Chapter 57
Mabaku looked at Kubu unsympathetically. “You should know better than to drink whisky with a Scot! They get it with their mother’s milk. Ian’s probably as bright as a bird this morning, and look at you!”
Kubu had to admit that he wasn’t at his best. It had been decidedly difficult to get out of bed, and his head hurt again—almost as much as it had after being knocked out at Kobedi’s. At least he wasn’t in hospital.
“You’re probably right,” he conceded. “But I wanted to talk about Angus Hofmeyr. I’m worried about his death. Why did they just find bits of the left arm? One of the pieces we did not find with the Kamissa body.”
“Kubu, I know Hofmeyr was an old school friend of yours.” How does he know these things? Kubu wondered for the hundredth time. “When did you last speak to him?”
“Last week.” It seemed ages ago.
“Did the call suggest he was concerned about his safety? Anything that sounded a warning?”
Kubu shook his head. From the perspective of a few days, the fact that Angus had forgotten Lesley Davis after all these years didn’t seem worth mentioning.
“Well, the South African police are looking into the matter,” Mabaku said. “I phoned them as soon as I heard about it. An Inspector Swanepoel is handling the case. There’ll be an inquest. Give him a call if it will make you feel better.”
Kubu said he’d do that. “There can’t be any connection with our case, can there?” he added. But Mabaku was already concentrating on a document.
Tweedledum and Tweedledee, Cecil thought. T&T—his private nickname for the two BCMC directors appointed by the government. Both heavily built and overweight, they wore good-quality suits that, if they didn’t match, at least never clashed, as though they compared notes in the morning before getting dressed. Today they were both wearing navy pinstripes. Their contributions at meetings were always consistent, as though each was carefully planned in advance—which it probably was. He had only seen them nonplussed once; they had not known how to react to Angus’s speech and Dianna’s putsch at the last board meeting.
T&T had served since BCMC had become a public company. They obviously had good connections in both the party and the government, as this job was a plum. They probably kept their generous directors’ fees. They certainly pocketed their side bets on their weekly golf games with Cecil, and enjoyed their luxury game-lodge trips with contrived side stops to inspect mines or cattle ranches. They had reciprocated by representing BCMC’s interests to the government and by firmly supporting Cecil on the board—until Dianna’s play. But as far as he could recall, they had never asked for a private meeting in his office. Instead they usually reserved some time on the nineteenth hole to discuss upcoming business.
He rose, crossed the office, and greeted them warmly with a firm handshake. “Nama! Rabafana! What a pleasure to see you both. Do come in. Sit down. I’ll have my secretary send in some coffee. Unless you’d prefer something stronger?” Both smiled, returned his greetings, and said they would love a cup of coffee. They regretfully turned down the selection of single malts in the drinks cabinet. It was only eleven in the morning, and they were on business, after all.
“Cecil, we wanted to come personally to express our condolences concerning your nephew. A horrible shock. Such an awful death for someone so young and promising. And I’m sure a great personal disappointment. He was your heir apparent, after all.” Nama summed up their feelings while Rabafana nodded continually, in case there was any doubt that he fully agreed.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” Cecil said with as much graciousness as he could muster. “It was devastating news. I was shocked beyond belief. One questions the existence of God when such a tragedy happens.” He turned away and blew his nose. Nama and Rabafana shook their heads sympathetically.
But Cecil wasn’t interested in sympathy. He was wondering whether they had already forgotten how his “heir apparent” had helped Dianna stab him in the back. Everyone loved Angus, no matter what. They always had. He allowed the words to ripple past him until the coffee appeared, and they were settled at his conference table. The purpose of this meeting lay ahead; they could have phoned their condolences, perhaps on a conference line so that they could do it together, Cecil thought wryly.
They ran out of consolation and coffee at about the same time. Nama clasped his hands, signaling to Rabafana. “Cecil,” Rabafana began, “we know this is an inappropriate time to raise business matters. But you know that we have a joint responsibility to the board, our minister, and, indeed, to all the citizens of Botswana.” Nama nodded. He couldn’t have put it better himself. “We really want to discuss the future management of the company. We accepted the model of you continuing to run the company while Dianna concentrated on what the South Africans like to call transformation issues.” Cecil thought this a rather charitable interpretation of what had actually happened, but didn’t comment.
“Mind you,” Rabafana added, “I must say that our minister was rather taken aback by some of Angus’s comments. Not really appropriate when we have been so successful at integrating the Bushmen and protecting their rights. And embarrassing with this UN issue going on. Still, the board was impressed with his passion and commitment.”
Nama nodded with appreciation and took up the narrative. “Frankly, Cecil, we are wondering how things stand now. Angus voted the trust, and we regarded Dianna as his front person.” Cecil winced at the political correctness. “But where do we go from here?” Rabafana added.
“Are you asking what the situation is for the trust and the company, now that Angus is dead?” T&T nodded in unison, looking serious. “Well, I have a copy of the trust deed here somewhere.” He fussed about and eventually extracted it from the appropriate filing cabinet, although he knew it by heart.
Returning to his seat, he opened the document. “Pretty straightforward. Angus’s share of the trust—and so control of it, and thus of BCMC—goes to his heirs. In other words, it goes into his estate. I haven’t seen a copy of the will, but I’m informed that apart from a number of bequests, the estate goes to Dianna. She’ll have nearly three-quarters of the trust. So back where we started, I suppose. No longer a front person, though.” Neither of his visitors looked pleased. “Looks like the minister will have to learn to live with her,” Cecil added, unable to resist a small dig. But Rabafana’s next question took him by surprise.
“What would have been the situation if Angus had died before his thirtieth birthday? That was when he became entitled to his share of the trust, was it not?”
Cecil searched through the trust deed. At last he said, “If he’d died without children—which I presume is the case—his fifty percent would have gone to various charities. I would have been the executor, with an increased share myself. Why do you ask that? Rather academic, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so,” Rabafana agreed.
“Yes, academic,” said Nama. Then, as if an afterthought but deliberately, he asked, “What if something happens to Dianna now? Is it the same?” Cecil gave him a sharp look and consulted the document again. “It doesn’t spell it out,” he replied eventually. “Probably goes into her estate. We’d need a lawyer to look at all this. But why do we care?” Neither said anything for a few moments. Then Nama changed the subject.
“Cecil, the minister is very concerned about the disruption that has occurred over this issue. First Dianna taking over the chairpersonship without consultation with us, then the issue of Angus’s unexpected accident, and now uncertainty around your position and that of Dianna. We can’t afford any instability in this company. It is too central to Botswana’s economic well-being.”
Rabafana took up the thrust. “The minister feels it would be better if the people of Botswana had a larger say in the company, more ownership. We feel it is time to restructure the ownership of the company and make things more transparent, more democratic. How would you react to that?”
Cecil shrugged. “Angus seemed sympathetic
to that sort of approach. You should ask Dianna rather than me.”
“Perhaps we will. For the moment, we are asking you.” Nama’s voice held no trace of obsequiousness. This wasn’t window dressing. He wanted a straight answer.
“You’re talking about a new company with broad Batswana and perhaps Bushman shareholding and a serious stake in running BCMC? It would be hard to find appropriately skilled and knowledgeable people to form and run such a company.” Finally some light dawned. “Unless the two of you would be willing to add to what must already be demanding duties?”
Nama looked at him without smiling. “This will be a matter for the minister to look into,” he said. “What I’m asking is this. Would you be willing to support such an unbundling and the restructuring of the shareholding? The rest is details.”
Cecil was as surprised by the use of the singular pronoun as by the authority in Nama’s tone. Was Rabafana after all the junior partner? I misjudged them too, Cecil thought. I thought they were civil servants who could be kept happy with a few perks and nice treatment. But they were after much bigger fish all along, and they can see large ripples on the surface of the pond.
“The minister would have my full support in this matter,” he declared firmly. “Even if it means reducing my own shareholding somewhat. Of course, I can’t speak for Dianna.”
He had no hesitation about throwing in his lot with T&T; with Angus gone, Dianna had all the trump cards. What did he have to lose? “Should I talk to Dianna about this proposal when she gets back to Botswana?” he asked.
Nama shook his head. “That won’t be necessary. We’ll handle that aspect ourselves.”
Now it was Rabafana’s turn. “There is another matter, Cecil. The minister is most concerned about the Thembu Kobedi affair. There are insinuations, unpleasant innuendos, talk of certain materials.”
Cecil’s heart sank. Would he never be free of the wretched pimp? Why on earth was the Minister of Trade and Industry involved?
“The minister is clearing the issue up as quietly and quickly as possible with the police,” Rabafana continued. “It’s my responsibility to take care of the whole matter. I want your assurance that you had nothing to do with the matter and that you will report anything that you find out directly to me. Is that clear? Of course I will pass any information on to the police immediately.”
“What sort of materials?”
“There are some tapes—probably faked—with compromising material. It doesn’t matter. Do I have your word?” Cecil gave it.
Suddenly all was good humor again. There were handshakes all round, and Cecil heard himself inviting them to join him at the club for lunch and them regretting that they had another appointment, but they would all get together soon. They were looking forward to golf on Friday. They could discuss strategy for the new structure of the company. They would see if the minister could join them for an informal lunch afterward. Then they left.
Cecil needed a small celebration. Somewhere in the world, the sun was below the yardarm. He selected a favorite Scotch, added half a dozen drops of water, and relaxed in an armchair while he decided where he wanted to go for lunch.
Chapter 58
Kubu had failed to reach Swanepoel, but left a message. The South African police inspector had not phoned back by lunchtime, and Kubu had tried to put the matter aside. But his case was stalled. A decent lunch at the Fig Tree might change his luck.
When he returned, the phone was ringing. He had to rush to reach it before it cut off. “Yes?” he said irritably.
“Hello. Is that Superintendent Bengu?”
“Assistant Superintendent Bengu. Can I help you?”
“Yes, well, this is Detective Inspector Johannes Swanepoel speaking from the CID in Knysna, South Africa. But my friends all call me ‘Bakkies.’ I’m quite a big ‘oke,’ you see. A bakkie is a pickup truck in South Africa.” He finished almost apologetically.
Kubu laughed, the ice broken. “Well, Bakkies, you can call me Kubu—that means hippopotamus in my language. I’m also quite a big ‘oke,’ you see!”
Now it was Swanepoel’s turn to laugh. “Kubu. I like that. Well, you’re the person I need to talk to, all right. I spoke to your boss—Director Mabaku—when I returned your call at lunchtime. He said I’d better hear it from the hippo’s mouth. I didn’t understand that then, but it’s clear now.” He laughed again. “Well, how can I help, Kubu?”
Faced with explaining it aloud, Kubu felt at a loss. He told Bakkies about the Kamissa body and the odd reflected symmetry between it and Angus’s accident. He had a skeleton missing the left arm from the elbow. Bakkies had nothing but a lower left arm. The Kamissa body was carefully stripped and hacked to disguise its identity. Bakkies had a hand that came complete with signature rings. But the bodies were separated inconveniently in time and space. Perhaps because his story sounded so lame, Kubu came up with an idea as he spoke.
“Is it possible that someone’s pulling a scam? Killed someone here, hacked off the arm and used it with Angus’s rings to fake his death?”
Bakkies considered this for a few moments. “Well, I don’t know, Kubu. First of all, what’s the point? The point of a fraud like that is to claim on insurance or to disappear from the police. Neither would apply to Angus Hofmeyr. He didn’t need extra money, from what I hear. And why go to the trouble of getting body parts in Botswana? We have plenty of murders right here.” He gave a wry laugh. “But there’s more. We ran an expedited DNA test. The comparison with Dianna Hofmeyr and her mother indicates that the arm was more than likely Angus’s.”
Kubu didn’t know what to say. He felt like a fool.
“Now here’s a thought,” Bakkies offered. “Suppose your body is Angus Hofmeyr? Murdered in Botswana, and now they are trying to cover up the crime by planting evidence of a shark attack here?”
Kubu shook his head. “No, that doesn’t wash. His sister would have to be lying about him being at Plettenberg Bay with her. What could she gain by killing him? He has just handed her one of Botswana’s premier companies on a platter. And he spoke at the board meeting and to who knows how many other people—including me—long after we found the Kamissa body.”
That interested Bakkies. “Did he say anything to make you suspicious when you spoke to him?” Again Kubu had to admit that Angus had been relaxed and confident of his plans. Bakkies thanked Kubu for his input, made an inevitable hippo joke, and said good-bye. He had obviously come to the conclusion that they were wasting their time.
But Kubu couldn’t let it go. He didn’t know why. All he knew was that when his subconscious was this insistent, he’d better listen to it. Every successful detective harbors a spark of the mystic. He phoned Ian MacGregor.
“Hello, Ian. How’s your head?”
“Fine,” came the slightly puzzled response. “Why shouldn’t it be?”
Mabaku was right, as usual. “Ian, I keep thinking about these two bodies. The one in the sea off Plettenberg Bay with a missing forearm, and the one in the desert with the same forearm missing. But they’re mirror images. In the desert we see the body; on the beach we see the arm.”
“Yes, we talked about this yesterday, didn’t we? I thought we put it to rest with that bottle of Laphroaig.”
“I don’t know. It’s the arm. The missing arm and the missing body. I don’t believe in coincidences.”
“Suppose they find some more body parts on their fancy beach?”
“Then it’s a coincidence.”
Ian waited for Kubu to continue.
“I spoke to an Inspector Swanepoel of the South African Police. They’ve done a DNA analysis on the arm, and it seems likely that it is from Angus Hofmeyr. I want to compare it with the DNA from the body here. Could you get a sample to them for comparison? It seems to take forever to get a DNA test done here. Confidentially? I’m not sure why, but I really need to check this.”
“And you don’t think Director Mabaku would sanction this hunch of yours?” said Ian shrewdly. “S
o the mad Scotsman can take the blame?” Kubu felt ashamed and started to apologize, but Ian interrupted him. “Oh, of course I’ll do it. It may take a while, though; I don’t have as good contacts down there as I have here. I’ll get back to you.”
Kubu looked out of his window. I’ve made an idiot of myself to an inspector from the South African Police. I’ve asked my friend to do something inappropriate that I can’t justify in any logical way. And I now have six bodies, or parts of bodies, and missing persons—count them, six—and I don’t know why or who or what is going on. But I’m going home to the wife I love, and my dog, and my dinner. I think I’ll treat us to a decent shiraz. So the hell with all of them!
He locked his office and left.
Chapter 59
Cecil crossed the parking lot to his car, his head full of ideas. Angus’s death left Dianna as the chairman of the trust and therefore firmly in control of BCMC. But Tweedledum and Tweedledee had suggested otherwise. Was there a way he could wrangle a strategic advantage between the competing parties now gathering around BCMC like vultures around a stricken beast?
His mind was on these matters as he climbed into his Mercedes. In that vulnerable instant, the passenger-side door opened, and a heavyset man wearing a leather jacket and a hat pulled low over his head slid in next to him. The man had a scarf wrapped around his lower face and neck, but Cecil could see the rest of a heavyset tanned face, green eyes, and the escaped parts of a thick ginger beard. He was certain he had never seen this man before. The man wore latex gloves and held a pistol in his right hand. Cecil had a few hundred pula with him in cash. He was afraid it wouldn’t be enough.
A Carrion Death & The 2nd Death of Goodluck Tinubu Page 31