The Death of the Mantis (21 page)

“Oh, he might try to punch them or something, but nothing
more.”

“Are you sure about that?”

She nodded.

“Did he tell you anything at all about his last trip, Ms
Burger?”

“Not really. He told me he was close to finding whatever it is
he’s looking for. I don’t think it’s even real. Big dreams – that’s
all it is. Like all the other dreams people have. Winning the
lottery, marrying someone handsome and rich. You know what I
mean?”

“Did he tell you that he found a body?”

Use gasped. “A body? Whose body?”

“It was the body of someone who was following him.”

“Oh no! And you think he killed him?”

“We didn’t say that, Ms Burger,” Helu replied. “We just want to
ask him some questions. You’re sure you don’t know where he is?
He’s not answering our calls.”

“You’ll have to wait until he comes back. I’ll tell him to phone
you as soon as he can.”

“Did he tell you he’d been fired from his last job?” Kubu
asked.

“He wasn’t fired. He left because his boss wouldn’t listen to
him. Wolfie said that he could have made both of them rich, and the
company. But they just laughed at him. He didn’t like that.”

“Do you think he took the map from the company?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t even want me to see it. But it didn’t
look like the sort of map a company would have. It was in pencil on
a piece of paper.” She looked up at Kubu. “You’re after the wrong
man, Mr Policeman. Wolfie would never kill anyone – even for
diamonds or gold.”

For a woman in a precarious position, Kubu thought, she’s got a
lot of grit.

Helu and Kubu asked a few more questions, but learnt nothing
more.

“Thank you for your help, Ms Burger. If you think of anything
else, or if Mr Haake contacts you, please call Detective Sergeant
Helu immediately.”

♦

“What do you think?” Helu asked Kubu as they drove back to the
police station.

“I’d like to get hold of that map. It might give us more
information about where he’s been in Botswana. Maybe Muller could
check whether it’s got anything to do with the data Haake stole.
That would be a strong motivation.”

“And the woman?”

“I’m sure she knows nothing important. She’s a convenience for
Haake. But if he’s close to a big find in Botswana, he may not want
anyone else to know about it. That could be a strong motive to get
rid of someone who got too close.”

“Or gets too close! We’d better find him quickly.”

♦

At about half past six that evening, Helu received a call from
the Mamuno border post. Haake had driven through into Botswana at
around two p.m. the previous day.

“Perhaps he’s back looking for the diamonds or whatever,” Helu
said to Kubu. “And he’s not trying to hide his trail.”

Kubu wondered about that. Obsessive people lose track of
reality, he thought. Perhaps Haake is so focused on his discovery
that he doesn’t realise we’ll find the connection with Namib Mining
and come after him.

He turned to Helu. “This has changed from inquiry to manhunt.
I’m going back to Gaborone tomorrow.” He grabbed the phone and
reached Lerako in Tsabong. He was to alert all police stations to
be on the lookout for Haake and to treat him as dangerous. Lerako
could use the photo from Haake’s passport to make Wanted signs,
which should be distributed throughout the southern Kalahari and to
the border posts. It was very important to question Haake as soon
as possible.

And, thought Kubu, it was important not to have any more bodies
piling up.

∨
The Death of the Mantis
∧

L
erako had tried
everything he could think of, but he had nothing to show for it. He
looked down his checklist. He’d contacted the Central Kalahari Game
Reserve and asked them to look out for Bushmen they didn’t know. He
had contacted the resettlement villages outside the park and asked
the officials there to show the villagers pictures of the three
Bushmen suspects. No one had recognised them. No one had been any
help. But they wouldn’t be, would they? he thought bitterly.
They’ll all stick together. He had alerted all the police stations.
He had asked the charter pilots who regularly flew over the desert
taking tourists to their comfortable camps to keep a lookout.
Nothing.

The last item on the list was heavily underlined:
Helicopter
search?
Mabaku had vetoed that until Lerako at least had direct
evidence to link the Bushmen to one of the killings. So what else
could he do? Explore on horseback? Or ride one of the camels that
had served the Kalahari police so well in the old days? He thumped
his fist on the desk in frustration.

But he had to admit to himself that part of his frustration was
generated by Kubu’s success in Namibia. While Kubu hadn’t been able
to corner Haake, he had discovered enough about Haake’s motivation
and movements – and his connection with Krige – to make the man a
serious suspect. And there
was
something suspicious about
Monzo’s activities. Lerako rummaged on his desk and found Monzo’s
bank account details. There were a variety of cash deposits
scattered between his salary payments with no obvious pattern. They
weren’t large, but they were significant. And, of course, neither
Vusi nor Marta knew anything about them. Lerako drummed his fingers
on the desk.

Could Kubu be right? The assistant superintendent might be fat
and sedentary, but he wasn’t stupid. He’d allowed himself to be led
by the nose by his activist Bushman friend from Lobatse and had
fallen for the fake footprints, but his analysis of the cases made
sense.

Coming to a decision, Lerako picked up the phone and called Tau
in Tshane. Tau had found a crucial link between Haake and Krige.
Maybe he could use his local contacts to come up with something
else useful.

“Tau. It’s Lerako. I want you to see if you can find out
anything about what Monzo did on those bush trips. There is extra
money in his account. Paid in cash. Just as the assistant
superintendent thought. Ask around. See if anyone knows anything.”
Tau asked what he should do, but Lerako wanted him to use his
initiative. “Do what you did last time. Think about who might know
something and go and chat to them.” He paused. “Just be careful. If
Kubu is right, and Monzo was up to no good, this could be
dangerous. And we don’t want to scare anyone off.” Lerako didn’t
really believe that was likely. He listened to Tau’s enthusiastic
suggestions for a moment, but then interrupted. “Yes, good, do
that.” He paused. “Nothing on the Bushman suspects, I suppose?” But
there, Tau couldn’t help.

♦

Tau started at the scene of his first success, the Endabeni
Guest House in Hukuntsi. Once more the manager was affable. He
carefully examined the photographs of Monzo that Tau offered
him.

“Yes, he used to come in sometimes and spend the night. Usually
had a few people with him. Not hunters, but people who wanted to
visit the desert.” He shrugged. “Fine by me. Good money.”

Tau could hardly believe his luck. “What was Monzo’s connection
with these people, Rra?”

“He was showing them around.”

“What for?”

“Sometimes the tourists went with him on his field trips.
Sometimes he took them someplace else they wanted to go. I don’t
want to say bad things about the dead, but everyone likes a little
extra money, don’t they? I suppose the government could spare him
for a week or so.”

“But how do you know all this, Rra?”

The man shrugged. “It wasn’t a secret. I’d hear them talking in
here, or planning what food to buy for the trip.”

Tau made careful notes, partly to make sure he didn’t miss
anything and partly to give himself time to think of more
questions. But he already had the answer he wanted. He knew what it
was that Monzo did with his extra time in the bush, and where those
mysterious cash deposits came from.

♦

Before he heard from Tau, Lerako had a visitor. He had met the
man before – Tsabong was not a big place – but didn’t much like
him.

Craig de Wet was in charge of the mining prospect to the west of
the town. Its owner trumpeted it as the world’s largest kimberlite
field, covering the remarkably large area of 7,500 square
kilometres. Lerako would have been more impressed if the prospect
had generated a working mine and jobs, rather than simply PR. But
de Wet was a straight talker, even if he talked too much. Lerako
greeted him and offered him a seat.

“What can I do for you, Mr de Wet?” he asked.

“Well, it’s really the other way around.” De Wet shoved a flyer
across the desk. “My security people picked this up.”

Lerako recognised it at once. It was the Wanted poster for
Haake.

“Wolfgang Haake. You know the man?”

De Wet nodded. “Bloody nuisance. He was snooping around our
mine. Taking samples on our lease! Can you beat that? And when we
caught him, he had the cheek to tell us we were wasting our time,
that this wasn’t an important kimberlite! I was tempted to call
your people and have him arrested for trespassing and prospecting
without a licence, but in the end I got a couple of our larger guys
to throw him out.” He paused. “They may have been a bit rough with
him,” he finished with satisfaction. “He took a punch at one of
them. Couldn’t expect them not to defend themselves, could
you?”

Lerako sat back and digested this news.

“When did all this happen?”

De Wet thought about it. “About six or seven weeks ago.”

So it wasn’t part of the trip to Tshane. In that case, what had
Haake been up to on the mine property?

“Do you know any more about what he was doing out here?”

De Wet shrugged. “We didn’t exactly have a social chat. I think
he was staying out at Berrybush. You could ask Jill.”

Lerako nodded. “I think I’ll do that,” he said.

De Wet got up to go. “Remember, Detective, you owe me a
beer.”

♦

Lerako headed east out of town. He could’ve just phoned Jill
Thomas, owner of Berrybush Farm, but he liked her, and she would
give him coffee. And his time was not in heavy demand right at the
moment.

While he drove, he thought about the phone call from Tau. So
Monzo had been moonlighting, showing tourists the desert instead of
concentrating on his national park work. He might be fired, but it
was hardly likely to get him killed. Unless, of course, he was
guiding people who were not tourists at all, but criminals. Was it
possible that he’d found out too much? Become a liability to
someone dangerous?

He reached the clearly signed turn-off to Berrybush Farm. It was
simply a dirt track heading into the arid landscape. Berrybush Farm
attracted its share of tourists and business people, who preferred
the guest farm setting and personal attention to the hotels in the
town. Many of the guests became Jill’s friends. Many had liked and
respected her husband, who had been very well known in the
area.

When he came to the border of her property, he had to stop. A
herd of camels was crossing the track. Jill supplied them with the
little water they needed, and let them wander through her piece of
the desert. They were the remnant of the herds that had once been
the police transport of the Kalahari.

When the herd had crossed, he drove past Jill’s modest house
with its one luxury – a small swimming pool shared with guests –
and pulled up outside the main buildings. He got out of the car and
wandered into the wide lounge that opened on to a covered veranda
overlooking the desert scattered with the wild raisin shrubs that
gave the farm its name. He found Jill watching a programme on an
elderly television set whose life support was an inverter attached
to two car batteries.

Jill rose to greet him. “Detective Sergeant Lerako! What brings
you to Berrybush? Want your camels back?” It was a standard joke
between them.

Lerako laughed. “Not yet! You can keep them a while longer, Mma
Jill. I just wanted to chat.”

She nodded, knowing there was more to it than that. She settled
him in a comfortable chair and went to make coffee. He watched her.
She was past middle age, slim, and comfortable with herself. When
he’d first met her, he thought it odd to find a single white woman
living alone in the Kalahari. But as he got to know her, his
opinion changed. She was of the desert, loved it, knew its peoples
and its plants. It was impossible to imagine her anywhere else.

She brought the coffee, and for a while they chatted. She told
him she was pleased with the water reticulation from the town,
which had recently replaced her borehole supply. And the springbok
herd was doing well; it had been a good lambing season. At last,
when the coffee was drained, she asked: “So who are you looking for
this time, Detective? More smugglers or rustlers?”

Lerako shook his head. “I wanted to ask you about a Namibian.
Evidently he was a guest here. A man called Haake. Wolfgang
Haake.”

She nodded. “Yes, he stayed here for two weeks. About two months
ago, I think.”

“What was he doing? Did he tell you?”

She met his eyes and held them. “He was quite secretive in a
way, but he was very interested in the history of the area. Asked
me all sorts of questions. He went out to the diamond mine. I told
him he wouldn’t be welcome out there, but he went anyway. Came back
with a black eye and several bruises, and his wrist was swollen. I
thought it might be broken, but it was just a sprain. I made him a
sling, and he was all right after a few days. He had a temper,
though. I wouldn’t be surprised if he started it. He wouldn’t hear
of reporting it to the police. Or seeing a doctor. He insisted he
would be fine.”

“So he didn’t tell you what he was doing here?”

She hesitated for a moment. “He didn’t tell me, but I knew. When
he’d been here for a while, he showed me a hand-drawn
map – ”