A Death in the Family (15 page)

Kubu found the chicken quite good and enjoyed the Chinese cabbage, which was new to him, but he ate slowly, playing with the food.

Newsom shook his head at the mention of dessert and asked the waiter for his bill. “I have to get on the road, Assistant Superintendent. So, if there's nothing more?”

Kubu took his time replying, but he couldn't see how to press the man further. “Not for the moment. No.”

Newsom headed for the cash register, where a harried Chinese lady was dealing with waiters and payments. Kubu watched Newsom pay and leave without a backward glance. Either he was offended, or he was making a good show of it. A man, who had been sitting by himself drinking tea, also went to the desk, dropped his bill and a handful of pula notes, and left. Kubu took no notice. He was forcing himself to finish the chicken.

*   *   *

IT WAS AFTER
ten when Newsom returned, weary from the long drive to Mahalapye and back. He was worried that his efforts to persuade the police that Kunene had been murdered had backfired; their focus was now on him as a suspect. The large, lumbering detective was much sharper than he appeared. And his meeting with Uranium and Nickel Exploration had not gone well. They saw their big discovery slipping away between obfuscation and bureaucratic delays. They wanted action. He'd explained that his key contact was gone, murdered, but they hadn't been satisfied.

When he pulled his car up in front of his apartment building, he was tired, and so he was careless. He used the remote car lock and walked toward the main door of the complex without checking the street. His only warning of the attack was the slightest sound behind him, only heard at all because of his combat training. He started to turn, and the kick to the back of his knee that would have dropped him hit it on the side instead. He staggered backward, but managed to maintain his balance and swing around to face the assailant. The man was already on top of him, and his right hand held a knife aimed to strike upward into the chest cavity. Newsom twisted away and felt a searing pain as the knife sliced into his stomach muscles. He screamed, lashing out with his right leg while going for the knife arm with his left hand. The attacker easily avoided the kick, dancing out of reach.

Newsom knew he was in trouble. He was losing blood from the stomach wound, and although his assailant was shorter than he was, the man was obviously trained in martial arts, and he had a knife. All Newsom could see of his face were dark eyes watching through the slits in the ski mask covering his head. Newsom absorbed all this in the instant before the man was at him again, slashing with the knife to keep Newsom occupied, while he aimed a vicious kick to the groin. Newsom, punching the knife arm away, twisted, and the kick took him on the thigh. He bellowed and staggered back, feeling the knife slash his right arm. His training took over, and his left hand shot out for the knife arm, and against the odds, he felt his fingers close on the wrist. He grabbed at the man's other hand, but it was too quick for him, snatching the knife from the imprisoned hand and digging the blade into Newsom's bicep. Newsom yelled again, and this time he heard an answering shout and the sound of someone running toward them. The attacker heard it too and was distracted for the split second it took for Newsom to slam his fist into the man's head. He staggered back and wrenched his hand free, avoiding Newsom's kick aimed between his legs. Then he started to run down the street away from the approaching shouts. Newsom took a few steps after him, but the pain was too much, and he sank to his knees. Blood soaked his trousers. He pressed his right hand against his stomach, trying to stanch the bleeding.

A moment later a young Motswana man ran up to him. “Rra! What's happened to you? I heard the shouts…” But Newsom was slumped on the ground and didn't reply.

 

PART 5

 

CHAPTER 28

“You tell me you make problem go way.” The man behind the desk showed no emotion, but his eyes signaled his anger. “But problem still problem. What you do?”

“I'm sure the chief will approve the mine expansion,” the young black man said. “I've been working very hard to make sure of that.”

The man sitting at the side of the room translated. The man behind the desk didn't react, didn't say anything. It was impossible to read what he was thinking.

Julius wasn't used to silence and began to sweat. “And I have a plan if he doesn't. But I think he'll accept your offer, because it's very generous. There are many people who want it.”

Again a translation. Again no reaction.

“Mr. Hong, the chief is going to tell us at a
kgotla
on Saturday—that's a meeting of the village. I think he'll do what the young people want. They want jobs. He'll accept your offer.”

Julius swallowed, his throat dry. There was still no response after the translation.

“There'll be trouble if the chief says no,” he continued. “The young people will be very angry and won't listen to the chief. Then he'll be gone, and I'll be the new chief, and I'll do what you want.”

This time the translator spoke for some time—more than a translation would have required. Julius wondered what he was saying. Hong frowned. “The chief is your father. You must agree with his decision,” he stated.

Julius shook his head. “He does not understand his people anymore. But I think I've persuaded him. It's only the elders who don't want change because of what happened last time.”

“When will the village give an answer?” the translator asked.

Julius looked at him. “On Saturday, Mr. Shonhu, if the chief agrees. Another week if he says no,” he said quietly.

“Sure?”

Julius nodded nervously. “Yes. I promise. By the end of next week you will have permission. Then you must move quickly to provide the money for moving and building the new houses. That's what we've promised.”

There was no immediate response from Hong after the translation. Eventually, he spoke. “Go with Shonhu.”

“Come,” Shonhu said to Julius, pointing at the door.

Julius stood up and started to leave. Then he turned to the man behind the desk. “I promise.”

*   *   *

A FEW MINUTES
later, Shonhu returned to the office and stood in front of the manager's desk.

“The chief's son is scared,” he said in Chinese. “I don't think he's tough enough to get us the right answer.”

Hong nodded. “We'll see by the end of the week. Until then there is nothing we can do. We must be patient. In China it would be easy. But here? These black people…” His voice trailed off without finishing the sentence.

“But what if the chief says no?” Shonhu asked.

Hong shrugged.

“The chief's son says he can fix the problem,” Shonhu said. “We will see, but I don't think he can. So we'll make our own plan.”

He turned to the door. “I will take you back to the village.”

*   *   *

HONG SAT IN
the back of his Gilan car as Shonhu drove from the mine toward Mahalapye. After about ten minutes, they turned off the main road toward a high barbed-wire fence that encircled a large cluster of prefabricated homes, most of which had Chinese flags fluttering above them or red pictographs on their walls. Here the road was unpaved and corrugated. The manager wished he had a Toyota Land Cruiser rather than a Chinese vehicle totally unsuited to rough roads, but he couldn't be seen in a vehicle made outside his homeland.

They turned under an ornate arch that sported a pair of heavy gates. A guard walked over, peered into the car, nodded, and pressed a remote. The gates slid back, letting the manager's car enter. The manager was pleased. The guard's firearm was not visible. It wouldn't be good for the locals to see the man was armed.

*   *   *

JULIUS WAS NOT
a happy man when he left the mine. Despite what he'd told the manager, he wasn't confident that his father was going to accept the offer. And if the mine didn't expand, he wouldn't be paid his consulting fee—a sum that was the equivalent of several years' salary in the area.

He decided it was time to buy some insurance, to make sure that the village accepted the mine's offer. He headed to the shebeen in the center of Shoshong, where he knew a large group of unemployed young men would be drinking.

“
Dumela
,
dumela
,” he said as he walked in. Heads nodded in response. “The next round's on me,” he shouted. “Get a drink; then come over here.” He walked to the corner of the room and sat down at one of the tables. There was a rush for the bar as the men took advantage of the offer, switching from cheap Shake Shake beer to whisky or brandy. It was the chief's son, after all, who had made the offer.

When most of the men had gathered around, Julius raised his hand to quiet the group. “I'm worried about the
kgotla
on Saturday,” he said. “I'm not sure that my father, the chief, will listen to us and accept the mine's offer.” The men listened intently.

“As you know, I think that's the wrong decision,” he continued. “It's the decision of old men with their eyes and ears closed to your needs.” There was a murmur from the crowd. “It's the decision in favor of the past rather than your future.” The crowd murmured again, showing signs of restlessness.

“We must show my father and the elders that the future is with us, not with tradition. We must show them that their way is wrong.”

Heads nodded and several men shouted, “Show them. We must show them.”

Julius looked around, pleased at the reaction. He needed to get the men worked up, willing to take the situation into their own hands.

“On Saturday at the
kgotla
, you must listen to the chief. If he agrees to what the mine offers, you must show him your support. But if he doesn't agree…” He paused and looked around. “If he doesn't agree, you must show your anger. You must show the old men that it's your lives they're taking away, your future they're stealing.”

“They are thieves. Show them!” The crowd was getting agitated.

Julius raised his hand. “If the chief turns down the offer, you must take the elders and shake them and make them afraid, so they will change their minds, so you can have jobs.”

“We want jobs. We want jobs.” Now there was anger in the shouts.

It took Julius several minutes to stop the chant.

“You must show them, but you must not hurt them, because they are our fathers and our elders. Make them understand. But don't hurt them.”

This was met with silence.

He stood up. “Soon we have jobs!” He turned and walked out to the cheers of the young men.

As he opened the door of his Toyota, he heard another chant from the shebeen. “Julius. Julius.”

This is what it felt like to be chief-in-waiting. He smiled, closed the door, and drove off.

 

CHAPTER 29

Kubu woke with a start to the shrill ringing of the phone. He grabbed it, his heart pounding. Joy sat up in the bed, also wide-awake.

“Yes?” He cleared his throat. “Assistant Superintendent Bengu here.”

He listened for a moment and then interrupted. “Just wait a minute.” Joy was listening to every word and holding his arm. “It's all right, darling. It's Edison. Nothing to worry about.” He felt her relax and lie back, and he returned his attention to the call.

“Who? Are you sure? Is he alive?” He listened a bit longer, then said, “I'll head out there now. Keep the witnesses at the scene till I get there.”

He hung up, switched on the bedside lamp, and turned to Joy. “A man's been stabbed. An American. I have to check it out.” Seeing the look on her face, he added, “Don't worry. Try to go back to sleep.”

But she was already getting up. “I want to check on the girls. See that they're all right. And your mother may have woken.” In the past, even if Joy had answered a late-night call, she would have handed the phone to him and been instantly asleep again. But that was the past.

*   *   *

KUBU'S MIND WAS
still foggy with sleep, so he missed the turnoff to the apartment block where Peter Newsom lived. At last he found the street he was looking for and could see police activity a few blocks down. As he reached the taped-off area, he sat in the car for a few moments and took in the scene lit up by the police floodlights. Several uniformed policemen were keeping back a small crowd of onlookers. Edison was speaking to a group of young men, and Zanele and her team were inside the tapes scouring the area for clues. Kubu clambered out of his vehicle, walked over to Edison, and greeted him.

“This is Mandla Towene,” Edison said, pointing to a young man in an orange Illinois T-shirt. “He's the man who reported the attack. He was leaving a shebeen on the next block with some friends and heard shouts. They ran over to see what was going on.” He paused. “How's the victim?”

Kubu knew that Edison's interest was not concern; he wanted to know if they were on another murder case.

“I phoned the hospital, but they couldn't tell me anything. The doctors are putting him back together. It'll be quite a while before we know much more. How did you know it was Newsom?”

“A lady identified him. His neighbor apparently.” He checked his notes, holding them to catch the light. “A Mma Kamanga. She saw the attack. She's waiting in her apartment; I spoke to her, but I told her you'd want to talk to her too.”

Kubu nodded and looked around. The apartment building was on three levels and wasn't in an expensive neighborhood. Somehow he'd imagined Newsom in a more upmarket area. The residents' cars were parked on a paved area in front of the building. Kubu felt a twinge of disappointment. There would be no footprints for Zanele to work with. On the other hand, it was nearly a full moon, so maybe they'd get something from the witnesses. He turned to Towene, who was now sitting on the curb surrounded by his mates.