“Do a couple of low passes over the house,” Kubu instructed.
Mike obliged. The house was of the same vintage as the ruin they had seen before, but this one looked maintained. Surprisingly, it was two-storey; Kubu couldn’t imagine why one would build upwards with fifty kilometres of open space all around. It was built of brick with a galvanised iron roof. The gutters were peeling and some brick showed through the paint on the walls. A sign was mounted outside the house but they couldn’t read it. Some outbuildings—possibly barns—also had tracks running to them.
What most intrigued Kubu, however, was the sudden widening of the road as it passed the house. It looked cleared of bushes and somewhat flattened. It wasn’t an airstrip by any stretch of the imagination, but an experienced bush pilot would have no difficulty landing a small plane there. They circled over the house three times, but saw no sign of life.
“Let’s land,” said Kubu. Mike gave him a doubtful look, but said nothing, and brought the chopper to rest in the open area. They saw no movement from the house or the surrounding area. “How soon could you take off?” asked Kubu, imagining bad scenarios.
“Very quickly, if I have to,” replied the pilot, sounding nervous.
“I’m going to have a look around,” said Kubu. “You stay put here with Mahongo. Radio headquarters and tell them exactly where we are and what we are doing. Remain on the radio while I’m outside and keep the engine running.”
Kubu opened his door and climbed out of the chopper. He swallowed a mouthful of saliva, realising he was thirsty. Suddenly he noticed that his head hurt again. He recalled his huge assailant with a neat bullet hole in the side of his head. He recalled Kobedi beaten to death. He recalled fresh human meat eaten by hyenas. He was scared.
He walked over to the sign. It read, “Bechuanaland Cattle and Meat Company Limited. Private Property. Keep Out. Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted.” The same message was repeated in Setswana and Afrikaans. No one had tried to write any of the Bushman languages. The sign was in glossy white paint on a black metal board with rust around the edges. Some of the letters looked smudged. Kubu walked on the solid wooden door. It had a Yale lock and a heavy padlock on a lever arm.
Kubu walked around the house, feeling a flutter in his stomach as he went out of sight of the chopper. All the downstairs windows were closed and had burglar bars that looked impenetrable, but the upstairs windows were unprotected. There was no way into this house except to break in. Suddenly he felt the hair tingle on the back of his neck. He spun round and looked up. A single window stood open on the upper level with a vacant look, as though the glass had been removed. Kubu stared upwards for almost a minute before he started to worry about the pilot’s reaction to his disappearance behind the house. He quickly finished his circuit, and waved to Mike as soon as he could see the chopper again, to show that all was well.
Then he walked to the outbuildings, two sheds next to each other. The first one was obviously disused. The doors were open, and there was sand inside. Kubu went in, but found only a dilapidated shell. The second building was a different story. Again, a heavy padlock secured the double barn door. The structure had no windows, but Kubu found that by pulling the doors towards himself, he could open a small vertical crack between them, before the padlocked lever-arm prevented further movement. He looked through the crack with one eye and closed the other. He had to wait for the open eye to get used to the gloom within.
Inside, he could make out a vehicle. It was a Land Rover, and it was BCMC yellow. There were other items too, but he couldn’t make them out in the poor light. He released the doors and let them knit closed. Then he walked back to the chopper.
“Get on to headquarters, Mike. Ask them to send a light plane. It can land on the open area here. They should bring a Forensics team and a locksmith. Oh, and we’ll need a search warrant. This is BCMC property, but don’t mention that. Just tell them that we believe the yellow Land Rover we’ve been looking for is in a shed here. We’ll wait for them. Tell them to bring us some food and drink.”
Kubu climbed into the chopper and waited for his heartbeat to return to normal. It would be at least three hours until the police plane arrived. Meanwhile, he wasn’t going anywhere.
The flight attendant at the South African Airways business-class check-in watched her next client approach the counter. He was wheeling a suitcase and carrying a heavy carry-on bag. He lifted the suitcase on to the weigh station, then gave her his ticket, offered an attractive smile, and wished her good morning. She smiled back.
“Good morning, sir. May I see your passport, please?”
He dug in his shirt pocket and passed it to her. It was an EEC United Kingdom passport, dog-eared and well travelled. She first checked the name on the passport against the one on the ticket. They agreed on Angus Roland Hofmeyr. Then she held the passport up to compare the photograph to the face in front of her. It was a handsome face, heavily tanned, with a broad forehead below short, thick black hair, penetrating brown eyes, and good teeth showing through the persistent smile. He was wearing a short-sleeved denim-blue shirt showing off his broad shoulders. His pressed jeans fitted him well, but tightly, showing off strong legs. She felt a stirring of sexual interest.
Suddenly she realised that she was still holding the passport, and that her eyes were no longer on his face. She flushed and fiddled with the baggage tag on his suitcase to hide her embarrassment. I need a new man, she thought angrily, not this damn pilot who fits me in when he’s available and no doubt has a different girlfriend in every city. Soon she had all the formalities complete and had regained her compo
sure.
“There you are, Mr Hofmeyr,” she said, handing him his ticket, boarding pass and passport. “You’re all set. I’ve issued your onward boarding pass to George, too, and your bag is checked through, but you will have to clear Customs and Immigration in Johannesburg. As soon as you’re through Customs, just give the SAA staff your suitcase, and they’ll transfer it to your flight to George. Oh, and there is a lounge you can use here once you are through Security and Immigration. Your flight will be boarding in about half an hour. Have an enjoyable trip.” She smiled at him again, a little more warmly, and slightly less professionally, than before.
“Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.” He hefted his carry-on, gave her a friendly wave, and headed for Security. That was more of a challenge. His carry-on bag contained a laptop and other electronic equipment, and he had to convince them of the purpose and legitimacy of all the items. By contrast, the Immigration official just glanced at his maroon passport and stamped it without a word. He was glad to pour himself a gin and tonic and relax in a comfortable chair in the lounge. It was not yet noon, but he wouldn’t be getting any alcohol at the rehab in George. He might as well enjoy it while he could.
It was mid-afternoon by the time the BDF light plane arrived at the abandoned farmhouse. It brought with it sandwiches and cold drinks. Kubu felt revived after several fried egg and polony sandwiches and a couple of ginger ales, although the sandwiches tasted of dust. By that time the locksmith had opened the padlocks on the front door and on the shed, and the forensic staff had started to look around. Kubu went first into the shed, taking a cursory look at the vehicle. He didn’t touch anything, but he was certain that it had taken Aron’s corpse to Kamissa. The Land Rover was parked on the left side. Kubu noticed some oil stains on the right.
As he left the shed, he studied the tracks leading from it. From the right, tracks led to the road heading south. The tracks from the left all went the other way, except one that paralleled the ones from the right. The treads were different. Kubu went back into the shed and studied the tyres on the vehicle. They were Yokohama Geolandars—good for crossing sand.
Detective Kubu 01; A Carrion Death Page 21