A Carrion Death & The 2nd Death of Goodluck Tinubu

by Michael Stanley

  “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 six miles 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 backseat of the chopper, despite the noise. Toward 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 toward 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-story; Kubu couldn’t imagine why one would build upward with thirty miles of open space all around. It was built of brick with a galvanized 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, realizing 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 to 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 around and looked up. A single window stood open on the upper level with a vacant look, as though the glass had been removed. Kubu stood staring upward 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 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 toward 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 onto 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 onto 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 traveled. 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 realized 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 composure.

  “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 pa
ssport 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 bologna 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 tires on the vehicle. They were Yokohama Geolandars—good for crossing sand.

  Then he went into the house. He wandered around the lower section, getting the feel of it. Clearly the house had recently been inhabited. The kitchen looked used, and the stove needed cleaning. This house had been abandoned weeks, not decades, ago. There were three bedrooms downstairs and two bathrooms with showers and toilets. But Kubu wanted to look upstairs and find that empty window.

  He climbed the staircase to the upper level, where he found a door ajar at the top of the steps. The first thing he noticed was that it had a deadbolt screwed onto the outside with heavy screws. That would withstand a lot of pressure, he thought. This was a lock to keep someone in, not for privacy. No corresponding lock was on the inside of the door, although there was a normal lock with the door handle. The key was on the outside too. Kubu stood looking at the door for a few moments. The deadbolt had been added recently. He could understand Aron becoming an embarrassment if he had stumbled on some sort of scam at the mine, but why hold him prisoner? Why not get rid of him at once?

  He walked into the room. It was Spartan and self-contained—a bed, a wardrobe, a table and chairs, and one easy chair. He carefully opened a door on the left without disturbing any prints that might be on the handle. It led to a typical bathroom containing a bath with a hand shower mounted on the tiles at one end, a toilet, and a washbasin. Everything was covered in fine dust. Over the toilet was an open window. Next to the toilet, leaning against the wall, was a wooden panel about the same size as the window. Kubu examined the area around the window and noticed the screw holes. He nodded, mentally matching the wood with the window and the screw holes. Looking out of the open window, he realized that it was the one that had so disturbed him on his first reconnaissance.

  He turned his attention to the bath. He leaned over, blew away the dust from around the plug hole, and looked at it carefully. He sighed. Then he went back downstairs and found Zanele.

  “Get your people to go over the bath upstairs carefully, and also check out the shower fittings. I think you’ll find that Aron died up there. Also, tomorrow morning, get someone to follow the tracks heading south from the shed. Aron’s vehicle’s been dumped down there somewhere. Probably in a donga.”

  Kubu wiped his forehead. “I’ve had enough. I’m going home. We can talk in the morning.” Zanele nodded, distracted. The excitement of the crime scene was absorbing her attention. There was so much to do. She was happy to be left to get on with it. Kubu went to find Mahongo and Mike. If they left now, they could still get back to Gaborone. The Forensics team could camp in the house and hold the fort until the morning.

  As the chopper took off, Kubu was isolated in his own thoughts. He felt depressed by what they had found. I should be celebrating, he thought. I’ve found where Aron was murdered, and the vehicle they used, and I’d bet on finding Aron’s vehicle tomorrow. It’s only a matter of following the spoor now, and we’ll catch the murderers. Why aren’t I elated? Because there’s more to come, he answered himself. This isn’t the end of it. There are more nasty surprises ahead.

  He looked at his watch. He would be home by eight. He could still have some of the delicious stew that Joy had prepared for their dinner, perhaps with a glass of red wine, or even two. The thought cheered him up at once.

  Chapter 41

  Kubu had meant to phone Director Mabaku as soon as he got home, but he was tired and hungry, and after supper and a few glasses of wine, it was too late. He would see his boss first thing in the morning.

  But when he arrived at CID headquarters and walked toward his office, he could hear his phone ringing. By dropping his briefcase and leaving his keys jangling in the door, he managed to answer it before it cut off.

  “Hello,” he said a touch irritably. “This is Superintendent Bengu. Who is this?”

  “Kubu, it’s Zanele. I’m on the plane radio. Communications put me through to you.”

  “Oh! Zanele! How are things going there?”

  “Fine. You were right about the bloodstains. Actually, there are a lot of them if you know where to look. The killers tried to clean up and wipe everything down. But I think they were in that house for some time. You can’t live somewhere and not leave prints in odd places. We’ve got quite a few. Some are quite good.”

  “Good! The trick will be to match them with Frankental’s. Also compare them with Ferraz’s. We’ve got those on file because we had to exclude them from Aron’s bungalow.” Kubu let his mind run. “Also check them against the one on the cash slip we found at Kamissa. And against the delightful character who gave me the sore head. And run them past Interpol, of course.”

  Zanele laughed. “Yes, Superintendent. I’ll do all that. But I’ll have to get back to the office first. It’s quite a job checking a whole house, you know. We are waiting for a police vehicle from Molops to arrive. Once they get here, they can check the roads and see if you were right about the victim’s vehicle.” There was a burst of interference, and Kubu lost the next part. It was something to do with the BCMC-yellow Land Rover.

  “Say that again.”

  “The vehicle’s pretty clean. Someone did a really good job on that. But I think we may have some blood traces there too. And we’ve collected dust and thorn samples from the tires. Unlikely to help, but who knows?”

  Kubu recalled how impressed he always was with Zanele’s work and thoroughness. He was lucky that they had sent her.

  “There’s one more thing, Kubu. Jason Ferraz left the mine yesterday. I discovered that when I phoned through this morning to ask them for some help with provisions and stuff.”

  Kubu sat upright in his chair. “You mean, he’s done a flit?”

  More static. When the signal cleared, he could hear Zanele say something about a holiday. Then it was lost in static again. Kubu became impatient.

  “Thanks, Zanele,” he said loudly. “I’ll get onto it myself right away. Carry on with your work. See you soon.” And without waiting for a response, he hung up.

  He retrieved his briefcase and the keys from the door and closed it. A few minutes later he was on the phone to Shirley Devlin, who seemed to be the closest thing the mine had to an administrator.

  “Mr. Ferraz’s trip has been planned for some time, Mr. Bengu. He’s been talking about it for a month, I would guess. He’s going to visit the British Geological Survey and other research institutions, and someone involved with the Kimberley Process. But he’s also spending time in Portugal. Visiting family he hasn’t seen for quite a while, I think. Maybe Madeira?”

  “So you all knew he was leaving yesterday? But no one mentioned it to me when I was there the day before?”

  He could visualize Shirley’s shrug. “I suppose you didn’t ask. Did you tell Mr. Ferraz you wanted to know about his movements?”

  “No, I did not,” Kubu admitted with considerable chagrin.

 
; “Well, then,” commented the efficient administrator, her point made.

  “When did he leave?”

  “Early in the morning. He was driving to Gaborone to catch his flight later in the day.”

  “How long will he be away? Do you have an itinerary for him?”

  “Three weeks. He didn’t leave a detailed itinerary, but he said he’d have his mobile phone on international roaming in case of anything urgent. I can give you the number.” She did so.

  Kubu let his frustration get the better of him. “But how can the manager walk away from a diamond mine for three weeks? Who’s running the operation?”

  Devlin replied coldly. “Mr. Dingake is in charge, Superintendent. This isn’t a one-person show, you know. We can cope for a few weeks without the boss on site. Will there be anything else?”

  Kubu sighed. “No you’ve been extremely helpful, Miss Devlin, and I’m most grateful. If you hear from Mr. Ferraz, please ask him to phone me. If I think of anything else, I’ll be in touch.”

  Immediately Kubu called Edison and asked him to check passenger lists for flights out of Gaborone for yesterday and for today. Ferraz might have driven to Johannesburg or caught a connecting flight. Kubu knew that it would take much longer to get information from Johannesburg International and potentially forever from the Botswana border posts if their computers were down. He was cross. He had been so pleased with himself for shaking up Ferraz, but now he had a search for a fugitive on his hands.

  He tried the mobile phone number and heard a recording. He left a message asking Ferraz to contact him as soon as possible. He wasn’t optimistic he’d hear back soon.