The Death of the Mantis (17 page)

“You’re right. This would be hell on earth for me. So where’s
the nearest restaurant?”

“It’s where we’re going to stay – the guest house in Hukuntsi.
It’s about fifteen kilometres away. Nowhere else worth eating at
around here. I’ll take you there. We can clean up and then have
dinner. Can’t have you telling the director that the detectives in
the Kgalagadi district are inhospitable.”

The morning had been fruitless. They had spent much of it
scouring the area as far as several hundred metres from where
Krige’s body had been found. But nothing turned up. The killer had
left no trace, not even footprints.

Kubu and Lerako could conceive of only two possible scenarios
for this to happen. First, the killer had covered his tracks so
well that they couldn’t find them. Lerako favoured this
alternative, arguing that only Bushmen had the skills to deal with
the desert and disappear without a trace. The second possibility
was that Haake himself was the killer, but this seemed unlikely,
since he had reported the murder and now the police knew who he
was. Why hadn’t he simply disappeared back to Namibia?

Throughout the morning, Tau had worked hard, trying to regain
favour. Now back at his office, he contacted the Namibian police in
Windhoek, reporting Krige’s death, giving them all the personal
information he had. He asked them to locate Haake, because Kubu
wanted to question him. He then turned his attention to preparing a
detailed report of the murder and crime scene.

♦

The Endabeni Guest House was on the outskirts of Hukuntsi.
Guests were welcomed by a concrete and plaster gemsbok mounted in a
patch of sand. But it had no legs – perhaps they’d broken, or the
sculptor had lost interest at that point – so it appeared to have
been sucked in by quicksand.

The rooms were small and the furniture rudimentary. After
washing his hands and face, Kubu went to eat. The restaurant was
clean and boasted half a dozen Formica tables with stainless-steel
legs. A reed mat decorated with a small Botswana flag hung between
the doors marked Gents and Ladies, and a couple of wooden carvings
were scattered around the room. A glance at the other tables
reassured Kubu that the portions were generous. He ordered a rump
steak – rare – and, in the absence of wine on the menu, two cans of
Coke Zero. Lerako ordered goat stew and a glass of water.

“Tau has probably already been in touch with Windhoek,” Lerako
said. “He says they’re pretty good. He’s dealt with them
before.”

Kubu grunted, looking hopefully towards the kitchen door.

Lerako continued. “You have to admit now that letting the
Bushmen go was a mistake.”

“And you have to admit,” Kubu retorted, “that you didn’t have
enough hard evidence to convict them! What was the motive?
Everything was circumstantial. A murder weapon with no prints. No
signs of a struggle. And what about the boot prints? Is it really
likely that a group of nomadic Bushmen would carry a pair of heavy
walking boots around the desert in case they wanted to commit a
murder or two? Come on, Lerako.”

He turned again to look at the kitchen door. If it takes much
longer, I’m going to have to go in and get the food myself. “Look,
Lerako, I would arrest them in a minute if I thought they’d done
it.”

Now it was Lerako’s turn to grunt.

At that point, Kubu’s mobile phone rang. It was his friend Ian
MacGregor, the pathologist, calling from Gaborone.

“Kubu, good, you’re back in one piece. I got your message about
the murder down there. Sounds intriguing, but I’m glad you didn’t
need me to come out. I love the peace and quiet of the Kalahari,
but I prefer to paint my watercolours in winter, not February.”

Kubu didn’t need to be reminded of the heat. “The body is
probably in Gaborone already. They drove it there this morning. We
think the man was hit from behind and collapsed forward – we took
pictures, which we’ve sent you too – and the murder weapon was
conveniently nearby. A big chunk of calcrete.”

Kubu paused, waiting for Ian’s off-the-cuff reaction.

“Calcrete. Wasn’t that what was used in the other case? The game
ranger?”

“So it seems.”

“I suppose it’s easy to find in the Kalahari. All those
ridges.”

“When will you have a chance to look at the body?”

“Not too busy at the moment. I’ll phone you as soon as I’ve
examined it.”

“Thanks. I must warn you that it was in the sun for two days. It
stinks!”

“I’m used to it. I’ve worked with worse than that. Anyway, I’ll
soak my mask in Scotch before I start!”

Kubu laughed. After a few more pleasantries, he hung up and
turned back to Lerako. Fortunately, at that moment the waitress
brought two large plates piled high with food, and the two men
concentrated their attention on eating.

∨
The Death of the Mantis
∧

T
he next morning,
after a good night’s sleep and a decent breakfast, Kubu felt much
better. And the large coffee in his hand was palatable.

“So where do we go from here?” he asked Lerako as he settled on
one of the uncomfortable chairs in Tau’s office. “You’re in
charge.”

Lerako turned to Tau, who was sitting behind his desk, a little
in awe of the other two, and still eager to please.

“Have you heard anything from Windhoek yet?”

“Yes, but not much.” Tau pulled out his notebook. “Krige lived
in Windhoek. The police have an address for him. The vehicle he was
driving was his own.”

“Anything else?”

“He’s not married. He’s divorced, but no children. The policeman
I spoke to – a Detective Sergeant Helu – suggests we send someone
to Windhoek to go through Krige’s place with them. They’re not sure
what to look for.”

Kubu interjected. “I can’t believe that it’s a coincidence he
was found by Haake.”

“What do you mean?” Tau asked, puzzled.

Kubu helped him. “Doesn’t it seem a bit strange that one
Namibian finds the body of another Namibian, far from anywhere, in
the middle of Botswana?”

“I suppose so. That’s why I should have asked Rra Haake to stay
here until you arrived, right?”

Kubu nodded. “What do you think the next steps should be?”

“Umm. We should find Haake and question him?”

“Right. And before that?” Kubu glanced at Lerako, who was
showing signs of impatience, and motioned him to relax.

Tau was quiet for several moments. “Maybe someone in Tshane or
Hukuntsi saw Rra Krige before he headed to the desert?”

“Good. And?”

Another silence. Kubu was pleased that Lerako didn’t
interrupt.

“Maybe someone saw Rra Haake?”

“Good. And?”

Tau smiled. “And maybe someone saw them together!”

“Well done. You see, detective work is not very difficult. You
just have to think logically. Now, let’s take it a step further.
There are too many people in this area to ask everyone. So where
would you start?”

Tau scratched his head. “Well, if you’ve driven a long way, and
you’re going south into the desert, you would probably stop for the
night. So I’d check all the accommodation and the camp
grounds.”

Kubu nodded.

Tau started to feel more confident. “And everyone fills up with
petrol at the garage in Hukuntsi. So I’d go there too.”

“He’s learning fast, isn’t he, Lerako?” Kubu asked, and was
pleasantly surprised to see Lerako nodding.

“Okay,” Lerako said, sitting up straight in his chair. “Let’s
get organised. Tau, after this meeting, you go and see whether
anyone saw Krige or Haake. Report back to me this evening. I should
be back in Tsabong by supper.

“Kubu, could you follow up with forensics about Krige’s GPS?
Then let me know if there is anything of interest there.”

Kubu nodded in agreement.

“Then I think you should go to Windhoek. See if you can speak to
Haake and work with the Namibian police. You’ve got more experience
than me sifting through files and papers. Most of the cases in
Kgalagadi are fairly straightforward. One man steals another’s cow.
Or wife. Or girlfriend. Has too much to drink – if he can afford it
these days – and revenge seems sweet. One ends up dead or in
hospital.”

Kubu was surprised that Lerako would hand over the case so
easily. He was soon set straight.

“While you’re in Windhoek enjoying fine German beer and
sausages, I’m going to find those Bushmen.”

Before he could retort, Kubu’s mobile phone rang. It was Ian
MacGregor.

“Ian! Don’t tell me you’ve done the autopsy already! It’s only
ten thirty.”

“I was awake early so I thought I’d get it over with. Anyway,
I’ve some interesting news for you. Krige wasn’t killed with the
stone you found. The indentation in the skull isn’t consistent with
its shape. It’s more like a crater. More consistent with a blow
from a
knobkierie
. You know the ones I mean – hard wood with
a long handle and a round knob at the end. If you hit someone hard
enough, it can crush the skull. The person who did it must have
rubbed the rock in the wound or perhaps even hit the skull with it
after Krige was unconscious, but the blow wasn’t hard enough to
change the shape of the fracture.”

“Ian, think back to Monzo’s death. You were sure that he was hit
with the rock then, weren’t you?”

“Yes. I double-checked because I knew you’d ask. Monzo’s injury
looks different. Doesn’t have the same shape. But it’s possible
that the murderer knocked him out and then bashed his head with the
stone, changing the shape of the original wound. Anyway, it
certainly seems like the murderer tried to make this killing look
like the first. Who knew about Monzo’s wounds?”

“The police, the park rangers, the Bushmen. We didn’t try to
keep it a secret. A comment or two over a beer, and anyone could’ve
known.” Kubu thought for a moment. “Is there any indication of a
struggle?”

“No. No scratches or contusions anywhere. Nothing under his
fingernails. I think he was hit from behind while sitting or
standing. More likely sitting, from the location of the wound. It
was just off centre at the top of the skull – to the right. That
may indicate a right-handed person hit him. Same as with Monzo. I
also don’t think he died immediately, because there was a lot of
blood around the wound and on his face. More likely he died shortly
afterwards. But I suspect he never regained consciousness.”

“If the assailant rubbed the rock in the wound, could he have
left any fingerprints in the blood, or something we could get DNA
from?”

“Hmm. I didn’t see any fingerprints, but then I wasn’t really
looking for them. And the only likely source of DNA would be a
hair, and I didn’t see any that were different from Krige’s. No
black curly ones, for example, if you’re thinking of the
Bushmen.”

“Time of death?”

“Pretty hard to say with any accuracy. Probably the night before
the body was discovered, but it could have been a bit earlier
even.”

Kubu could see that Lerako was getting impatient, so he thanked
Ian and asked him to fax a copy of the report to the Tshane police
station.

“That was Dr MacGregor, the pathologist.” Kubu brought Lerako
and Tau up to date with what Ian had told him. “So it seems the
rock was misdirection, as I suspected all along. Krige was probably
killed with something like a
knobkierie
.”

“The sort of thing a Bushman would use,” Lerako said,
nodding.

Kubu lifted himself with some difficulty out of the
uncomfortable chair.

“Well, I’ll have to persuade the director that a trip to
Windhoek is necessary. And he’ll have to send someone up here with
my passport. And then I’ll have to placate my wife!”

♦

Tau was pleased to have such an important role. He enlarged the
photocopies he had made of Haake’s passport. The pictures were
grainy, but recognisable. And he made similar copies of Krige’s
passport and driver’s licence.

His first stop was the only accommodation in the immediate area
– the Endabeni Guest House, where Kubu and Lerako had been staying.
The guest house was very small, and Tau was confident that the
manager would remember all the guests who had recently stayed in
its six rooms. If he learnt nothing there, he’d have to make a trip
to Kang, on the Trans-Kalahari Highway, where there were several
places travellers could stay.

After the important introductory pleasantries, in which the two
men shared information about mutual acquaintances, Tau showed the
manager the photocopies.

“Rra, have either of these men stayed here in the past few
weeks?”

The manager scrutinised the photos and pointed to the one of
Haake.

“Yes, he was here about five or six days ago. He’s stayed here
several times before. I’ll get the details for you. But I’ve not
seen the other man. Why do you want to know?”

Tau gave an abbreviated account of what had happened, while the
manager dug out the information.

“Here it is! Wolfgang Haake from Namibia. Didn’t put any address
other than that. And he didn’t put down his licence plate number
either. I’ll have to speak to the staff. Tell them to always make
sure the forms are filled out properly.”

“And you’re sure that you haven’t seen the other man?”

The manager nodded. “I remember all my guests.”

Next Tau went to the petrol station in Hukuntsi. It was the only
place to refuel between Kang and Tsabong. Everyone filled up there
before going into the desert.

As soon as he pulled in, an attendant with the slight build of a
Bushman ran up, eager to be of service, eager for a tip. Tau
recognised him.

“Fill up? Diesel? Clean windscreen?”

Tau shook his head. “Take a look at these, Willie. Have you seen
either of these men?”

The attendant glanced at the policeman, and then looked at the
pictures carefully. “This one,” he said, pointing to Haake, “is Rra
Haake. He’s from Namibia.” He nodded to emphasise that. “The other
one I haven’t seen.” He passed the pictures back to Tau.