“I won’t talk to them. Not the fat cats. They’re only after the money anyway, you know. As though they don’t get enough from turning their backs on children being murdered for dipheko. That’s what they want, just the money. Sometimes the dipheko too. That’s how they get to be big wheels.” He shook his head sadly at the evil of the world. Then he went on.
“I won’t talk to them.” He shook his head again. “Once they know where the money is, I’ll be dead meat.” He noticed the sideways look from Mosime. “They didn’t tell you about the money, did they? Some bullshit about me trying to escape from Gaborone? Why drive halfway across Africa?” He sat glumly as they negotiated the traffic.
“I don’t mind talking to you, though. Because we share a language, don’t we? A language they don’t understand.” He pointed with his head to the two-way radio. “And I can tell you are okay. You would be fair with me. I know I made a mistake.” He slumped again. The earnest young man said nothing and concentrated on the driving.
“I’ll tell you where the money is. How to get there. It’s close. I can show you.” Red Beard moved his hands, causing the chains to clatter and jerk, emphasising his helplessness. “You can be a hero, if that is what you want. Get fast promotion. Go work in Gaborone and fetch sandwiches for the fat superintendent.” The car had slowed down. The muscles in Mosime’s cheeks were tensed. He had yet to say a word. Red Beard looked at him like a father. “Or you could be rich,” he said quietly. “Very, very rich.”
The plane landed fifteen minutes late. The pilot radioed police headquarters at Kasane and asked for instructions.
“Welcome!” said a friendly female voice. “Constable Mosime will be waiting for you at the drop-off zone at arrivals. He radioed in about twenty minutes ago to say he was on his way.”
“Will he bring the suspect to the plane?”
“No, he is on his own. Please send your constable to the police van, and then both of them can take the prisoner through to the plane. I’ll tell him you are on your way.”
But the dispatcher couldn’t raise Constable Mosime, and no police van waited at the airport. They found it about an hour later in a small clump of trees outside the town. Constable Mosime was there too. He lay on his back with a bullet hole in his head.
The Toyota Hilux four-by-four drove unhurriedly out of the Chobe National Park exit gate at Ngoma. From there it headed south-west along the rutted dirt road paralleling the Chobe River. It was early evening, and the driver did not want to attract attention. His passenger seemed very nervous, tugging his ear and shifting his feet. Periodically he looked back to see if they were being followed.
Soon they arrived at the river. The passenger pointed to a smaller road, a track that took off to the right. Half a kilometre farther, the passenger pointed to some dense trees. The driver negotiated some low-hanging branches and parked out of sight of anyone on the river or flying overhead. The two jumped out. The driver pulled out a police-issue revolver. He waved it at the passenger. But the man stood his ground. “I want the rest of my money now,” he said. Red Beard shook his head. “When I’m safe across, you get money. Perhaps bonus. You don’t trust. I don’t trust.” The man looked sullen but led the way.
The two pushed through bushes and reeds to the river’s edge, where a mokoro lay hidden. It was a carefully seasoned hollowed-out log from a sausage tree, which would slip silently through shallow water, propelled by a poler standing at the back. Local tribes had used mokoros for transport in the area for centuries.
The passenger pulled it on to the water and motioned to Red Beard to get aboard and in front. Red Beard complied, handgun still at the ready. The other man pushed the mokoro out into the water, jumping on at the last minute, pole in hand. He was grateful the river was still low; when the floods came, the area would resemble a lake.
A three-metre crocodile watched, just his nostrils showing above the water. This was his patch of water, and he resented intruders. He wasn’t very hungry; fish were plentiful. But alone among the African predators, crocodiles regard man not only with fear, but also as food.
Red Beard scratched his developing red stubble, anxious to get into Namibia on the other side of the river. From there it would be a two-hour hike back to the Linyanti road. There should be a vehicle waiting for him there. It was a hundred kilometres across the Caprivi Strip, a tongue of Namibia licking Angola and Zambia, resting on Botswana, and with its tip touching Zimbabwe. The plane should be at Katima. That is, if they had managed to get out of Vie Falls in time, and if they hadn’t given him up as a bad job. He wouldn’t blame them if they had. But he’d still hunt them down. It would be a matter of pride.
The young black man expertly poled the mokoro around some sandbanks and rocks. He remained very nervous. The tricky part would come when they crossed the deeper water. But he judged it expertly and manoeuvred past the sandbank and across into the shallows on the Namibian side. Soon he had them into a backwater where they could pull the boat ashore.
The boatman was keen to get back while there was still some light. “You here now,” he said. “Give me my pay.”
“Yes,” said Red Beard. “And the bonus I promised you.”
The shot disturbed the roosting water birds, which took to the air with a flurry of indignant calls and screeches. The croc sank deeper in the water and waited. Then he swam over to the far bank to investigate the splashing of something big and injured in the water.
∨ A Carrion Death ∧
CHAPTER 76
The service was disappointing, somehow bland given the extent of the tragedy. The minister had clearly never met the Hofmeyr twins, and his comments, prompted by notes he found hard to read, were impersonal and generic. Kubu was glad when it was over.
After the service, the congregation gathered in the old graveyard in the middle of town, not far from the BCMC headquarters. Kubu and Mabaku drove from the church and followed the other mourners towards the open graves. Kubu caught sight of Bongani and waved, but the ecologist was soon lost in the crowd.
“The whole of BCMC seems to be here,” he said to the director.
Mabaku nodded. “They are probably scared of the future. Where does the company go from here? Does Cecil take over again? What of the will and the Trust? No one would want not to be seen here.”
People come to funerals for different reasons, Kubu thought. The staff for solidarity, friends to support the family, the family for closure, and the police to watch the mourners for clues. Many come for the food! No one comes for the deceased. They are already in other hands. Why had Bongani come? Well, he had found Angus’s body. Perhaps he also came for closure. Kubu, too, wanted to say farewell to his friend. He had accepted that there was nothing he could have done to save Angus. It had always been too late for that. He was glad that guilt was behind him. But Red Beard still eluded him—now with six murders to his name, they believed. And who, in the end, was Daniel? A code name for Red Beard? Kubu didn’t think so. A code name for Cecil? That seemed unlikely too. Would Dianna have been talking in riddles as she lay dying in the ambulance?
“Don’t worry, Angus,” Kubu said softly. “We’ll get them, Daniel and Red Beard, whoever they really are.” Mabaku glanced at him sideways but said nothing. Daniel meant nothing to him; he believed that Red Beard was the kingpin, and that Red Beard had long since slipped through their thinly stretched net. Botswana had over four thousand kilometres of borders. They had only caught Red Beard the first time by sheer luck. Now they had to rely on the unenthusiastic cooperation of the Angolan police.
The graveside services were short, one for each of the twins, who had entered the world together and now entered the earth together. The policemen couldn’t see what was happening—they were too far back—and only heard the words because there was a public address system. After that, most of the mourners offered a handful of the sandy soil of Botswana to the graves, and then started to drift away. Kubu and Mabaku were among the last. Once they had sprinkled their soil on the
already hidden coffins, they expressed their condolences to the family.
“Thank you for coming today, gentlemen,” Pamela Hofmeyr said. “Are you making any progress with this matter?” Mabaku assured her that they were doing everything in their power.
“At least you don’t think he drowned swimming in the sea, as the South African police did. Idiots. Be sure to let me know if there is anything I can do to help.” She glanced across at the open graves. “This is the end of the Hofmeyr clan, you know. All my children lie here now, and my husband. All died unresolved violent deaths. Roland wanted us all to be buried here. But I won’t be joining them. I doubt I’ll ever come back to Botswana.” She gave her brother-in-law a spare look. “Of course, Cecil may want a spot here when the time comes. He’s always wanted to match Roland.” There was an uncomfortable pause. Cecil broke it by stiffly inviting the two policemen to the Gaborone Sun for refreshments. Both accepted, and Cecil walked off without another word, the warmth in his relationship with Mabaku a thing of the past. Pamela was already talking to another couple, and Kubu and Mabaku moved out of the way.
“Well, I’ll see you at the Sun, then,” Mabaku said. They had come in separate cars. Kubu nodded, but had no intention of actually going to the wake. He wanted to be alone at the grave after everyone had left. But as Mabaku walked off, another man approached. It was Bongani.
“It’s strange, Kubu. To be next to his body again. It’s more dignified here, but somehow so public.” Kubu understood. They waited together in silence until the gravediggers had filled in both graves and built a mound over each. Then Bongani said, “The witchdoctor was here too, you know.”
Kubu had certainly not known, and looked at his young friend sharply. But Bongani seemed calm, even peaceful.
“He was dressed in his suit again. Looked as corporate as the rest of them! I bet they all wondered which division he was in charge of!” He smiled.
“He spoke to me, though. He said it was all right now. I didn’t understand, but he said the three were separate again—the drongo, the hawk and the eagle—even though they were here together. He said he didn’t see them any more. I think I misunderstood all along. I thought it was all aimed at me. But I was just the canvas on which his visions were painted.”
“Do you think this is the end of your witchdoctor visits, then?”
Bongani nodded. “I know it is. He wished me well and said goodbye when we parted. He never did that before.”
“Are you going to the Sun?”
“No, I don’t know any of those people, and they don’t know me.”
“Neither am I. Anyway, let’s meet next in better surroundings. Why don’t you come over to my house for supper a week from Saturday? About seven?”
“I’d like that. Thank you.” For no particular reason, they shook hands formally. Bongani walked off, leaving Kubu alone. For a while he looked at the two as-yet-unmarked graves, wondering which one was which, and how it had all got so confused. He turned away, glanced at the next grave, and then realised that Dianna and Angus had been buried next to their father. There was one smaller grave between. Casually he read the headstones. Then he read them again with more attention:
Here lies Roland Anthony Hofmeyr, beloved husband of Pamela and deeply mourned father of Angus, Dianna and Daniel
1939-1990
The headstone of the smaller grave read simply:
Daniel Henry Hofmeyr, beloved son of Roland and Pamela, and brother of Angus and Dianna
1980-1989
∨ A Carrion Death ∧
CHAPTER 77
Kubu was shown into Pamela Hofmeyr’s suite at the Grand Palm. She was drinking tea, sitting on the couch in the lounge area looking out over Kgale Hill.
“Sit down, Superintendent. Would you like some tea?”
“That would be very nice. Thank you, Mrs Hofmeyr. Milk and two sugars.”
She poured the tea and passed him the cup and sugar bowl.
“Now, how can I help you?”
“Mrs Hofmeyr, I’m trying to understand the relationship between Angus and Dianna. I don’t know how much you’ve been told, but Dianna must have been aware that something had happened to Angus, and she lied to cover it up. He was never at the house in Plettenberg Bay.”
“Superintendent, I’ve had a long talk to your superior, Director Mabaku, and I accept that Dianna not only knew about Angus’s death but in fact was involved in some way.” She sighed. “I’m not going to pretend I understand that. Not all was well in our family, Superintendent Bengu, but few families are perfect. My husband doted on Angus. I suppose we both did, and perhaps Dianna felt neglected and was jealous. Dianna was the smarter of the two, but Roland didn’t care about that. He was always grooming Angus to take over the company. After Roland died, Angus naturally became the head of the family. He felt Dianna was his special responsibility. They were twins, you know. Sometimes they were so close they seemed to be thinking the same things. One would start a sentence, and the other would finish it. Other times they couldn’t stand each other.”
She took a sip of her tea. Kubu said nothing, hoping that she would follow her thoughts.
“Perhaps I left them too much together. Too much alone after their father died, and we left Botswana. I had my own life to rebuild in London.” She paused.
“They had a big row about a year ago. Dianna had finally found a man she liked. He was quite unsuitable. An American gold-digger. But she couldn’t see that. So Angus made sure it broke up—never mind the details. Dianna reacted violently, screaming, hitting out at nothing, talking to people who weren’t there. I think she had what people call a nervous breakdown, although I don’t know what that means, really. We wanted her to see a psychiatrist, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She would phone Angus in the middle of the night, horrible, hate-filled calls. Eventually he had to change his phone number. After that she didn’t speak to either of us for months. When we did see her, she still wasn’t well, though I think she’d come to accept that Angus was right about the man. But I don’t think she ever forgave him. Then she came out to Botswana to hunt and visit Cecil. She seemed better after that. She was keen to get involved with running the company. I think Cecil encouraged it.”
“Are you comfortable with Cecil’s role in all of this?”
“Cecil? I don’t trust him, and I don’t like him. But he hasn’t the guts for murder. Do you know that there was a rumour that he had sabotaged Roland’s plane? It was laughable. I knew it was nonsense. Dear pretty-boy Cecil? Oh no.”
Kubu turned to another issue that had puzzled him. “I remember Angus having a number of injuries from his sports, but not a broken limb. Did you know that he’d broken both his arms?”
Pamela laughed. “Oh yes, that’s easy. He had a pet genet at the estate when he was about twelve. He thought it was stuck up a tree. I told him it would come down when it was ready, but he insisted on climbing up to rescue it. He fell and broke both arms. The genet just scampered down when he fell.”
Kubu nodded. Angus had never told him this story. He was never keen to relate experiences where he came out looking the fool.
He turned to what might be the most sensitive issue. “Mrs Hofmeyr, I know this must be very painful for you, but I really appreciate your frankness. Would you tell me about Dianna’s relationship with your other son?”
“Well, there’s not much to tell. He died when he was nine. A leopard attacked him on the estate. That is when I told Roland I was going to leave with the children, whether he came with us or not. Dianna was very upset after Daniel died. Actually, I took her to see someone to help her get over it. For a while she was really depressed, but then suddenly her personality seemed to change. She only wanted to do boy things. She talked her father into getting her a rifle, and Angus taught her to shoot. She was always a tomboy, always trying to compete with her brother, I suppose, but she had never shown any interest in killing things before. It was the boys who were keen on hunting. Roland used to take them, to make men
of them, he said. But Angus said that Dianna was quite a good shot. When she was older she shot a leopard and said it was the one that killed Daniel. She said she recognised its markings. She was very pleased about that.”
Something about this story struck Kubu, but he couldn’t put his finger on exactly what it was. Dianna had said it was ‘Daniel’s fault’. But what was his fault, and why did she think that?
“Mrs Hofmeyr, on the way to the hospital, Dianna repeated the phrase ‘It was Daniel’s fault’ several times. Do you know what she may have meant?”
“I’ve no idea,” Pamela replied. “Perhaps it was a fleeting memory from long ago.”
“Do you remember the name of the person you took Dianna to see?” Kubu asked.
“It was a psychologist here in Gaborone. I can’t remember her name. A recommendation from one of Roland’s friends at the university. I suppose you could trace her if it’s important.”
Kubu nodded. He wondered if the doctor still practised. He would find out.
There was one more question he needed to ask. “Mrs Hofmeyr, did you receive any calls supposedly from Angus during March?”
“Of course, I thought about that too. I had three calls from him. I can’t remember them word for word, but it never occurred to me that it wasn’t Angus, that in fact…” Suddenly her control broke. Biting her lower lip, she turned away from the policeman, hiding the tears. “She must have been so unhappy,” she said.
Kubu got up. “I don’t need to worry you any longer, Mrs Hofmeyr. I’m very grateful for the opportunity to see you, and you’ve been very generous with your time. Don’t worry, I’ll see myself out.”
And what have I to show for it? he asked himself as he left. Just a strange story and an odd feeling about it. Kubu climbed into his vehicle, but he made no move to drive off. What was Daniel’s fault? he asked himself yet again. There was one person left who might still be able to provide an insight into the strange Hofmeyr childhoods.
Detective Kubu 01; A Carrion Death Page 39