Deadly Harvest (3 page)

Kubu felt the atmosphere chill. “And I was told you would be sympathetic, that you weren't like the others! But you're the same, aren't you? In favor of women's rights in words, but not in action.”

Kubu felt a flush of anger. Nobody talked to him like that, let alone someone new. She didn't know him; didn't know what he believed. Look at his relationship with Joy. They were equals. He took a deep breath. “I do want to help. I'm going to get a cup of tea for myself. And then we can talk. Can I get one for you?”

“No, thanks.”

A few minutes later Kubu returned. He opened the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a tin of mixed cookies. “I'm on a diet, actually. So I only eat these on special occasions. Welcoming a new detective is one of those.” He picked out his two favorites and offered the tin to Samantha, who refused. “In fact, it's two special occasions, as you're our first lady detective.” He extracted two more cookies. He carefully replaced the top and slid the tin back into the drawer.

“I do want to help, so let's get to work. I remember reading about the case you're talking about. My mother was very upset. She thought it was another Mogomotsi case. You know about that one? Segametsi Mogomotsi was fourteen when she disappeared while trying to sell oranges to raise some money for a church excursion. Her dismembered body was found months later.”

Samantha sat perfectly still for several moments, eyes unfocused. “I know about it. It was also in Mochudi.” She looked into Kubu's eyes. “The government was forced to call in Scotland Yard to take over, but never made their report public. Why do you think that was? Because high up
men
in Botswana were involved. That's exactly what I'm talking about. Justice for some, a blind eye for others. Who cared that a little girl was murdered for body parts, when the reputation of
men
had to be protected. The same thing may have happened to Lesego Betse, and the trail is fresher.”

What happened to her that makes her so intense? Kubu wondered. He made a mental note to ask his mother whether she knew Samantha's parents.

“We need to keep all the possibilities in mind,” he said. “With no word after four months, we have to assume she didn't just run off. Someone abducted her. That could have been for a variety of reasons. It could have been for sex, or to take her out of the country and sell her as a sex slave. There have been cases of that. The fact that we haven't found a body suggests that might be the case.”

“Or it could be a witch doctor who's taken her. For
muti
.”

Kubu nodded. “In any case, this is how I would proceed.”

For the next hour Kubu gave Samantha insights about undertaking such an investigation—­the ­people she should speak to, the evidence she could trust, the evidence that might be unreliable, and the hostility she would encounter, both from ­people she would question and from Betse's family, who likely thought the police had not taken the investigation seriously. He also suggested that she check on unidentified bodies of children that had turned up since December. If she could find Lesego's body, that would be her best break.

Eventually Samantha stood up to leave.

“I hope you're successful,” Kubu said. “Let me know how it goes. Come and see me anytime. Cases like this need to be solved.”

She thanked him and left.

Kubu sat quietly for several minutes, reflecting on what had just happened. The CID will never be the same, he thought. I just hope that what emerges is a better place.

THREE

K
UBU GLANCED AT H
IS
watch. He had about an hour and a half before his meeting at Marumo's house. He turned on his computer and went to get another cup of tea while it booted. As he walked back into his office, he heard the familiar Windows start-­up sound. Ignoring his e-­mail, he went straight to the Internet. Google is my friend, he thought as he typed in “Bill Marumo.” He had more than seventeen thousand hits in a fraction of a second. I'll start with Wikipedia, he muttered. He picked up his pen and started to take notes.

“William Mishingo Marumo. Born Maun 11/11/1972.

“Only child. Father killed in mine accident in 1984.” Kubu wondered whether it had happened in Botswana or South Africa.

“Graduated Maun Secondary School, 1990. BA (Honours) Political Science, University of Botswana, 1995. Member of Student Representative Council, 1993–1995, president 1995.” That's where he got started in politics, Kubu mused.

“Mochudi, January 1995: arrested in protests against alleged police cover-­ups in investigation of ritual murder of Segametsi Mogomotsi.”

Kubu put down his pen. Now there's a coincidence, he thought. Not half an hour ago Detective Khama and I were talking about the murder of Segametsi Mogomotsi, and now I read that Bill Marumo was arrested in the ensuing protests. He scratched his head. It's impossible that the two are related. Still, he felt a niggle of discomfort. He really didn't believe in coincidences.

He continued to browse the numerous reports about Marumo—­newspaper articles in all of the Botswana newspapers, blogs, and even some coverage overseas.

“Junior reporter at the South African
Sunday Times
, 1996–1998. News reporter Botswana Radio, 1998–2000, then Botswana TV, 2000–2004.” Kubu made a note to check what types of programs Marumo had worked on.

“Joined the BDP in 2002. Elected to parliament 2004 representing BDP in Gaborone West-­North constituency. Left BDP 2008 to found Freedom Party. Charismatic speaker and fund-­raiser. Only Freedom Party representative in 2009 elections.”

Kubu read some of the reports of rallies and speeches Marumo had given in his reelection campaign, as well as a number of editorial comments. Even after the election, Marumo had managed to stay in the public eye. He'd worked feverishly to support his candidates in two by-­elections, although both had lost badly in the end. In parliament he constantly challenged the government's “same old way” approach, and he wrote a weekly column in
Mmegi
newspaper.

There was no doubt that Marumo was getting a lot of attention with his attacks on what he called the BDP's arrogance and lack of sensitivity to the plight of ordinary ­people. But even more than his attacks on the government, he was gaining supporters with his message of hope. He called for sharing the prosperity of Botswana, claiming that there was enough money to uplift all, to reduce the incidence of AIDS, to improve education, to create jobs, to protect retirement. His slogan: “Believe in yourselves, and we can change the world!”

Sounds like Obama, Kubu thought.

A
S
K
UBU DROV
E TO
Marumo's house in the upscale suburb of Phologolo, he hoped that the interview wouldn't last long. He was feeling hunger pains and wanted to put them to rest. He was about to turn into Pela Crescent, where Marumo lived, when he was stopped by a ­couple of policemen.

“Assistant Superintendent Bengu, CID,” he said opening the window and showing his badge.

“Okay, rra. Please park on the street. It's that house up there.”

As though I could miss it, Kubu thought, seeing a crowd of ­people and two television trucks.

Kubu looked around as he heaved himself out of his old Land Rover. An upper-­middle-­class suburb. Very little traffic. Nice trees. Secluded. A low probability that anyone would have seen whoever left the dog's head, he thought. But if someone did see something, there was a decent chance they'd pay attention.

He walked to the house and skirted the crowd, which was in a semicircle around the gate to the driveway. Marumo was standing on a chair, pumping his hand in the air. Camera flashes were reflecting off his sweating face. “Whoever did this—­they won't silence me,” he shouted. “The ­people want change, and nobody is going to stop us.”

Kubu walked up to a man standing behind Marumo and whispered in his ear: “Assistant Superintendent Bengu for a noon meeting.” The man looked at Kubu but did nothing.

“Tell him!” Kubu hissed.

The man pulled a piece of paper from his shirt pocket, scribbled something on it, and handed it to Marumo, who had paused to take a drink from a bottle of water.

“Ladies and gentlemen, that's all for now. Thank you.” Then he added sarcastically, “The government has sent its ace detective to solve this great mystery.” He jumped off the chair and extended his hand to Kubu. “Nothing personal,” he grinned. “Couldn't resist taking a shot at the government.”

“It sounded more like a shot at me,” Kubu replied without a smile. “Can we go inside?”

“
I
'M REASONA
BLY FAMILIAR WITH
your political career,” Kubu said after they had settled down in the living room. Kubu liked the feel of the plush leather chair that he'd lowered himself into. “Do you think it's at all possible that the BDP would try to intimidate you by leaving a dog's head at your front door?”

“Of course. They're very nervous about the gains we're making. They'll be in real trouble at the next elections if they continue to lose support.” He took a deep drink from his water bottle. “It was a BDP supporter all right but, even if you find who did it, you'll never be able to tie it to the party. They couldn't afford any connection to come out. That would be a disaster for them.”

“Do you think the threat is serious—­you know, the ‘your next'?”

“No. My party would tie it to the BDP. If it is the BDP behind it, killing me would backfire. Besides, it won't happen.” He took another swig of water. “I'm well protected.”

“You have bodyguards?”

“Oh, no. It's my destiny to be president. Nobody can stop that.”

What arrogance, Kubu thought.

“Is there anyone else who might want to kill you? Ex–business partners, ex-­girlfriends?”

Bill shook his head.

“Have you ever had an affair with a married woman?”

Bill didn't flinch. “No, never. That wouldn't be good.”

“Do you owe anyone money?”

Again Bill shook his head. “It can only be politics related. I'm sure of that.”

Kubu read through his notes and was satisfied he'd written down all the important facts.

“When did you find the head?”

“I didn't. My girlfriend did. I was working out in the back room, and she leaves for work around seven. When she opened the front door, there it was. When I heard her scream, I came running. It was disgusting.”

“What's her name?”

“Jubjub Oteng.”

“Did either of you hear anything or see anything?”

“No. We were up at six, so it must have been left during the night.”

“And the gate? I see you've got an electric gate across the driveway. Was it open?”

“No. We always shut it at night. If the government spread the wealth around a little more, there wouldn't be so much car theft.”

“So, whoever left it must've climbed over the wall.”

“That's what the lady detective said this morning. They found footprints as well, next to the tree at the gate. She thought whoever it was scaled the wall to get in and used that tree to get out.”

Kubu frowned. “Lady detective?”

“Very attractive woman. Didn't ask many questions, but poked around and took a lot of photos . . .”

“Oh! You mean Zanele Dlamini. She's not a detective. She's from Forensics.”

Bill shrugged.

“Well, thank you for your time, Rra Marumo. We'll be in touch if we learn anything.” Kubu struggled out of the low sofa. It's like a sports car, he thought. Nice to be in, hard to get out.

“I think it looks like something that a witch doctor would do—­or someone imitating a witch doctor. You know, a spell for bad luck,” Kubu said. “Do you believe in that sort of thing?”

Marumo smiled. “No, Superintendent. I do not. We live in the twenty-­first century now. That's stuff of the past. The country would be better off if it paid more attention to accurate information than to the rantings of old men and women who think they've got special powers. Have you been to a
kgotla
? Chiefs and their advisers—­all ancient—­invoking the spirits to help them mete out justice.” He shook his head. “No, we must move our country into the present. Make it energetic. Make our ­people energetic, not lazy as they are now. Then the country will prosper. Everyone will improve their lot. Have a roof over their heads, and food on the table.”

He can't get off his soapbox, Kubu thought. I wonder if he's still on it when he's in bed with his girlfriend.

“Rra Marumo, please call me if you are suspicious of anyone. Or if you remember something you've not told me.” Kubu shrugged. “But on the basis of what you've said, I don't have anything to go on—­unless Forensics found something useful, like fingerprints that we can match. But I doubt they will, unfortunately.”

Marumo nodded.

“And you may want to hire a night watchman. That may be enough to scare off anyone who wants to do this again. Or put barbed wire on the wall and the gate, like your neighbors.”

Kubu handed him a business card and shook his hand. “I hope something like this doesn't happen again.”

He started to leave, then stopped. “Please ask your lady friend to call me as soon as possible. I'm sure I won't learn anything new—­but you never know.”

As he walked back to his car, Kubu thought the chances of finding who'd left the dog's head were slim. He shook his head. He remembered when politics in Botswana were clean. And that wasn't long ago.

“I hope this isn't a sign of things to come,” he muttered to himself.