The Death of the Mantis (43 page)

With that, the floodgates opened and Joy wept for a long time.
Kubu had the good sense not to try to stop her, the tears cleansing
the part of her that had doubted him.

Finally she blew her nose and turned so she could look at his
face. “Could you be happy not being a detective?”

Kubu had a sinking feeling. He knew how much his job was
affecting her. And since Tumi’s birth, she’d become less tolerant
of it. He realised he’d been expecting this conversation even
before the horrible events of the evening.

“Do you want me to leave the police?” he whispered, fearing the
worst.

“I’m not sure I can take any more of this.” She put her head on
his shoulder.

Maybe I should resign, Kubu thought. Not only for Joy’s sake,
but also because Mabaku betrayed me today. He promised they
wouldn’t harm Khumanego. I’m not sure I can work for someone I
don’t trust.

They remained on the sofa for a long time, holding each other
quietly, lost in thought. Each wondering how they would negotiate
the future.

♦

Kubu went to work after lunch the next day, but only because Joy
had recovered some of her composure and Pleasant had taken the
afternoon off to be with her. Under normal circumstances, he would
have stayed at home with her, but now he had a mission.

He put down his briefcase and went to see Miriam.

“Is the director available?”

She nodded and told him to go in.

Kubu knocked and opened the door to Mabaku’s office.

“I’d like to talk to you, Director. May I sit down?”

Mabaku closed the folder he was working on and leant back.

Kubu pulled an envelope from his shirt pocket and placed it on
the desk. “This is my resignation, Director. I’ll wrap things up by
the end of the month and then leave.”

Mabaku’s impassive face didn’t change. He stared at Kubu without
saying a word.

They sat in silence, each waiting for the other to take the
initiative. Mabaku was an expert at silence and prevailed.

“Director, this is the hardest decision of my life. You know how
much I love what I do. But I can’t continue.”

Mabaku went on staring, his eyes a little narrower than before.
Kubu began to squirm in his seat. He’d thought he was prepared for
this meeting, but Mabaku, as usual, was proving him wrong.

“Director, there are two reasons for my decision.” Kubu gazed
out of the window at Kgale Hill. He summoned up his courage and
looked into Mabaku’s eyes. “I have to work for someone I can trust.
Last night, I promised Khumanego that he wouldn’t be harmed if he
gave himself up. And you knew that. But when he was shot…” Kubu bit
his lip. “When he was shot, you broke the trust between us, and I
broke my promise to Khumanego. You might not have any reservations
about what happened, Director, and I’m sure you’ve got good reasons
for what you did, but I have to live
with
myself. And I’m
finding it very difficult to do so at the moment. I can’t and won’t
put myself in the same position again.” He sat up straight. “I’m
sorry, Director. You’ve been very good to me in the past, and I
appreciate that. I’ve always admired and respected you. You’ve
always pointed me in the right direction, and I thank you for that
too. But last night something very special between us was broken. I
can’t work for you without it.”

Mabaku stood up and walked to the window. He always took comfort
from the permanence of Kgale Hill, and from the baboons that
frequently came down from it and foraged around the CID
offices.

“So, I’m unworthy of your trust?” He walked back to his desk and
sat down. “You know, Kubu, as smart as you are, sometimes you let
your emotions get in the way of your brain. What do you
really
know about what happened last night? What orders did
the sharpshooters have? Who gave the order to shoot?” He banged his
fist on the desk. “You come in here and blame me for what happened.
Do you really know that I’m at fault? Do you know what actually
happened? You are letting your emotions come to a verdict without
any evidence. I’m disappointed.”

He stared at Kubu and shook his head. “How many years have we
been working together? Ten? Twelve? I’m not sure I even know. And
how often have I let you down in all those years?” He jumped out of
his chair, grabbed Kubu’s envelope and waved it in the air. “And
yet without a scrap of evidence, you now accuse me of violating our
trust. Grow up, Assistant Superintendent.”

He flung the envelope back on the desk and returned to the
window. With his back to Kubu he said: “You want to know who was
responsible for Khumanego’s death? I’ll tell you.” He turned back
to face the detective. “You were!”

Kubu sat in stunned silence while Mabaku returned to his chair
and sat down again. “My instructions to you were quite explicit.
Khumanego comes out
alone
. But you came out with him.” Kubu
started to interrupt, but Mabaku stopped him. “You may’ve had your
reasons. You were the person inside with a madman with a poisoned
knife. But when you came out with him, the game changed. He’d
already killed the guard, and we didn’t know if the knife was
inside the house or with him. He could have cut you with it in a
second, and you would have been dead. If he made any sudden
movement, we had to kill him at once.”

Kubu wrestled with the accusation. The knife was safely inside,
but the police couldn’t possibly have known that. But he
had
given his word!

He gave up the issue for the time being. “There’s another
reason.”

“And what’s that?” Mabaku said tiredly.

“Director, last night was the second time in two years that
Joy’s life has been in danger. And this time Tumi’s was too. Had we
lost her, I’m not sure how we would’ve coped, and had I lost either
of them…” He couldn’t finish the sentence and looked down. It took
him several seconds to recover his composure.

“I know all about the stresses policemen’s wives feel, and I
know how high the divorce rate is. As much as I love this job,
Director, I love my wife more. I can’t risk my marriage.”

Mabaku stared at him without sympathy.

“Kubu, my father was a policeman. Just a constable. When I was
twelve, we were in Molepolole. One night he was called out to stop
a fight at a bar. When he got there, both men were bruised and
bleeding, but still fighting with their fists and feet. There was a
noisy crowd around them. He dragged the two apart and told them to
go home. The crowd got hostile because there were a lot of bets on
the fight, and then someone threw a brick. It hit my father on the
head and killed him. They never found who did it.”

He took a deep breath. “My mother was left to raise me and my
brothers and sisters. Five in all. On a policeman’s paltry pension.
Obviously it wasn’t enough, so she had to go out and find a job.
And then another. But what I remember most of all was how proud she
was of my father. She felt he’d made each community he worked in a
better place. Made the country a better place. She knew how
important it was for him to do that. She never complained about his
death. Certainly, she missed him. But to her, his death was for a
good cause. Something to be proud of. Had she forbidden him to be a
policeman, both of them would’ve withered.”

He stood up and walked to one of the filing cabinets, unlocked
it and pulled open the bottom drawer. He reached in and lifted out
a bottle of Scotch and two tumblers. “I’m not Ian MacGregor, but I
see his point that a stiff drink sometimes clears the way.”

Kubu gawked – in all the years he had been at the CID, he’d
never known that Mabaku kept a stash of whisky.

Mabaku poured two large drinks and handed one to Kubu. “To an
ex-policeman!” He drained his glass in a single gulp. “Come on,
Kubu, drink up! Drink to whatever you are going to be in the
future. Security guard? Private eye? The N°1 Men’s Detective
Agency?”

Kubu was taken aback by Mabaku’s sarcasm and didn’t feel like
drinking. Still, he drained his tumbler.

Mabaku sat down again and stared at Kubu, glass in hand. Then he
picked up the envelope and flipped it at Kubu. “On your way out,
see Miriam and make an appointment to see me a week from Monday.
Take next week off and go home and think about it. Don’t come back
till you’ve made up your mind.”

Kubu picked up the envelope and walked out. Mabaku had won this
encounter. Kubu wondered who would have the last word.

∨
The Death of the Mantis
∧

F
or the first time
since he had returned home to discover his family held hostage,
Kubu was happy. They had made the decision the night before. Only
time would tell whether it was the right one. In the end, Joy’s
view had prevailed. He sincerely hoped that she didn’t come to
regret it.

Tonight they were going to relax. Despite the unusual nature of
the cooking arrangements for the evening, they had invited Pleasant
over to celebrate. Bongani couldn’t join them because he was on a
field trip.

Kubu brought Joy and Pleasant each a glass of inexpensive but
good South African Sauvignon Blanc as they sat in the cool shade of
the veranda. They looked at him with broad smiles and eager
anticipation. This was to be the evening that Kubu had put off for
so long – the evening he was finally going to keep his promise to
cook a full meal. Tumi had been fed and was in her cot. Hopefully
she would sleep through the event.

“Remember,” Kubu said, wagging his finger, “you both promised
that you wouldn’t come into the kitchen while I’m cooking.”

They nodded in unison. “We promise,” Pleasant said.

“It’s six now; dinner will be ready at half past seven. I have
some snacks for you in the meantime.”

He disappeared indoors, followed closely by a curious Ilia, who
was used to Kubu sitting on the veranda and Joy disappearing
inside.

♦

Now to work, Kubu thought as he walked back into the kitchen.
One step at a time. It can’t be that difficult.

A friend had told him always to soak the rice for an hour before
cooking. So he found a bowl, measured out a cup of rice and added
two and a half cups of water. Not two, not three, his friend had
said. It must be two and a half. He put the bowl at the end of the
counter, out of the way.

He pulled a folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket. This
was the recipe he had chosen after a review of several on the
Web.

Humming ‘La donna e mobile’ from Verdi’s
Rigoletto
while
he worked, Kubu first cut the pork into cubes. At least that was
what the recipe called for; for the most part, the pieces looked
more like bricks. He chopped an onion, causing his eyes to smart,
then turned his attention to slicing a ginger root. I assume you
take off the skin, but how much to use? he wondered. The recipe
didn’t specify, and he had bought a large root, about fifteen
centimetres long – with arms! He decided to use a quarter of the
root, since he loved ginger so much.

Next the recipe called for a minced garlic clove. Now he was
stumped. Obviously the skin had to come off the clove, but how did
you mince it? Joy had a grater, but he was scared he would grate
the tips off his fingers if he used it with something that small.
Perhaps I can chop it finely enough that it’ll be the same as
mincing? His humming stopped as he concentrated on making the
little pieces of garlic even smaller.

Kubu surveyed the small piles of ingredients and was satisfied
with his progress. Glancing over to Ilia, who was curled in the
corner observing his every move, he said, “This isn’t so hard,
Ilia. I’ll have supper ready in no time. And you can have some
too.” Ilia wagged her tail enthusiastically.

Kubu took the bottle of wine from the fridge and went to see
whether Joy and Pleasant needed a top-up. They did.

“How is it going, Kubu?” Pleasant asked as he filled her
glass.

“Fine, thanks. Everything’s under control.” He looked a little
smug as he returned to the kitchen. I know they think I won’t be
able to do this, he thought. I’ll show them.

He scrutinised the recipe again. “Toss the pork with one
tablespoon of sugar and the soy sauce.” He found sugar in a
cupboard and took a tablespoon from the cutlery drawer. Level or
heaped? Hmm. He compromised by taking more than a level tablespoon,
but not as much as he could have piled on to it. Now, how much soy
sauce? He looked back to the ingredients – one tablespoon. He
pulled a soy sauce bottle from the paper bag on the counter and
carefully dispensed one tablespoon into a large bowl. Then he
tossed the pork into the bowl, splashing soy sauce all over the
counter and on to his khaki shorts.

“Damn!”

He found a rag, wetted it, and rubbed his shorts. It only made
the stain bigger. Then he wiped the counter. Better add some more
sauce, he thought. He estimated that half had fled the bowl, so he
added half a tablespoon to make up for it. He looked at his watch:
6.25. The pork had to stand for ten minutes. Remember to take it
out, he admonished himself, at 6.35.

As he contemplated his next culinary step, he recalled his
mother cooking for him as a boy. It had seemed to be a joy to her
rather than a chore. He remembered the pride on her face as he and
his father wolfed down her food. And a few times Khumanego had been
there too. That thought brought back sad memories, which, he was
sure, would never leave him. He shook his head, grateful to bring
himself back to the moment and to the next step in the recipe.

“Dip the meat in the egg and cover with corn starch.” He read
the next stage of the recipe aloud. Gazing back at the ingredients,
he realised that he had to beat the egg. He found a bowl, broke the
eggshell on its edge and poured the egg into it. It took him a
couple of minutes to fish some shell remnants from the bowl. It was
very difficult to catch them with a spoon, so he removed them with
his fingers. Nobody will notice, he told himself a little
guiltily.