The Death of the Mantis (31 page)

Kubu tried to reassure her, but she brushed it aside. “You’re
not taking that reporter woman with you, are you?”

Kubu’s jaw dropped. “Cindy Robinson? Of course not! It’s a
police matter, and it could be dangerous.” He stopped, realising he
had said too much, but Joy just nodded.

“She was with you in Tsabong. Oh forget it. There’s no point in
arguing. You won’t listen anyway.” She put the lid on the pot, and
put it on the stove at low heat. “The curry has to cook now. Let’s
have a drink. I feel like some wine. Get something nice from the
fridge.”

So Kubu did as he was told, and poured a fruity Sauvignon Blanc
that would stand up to the curry. Assuming there’s any left by
then, he thought, as Joy swallowed a large gulp. Why did he feel
guilty? He was only doing his job. Joy was forgetting that.

Kubu took a mouthful of the wine, but found a sudden sourness to
it.

∨
The Death of the Mantis
∧

T
uesday was a
frustrating day for Kubu. He had difficulty requisitioning the
vehicles. One was easy, but the second was a problem. The licence
had expired on one of the satellite phones and had to be
reinstated. No one could spare three constables for four days, so
he had to settle for one constable and a sergeant. Food needed to
be organised. And they would need camping gear. He rejected the
stretchers out of hand. It would be impossible for him to even stay
on one of those, let alone sleep. He would use a blowup mattress on
the ground. He decided to take a box of wine with him for
consolation.

Mabaku appeared from time to time, offered advice and left. He
issued a further statement to the press indicating that the police
were on top of the situation and following up all possibilities. He
hinted that the culprit might not even be a Bushman, but gave no
details as to why that might be the case. The statement read like
what it was: an attempt to calm things down without giving any
extra information. No one took any notice of it.

Khumanego was furious about the second vehicle and what he
called the ‘army’ of constables, and threatened not to come. It
took Kubu half an hour to calm him down; he seemed completely
unwilling to accept the potential danger of the situation.

Dr Waskowski phoned. He’d had a good look at the map and seemed
to find the geological structures quite interesting.

“Seems to show some igneous intrusions into the country rock.
That could produce the sort of rocky hills shown in the sketch.
Main problem is that there’s no key. Nothing to indicate what the
different styles of shading actually stand for. Maybe whoever drew
the map had all that in his head.”

However, there was nothing that really helped in terms of what
they might be looking for out in the Kalahari.

By lunchtime, Kubu was in a foul mood. He took his Tupperware of
salad and cottage cheese and emptied it into a rubbish bin. Then he
headed out to find a large pizza with all the trimmings and as many
steelworks as he could drink.

When he returned to the office, he received a call from
Detective Sergeant Helu in Windhoek. He’d had another interview
with Muller at the Namib Mining Company office, but had basically
discovered nothing more. The man had clearly been shocked by
Haake’s death, but he had not followed the details in the press. He
had stuck to his story about Haake and Krige and obviously regarded
the suggestion of other involvement by his company as ludicrous. It
all seemed consistent with what Dr Waskowski had said. Kubu thanked
the Namibian policeman for his efforts, promised to keep him
informed and hung up.

Edison was waiting for him to finish the call. He had a titbit
for Kubu. “I spoke to Tau today. He talked to Monzo’s boss, Vusi,
and he remembers the two students. Monzo said he’d take them on a
game count. Vusi isn’t sure where they went or how long Monzo was
away, but they definitely left together.”

Kubu gave Edison an enthusiastic thump on the shoulder, causing
his colleague – no small man himself – to stagger. “You did a great
job there, my friend. Really good detective work. I thought the
connection was between Haake and Monzo, but that wasn’t it at all.
The connection was between Monzo and the two students, and, more
importantly, with where they went. All the murders seem to link
with a specific area now. And I bet that’s the mysterious
koppies
in the southern Kalahari.”

Edison nodded and stuck out his hand. “Look after yourself,
Kubu.” Kubu gave it a firm shake.

When Edison left, Mabaku came in and collapsed in Kubu’s guest
chair.

“I think we should call this off, Kubu. I’m really unhappy about
it. If something happens to you, Joy will never forgive me, and
what’s worse, I’ll never forgive myself. And there’s this Bushman
civilian involved. How will we explain it if he’s injured or
killed? The whole thing reeks of a disaster waiting to happen.”

Kubu was tempted to agree. He could go home to Joy, tell her all
was well and get a warm welcome from her, Tumi and Ilia. And sleep
in a proper bed.

Until the next murder.

He shook his head. “I want to clear this up, Jacob. We can’t
have any more murders. And we need to get the press off our backs.
It’s like going to the dentist. Get it over with: don’t wait until
you lose the tooth.”

Mabaku grimaced. He had no love for dentists. “I hope it’s no
worse than a visit to the dentist. You’d better be damned careful
out there, Kubu.”

“I know what I’m doing, Director,” he replied, hoping that was
true.

Mabaku nodded and started to leave. But at the door he turned
around.

“Make sure you come back, Kubu,” he said.

∨
The Death of the Mantis
∧

When he kills things, his wind is cold

∨
The Death of the Mantis
∧

W
hen Kubu arrived at
his office at eight o’clock on Wednesday morning, the sight of two
police Land Rover Defenders baking in the sun jolted his anxiety
into a high gear. Was he making a mistake in undertaking this
mission? Would he find those responsible for the murders, or was
it, in fact, a wild goose chase?

He walked over to inspect the vehicles. They were identical,
except that one had an off-road trailer attached. Both had roof
racks with four jerry cans of extra fuel, two spare wheels, a gas
cylinder, a spade and a high-lift jack. Both were equipped with
winches at the front in case they became stuck in the Kalahari
sand. Inside each was a low-voltage fridge strapped to the floor,
stocked with meat and other perishables. Next to the fridge were
three plastic barrels of water – the most important supply of all.
In a box on the back seat were two high-intensity hand-held
spotlights. Kubu was pleased to see that both vehicles had two-way
radios and satellite phones nestling in their cradles.

He walked over to the trailer and peered in. There were tents
and stretchers and a large inflatable mattress for him. There were
several duffle bags, containing sleeping bags, pillows and extra
blankets to ward off the cold of the desert nights. Also two more
gas cylinders, a variety of pots and pans and boxes of canned
vegetables and soups. He made a mental note to check that someone
had packed a couple of can openers and plenty of matches. He was
glad to see a good supply of toilet paper, a toolbox and a dozen
litres of engine oil. Whoever had prepared the vehicles knew what
they were doing.

Kubu fetched his suitcase, containing a few changes of clothes,
his toiletries and his boxed wine, and put it behind the driver’s
seat of what would be the lead Land Rover. He didn’t want the wine
to get too hot. Finally he checked that he had his copy of Haake’s
map in his pocket.

Two uniformed policemen walked over, one a sergeant and one a
constable. Each had a holster on his belt and carried a rifle. They
introduced themselves as Sergeant Pikati and Constable Moeng. Kubu
chatted to them for a few minutes to make sure they understood the
nature of the trip and the dangers associated with it, but it was
clear that they’d been fully briefed.

“I have bulletproof vests for everyone, Rra,” Pikati said. “But
I’m not sure…” He hesitated. “I’m not sure you’ll fit into our
biggest, and the smallest may be too big for your guide, if he’s a
Bushman.”

“Bring them along anyway. I just hope we don’t need them.”

♦

They eventually left Gaborone about ten a.m. – an hour later
than Kubu had hoped. Khumanego was late because of bad traffic on
the road from Lobatse. He arrived with a small holdall and his
Bushman hunting kit.

“What’s the hunting bag for?” Kubu wanted to know.

Khumanego frowned. “We’re going into the Kalahari. No Bushman
goes into the desert without this. Ever.”

Kubu shrugged. He told Sergeant Pikati to drive the Land Rover
with the trailer, and he would lead in the other.

Neither Kubu nor Khumanego spoke much, but when Khumanego did
speak, he tried to persuade Kubu to give up on the mission.

“You’re wasting your time, David. You think you can drive into
the desert with a convoy of Land Rovers and sneak up on these
so-called bandits?”

“There are only two Land Rovers. Hardly a convoy.”

“They’ll see you, and you won’t see them. If they’re out there,
they know the desert, where to hide, where to watch. If they want
to, they’ll pick us off one by one. What are you trying to
prove?”

“I’m not trying to prove anything, Khumanego. People are being
murdered. There must be a reason. If I can find that, I’ll find the
people responsible. I’ve got to look, and the area around Tshane
seems the most promising.”

“Just because I’m a Bushman, I can’t guarantee your safety, you
know. I’m just a guide, not a guard.”

Kubu didn’t reply. Khumanego was right. The trip was dangerous.
But they had no choice.

All the while, the sun rose higher in the sky. Mirages appeared
and disappeared, and the three policemen were soaked in sweat.
Khumanego appeared unaffected by the heat.

Kubu was relieved to reach the Tshane police station. He sent
Moeng for takeaway sandwiches and cold drinks, while he conferred
with the station commander and Tau, who was going to join them.
Kubu had asked Lerako first, but Lerako had suggested Tau, who knew
the area around Tshane much better. Obviously he didn’t expect much
to come out of the adventure.

Given how late it was, they decided to postpone their departure
until early the following morning. Although he was frustrated by
the delay, Kubu had to agree that leaving that evening made no
sense. Of course, the silver lining was that he could phone Joy and
then enjoy a decent meal at the Endabeni Guest House.

♦

The four policemen were at the Tshane police station by eight
a.m., but Khumanego was late. The previous afternoon he’d said he
would stay with friends, but no one knew who they were or where
they lived. Kubu fretted and fumed.

Khumanego eventually arrived, without excuse or apology, and it
was nearly nine before they set off into the Kalahari proper.

They initially headed south-west out of Tshane towards
Mabuasehube. Kubu and Khumanego were in the lead Land Rover; the
other three in the one pulling the trailer, keeping a good distance
behind to avoid being overwhelmed by dust. Fortunately the road was
sandy but firm, so the going was good.

Kubu talked about his parents, and about Joy and Tumi. In broad
terms he tried to describe the changes at home since Tumi had been
born and how he found the demands of child-rearing sometimes
difficult to mesh with his professional duties. Khumanego listened
but said little, staring out of the open window. Suddenly he
changed the subject.

“This isn’t your world, David. This isn’t Gaborone. It’s very
dangerous here – people get stuck and die of exposure and thirst in
a matter of days. Even the Bushmen avoid it. Why don’t we just
drive for a day or two, look around and head back. Your boss will
be satisfied, and you’ll have done your job.”

“I’m not doing this for show! I’m serious about finding these
bastards.” Kubu was beginning to lose his temper. “If you don’t
want to help me, why did you come?”

Khumanego returned his attention to the red sand and scrubby
shrubs that lined the road for kilometres and kilometres.

They had driven for just over two hours at a reasonable speed
when Kubu pulled off the road and stopped. Everyone got out of the
vehicles and took the opportunity to drink some water and
stretch.

“We’ve reached the first waypoint. This is where we turn off,”
Kubu said, looking carefully at his hand-held GPS. He pointed to an
X on the large map of southern Botswana that he had unfolded on the
bonnet of the Land Rover. “We’ll drive for another hour and stop
for lunch. Then we’ll push on for about three or four hours, so we
can set up camp in daylight. It’s always useful to practise these
things when you can see. Then when we set off tomorrow morning,
we’ll start looking for any small
koppies
. The problem is
that they may only be ten or fifteen metres high, so they’ll be
hard to see.”

♦

The rest of the day passed uneventfully. Progress was quite slow
due to the soft sand, and all the men, except Khumanego, suffered
in the heat. When they eventually stopped for the day, the
policemen showed that they were experienced in setting up camp. The
three tents went up quickly without a problem. Two stretchers were
set in place in two of them. The large mattress, inflated using a
little pump that was plugged into a cigarette lighter socket, was
put in the third. Khumanego declined a stretcher and said he’d be
more comfortable sleeping on the sand a little away from the
camp.