A Carrion Death & The 2nd Death of Goodluck Tinubu

by Michael Stanley

  Bakkies hoisted himself out of his chair to greet the Hofmeyrs.

  “Miss Hofmeyr. Thank you for being here. I know this must be very unpleasant for you.”

  Dianna nodded. “Inspector Swanepoel, this is my mother, Pamela Hofmeyr. She flew in from London last night. I asked her to come with me.”

  “Of course. That is most helpful. Are you all right, Mrs. Hofmeyr? This must be a terrible shock for you.” Pamela Hofmeyr looked in her late fifties, but she was tall and still beautiful. In her youth she must have been breathtaking. She had a dancer’s figure and the features of classic sculpture. She took the policeman’s hand briefly, but ignored his concern as beneath her.

  “Will you show us the…,” Dianna hesitated. “Angus’s hand?”

  “No, I don’t think that will be necessary. There were two rings on the fingers of the hand. I would like you both to look at them. Your brother didn’t have any special marks on his left forearm, did he?” Both women shook their heads. “No tattoos or anything like that?” Dianna shook her head again, but Pamela Hofmeyr spoke for the first time. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. Her voice was melodious, but the tone was derisory. Swanepoel just nodded.

  He opened the top drawer of his desk and took out the rings. Both were of twelve-carat gold. One was masculine, big and chunky, and had the initials “RAH” engraved on it. The other was more elegant, with a wavy frosted pattern.

  Pamela spoke first. “That’s my husband’s ring. ‘RAH’ were his initials. It’s still a bit dulled from the fire after the plane crash. But Angus wanted it.”

  Then Dianna said, “I gave him the other one for his twenty-first birthday. He used to wear it on the ring finger of his left hand. He joked that it sometimes attracted girls if they thought he was married.”

  “We’ll have to keep them for a while until this is all sorted out. Then, of course, we’ll return them to you,” Bakkies said. After a moment’s hesitation he added, “Would you be willing to let us take a saliva sample from each of you? I think it’s hardly necessary now, but a DNA test could establish the relationship, you see. Of course, we may find more of the body, but so far it’s just the arm.” He let the sentence fade away. Both agreed to the test, and Swanepoel made a phone call. While they waited, he asked, “Did your brother wear a watch on his left hand, Ms. Hofmeyr?”

  Dianna seemed nonplussed by the question, and it was her mother who answered. “One of those big chunky diving things. He always wore it. Did you find anything like that?”

  Bakkies shook his head. “Did you see it in his room?” he asked Dianna. She shook her head and seemed about to say something, but the arrival of the nurse interrupted her. It took only a minute to collect the samples.

  After Bakkies had finished taking some more particulars, they got up to leave. Pamela, surprisingly, took Bakkies’s hand. “My son is, was, a very strong swimmer, Inspector. He excelled at all sports, but he was a first-rate swimmer. He loved the sea—even the gray English sea. I don’t believe he got out of his depth and drowned.”

  “Well, we think that he was attacked by a great white shark, Mrs. Hofmeyr. No human can escape one of those if it comes for you. We have several attacks every year along this coast. It’s just very bad luck to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Do you believe that, Inspector?” Her voice was still melodious and calm. She might have been discussing the dinner settings with the butler.

  “I think it’s the most likely explanation, madam,” he replied.

  “Well, good day to you, Inspector.”

  Outside the building, Pamela’s control slipped, and she bit hard on tears. But all she said was, “Angus always wore his father’s ring on his right hand.” Then she bit her lower lip and took the passenger seat of Dianna’s rental car.

  Dr. Sizwe Nomvete was writing his report when Swanepoel came in. “How’s it going, Bakkies? Did she identify the rings?”

  “Ja. I don’t think there’s any doubt about it. She brought her mother along, too. The initials that puzzled us were her husband’s. It’s the second time it’s been taken off a violently dead body, it seems. But I asked them to give us saliva samples just to be sure. We’ll get the DNA tests done in due course.” Sizwe scrabbled among the papers on his desk and selected a photograph of the disembodied arm. It didn’t look real. He tossed the photo over and switched to Afrikaans to make Bakkies more comfortable. “Where’s the rest of the body, Bakkies?” he asked. Bakkies snorted. “The guess is that it’s inside a satisfied great white.”

  “If it was a great white, it doesn’t make sense to me that the lower part of an arm survived the attack. It’s a tasty morsel. It would’ve been eaten. There’s a far greater chance that parts of the torso would be left.”

  “Maybe the shark was eating the torso and couldn’t be bothered by such a small piece. Maybe the torso sank.”

  Sizwe shrugged. “It’s possible.” He paused, and after a moment repeated, “It’s possible.”

  “But you don’t believe it?”

  Sizwe shook his head. “I’m just the pathologist. You’re the damn detective! Get out there and find some more pieces, and I’ll put the puzzle together for you.”

  But the days passed, and no more pieces appeared. Bakkies felt uncomfortable with that too. Few sharks consumed an entire body. But the magistrate would be satisfied with what they presented at the inquest. He would have to be.

  Chapter 55

  Luiz took a week to get the mobile phone number. He had friends from the old days, friends who owed him favors. But this time it took all his contacts to get the information. After this he expected Red Beard to owe him a favor, a big favor.

  Luiz respected Kubu and had received favors from him too. The big detective had got him off a drug conviction, albeit to help convict a drug dealer. But there was quid pro quo. Luiz was frightened of Kubu, but he was much more scared of Red Beard. The bartender had seen him talking to Kubu and had talked to Kubu himself. He would know they had been talking about the Angolan gangster. And the bartender was Portuguese too. Somehow, sometime, that information would get to Red Beard. But Luiz was going to preempt that.

  He dialed the number and recognized Red Beard’s gruff, “Sin?” Luiz rapidly explained who he was and what he had learned from Kubu, overstating how close the police were on the trail. He very much wanted Red Beard as far away as possible as quickly as possible. Red Beard listened intently; he had played the Botswana police for fools, but it looked as though the jest might be on him. Once he was sure Luiz had told him as much as he knew, he told him to keep his eyes and ears open. He’d see Luiz right.

  Red Beard headed down to the hotel bar for a beer to help him think. This was a tight spot. He couldn’t afford to be a suspect. Of course, the police might be after someone else, but he wasn’t going to wait to find out. It was time to cover tracks and disappear.

  He worried about the loose ends. Just two people could link him to the murders. Jason Ferraz was one. He was in it as deep as quicksand and would soon be meeting some business acquaintances in Lisbon. That loose end was nearly tied off. But the mysterious Daniel was another kettle of fish. It seemed that nothing happened without him knowing. How did he know? Where did he get his information? Surely not from Jason, whom he had casually thrown to the wolves? How could he persuade Daniel to reveal himself? He ground his teeth through the warming beer.

  He ran over his conversations with the Friend in his head. A snatch came to him. Hofmeyr’s the key to all this. We mustn’t touch. He smiled. Here was bait. He swallowed the beer.

  Why was Daniel so concerned about the Hofmeyrs? Was there a relationship, perhaps? And who had gained from all these moves? Certainly not Jason. Only two people. Dianna Hofmeyr and Cecil Hofmeyr! Hofmeyr’s the key to all this. But which one? The more he thought it through, the more convinced he became of the answer.

  Chapter 56

  On some Sundays Kubu and Joy joined his parents at their local church, still presided over
by Father Theophilus Thekiso—who had been Kubu’s benefactor. Often, after the service, they drove to Gaborone for lunch, where Pleasant joined them. The women gathered in the kitchen and made a wonderful meal that reflected their different personalities. Everyone enjoyed a mug of steelworks—now a family favorite after its introduction by Kubu. Kubu would have liked a glass or two of red wine as well, but his father would be scandalized by such a thing on the Sabbath, and Kubu wanted nothing to disturb the family harmony.

  Wilmon always enjoyed a cup of tea after church while waiting for his lunch, and Kubu made it for him. His father liked his tea strong with plenty of milk and three full teaspoons of sugar, well stirred. Kubu would join him on the veranda with a cup of tea (weak and black, if sugar and milk were forbidden by his current diet), and they talked. They were father and son for half an hour.

  This Sunday Kubu had a mission. He wanted his father’s help. But he wasn’t sure if he could get it.

  “Did you see the Sunday newspaper, Father? Do you remember Angus Hofmeyr, who used to be my friend at school?” He held up the Sunday Standard. The front page screamed: “Angus Hofmeyr—Grisly Find on the Beach” over a blurred aerial picture of a luxury house with a beach below it. Because Kubu’s father read slowly, Kubu read the story aloud: “Residents of the luxury Plettenberg Bay Millionaires’ Row were shocked today by the grisly discovery of the severed arm of Angus Hofmeyr. It washed up on the beach about a half mile from where he went for an early-morning swim two days ago. Police have warned the public that other body parts may be found along the coast. There seems little doubt now that Angus Hofmeyr, heir to the Botswana Cattle and Mining Company empire, was attacked and killed by a great white shark. The hand evidently wore distinctive rings that, police confirmed, Angus’s sister, Ms. Dianna Hofmeyr, identified. Ms. Hofmeyr was too distraught to speak to the press.”

  Wilmon sipped his tea, looking with distaste at the newspaper.

  “Father, this death reminds me of the Kamissa murder I’m investigating. The body was cut up. A forearm was missing, and some limbs were separated. Then the body was left for the hyenas to destroy. Perhaps Angus’s body was also cut up. Perhaps it was left for the sharks to eat. The story feels wrong. You know about traditional things, the Old Ways. I wonder what you think.”

  His father was expert with herbal medicines and knew the secrets of desert plants. People regarded him as a traditional healer, but he wasn’t a witch doctor. He was a deeply Christian man, so his medicines never came with a spell or incantation, only a modest blessing. If appropriate, he would say a short prayer. But Wilmon knew about witch doctors and their deeds, both good and evil.

  “You think that your friend was killed? Was murdered?”

  “I think perhaps both men were murdered. I’m wondering if their bodies were destroyed so that certain parts taken away would not be noticed. Parts taken for dipheko.”

  His father winced at the word and the things it conjured. “This isn’t a proper conversation for your home,” Wilmon said firmly. “Especially not on the Sabbath with your family around you. These men are wicked. They do the devil’s work. It’s best not to be curious about it.”

  “Father, I’m a policeman. It’s my job to catch these people. To stop them, and put them in prison.”

  But his father shook his head. “You can’t stop them. You are just a man. They have the power of their victims as well as their Master. Only the love of God can protect us from them.”

  “Father, help me with this. Would these men murder my friend?”

  His father said nothing while he finished his tea. Kubu thought perhaps Wilmon was offended. At last he said, “David, you do not understand these things. You have been to university, and you’re an important man now, even though you’re young. I’m very proud of you. But the witch doctors work in another world. A world of fear and of control. Every part of any animal has power, and the most powerful animals have the most power. Humans most of all. Evil witch doctors suck that power from their victims. But they need the victims to believe, even to accept. The victims are usually children, usually girl children, who can be controlled easily by their power. Not grown white men who don’t believe.” The older man shook his head. He seemed to regret he had said so much. They sat uncomfortably for some minutes, far apart. They were both relieved when Joy cheerfully called them for lunch, and the tension broke.

  After lunch Kubu took his parents back to their home, kissed his mother, and received his father’s blessing. He had left Joy and Pleasant to deal with the aftermath of lunch and to enjoy each other’s company. His depressed mood would only spoil their afternoon. He had told them he would spend some time at the office to finish a report.

  When he got to the CID headquarters, he discovered that the baboons had come down from Kgale Hill and were clambering all over the buildings. They were climbing on the wall around the complex, rummaging in the gardens, and even balancing on the edges of the metal barrels holding water at the neighboring building site. Kubu liked the baboons. They cheered him up. Where else, he thought with satisfaction, would you find the CID headquarters of a respected police force used as a Sunday playground for baboons?

  But once in his office, he couldn’t work. He reread the story in the Sunday Standard. He checked his e-mail. Nothing was worth reading. He took out the files but didn’t read them. Eventually he gave up. He punched out a mobile phone number.

  “MacGregor,” said the voice with the irrepressible Scottish burr. “Can I help you?”

  “Ian. It’s Kubu. How are you today?”

  “I’m reasonable, Kubu. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure? Not another in your epidemic of dead bodies, I trust?”

  “No, Ian, nothing like that. Would you have time to talk? I know it’s Sunday, but it may be important.”

  “Oh, that’s fine, Kubu. Come on over. I’m at the office, actually, writing up some stuff. Nothing urgent. See you in quarter of an hour?”

  Almost exactly fifteen minutes later, Kubu knocked on the door of Ian’s office, which was a humble affair in a prefabricated building near the prison. MacGregor spent most of his time at the hospital or in the field.

  Ian bellowed, “Come in.” Kubu entered and shook hands with the grizzled Scotsman. MacGregor settled himself behind his desk and started sucking on his briar. He had stopped smoking about fifteen years earlier after a stormy interview with a lung specialist, but it still supplied visceral comfort and another thread in the Scottish tapestry. Ian would go to a formal dinner wearing a kilt, Kubu thought, just to keep up appearances.

  “So, young David, what can I do for you?”

  David spread the Sunday newspaper on the desk. “Did you read this, Ian?”

  Ian nodded. “Very nasty business. They would have been forced to cut the rings off, you know. Swelling, d’you ken.”

  Kubu put down the newspaper. “He was my friend, Ian. At school we were close. Odd match, wasn’t it? The mega-rich white boy and the son of a black share farmer. Two cricket buffs. Maybe cricket attracted me so much because it came from this other world that was opening up to me. Like opera. I fell for it as soon as I met it. Angus gave me my nickname, you know. ‘Kubu. You’re Kubu,’ he said. And then I was Kubu. Just like that.”

  “Och, I had no idea you had even met him. I’m most dreadfully sorry. You need a drink. I keep something here for emergencies. This qualifies. No, don’t argue.” Kubu had not argued and had no intention of doing so. He watched while Ian opened a new bottle and poured two half tumblers of neat Scotch. It was a whisky Kubu had never heard of, but it was good. Trust Ian.

  “Laphroaig. Single malt from Islay. Taste the peat. Do you like it?”

  Kubu did. After a while he said, “I didn’t actually come to cry on your shoulder, Ian. There’s something else. It struck me when I read the newspaper article. It’s another body of a white man, apparently dismembered. This body eaten by sharks instead of hyenas. It’s somehow a mirror image of the Kamissa murder.” Kubu paused
as if this would mean something to MacGregor. Ian nodded sagely and drained the rest of the tumbler. He was beginning to think that one whisky might not be enough to put Kubu right.

  “You know, coincidences happen in real life, Kubu. It’s only people who write detective stories who aren’t allowed that sort of thing.” He took a few reflective draws on the empty pipe. “You’re looking fragile, Kubu, under that rough black exterior. Drink up. You need another.”

  “Ian, what I’m wondering is, what did they do to those bodies that made it necessary to destroy them so completely?”

  MacGregor looked interested. He knew Kubu was as sharp as they come and had intuition to go with it. “You think they were both murdered, do you? Perhaps by the same people? Or a copycat crime?”

  Kubu nodded. “Does this idea make any sense? You’ve been around a long time, Ian. You’ve seen pretty much what there is to see. Could these murders be ritual murders? For human organs?”

  Ian flinched, remembering several infamous cases of such ritual killings of humans. After a few moments he replied. “Kubu, I can’t recall any example of adults being the victims, let alone white men. I don’t think it’s likely. That’s my professional opinion.”

  Kubu nodded and rose to go. “Oh, no, you don’t.” Ian waved him back to his chair. “You’ve spoken of unspeakable things here, Kubu. We need to put them to rest. You must join me in another drink. To your friend. To Angus. Good Scottish name, Angus. Does the family have a Scottish background?”

  Kubu shrugged. “Western Cape, I think.” He ostentatiously checked that his glass was empty.

  By the time they went home, neither man should have been driving. Ian called it a “private wake,” which was only terminated by the emptying of the bottle. As they left the building, they attempted the “Anvil Chorus” from Il Trovatore. Fortunately, it was Sunday and the area was deserted. When he got home, Joy accepted Kubu’s drunken and maudlin state without comment and put him to bed. “Wonderful wife,” he told her not very clearly. “Don’t even mind if I get drunk.” He tried to say “wonderful” again, but it came out all wrong. He was still struggling with it when he fell asleep.