Frederick Ramsay_Botswana Mystery 01 (21 page)

Chapter 48

The hyenas had ranged far to the west, almost to the Okavango Delta. They had some modest successes hunting and scavenging. They felt no urgent need of feed again beyond the instinct all predators have that there is never enough. So, they would not cease pursuing game. To kill and feed was instinctual and neverending. The matriarch stopped and turned. The pack waited. What would she do? If one were to shoot a film of them, using night vision technology, perhaps, their eyes would seem to glow a terrible, but fitting, phosphorescent green. But that would be a phenomenon created by reflected light. Animals with powerful night vision all share that characteristic. At night, when caught in a beam of light, their eyes glitter. Only fantasy figures have eyes that truly glow evilly; evidence of emitted light.

So, the dozen hyenas, young and old, watched and waited in the darkened savannah for their leader to give them direction. One of the younger females growled—not quite a challenge, she did not yet possess either the courage or the experience to attempt a takeover of pack. Not yet. The matriarch lifted her head and yakked. It is not clear how much her next step relied on intuition and instinct, how much on experience, or if there might be some sort of animal clairvoyance at play. With animals, who can tell? But she yipped again and set out in an easy lope back east, back toward the fence, back toward their old enemy. But it was not Sekoa they sought now. Something new was on the move.

***

Sanderson sat on the wall of the small courtyard outside her door and contemplated the waning moon, her bright red truck a shade of dark gray in the night. She smiled at the HiLux, Michael’s success. Michael had drifted off to sleep after dinner, a very little of which he ate, and Mpitle soldiered on with her homework until ten.

Sanderson thought about Mwambe and Pako. She would not miss Pako, but compared to Mwambe, he seemed, in retrospect, almost enlightened. She crossed her ankles and inhaled the smell of roasting meat. Mrs. Maholo, the woman in the village who had the honor of possessing a washing apparatus, had meat on the spit. It seemed late to be about cooking, but Mrs. Maholo worked long hours at the clinic, and that would explain it.

What to do about this murder business? It seemed very clear to her that Mwambe wished the whole matter to disappear like the smoke from Mrs. Maholo’s kitchen. He worried so much about the attaché from the American embassy due to arrive the next day. A lion accident could be handled. Everyone knew there were certain risks in visiting a game park, especially when warned by the hotel of a new threat, a recent death, in the neighborhood. A murder, on the other hand, could cause difficulties, could create an investigation by higher-ups, a visit, perhaps, by the head of the Department of Intelligence and Security himself. The examiner told her the man was part of an American delegation in the country at the invitation of the president. She, and all of her contemporaries, held the president in the highest esteem. It would not do to have him embarrassed by this murder. What if a Motswana had done it, or a robbery by some poor drifter from Zimbabwe had gone wrong? It could be, and what did that say about safety in the district? She shuddered at the thought. She would not like to be that person if he were caught. Mwambe had a serious problem to deal with.

Should she also let the problem go? What purpose would be served by finding a killer, when ascribing the event to a lion would do so nicely? But there remained the matter of truth. Botswana, her Botswana, did not lie, not to its people and certainly not to other governments.

“We do not do that,” she murmured. “If a thing is so, it is so. It would be wrong to say otherwise.”

But she knew in her heart that Inspector Mwambe would not—perhaps, she conceded, he could not—see it that way. What to do? These were weighty matters and would keep her awake late that night.

“What is troubling your
mowa,
Mma Michael?” Sanderson jumped. Rra Kaleke had slipped up beside her without a sound.

“My spirit is troubled, Rra. It is a problem that has presented itself to me, and I do not know what to do.”

Kaleke sat next to her and focused on the moon as well.

“You are a good woman, Mma Michael. You are too modern for this village, I think, but we are all admiring you anyway. Can you tell me this problem that keeps you from your sleep?”

“It is this man who we found with Sekoa and who is dead. Sekoa did not kill him. This you know.”

Kaleke nodded and lit the stub of a cigarette. He’d smoked half after breakfast and had saved the other half for the night, before sleeping.

“That man had a wound that only a
motsu
could have made.”

“It was a spear point, Rra. You saw it. I took it from the dust bin that day. The examiner said there were traces of blood on it, the man’s blood. Someone stabbed him, and he must have awakened Sekoa when this thing happened. That old lion went to him, but the man must be dead when he finds him, and so he took him in the bush. Inspector Mwambe wants the investigation to go away.”

“Why would the Baboon want that? Solving a murder would be a great thing for him. He would be admired and possibly receive a medal.”

“I do not think he would get a medal. He has reasons for wishing the thing away that are not all together wrong, Rra.”

She explained Mwambe’s dilemma and her own. Kaleke listened and nodded from time to time. When she finished the two sat in silence once again. Night birds twittered in the distance, and she thought she heard a hyena laughing—at her? At humans who strained their brains thinking of ideas like justice and loyalty and patriotism? In the park, life and death played out simply. You were predator or you were prey, and violence defined your existence. Life was for the strong, the fleet, and the cunning. That lion, Sekoa, he broke the rules of the bush. He died of old age.

We should all be so lucky.

“I will pray for you, Mma. It is not a situation that I envy you. I will pray that you will be led to right decisions. I will ask this of
Modimo
for you.”

“Thank you, Rra. I will pray for direction, too. But it would be very much easier to pray if I knew what right decisions were in this case. Then I would only need to pray for the courage to do it.”

“You are not a fearful person, Mma Michael. You are strong. We all know that. Maybe you are too strong for a woman. I do not know about that anymore, but courage is not a thing you are missing. You will do the right thing. Now, go to your house and sleep. Tomorrow you will know.”

He stood and strode away into the night. Sanderson watched as his figure was swallowed by shadows. Would she know? Must it be left to her? She did not believe sleep would come soon, nor would there be any rest for her if it did.

Chapter 49

Sanderson awoke early. In fact, she had not slept well after her conversation with Rra Kaleke. She hoped his prayers were more satisfactory than hers had been. She set out food and left a note for Mpitle to take care of the house and her brother until she had to leave for school. Sanderson drove off to the Safari Lodge. She would find a coffee there and see about the business of the spears. The engine of the HiLux coughed a bit more this morning than usual, and she thought she could smell steam, the sort hot engines make. She worried about that. She would be careful. Then, on impulse she turned toward her office. Mr. Pako no longer ruled that roost. She would check out the Land Rover. Since there was no one else in charge yet, she decided she would be the one, at least for this day, until the new man arrived.

She pulled up in front of the lodge in the Land Rover and cut the engine. This vehicle ran no better than her
bakkie
and coughed several times before it chugged to a stop. As she stepped out onto the gravel, she noticed the police vehicle parked further down the circle. Was Mwambe going to ask the questions after all? She hoped so. As she considered whether she should climb back into the Land Rover, Derek Kgasa exited the police car. Derek she knew from school. They had shared textbooks and sometimes traded lunches. Derek was Mwambe’s nephew, which explained how he came to be a policeman. Sanderson knew enough about his brain power to know influence had more to do with his appointment than skill. But she liked Derek; everyone did.

“So, Sanderson, you are here to help me with this?”

“Why do you think that, Derek? Did your uncle suggest it?”

“No, he said you would probably not let this mystery lie quietly, and if I could, I should try to talk you into a sensible way of presenting these events to the Americans.”

“Sensible? You mean your uncle wishes it, and me, to go far away and for some time.”

“He called your boss, Mr. Pako, in Maun, but he could not convince him to call you off. His words were ‘That woman is not my responsibility anymore,’ and he hung up. I am assigned to do this investigation, you see?”

“You, Derek? Your uncle, with all the importance this investigation has for him, will turn it over to you instead?”

Derek smiled and scraped at the gravel with the toe of his boot. “You know, Sanderson, I am rubbish as a policeman. I try, but except for answering the phone and directing traffic, I have no talent for this work.”

Sanderson knew this. Everyone knew this, but she was mildly surprised to hear such a confession from him.

“Why do you keep at it, then?”

Derek shrugged and smiled some more. He had always been a cheerful follower, and she supposed he became a policeman because someone told him he could.

“So, what will you do, Derek?” He shrugged again and looked uncomfortable. “Maybe we can help each other, then. Do you know what you would like to do next?”

“I should interview people, and soon. The manager says the party of Americans will be leaving tomorrow. If there is anything they can tell us, I must find it out now.”

“Do you know how the man came to die? Did you have a conversation with the medical examiner?”

“No, my uncle told me the man was attacked by a lion, but there were suspicious wounds to the body and I should inquire. I do not know what that means.”

“Derek, the man was stabbed with a spear point. They sell these things here in the gift shop. I think we should visit the shop and ask if anyone bought one lately. And if they did, were they connected to the Americans, don’t you think?”

Derek’s eyes lit up. He stood straighter and nodded. “You are correct. We will ask about that.” He started toward the gift shop and paused. “What shall we ask?”

Sanderson sighed and led the policeman into the store. The clerk had just opened for business. When she saw the policeman’s uniform she stopped what she was doing and raised her eyebrows. “Yes,” she said, “Can I be of help?”

Sanderson waited for Derek to begin. He stood like an old baobab tree, which pretty much described him, very thick and hollow inside. When she realized he would not ask the woman the questions, she spoke up instead.

“Can you help us, yes. You sell
diassagai
here, don’t you? I don’t see any now, but we were told you did.”

The clerk looked first at Sanderson and then back to Derek. When he nodded his head quickly, she turned back to Sanderson. “We do not sell them any more. We had a request from the authorities to stop. Some men were fighting with them and there were injuries.”

“When did you stop the sales?”

“It was two days ago, I think. I can check for you.”

“It is not that important. What we would like to know is if you sold any of them before the ban and if so to whom did you make these sales.”

She pulled the sales slips from the drawer under the cash box and shuffled through them. She put four slips to one side.

“These are the sales for that item in the last two weeks. You will see they are identified by date and the room number of the guest. Some also have names. This one, which has no name, must have been bought after five. You see this is Alice’s initials on it. She runs the store from five ’til closing.” She handed the slips to Derek who, in turn, handed them to Sanderson.

She glanced at each. “We must take these to the manager for identification.” The sales clerk looked doubtful. “It is official police business, Missus, we will return them as soon as we can. Let’s go, Derek. We have some more queries to make.” And Sanderson led the policeman out of the store and off to the manager’s office.

“You are very good at this,” Derek said. The admiration was evident on his broad smiling face. “You should become a detective like the woman in the books.”

“I don’t think that is a realistic thing to do. That woman is from another day and age. Can you see me acting like that?”

Derek shook his head. No, there was no way this Sanderson would ever be mistaken for that old
mosadi.
But he still seemed stuck on the possibility of Sanderson having such a glamorous position. She was a handsome woman, for sure.

“Forget it Derek. It will not be. I am only hoping to retain my current employment. I do not know what the new man who comes to replace Mr. Pako will say to me after he has heard from that man.”

As they walked to the manager’s office, Sanderson sorted the slips and arranged them by date.

“This is very curious, there are
diassagai
being sold to people with the same room number a day apart. Why would they buy two?”

“Tourists are strange people, Sanderson. Perhaps they wished to have a pair for an arrangement. Maybe they buy them for a friend. Who can say. They are very curious people.”

“Or one of them wished to cover up the fact that the first went missing and maybe found its way into that man’s belly.”

Chapter 50

The American attaché arrived in Kasane early, accompanied by Kgabo Modise. The director at DIS thought it would be a good idea if they had presence at the interview. And, in that case and because he’d been on the scene at the time the body was found, Modise should be the one to go on the trip. Modise wished he’d selected someone else. He never felt comfortable in the presence of officialdom in general and this particular official in particular. The president, briefed on the potential diplomatic difficulties Henry Farrah’s death might create, insisted they fly to Kasane in OK1, the president’s plane.

Modise’s rise in the ranks of the police service had not been meteoric, but swift nonetheless. When the new Directorate of Intelligence and Security had been formed and subsumed the Criminal Investigation Department, he’d been absorbed into the new configuration. They were acutely interested in the Greshenko-Botlhokwa connection, which was why he’d drawn the assignment in the first place. He knew he should be pleased that the director thought to send him, but this lion caper was one add-on he could do without.

Inspector Mwambe, overwhelmed by the government’s reaction to his
little problem
, nearly fainted when he saw the plane touch down. The inclusion of Kgabo Modise did not increase his ease, either. In the police car, he asked if the attaché had been briefed sufficiently. As he did not know what Modise might have said, he knew he must tread lightly until he could determine what would be an appropriate thing to say. He’d practiced his response in front of the mirror the night before.
It is most serious and a full investigation by my best man is now under way,
he’d recited it a dozen times, altering his expression until he found one that he thought combined both competence and sympathy. But now? What to say? Modise knew of Derek’s capabilities or lack thereof.
My best man
was not going to wash.

“Inspector Modise has filled me in, but I would like to have your take on the occurrence. You are, after all, local and familiar with this sort of thing far more completely than the folks in Gaborone—no offense, Inspector Modise.”

Modise smiled. “None taken, Excellency.”

“Call me Harry.”

Mwambe heard but could not see himself calling the American official by his first name. These Americans, they have no sense of propriety, so familiar. He tried to concentrate. He began his speech for the attaché, stuttered, and began again.

“It is most a serious situation, and I have launched a full investigation by my best…by my team…we have begun our investigation into it. There were…there are, certain complexities with this situation that must be resolved and—”

“Tell him about the wound,” Modise interrupted.

Trust Modise to root around like a warthog and make a mess of this. “There was a most puzzling wound found on the body.”

“It looked like he’d been stabbed.” Mwambe wished Modise would shut up.

“Perhaps when we arrive at Headquarters we can have the medical examiner fill you in. We also have the photographs of the scene and so on.”

“Yes, let’s do that.”

For the moment, Mwambe was off the hook. Perhaps he’d have a moment after they arrived to send someone else over to the lodge to help Derek and make a real show of investigating. Any hope he harbored to minimize the situation until the Americans left later in the day had flown out the window with the inclusion of Inspector Modise in the mix. He would need a miracle to get out of this one. Divine intercession did not seem a likely outcome.

Annoyance
did not do justice to the way he felt.

***

The hotel manager seemed eager to help the policeman, less eager to speak to Sanderson. Her presence confused him. She understood why. There was no way he could know, or should know, that at that moment Derek stood as helpless as a gazelle caught between a pride of lions and a river full of crocodiles.

The manager said he would identify the guests if he could. He hemmed and hawed, eyebrows dancing up and down, as he flipped through the bits of paper they’d handed them. Sanderson caught a whiff of coffee and remembered she’d planned to have a cup here and that she had not eaten yet.

One purchase, the manager finally reported, had been made by the English couple who had come to Kasane to add to their bird-watching totals, a pastime that seemed peculiarly British. Another belonged to an important man from Francistown who spent many weekends at the lodge with a woman the manager did not think was his wife, and the remaining two belonged to the young couple who were with the American party.

“You cannot miss them,” he said. “Their name is Griswold, Robert and Brenda Griswold. The woman is always dressed in a…a flashy manner, talks very loudly, and entertains the game drivers with her appearance and remarks. The husband will usually be found in the bar. The English couple left yesterday, and the man from Francistown on Monday. It would appear that you will only be able to interview the Americans.”

Derek thanked the manager, and he followed Sanderson back outside. “So, we have our murderers.”

“No, Derek, no murderers, not yet. These spear points are sold everywhere. It is not necessary that the one that killed the man came from this lodge or this gift shop.”

Derek’s face collapsed into a frown. “What then? How will I ever be able to know the killer?”

“It is not so easy being the detective, you see. We must ask some questions of these two people. But you must appreciate that they may not be involved at all.”

“But how will we know? They will have stories, alibis. They are married, they will not point the finger at one another.”

“We shall see. If they can produce two spears, it will not be them. If they cannot, well then, we will ask some more questions. We will suggest the presence of fingerprints. I don’t know, Derek. I am a game ranger, you are the policeman. Let’s see if we can find a coffee and something to eat. We can discuss what you should do then.”

***

Brenda surveyed the heap of clothing and paper bags at the end of the bed. She poked her husband in the ribs.

“Wake up. We have to go to breakfast, and then I want to go to the pool and get some sun. I’m beginning to fade. Too bad they don’t have a tanning salon here. I need to get back home. Maybe we can fly to Miami Beach when we do.”

Bobby grunted and rolled over.

“No, I mean it. We have to get moving. Listen, before we go to breakfast, at least let’s get these dirty clothes in one bag so we can pack up quick tonight.”

She rolled out of bed, pulled on the tee-shirt she’d discarded the night before, and yanked one roll-along from the closet. She tossed it on the bed, unzipped the main compartment and tackled the mess on the bench. She gathered armfuls of clothing and dumped them into the bag, mashing them down so that she could zip the bag closed. When she finished with the bench, she reached under it to retrieve Bobby’s dirty socks and underwear.

“Wow, look at that.”

Bobby opened one eye. “What?”

“My
assagai.
It was here all the time, under your smelly socks,” She held it up for him to see and then pulled the paper bag with its sales slip in it from the trash can and put in the spear. She slipped that in a desk drawer.

“There, that’s that. I wonder what happened to my other glove? Maybe it’s under the bed. Get up, Bobby, I need to lift this mattress. And you could use a shower.”

Bobby said something that sounded like mumph and swung his feet to the floor. Brenda peeled off the tee and headed to the shower.

“Me first.”