Next to the outdoor toilet, a shower with tall reeds on three sides faced the waterhole. The animals can watch me shower, Kubu thought. The tent opened onto a wooden platform with a rail made from a thick mopane branch. Two easy chairs framed a small table with mosquito coils ready to be lit.
The receptionist was right—the view was spectacular. The waterhole lay not a hundred yards away, artificially fed, he was sure. Thick reeds flourished on one side, as well as trees and bushes. No grass grew for twenty or thirty yards from the water. It had been eaten and trodden into oblivion by all the animals. Several zebra cautiously moved to the water, and three young giraffes loitered in the background, each wanting to avoid being the first to approach the potential dangers of a waterhole. In the heat of the day, few birds were active; only a small flock of guinea fowl clattered about, too stupid to realize that shade is cooler.
The waiter arrived with the two large tankards. Kubu loved steelworks and wondered why it was not more popular. A tot of cola tonic, a dash of bitters, filled to the top with ginger beer, preferably bottled. He hoped the barman had added the ice at the end so all the liquids had blended together. He disapproved of putting the ice into the glass before the liquids. Kubu poured the first steelworks down his throat, washing away four hours’ dust and dryness. He smiled and went off to the shower.
An hour later Kubu was sitting next to the pool under an acacia tree, watching a couple of young boys churning the water. He had just finished a delicious lunch—cold meats and pickled fish, tasty salads, fruit salad and ice cream for dessert, followed by a cheese platter. He regretted not indulging in wine, but after all, he was on duty.
At that moment a white man approached. Big and strong, he had a belly that was beginning to show the effects of beer. He wore the clothes of a game ranger: short-sleeved khaki shirt with green epaulets, khaki shorts with an old leather belt holding a knife pouch, knee-length khaki socks, and a pair of worn boots. Skin tanned deep brown indicated a man who had spent his life in the sun. The tan highlighted the light blue eyes and short blond hair, as well as a long scar down the right side of his face. Kubu wondered what had caused it—a childhood fall, a bar fight, a sports injury?
“Inspector Bengu?” The man had the guttural accent of an Afrikaner from South Africa.
“Yes. I’m David Bengu. My official rank is assistant superintendent,” Kubu said, rising. “You must be Andries Botha?”
“Ja. That’s me. It was me what radioed you about the body.”
“Please sit down. Something to drink? A fruit juice, or a beer perhaps?”
“No, thank you. I—…we—…noticed a lot of vultures circling and went to see what the lions had got the night before.”
“Slowly, slowly, Mr. Botha. Before we get to the body, please tell me a little about yourself. What do you do? Do you work here at the game reserve? How long have you been in Botswana? You know, the usual background stuff.” Kubu took a small pad out of his briefcase, clicked his ballpoint, and waited.
“Ja, fine. I was born in the Northern Cape on a farm between Hotazell and Olifantshoek. I was always interested in animals—we had cattle. But it was a hard life for my father. So many droughts and bad years. Eventually he got a job in Bechuanaland with the Bechuanaland Cattle and Meat Company—now the Botswana Cattle and Mining Company, of course. BCMC. Kept the letters the same. He was a good farmer and was in charge of their cattle herds. I was still young, so they sent me to boarding school in Bloemfontein. Every holiday I came back to Gaborone, where my parents lived. I really liked the bush, so after school I went to Stellenbosch University to study wildlife management. My pa knew the owner of this game lodge concession and asked him if he would hire me when he started the camp here. Mr. Baillie offered me a job as assistant manager and part-time ranger, and here I am.” He paused, trying to decide what else was of importance.
“How long have you been here, Mr. Botha?”
“Oh, it was two years in January.” He nodded.
“So how did you discover the body? And where is it right now?”
“Ag, man. We’ve got a guy here from the university studying ecology for Wildlife. We always cooperate with the Department of Wildlife and National Parks. Mr. Baillie says it’s very important to cooperate with the government and the locals.” He hesitated and glanced at Bengu to see if he had given offense. But Kubu just nodded and went on writing. “Anyway, this guy wanted to go to the Kamissa waterhole—about an hour from here. Apparently he thinks Kamissa is special.”
“Who is this guy?” Kubu interrupted.
“Oh, Dr. Sibisi. Bongi?” Andries paused. “Ag nee wat, I don’t remember his first name. His last name is Sibisi.”
“Did you ask him why he thought Kamissa was special?”
“Ja. Complicated stuff with satellites and so on. Better ask him yourself if you want the details.”
Kubu suppressed a smile. He suspected that Andries did not know how to interact with a smart academic who was also black.
Fifteen minutes later, Kubu had extracted the details of the find: how they had seen the vultures and found a hyena eating a human corpse; how they had noticed some marks in the sand and had found tire tracks, some of which had been covered; and how they had covered the body with a heavy tarpaulin because they thought it better to leave it where they found it.
“Wouldn’t the hyena tear the tarpaulin off and drag the carcass away?” Kubu asked.
“Ja. But we left two of my rangers there overnight to make sure it didn’t steal the body. They’ve been there all night. We should go there now. If we wait too long, it will be dark before we get back.”
Kubu sighed, thinking he would prefer to sit by the pool sipping some decent South African sauvignon blanc. He decided he could wait until their return to meet Sibisi. Better to talk to him alone. “I was waiting for the police vehicle, but it must’ve been delayed. Can you arrange transportation for us? When do you think we’ll be back?”
“About six, if we get going now.”
Kubu sighed again. “Okay, we’ll leave in fifteen minutes. I have to get my camera and things. Please tell reception to send somebody with the police Land Rover when it comes, to show the driver the way. Also, please ask them to arrange for Dr. Sibisi to meet me after dinner.”
Andries did not look at all happy at being ordered around. “One other thing,” Kubu said. “Please have reception pack some cold drinks for us. I guess your rangers out there could use some food and something cold, as well.”
Nearly an hour passed before they reached the Kamissa turnoff, which was nothing more impressive than multiple tire tracks in the sand. It wouldn’t be easy to find, and Kubu was glad that he had asked Andries to supply a guide for his colleagues. The waterhole lay a third of a mile or so farther on, at a low point of the dry river. At the end, the track snaked between some large thorn trees and ended in a small turning circle, where one could sit to watch animals drink. Kamissa turned out to be nothing more than a collapsed seep-hole half filled with muddy brown water. The noise of the truck startled a small group of gemsbok, and they jumped away, stabbing the sky with their javelin horns.
“This is the Kamissa waterhole,” said Andries. “It’s one of over fifty pans in the Khutse area. They were part of a river system that flowed north to the Makgadikgadi long ago. The river dried up, but the pans are important for the animals. The body’s in a tributary watercourse about a half a mile away through the dunes. We’ll avoid the vehicle tracks they made and drive up the side here.” He put the vehicle in four-wheel drive, engaged low range, and headed up into the dunes at a fine pace, unconcerned about Kubu’s large, albeit well-padded, frame being flung about in the vehicle as they hit bumps and sand ridges. He smiled a little and increased speed. “Need to get those men their lunch and drinks,” he said by way of explanation.
At last they descended into a narrower dry watercourse and drove a short way before stopping. There was a small tent underneath some trees and a tarpaulin stretched between
two of them. Two rangers stood up and walked toward the Land Rover. On the other side of the watercourse was another tarpaulin on the ground with sand piled around its edges. Andries turned off the engine. There was dead silence. A shimmer of heat made the scene seem insubstantial.
“This is it,” said Andries. “The body is under the tarpaulin, and if you walk up the dune on the left, you’ll come to the tire tracks. They carefully smoothed everything out on this side so you can’t tell that any vehicle has been there unless you know where to look.”
Kubu heaved himself out of the truck and stood, carefully taking in the scene.
“What are you looking for?” asked Andries.
Kubu said nothing while he stretched and eased the creases from the trip out of his large frame. “Everything,” he said at last. This seemed to him a complete answer, and he walked over to the tarpaulin and asked the rangers to remove it. As the tarpaulin came off, he took a few deep breaths. He did not like corpses under any circumstances. As corpses go, however, this was not too bad, since virtually no flesh remained. Even the skeleton barely looked as though it belonged to a human, so many bones were either missing or detached from the torso.
Ensuring he didn’t move anything and leaving as much as possible of the area around the body undisturbed, Kubu took several rolls of photographs.
As he finished his task, the throaty noise of a vehicle with a damaged exhaust disturbed the desert quiet. Everyone looked back down the river. A beat-up police Land Rover appeared, mirage-like, following the tracks of Andries’s vehicle. “About time,” Kubu muttered. “We need some help.”
Three people emerged from the vehicle. The driver, a constable from Gaborone, was tall and lean, his uniform stained with sweat. Next to him was a ranger; Andries’s guide, no doubt. Behind them was a fiftyish white man, wearing khaki slacks and a dripping shirt already turning brown with sand and dust. He wore dark glasses and a broad-rimmed Tilley hat to protect his bald head. Dr. Ian MacGregor was one of the three police pathologists who performed their gruesome rituals at Princess Marina Hospital. Kubu liked him. He was competent, called a spade a spade, and was an accomplished watercolor painter of birds and Kalahari landscapes. Kubu was very fond of the painting MacGregor had given him of a crimson-breasted shrike—one of the area’s most beautiful birds—emerging from the slender branches of a Kalahari sand raisin bush.
“Afternoon, Kubu. What have we here?” Kubu smiled to himself as he heard the Scottish burr. MacGregor had lived in Africa for thirty years, but spoke as though he had just arrived from the Highlands.
“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’s 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 toward 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 teeth.
“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 at Dale’s for supper. I’d better take someone with me so that I don’t get lost.” Kubu selected one of the two night watchmen. 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’s joy rides.
Chapter 3
Despite the unpleasantness of the previous afternoon, Bongani had enjoyed a successful day organizing 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 learned 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 tire tread of squares. Many of the locals wore homemade sandals cut from old tires, with straps from inner tubes. Others resoled their shoes with strips of tire 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, analyzing 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.
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’ve 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 to, he might have seen a leopard slinking through the grass and across the bare verge to have its evening drink.
A Carrion Death & The 2nd Death of Goodluck Tinubu Page 3