A Death in the Family (14 page)

“Good morning, Zanele. Any joy on those prints?”

“Well, Kubu, it would've helped if you'd given the man a glass of water rather than collecting a business card. At least you didn't smudge the prints when you picked it up.”

Kubu was disappointed. He'd been rather pleased with himself for thinking of picking up Newsom's prints from the card. “It was no good?”

“I didn't say that. I'm pretty sure the thumb print matches one on Kunene's car.”

“On the car? Where on the car?”

“On the roof.”

Outside the car. That could be explained by Newsom saying good-bye to Kunene.

“Can you tell how old it is?”

Zanele hesitated. “That's not so easy. The whorls start to thicken after a while, but—”

Kubu interrupted. “What about the service station? Didn't you say they'd cleaned the car?”

“Yes, three weeks ago.”

“So the prints must be more recent than that.” Kubu quickly checked the records. There had been only two Skype calls in the last three weeks. “Other prints?”

“There are still a few we can't confirm as belonging to the family or the service station people. But they aren't very clear. We're working on it.”

Kubu sighed. “Anything else?”

“The hair. None of the mechanics had straight hair. So there's no obvious explanation for it.”

Kubu leaned forward. “European? What color?” Newsom had chestnut hair, quite an unusual color.

Zanele hesitated. “It's black, and we think it's probably Asian. But we can't be sure at this point.”

Kubu had already been thinking about how to get a sample of Newsom's hair. But now this seemed another dead end.

Zanele had nothing else for him at the moment, so he thanked her and went back to the records. Going back six months, the first cash payment coincided with the first debit order for the large life insurance policy. That was around the time Kunene had told his wife that he'd received a promotion. It all seemed to fit. But did it have anything to do with Newsom? That was less clear.

Frustrated, his mind returned to his father's murder. He wondered if he should phone Samantha and see if any progress had been made in finding the silver Toyota. There can't be that many, he thought. But his heart sank when he realized that rental agencies used them.

There was a knock on the door, and Mabaku came in. As usual he wasted no time on preliminaries.

“Have you seen this?” He tossed a copy of the
Daily News
onto Kubu's desk. Kubu glanced at it. The headline read: KUNENE DEATH—POLICE SUSPICIOUS. Kubu sighed. The CID kept few secrets from the press.

“Kubu, I told you this was sensitive stuff! I've had the commissioner on the phone, and he wants to know whether we're a hundred percent sure about this. He had some questions I need to check with you.” Kubu knew he'd better have the answers.

“You told me that Kunene had been drinking and that he'd taken Rohypnol. Right?”

“Yes, his blood alcohol level indicated that he was intoxicated at the time of his death. And we also found the residue of a strong sedative in his blood. Not necessarily Rohypnol.”

“So maybe it was just Valium? Is Ian certain that it knocked him out? What if he took it after he attached the hose and so on to make his suicide easier?”

Kubu shook his head. “Ian felt that Kunene probably had too much to drink to carry out the careful placement of the duct tape and so on. And there was no bottle in the car—with or without alcohol—and no sedatives. And apart from the forensic evidence, there are other issues. For example, there were no fingerprints on the hose, yet he wasn't wearing gloves. How could that be explained?”

“Perhaps by the driving gloves we found in the glove compartment,” growled Mabaku. Kubu cursed under his breath. Why hadn't he checked the list of contents found in the car? Mabaku had.

“But why wear gloves in the first place? Just to confuse us?”

“The exhaust would've been hot. He'd driven to the dam. He was being careful.”

“I can't see someone intent on committing suicide fiddling with gloves. All he had to do was shove the hose into the exhaust. He didn't need to touch it.” Kubu shook his head. “And what about his cell phone? It's missing.”

“Maybe he got rid of it. All part of the same behavior. He didn't want to have a way out at the last minute.” Mabaku shook his head, looking unhappy. “The commissioner isn't buying it, Kubu. He wants this to go away. And now it's all over the press!” Mabaku sighed. “Get Edison onto the hardware stores. The hose wasn't from the house. If Kunene
did
commit suicide, then he bought that hose and probably the duct tape at the same time. Or maybe someone else did that. How many hardware stores can there be in Gaborone?”

“Unfortunately, there are quite a lot,” Kubu said. “Edison has already visited about half but has come up with nothing so far.” He was pleased someone else was doing the legwork around the city. “Anyway, there's a development you don't know about.” He filled Mabaku in on the Newsom interview.

“You realize that Newsom could have slipped him the drug, forced him to drink some alcohol, and driven him to the dam?” Mabaku said.

Kubu thought about it. “He would've needed an accomplice to get him back to his apartment from the dam. It's quite a way. I must admit that I didn't like Newsom, but I don't think he's the murderer. He was adamant Kunene wouldn't commit suicide.”

Mabaku brooded about that. “We should check the bars along the route from Newsom's apartment to the dam. Maybe he did have a few drinks along the way. And maybe he met up with someone else there.”

That was another good point, and one that Kubu had already thought about. Another job for Edison.

“I'm going to tell the commissioner and the reporters we're covering every possibility,” Mabaku continued, “although we still regard the death as suicide at this point. Still, we may as well make a virtue of this necessity. I'll also ask them to call on people to come forward if they saw Kunene that evening or anything unusual around the dam.”

With that he headed for the door.

Kubu's mind returned to the phone records and bank statements, thinking about the Skype calls and the often coincident payments. If he couldn't discover what was behind that, he had a suspicion about how this case would end. The commissioner would be happy to declare it a suicide. No scandal, no embarrassing revelations. A man unhappy at home, who decided to end it all in a painless way. Case closed. However, Kubu was sure that Goodman Kunene had been murdered, and he wasn't going to allow that to go unpunished. And right now there was only one person who could help him with that. He needed another meeting with Peter Newsom.

 

CHAPTER 27

Newsom had no problem with another meeting. “Of course, Assistant Superintendent. Look, I'm heading out to Mahalapye for an important meeting with one of my clients this afternoon, and it's already nearly lunchtime. There's a nice Chinese place in Africa Mall. Let's meet there. I'll buy you lunch.”

Kubu wasn't really keen to have lunch with Newsom; he wanted a more formal context. On the other hand, it was going on for midday, and he had to eat.

“Okay, Mr. Newsom. I'll meet you there, but I'll buy my own lunch.”

“As you like, Assistant Superintendent. See you in half an hour?”

*   *   *

KUBU EASILY FOUND
the Hong Long restaurant. Dusty red banners with Chinese characters hung outside, and a red dragon with gilded teeth straddled the door. Many of the customers were Chinese, shoveling their food with chopsticks at impressive speed, but there were also Batswana clients and even a few white people. Newsom was already there, nursing a Tsingtao beer. Kubu joined him and waved for a waiter. Asking for a steelworks would be hopeless, so he ordered green tea.

“Amazing how the Chinese population has grown in Gaborone,” Newsom said. “Look at all these people. And this restaurant is quite good. They have more and more genuine ingredients these days.”

Kubu had noticed the Chinese presence increasing. The debacle, where a Chinese company had half built the new Gaborone airport and then infuriated President Khama by walking away, didn't seem to have slowed them down. They were doing all sorts of business. One of Joy's friends was going to Shanghai next month to select a container full of doors, windows, tiles, carpets, and plumbing fixtures—in fact a whole new prefabricated house—apparently at much less cost than building locally. Kubu was a bit uncomfortable about the growing Chinese influence, but they seemed to mind their own business and not cause trouble.

“I recommend the sweet-and-sour pork. That's what I'm going to have.”

Kubu ordered the chicken with cashews and got down to business.

“I'm curious about your work, Mr. Newsom,” Kubu began. “What is it that you actually do here?”

Newsom hesitated and took a sip of beer before answering. “My background is in mining engineering, Assistant Superintendent. But I've found that mining nowadays is as much about knowing the country where you operate and how to manage the political context as it is about the mine design. A good relationship with the government, the workers, the local people, the environment is what really counts. They're all critical. I advise clients on that sort of thing.”

Kubu wasn't sure that he knew much more than before. “You said you were seeing a client in Mahalapye. The only mine up that way is the one near Shoshong, isn't it?”

Newsom nodded. “But there are a lot of new prospects in the area. I'm working with an American company that's trying to develop a new mine—and having some problems, but that's another story.”

“Is this what you discussed with Mr. Kunene?”

“Only in very general terms. Our meetings were mainly social.”

Kubu sipped his tea. “I have a few points I'd like to clarify about your social meetings with Mr. Kunene.” He took out his notebook. “When Mr. Kunene came to see you last Thursday, was he driving his own car?”

Newsom looked surprised. “I suppose so. We met at my apartment. I already told you that.”

Kubu nodded. “And the previous time you met? When was that and where did you meet?”

Newsom hesitated. “It was the Saturday two weeks before. We played golf.”

“And did he use his own car that time also?”

“I presume so.”

“You can't be sure?”

Newsom shook his head, looking confused.

“I'm wondering why we found your fingerprints on his car then.”

Newsom thought about that, then nodded. “Oh, yes, we sat in his car after golf for a few minutes discussing an issue about his work. He didn't want to do that in public.”

He recovers quickly, Kubu thought. He would check that they'd been at Phakalane that day, but he was sure it was true. He suspected Newsom was too smart to set himself up to be caught in a lie.

He changed tack.

“Did you always phone him from Skype on your computer?”

Newsom hesitated and then shrugged. “I can't really recall. It's possible. I don't get good reception at my apartment. But if I was driving or something, I'd use my cell phone.”

“You always phoned him?”

“No, he'd contact me sometimes. By phone or send me an e-mail.”

“Strange. There is no call from him to you listed on his phone records.”

“Maybe he called from the office. Why is this important, Assistant Superintendent?”

“I'm just following up on everything.” Kubu thought for a moment, wondering what Newsom would do if offered an easy way out. “Actually, it seems quite likely that he did kill himself after all. Some of the issues that worried us before can be explained in other ways. We'll keep digging, but I suspect his death will eventually be declared suicide at the inquest.”

“And what would have been his motivation?”

“Things weren't always smooth at home. You told me that yourself.”

“It wasn't that bad! And he doted on his boys. He'd never desert them that way. Never.”

“Maybe money was an issue. That's another thing I want to ask you about. About six months ago, he started getting fairly regular cash payments. Sometimes around the times he spoke to you. Can you explain that?”

Newsom put his glass down firmly on the table. “Absolutely not. Are you suggesting I was bribing him? I'd no reason to do that and wouldn't in any case. And if you'd known Goodman at all, you wouldn't even suggest it.”

“I didn't suggest anything. He told his wife he'd received a promotion, but that wasn't true. However, he did receive this extra money, which he paid into his account in cash. He also took out a large life insurance policy at about the same time. And you say you mentored him, helped him with his career decisions. I'm asking you what that money was about.” Kubu waited, but Newsom refused to be drawn out.

“I told you. I know nothing about it,” he said.

Kubu had had enough. “Mr. Newsom, I don't think you're telling me all you know. You and I both think I'm dealing with a murder here. The victim was found drugged and drunk in his car. As far as we know, you were the last person he saw. You admit he was drinking with you. You had the opportunity to administer the drug. Your fingerprints are on his car. Money was changing hands. I advise you very strongly to tell me the whole story.”

Newsom didn't flinch. “I've told you everything I can. I've got nothing more to say.”

The food arrived, and they ate in silence. Newsom seemed comfortable with chopsticks, but Kubu used a knife and fork. He was certain the man knew a lot more than he was letting on. Yet it would have been easy for him to say that Kunene had been depressed, upset, and spoken of suicide. Instead he'd reacted strongly against the suggestion that the death was self-inflicted. What game was he playing?