Deadly Harvest (11 page)

“Is that how you got the stains on your clothes?”

The doctor glanced at his soiled pants. “Yes. I'd like to get changed and showered as soon as we're finished here.”

“We'll want the clothes. I'll send someone with you to collect them when you change.”

Pilane frowned. “Is that necessary?”

“We'll be looking for traces of the killer on Marumo's body. Forensics will find particles of material from your clothes. We'll want to eliminate those. Also we'll need your fingerprints—­again for elimination purposes.” Kubu didn't add that although the doctor's story sounded reasonable, there could be other explanations. A murderer would want to have a believable excuse if traces of blood were subsequently found in his house.

The doctor looked somber and nodded.

Kubu prompted him. “What happened next?”

“I took Jubjub inside and phoned the police. Then I went back to my house, washed my hands, and got her some tranquilizers. She was in a pretty bad way. The police arrived just after I got back. You know what happened after that.”

Kubu nodded. “Thank you, doctor. I may need to talk to you again later, but for now let's get your fingerprints and get you cleaned up.”

The doctor looked relieved. “Good,” he said. “And I could use a strong drink after that.”

K
UBU LEFT THE
DOCTOR
with one of the forensics ­people and went to check if Ian MacGregor had any news or if the sergeant had heard from his door-­to-­door team. He found the forensics team going about their business and Ian packing up his tools. Kubu looked at him inquiringly.

“Rigor mortis hasn't set in. Maybe a trace in the eyelids.” He shrugged. “And his temperature has only dropped about two degrees. There's some lividity developing, though.”

“And that means?”

“I'd say he died sometime after half past six. Certainly not before six.”

Kubu thanked him and walked to the gate to look for the sergeant. From there he could see that a noisy crowd had gathered at the police roadblock. He felt another twinge of indigestion. The press had arrived. He tried to reach Mabaku on his cell phone, but there was no reply. He turned away. He wasn't going to face this music on his own.

SIXTEEN

W
HEN
W
ITN
ESS EVENTUALLY WOKE
up on Sunday morning, he was curled in a ball clutching the bedclothes, eyes tight shut. One pillow was near his feet, the other on the floor. He felt totally drained, despite sleeping for more than twelve hours.

The previous night was a blur. He remembered standing in the garden, the darkness broken by slivers of light from the house windows and streetlamps, and looking at Marumo's body motionless on the ground. He remembered thinking that somebody must have killed Marumo, because there were dark stains on his shirt, a slash across his face, and a black stripe down his neck. Or had
he
killed him? He had a vague recollection of trying to stop Marumo from making a noise.

Witness pulled himself into a tighter ball. He lay still for some time, flitting in and out of sleep. Eventually he uncurled himself and opened his eyes for the first time that morning. The sun was already high, judging by the shadows of the windowpanes. He glanced at his wristwatch. It was noon. He looked again and caught his breath, shocked. His hand was covered with a dark brown stain. So was his arm. He looked down. He was still wearing his clothes, and his shirt and trousers were covered in brown stains, too. He was still wearing his shoes!

He couldn't remember getting into bed.

He couldn't remember what had happened.

W
ITNESS LAY THERE F
OR
another hour trying to bring the previous night into focus. He decided he must have killed Marumo and felt some satisfaction about revenging Tombi's death. The man was a murderer! But had he meant to kill him? A confession would have been enough, so he could take him to the police. Had he changed his mind? Slowly it came back to him. Marumo had pushed him and shouted for help even though he'd promised not to harm him if he kept quiet. He'd had no choice then.

I
T WAS NEARLY THREE
in the afternoon, and Witness was still in bed. He was no longer curled up but was lying on his back, hands behind his head, his brain now clear. Behind his closed eyes, he recalled Marumo's terror. He was not Mr. Smiley Face when he had a knife against his throat. Oh no! He was like anyone else in that situation—­terrified. Witness smiled. The man deserved to die. Tombi's spirit would be happy.

But now he had to think about what to do, and for the next hour he pondered his options. He eventually decided that nobody could possibly know that he'd killed the smiling Marumo. Nobody had seen him; of that he was sure. He had no police record, so no one would suspect him. All he needed to do was wash his clothes and polish his shoes to make sure there was no blood on them. Just in case. Then he'd take a shower and clean himself. Finally, after dark, he would wash the seat in his car in case any blood had come off his clothes.

And if someone asked him where he was on Saturday evening, he'd say he had driven over to the Broadhurst Mall and walked around. He knew it well. He would be convincing.

He had a plan! He couldn't see how it could go wrong.

Suddenly his reverie was shattered by a loud banging on the door.

“Witness! Witness! Are you there?” It was Big Mama. Witness didn't move.

“Witness! Open up! I've got to talk to you.”

Witness curled up and pulled the blanket over his head.

“Witness. It's Big Mama. Let me in.”

Witness lay still. A few moments later, he heard footsteps crunching on the sand outside his window. Fortunately the window was closed; otherwise Big Mama would have been able to pull the curtain aside and peer in. Then the footsteps continued around the other side of the house. Finally, he heard a car start and drive off.

Did she know? he wondered. Had she guessed it was him?

I
T WAS NEARLY EVENING
before Witness dragged himself from his bed. He stripped and put his clothes in the sink full of hot water. He added soap and kneaded the pile for about five minutes. Leaving the clothes to soak, he took his shoes and wiped them carefully with old newspaper. He'd burn that later. Then he took shoe polish and gave the shoes a good coat, followed by a brisk brushing. When he'd finished, he returned to the sink and rinsed his clothes a ­couple of times. He wrung as much water from them as he could and hung them from various places in the bathroom. They would dry by morning in the arid Botswana air.

Finally he showered, needing extra time to scrub the brown stains from the back of his hands. Looking in the mirror, he noticed that one side of his face was also stained. He washed that vigorously, too. When darkness fell, he would take care of the car.

SEVENTEEN

M
ABAKU LOOKED AROUN
D THE
meeting room and checked his watch. Five to eight. Eleven ­people were already present, most with a hot drink, several chatting quietly. Ian MacGregor, the pathologist, was sipping coffee with a grumpy expression; clearly he wasn't an early riser, especially on a Sunday. Zanele Dlamini, the head of the forensics team, looked fresh and attractive as usual, despite having been up most of the night. The others were detectives. He'd asked his assistant, Miriam, to phone around and call in every available CID detective. Even Samantha Khama was there. He didn't really expect much from her, but it was important that she wasn't excluded, and she'd learn from being involved in a murder investigation. She was sitting next to Zanele and chatting, obviously delighted to find a female colleague, and a senior one at that.

Mabaku had a bad feeling about this case. A pessimist by nature, his fear was that there was more behind the murder than a lone madman. And if it led back to the BDP, there was going to be trouble. He sighed. He didn't believe the government was responsible. For all his bravado, Marumo hadn't really been a danger, at least not yet. He was probably more of a threat as a martyr. And assassination simply wasn't the way things were done in conservative Botswana. But it could be the work of a hotheaded BDP supporter and, if that came out, the situation would deteriorate rapidly.

Eight o'clock. Where was Kubu? He sighed again. Having breakfast, of course. He was relying on Kubu, whose flashes of intuition illuminated his carefully pieced together cases. But he had his blind spots. And he never missed a meal. As if on cue, Kubu hurried in, carrying a mug of tea and two cookies, and squeezed himself into a chair between Ian and Samantha. Mabaku spotted crumbs on his shirt.

So here was his team: ten detectives led by Kubu, Zanele for forensics, and MacGregor, the pathologist. Thirteen counting himself. Not a lucky number.

He cleared his throat, and at once everyone was quiet.

“You all know why we're here. You've heard the news. I want it clear that this is top priority. I spoke to the press already this morning, and so far they're supportive. But I indicated that we expect to make an arrest soon. Probably this week. If we don't get them something quickly, they'll turn critical, start raking up the dog head thing and so on.” He gave Kubu a dirty look.

“Jacob Pitso has declared himself leader of the Freedom Party and is calling for a massive demonstration on Parliament Drive this afternoon to protest what he calls the assassination of Marumo and to demand the government's resignation.” Detective Thibelo grinned. Mabaku glared at him. “I'm glad you think it's funny, Thibelo. These sorts of demonstrations can get out of hand very quickly and lead to all sorts of trouble.” Thibelo became serious at once. “At least that's not our problem. I just hope the demonstration is handled sensibly and doesn't turn nasty.

“Let's get on with it. Kubu is in charge of this case, and he gets anything he wants. Is that clear?” Without waiting for a response, he continued: “Let's start with Ian and Zanele, and then I'll hand it over to Kubu.”

Ian put down his cup and examined the notes he'd brought with him. “Time of death between six-­thirty and seven-­fifteen,” he said in his soft Scottish accent. “I haven't done the autopsy yet, but I cut his clothes off when we got the body to the mortuary. Fifteen wounds, all in the chest and abdomen except the face slash and the stab in the throat. All from the front. From the angle of entry, it looks like a right-­handed assailant and, from the look of the wounds, I'd guess it was a one-­sided blade. Maybe a pointed kitchen knife or the like. I'm pretty sure one of the stabs went into the heart.” He shrugged. “That's about it. I'll get to the autopsy right away, but I'll be surprised if it turns up anything dramatic.” He paused, but no one had any questions.

“Zanele?”

“Yes, Director. We basically worked through the night, but we haven't got that much to show for it yet. We're not sure how the murderer got onto the property. There's a six-­foot wall around it. Maybe he pulled himself over the wall, or maybe he was waiting near the gate and slipped in when Marumo drove through. Anyway, we couldn't pick up any traces from the outside of the wall.

“But we're pretty sure we know how he got out. There's a tree in the corner of the garden where the body was found, and he climbed that. We found blood on the trunk and some snagged threads of material, too. Then he jumped down from the top of the wall onto the sidewalk. And there were bloody shoe marks on the sidewalk outside the house. Probably he stepped in blood at the scene, and it was on his shoes. We got a ­couple of nice clear shoe prints.” She consulted her notebook and, in the pause, Samantha stuck up her hand. After Mabaku's permissive nod, she asked, “What size?”

“Ten to eleven. Bigger than average.”

Kubu nodded to Samantha. “Big feet. Probably a big man. Useful.” Then he asked Zanele, “Did you pick up any fingerprints?”

She shook her head. “Some smudges, but nothing useful. The bark was too rough.”

“All right, go on.”

“Various foreign fibers were vacuumed from Marumo's clothing. We're pretty sure that some are the same as the material on the fence, and some are from the doctor's tracksuit. Some seem to match the dress that Jubjub was wearing.”

Kubu interrupted. “She said she hadn't touched the body.” Then he relaxed. “But maybe she kissed him goodbye that morning.”

“There's lots of other stuff. Dirt from Marumo's shoes, dirt or blood under his fingernails, what could be the assailant's hair, or his own, or Jubjub's. We need some time.”

“That's exactly what we haven't got,” Mabaku growled. Zanele was doing her usual good job, but he was disappointed. He'd hoped for some nice clear fingerprints to match with the database. What they had so far would help convict the killer, but wouldn't help catch him.

“Kubu?”

Kubu filled them in on the interviews with Jubjub and the doctor. “And I managed to raise someone at the Freedom Party last night, too. She confirmed that Marumo was there till nearly six-­thirty p.m. He couldn't have been home much before seven p.m. So I think we can be pretty certain that he was killed around that time. That agrees with what Jubjub and the doctor told us, and with Ian's assessment. And we have a witness of a sort.” He hesitated, and Mabaku leaned forward. A straw to grasp?

“The door-­to-­door questioning last night turned up a lady who'd heard someone running. From her front window she saw quite a large man running toward Chuma Drive. But she saw him from the back, and it was dark so she can't really describe him or his clothes. She didn't think he was dressed like a jogger, and she said he was running as if someone was chasing him. She didn't see anyone else, though. But she noted the time: seven-­fifteen p.m.” Mabaku scowled. The straw hadn't kept him afloat after all. “That's about it at the moment,” Kubu concluded.

Mabaku thought it over, but nothing further occurred to him. “Where do we go from here?”

“Well, we'll expand the door-­to-­door. And also see if anyone saw anything suspicious
before
the killing. I'd guess the murderer got there earlier and was waiting for Marumo either outside the gate or in the garden. He must've parked his vehicle nearby. The
Daily News
tomorrow will carry an appeal to anyone who knows anything or saw anything to come forward; we'll get lots of false leads that we'll still have to follow up. I want to interview the Freedom Party ­people and Marumo's family members about enemies and threats he may've received. Then check Marumo's house for clues. We'll need to check phone records and bank statements. There's lots to do. I'm grateful for the help.”

Mabaku nodded. It didn't look as though they'd make his one-­week deadline. He checked his watch. He needed to brief the commissioner.

“Well, let's get to work then,” he said.