FORTY-SIX
ON HER WAY HOME, Samantha paid another visit to the Welcome Bar No. 2. This time the place was buzzing with people having an after-work drink. A noisy group seemed to be set on breaking the foosball machine with their excessively enthusiastic playing and, from time to time, there was a yell of triumph or disgust. The manager was busy helping the bartender, but he recognized her as she reached the bar and brought her a Coke.
“Everyone’s happy with the machine you loaned us,” he said, indicating the group around the computer. “I’ve told them the other one is in for repair. One guy was worried about some stuff he’d stored on it. I told him he was an idiot to leave anything on a public machine, but his data would probably be okay. Is that right?”
Samantha nodded, but the man had already rushed off to pour more beers. She’d almost finished the Coke by the time he returned.
“Sorry, busy here this evening. But that’s good, isn’t it? Did you have some more questions?”
Samantha showed him one of the flyers Kubu had picked up at Rampa’s funeral parlor. She’d carefully folded the paper so that only the picture of Rampa in his formal suit was visible. “Does this man ever come in here for a drink?”
The manager looked at the picture carefully, then shook his head. “Ron! Come over here a minute.”
The bartender finished taking money for two cane spirits, then hurried over, looking harassed. “What?”
Samantha showed him the picture, and he nodded. “Yes, he comes in occasionally. He’s that undertaker chap. I think he visits the clinic up the road sometimes to collect bodies, you know? Stops for a drink on the way.”
“Do you remember when he last came in?”
The man shook his head. “He only comes very occasionally. Maybe a couple of weeks ago?” Someone thumped his empty glass on the bar and waved. “Do you think I remember who comes in and when with this lot?”
“Does he ever use the computer?”
“Can’t recall. Is that all?” Samantha nodded, and the man hurried off to refill the thirsty glasses.
Samantha finished her Coke, thanked the manager, and left. So Rampa had the opportunity to pick up the Hushmail messages that had been sent to the witch doctor. And the pay phone the witch doctor had used was just down the road. Samantha felt they might be getting close to tying up the case.
ON HIS WAY HOME, Kubu stopped at Debonairs Pizza and collected two large quattro stagionis. He would polish off one by himself, and Joy and the girls would eat the other. No doubt Ilia would get a few crusts also. Joy was making a salad to go with it, and Kubu decided they would wash the food down with an inexpensive but acceptable dry red he’d discovered. The aromas of herbs and warm cheese filled his Land Rover, making his mouth water as he drove home.
I always think of them as Joy and the girls now, he mused. My family. What happens if they find Nono a permanent home? We’ll all miss her, and Tumi will be devastated. My mother already loves Nono, and my father thinks she’s our daughter. I must speak to Joy about her.
When he opened the gate, Kubu managed to finesse Ilia’s overenthusiastic welcome at the same time as keeping her away from the pizzas. But at the house, with both girls demanding his attention and the fox terrier jumping up at him, he nearly dropped the boxes. Joy grabbed them, laughing as Kubu collapsed into an easy chair under a pile of children and dog.
“I’ll put the pizzas on a plate and get the wine,” Joy said. “The salad is ready. Come to the table as soon as you can before the pizzas get cold. And you girls must wash your hands nicely first. Especially with Ilia licking everything.” Tumi and Nono nodded and then returned their attention to Kubu.
“Daddy,” said Tumi. “I found a chameleon today. My friend said it was unlucky, but mommy says it’s very lucky. Mommy put him in a box so I could show you. She says then we must let him go so he can get food.” A thought struck her. “Maybe he’ll eat pizza?”
While he took them to the bathroom to wash, Kubu explained how chameleons catch live insects and wouldn’t like pizza. Tumi was uncomfortable with the idea of eating flies, but Nono said she’d eaten moths a few times, and they weren’t too bad. Kubu decided they should have dinner while he still felt like eating and promised to admire the chameleon later.
AFTER ALL THE FOOD had been polished off, and the children had climbed into bed, Kubu read them a story while Joy cleaned up. Later, Joy came in to kiss them good night and rescue Kubu from further encores. Then the two adults could settle for a few hours of peace, and drink another glass or two of the wine.
“Nono really loves you, Kubu,” Joy said. “Do you see the way she looks at you? As though the sun comes out of all that bulk.” They both laughed.
“I’ve been thinking about Nono,” Kubu said. “Tumi is very fond of her, and it will be awful to separate them. And where will she go? With the HIV and everything? Perhaps we should think about adopting her?”
“You don’t have to ask me, Kubu,” Joy said quietly. “It’s what I want, but I waited for you to come round. It was only fair.” She gave Kubu a big hug, and they sat close together for a few minutes. Then she moved away, looked at him sternly, and said, “But we’re not keeping the chameleon!”
Kubu laughed, but then his face turned somber as he thought of Nono as he’d first seen her, tiny with not an ounce of fat. Hungry enough to catch moths.
“Seloi would be so grateful,” Joy said quietly. A few tears trickled from her eyes, but she wiped them away.
Kubu remembered Nono, big-eyed at her sister’s funeral, not knowing what to make of it. That was the first time he’d met Rampa. Funerals of Distinction. At the time he’d thought the title laughable—a one-man show arriving late in a bakkie with the coffin bouncing on the back. But he’d been wrong about that. It turned out Rampa was very successful. So why had he come by himself? Did he work alone in the hot sun to save a few pula? And why was he late? The mourners had been forced to wait for quite a while.
He realized Joy had said something.
“I’m sorry, my darling.”
“I asked if you wanted coffee.”
“Coffee? Yes, please.”
Joy smiled, recognizing Kubu in think-mode, and left him to it while she made the hot drinks.
Kubu went over the funeral again in his mind. He remembered the undertaker, hot and sweating, calling for a few strong men to help him. And the strong men struggling with the pinewood coffin of a girl wasted away by AIDS.
Rampa had come late. What if he’d done something along the way that delayed him? What if he’d opened the coffin and added another corpse? Then he would have had to be alone. And the coffin would indeed be heavy if it contained two bodies instead of one. But the timing was wrong. It couldn’t realistically be either of the two girls they knew had been abducted. Maybe there were others?
Joy put the coffee down next to him. It came with two shortbread cookies on the side. He smiled his thanks.
“Joy, do you remember Seloi’s funeral? Do you know who organized it?”
Joy nodded. “It was the relatives Nono was staying with before she came to us. They said that Rra Rampa—the undertaker—occasionally helped very poor people to have a proper funeral when they couldn’t afford it. They approached him, and he agreed to do it for very little money. We all chipped in to cover the cost, and to have some cake and tea for the mourners at the house.”
Kubu put a shortbread in his mouth and chewed slowly, savoring it along with a new idea.
“Was that why he came alone with the coffin on the back of a bakkie?”
“Yes, he said the men there would have to help him bury the coffin; he couldn’t afford to pay for workers. I suppose his hearse was being used for another funeral. There are so many nowadays . . .”
“Yes,” said Kubu, sipping his coffee. “Only this time maybe there was one too few.” Joy looked at him, puzzled.
He smiled at her. “Let’s talk about something else. Tomorrow, let’s tell Nono we want her to stay with us and see what she says. Maybe we should ask Tumi first? But they’re sisters already, aren’t they?”
Joy laughed, delighted. “Oh, yes, they’re sisters already!”
FORTY-SEVEN
THE NEXT MORNING MABAKU, Kubu, and Samantha gathered in the meeting room. Kubu reported on his meeting with the undertaker and his subsequent thoughts about the rather odd funeral of Nono’s sister. Samantha chipped in with the news that Rampa had occasionally visited the Welcome Bar No. 2. In turn, Mabaku informed them that he’d obtained the commissioner’s grudging approval to probe the late deputy commissioner’s records for leads to the witch doctor.
Kubu and Samantha split up the tasks ahead. Kubu said he would follow up on phone calls and text messages to and from Gobey’s phones, particularly during the week prior to his meeting with Mabaku. He also would check with Helenka in Forensics to see if she’d prepared the necessary paperwork to send to Canada to get information from Hushmail. Samantha would interview Gobey’s personal assistant to see if she had any useful information.
Kubu and Samantha agreed to meet back at CID headquarters after lunch.
“MY MEETING WITH LORI, Gobey’s PA, wasn’t particularly helpful,” Samantha told Kubu. “She said that nothing out of the ordinary had happened during the week Gobey told you he’d spoken to his informant. He was his normal self, except when he received the call from the witch doctor and another time after he’d talked to his nephew, Joshua.”
“Joshua Gobey? That’s his nephew? He’s head of the diamond division. I wonder what he was talking to his uncle about.”
“Lori said he visited Gobey twice. Once”—she pulled out her notebook—“on the twenty-fourth of April, and then on the second of May. It was after the second meeting Lori thought Gobey was upset.”
“I wonder if he’s also after his uncle’s job,” Kubu mused. “Perhaps he was trying to persuade Gobey to pull some strings.”
“That’s the job the director wants. Right?” Samantha asked.
Kubu nodded. “Gobey wouldn’t try to influence the commissioner, from what I know of him. He might have advised his nephew, but he would never have used his position to push him just because he was his nephew.”
“Maybe that’s why Gobey was upset. His nephew was angry that his uncle wasn’t going to oil the process. Lori also said that Gobey was like a father to Joshua—ever since Joshua’s father died.”
“I think I’ll have a talk to him. Perhaps he knows something about the witch doctor, although I’d be surprised. I should also speak to Gobey’s wife, although I doubt she’ll say anything.”
He stood up. “I’d better speak to the director about this first.”
MABAKU’S REACTION TO KUBU’S request to speak to both Joshua Gobey and the late deputy commissioner’s wife was not what Kubu expected. He’d thought that Mabaku would have sent him to Joshua and visited Gobey’s wife himself.
“Kubu, I’ll try for an appointment to speak to Joshua Gobey tomorrow. I’m told he also aspires to the position of deputy commissioner. I don’t want him or anyone else to think I’m undermining his position by having one of my staff question him. You’ve met Mma Gobey, so it’s fine for you to talk to her. Don’t push too hard if she doesn’t want to share what they talked about in private. She may not want to talk to you at all, and that’s fine just at the moment—at least until after the funeral.”
IT SEEMED LIKE A long shot, but Samantha took it anyway. Something had happened to Owido on the night of the fifth of May, and Molefe had sent Rampa a message that night at about the right time. If Rampa had been involved in some way, she thought, it was possible Owido had been brought to the funeral parlor, or perhaps even to Rampa’s home. If so, someone might have noticed something. The area around the undertaker’s premises would be pretty dead on a Saturday night, so her best chance was if something had happened at Rampa’s house.
Rampa lived on Tshwaana Road in a newer middle-class area not too far from his Broadhurst premises. His house was well set back from the road, and from the outside it looked comfortable, but not ostentatious. A narrow driveway led down one side of the property to a single garage. Samantha spent a few minutes looking at the house from the street to fix the layout in her mind. She checked her watch. It was 6 p.m., a good time to find people at home after work.
There were seven houses on each side of the street, and Samantha chose to start at the one opposite Rampa’s home. She worked her way up the street, asking the residents if they could recall any activity late that night. Most just shook their heads, puzzled by the question. One or two had grouses about noisy neighbors and their even noisier pets, but no one had anything remotely useful until she reached the house on the right of the undertaker’s.
When she knocked, the door was opened by a large woman wearing a loud dress printed with bright red roses. Samantha stated her business, and the woman looked blank.
“We’re about to go out,” she said. “Let me call my husband. I don’t remember anything special about last Saturday night. But he sometimes stays up late.”
Samantha called after her that it was the Saturday before last, but the woman had already disappeared into the house. She was replaced by a tall man, conservatively dressed with no floral extras, who proved to be more chatty than his wife. He listened carefully to Samantha, and then slowly shook his head.
“No disturbance or anything like that. I remember we were watching television. A very long movie about a war somewhere and building a bridge. Kefilwe—that’s my wife—gave it up and went to bed. I went to the kitchen to get a snack and heard Rra Rampa driving out. Our kitchen faces his driveway. It was very late for a visit. I thought maybe someone had died, and he was going to fetch the body. Depressing how busy he is. It’s the AIDS, you know. Well, he has to make a living, too, I suppose. I don’t remember anything else happening that night. This is a quiet part of town. Nothing much ever happens around here. Which is not a bad thing.”
Samantha controlled her excitement. “Are you sure Rra Rampa went out on Saturday, the fifth of May?”
The man nodded. “Oh, yes. Because of the movie. The Bridge on the River something.”
“And are you sure it was Rra Rampa’s car?”
“Oh, yes. He has to back out from his garage, you see, and his car is a bit loud. Perhaps there is a hole developing in the exhaust?” He looked at her as though she might know the answer to this.
“But you didn’t actually see it?”
He shook his head.
“What time was that?”
This caused a thoughtful pause. “I think it was after ten. That’s why I thought it was so odd.”
“Did you hear him return later on?”
He shook his head. “I must’ve gone to bed by then.”
“Did you ask Rra Rampa about it?”
He shook his head again. “None of my business, and we’re neighbors rather than friends. He comes and goes quite a bit with his job. But he doesn’t often go out in the middle of the night.”
His wife called from inside the house, and he added, “Kefilwe’s always in a rush. Is there anything else?”
Samantha thanked him and added silent thanks to heaven for nosy neighbors. Kubu would be very interested to learn that after receiving the text message, the undertaker had gone for a drive somewhere.
FORTY-EIGHT
THE NEXT MORNING, MABAKU drove the few miles to Joshua Gobey’s office in downtown Gaborone. The PA showed him into Gobey’s comfortably large office.
“Dumela, Director Mabaku. Please sit down. This is an unexpected pleasure.”
Mabaku didn’t think that Joshua Gobey’s face mirrored the words of welcome. It was unsmiling, and the man looked tense.
“Thank you, rra. I know this visit comes at an awkward time. First, your uncle’s untimely death. My wife and I extend our deepest sympathies. And second because I understand that we are both interested in his position. I assure you that my visit has nothing to do with that.”
Joshua Gobey nodded but said nothing.
“In fact,” Mabaku continued, “it is only because your uncle has passed away that I am able to be here.”
Joshua frowned.
“About a week before he died, he visited me with a strange story. He said an informant, whom he refused to name, had told him of a witch doctor who was going to make muti, using human body parts. The witch doctor was someone whom he himself had visited for traditional medicines. Your uncle was very upset with what this witch doctor was planning to do and wanted to help us apprehend him.”
Joshua didn’t respond.
“So I wonder . . .” Mabaku continued. “I wonder if your uncle mentioned anything like this to you? I am told you were very close to him and saw him a couple of days before he passed away.”
For several moments Joshua didn’t say anything, but just sat staring at Mabaku. Then he shook himself out of his thoughts.
“No. My uncle did not mention such a thing to me. We spoke of my father and of his illness.”
“If I may ask, what did he say about his illness?”
Again Joshua paused before answering, as though weighing each word before delivering it.
“He was worried by his health. He was having trouble breathing—emphysema, I think. But he was optimistic that his medicine would help him.”
“Were you surprised that he passed away so soon after you saw him?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” There was a hint of aggression in Joshua’s voice. Mabaku wondered why.
“Let me put it another way. When you saw him last were you worried that his death was imminent?”
“No.” Mabaku thought Joshua was beginning to look agitated.
“Do you have any idea what caused the rapid decline?”
Joshua shook his head. “No, I don’t.”
“Rra Gobey, do you have any idea who the witch doctor was that your uncle consulted?”
“No!” Joshua almost spat out the word. He stood up and hissed, “I don’t know what you are trying to do. Why are you trying to smear my uncle’s memory? Or are you trying to implicate me in some muti scandal? Is that why you’re attacking me? You know you’ll never become deputy commissioner unless you can discredit me! Just wait until I’m in my uncle’s office. Now get out of mine!”
Mabaku stood up slowly, wondering whether to respond. He decided against it. “Thank you for your time, Rra Gobey. You are reading too much into this visit.” He turned and left.
Joshua thumped his fist on his desk, causing an empty teacup to rattle in its saucer. He was worried. What does he really know? he wondered. Does he know about my visits to the witch doctor?
He sat for a few minutes trying to regain his composure. Then he pulled his laptop toward him and opened his browser.
I need to speak to the witch doctor about this, he thought. And soon.
AT MUCH THE SAME time, Kubu arrived at the home of the late deputy commissioner. He’d called ahead to ensure he would be welcome to visit. At the ring of the doorbell, Maria Gobey answered the door.
“Please come in, Assistant Superintendent,” she said.
After they had settled in the living room, each with a cup of tea, and had completed the mandatory pleasantries, Kubu broached the subject at hand.
“I know this is very difficult for you, mma, but I wonder if you can shed light on a problem we have.” He paused. “A few weeks ago, on the seventh of May to be exact, your late husband visited my boss, Director Mabaku, and told a story of a witch doctor. He said that an informant, whom he wouldn’t name, had provided information that this witch doctor was going to kill someone for muti. We have reason to believe that the witch doctor has now abducted an albino to do just that.”
Mma Gobey sat motionless, with a vacant look on her face.
“Mma, did he ever tell you who the witch doctor was or where he could be found? Or did he perhaps relate all of this to you and tell you who his source of information was?”
Tears welled up in Maria Gobey’s eyes. She shook her head. “I cannot tell you these things. Tebogo obviously wanted to keep this information confidential. Otherwise he would have told you.” She took a deep breath. “I’m sure he asked you to be very discreet, so why are you now breaking your promise?”
“Mma Gobey,” Kubu said quietly, “your husband was one of Botswana’s finest policemen. He wanted the witch doctor caught—to prevent further murders. And he could have kept silent. He was about to retire. No one would have faulted him for that. Yet he came forward in an effort to catch this murderer. We can’t let him down now.”
Mma Gobey let out a big sob and buried her head in her hands. “I can’t say anything. I promised Tebogo.”
Kubu sat quietly, hoping that Mma Gobey would regain her composure. After several minutes, Kubu stood up. “Mma Gobey, I’m very sorry to have intruded at this very sad and difficult time for you.” He walked toward the door. Before he left, he turned. “Last Christmas, a young girl called Lesego disappeared in Mochudi. We are convinced she was killed for muti. Just a few months ago, another young girl, Tombi, disappeared on her way home after school, not far from here. We think she was also taken for muti. There have been others.” He paused. “And about a week ago, a visitor to our country, an albino from Tanzania, disappeared. From what your husband said, he too was to be killed so some politician or businessman would find new strength or good fortune. We think all of these people were killed by the same man. How many more are there going to be?”
He walked out the door. Before he closed it, he added, “If you know anything that could help us, you should say so. I truly believe your husband would want you to do that.”
He closed the door and left.
BACK AT THE CID, Kubu briefed the director. “Gobey’s wife knows something but won’t tell us. She thinks that she would be breaking his trust if she says anything.”
“And his nephew wasn’t happy to see me,” Mabaku responded. “He told me to leave because I was trying to tarnish the Gobey name so I’d get the deputy commissioner position. I couldn’t persuade him that the purpose of the visit was strictly police work.”
“We didn’t learn much, did we?”
Mabaku shook his head. “No, we didn’t.”
There was a knock on the door, and Miriam let Samantha in. She’d asked the director’s PA to let her know when Kubu and the director returned, so that she could tell them about the undertaker’s neighbor. When she finished her story, there was a moment of silence as the men digested the implications.
“Rampa could be the ‘invisible’ witch doctor,” Kubu said at last. “From an opportunity point of view, he’s very well placed to get body parts and dispose of bodies afterward.” He reminded them of Seloi’s funeral and his suspicions about the contents of her coffin. “The only real connection we have, though, is his use of the Welcome Bar No. 2’s computer, the text message from Molefe, and now the evidence of the neighbor that he went out somewhere after he received it.”
“It would never stand up in court,” said Mabaku.
“Can’t we trace his movements around the abductions? Maybe through his cell phone?” Samantha asked.
Mabaku shrugged. “Suppose—best case—we discover he was more or less in the right area on each occasion. He got a text message from Molefe, which he says was a wrong number, the neighbor heard a car that night, and he used a public computer. Then Kubu is suspicious of undertakers because they can get and dispose of bodies. That’s not a case. It’s not even close to a case.”
“Is there some way we can connect him with Marumo? He did do the funeral.”
“Yes, he did,” Mabaku said sarcastically. “He’s an undertaker, Samantha.”
“Well, we can go door-to-door and show his picture,” Samantha responded, chastened.
This time it was Kubu who shook his head. “He works near where Tombi was abducted, so it wouldn’t be surprising if people recognized him there. We could ask around in Mochudi. Maybe that’s worth a try. But the director’s right. It won’t be anything like enough. We have to find out what’s in that grave.”
Mabaku sighed. “Good luck with that. I’d like to see you explaining to the authorities why that’s necessary. And to the family. Anyway, the timing doesn’t work for either of the two missing girls.”
Samantha shook her head, frustrated. “This man may have a dozen unreported victims for all we know. There are children who stay with foster parents who don’t care if they go missing. And other kids who don’t stay with anyone and get food from charities. And what about the albino? It’s just by chance that we know he’s missing.”
Kubu had been thinking while this exchange took place. “What if the family asked for the grave to be opened? What if they had a suspicion that the wrong person had been buried?”
Mabaku looked surprised. “You could convince them of that?”
“I could try. Seloi didn’t have much family left. Her sister lives with us now. But Joy worked with a few distant relatives and helped them arrange the funeral with Rampa.”
“Even so, you’d need more than we’ve got right now. You can’t dig up a grave just because someone’s unhappy!”
Kubu nodded. Mabaku was right.
“Suppose he kills someone else while we’re trying to decide what to do next?” Samantha asked.
“I’ll question him again,” Kubu said. “I may be able to shake something more out of him. At worst, he’ll know we’re close and watching. That should keep him away from any more victims. For the time being.”
“Won’t he try to stop us if we get too close?” Suddenly Samantha sounded less confident than before.
Kubu looked at her in astonishment. “Are you beginning to believe in the powers of witch doctors, Samantha?”
“No, of course not,” she said quickly. But Kubu could detect a note of uncertainty in her voice.
“Well, that’s a real possibility,” said Mabaku. “He may try intimidation, too, like the dog’s head or casting spells.” He paused. “I think we must all be more alert from now on. If we’re right about him, he’s a dangerous man.”
On that somber note, the meeting broke up, and Kubu went to visit the man they now thought might help people into their coffins as well as bury them.
FORTY-NINE
ONCE MORE KUBU FOUND Rampa seated at his desk, involved with paperwork. He looked up as the detective was shown in, but his face expressed none of the welcome it had displayed on the previous visit. He waved Kubu to a chair.
“How can I help you now, Assistant Superintendent?”
“I just have a few more questions, Rra Rampa. A few points that I want to check about that Saturday night. May the fifth, if you remember?”
Rampa nodded and waited impatiently, but Kubu wasn’t in a hurry to get to the point.
“I understand that you sometimes do charity funerals, Rra Rampa. Low cost so that poor people can have a proper burial. That’s very good of you.”
“Well, yes. If I know the people, and they have no one who can pay, I try to help.”
“My wife tells me you kindly did that for one of the people at her child-care place. You remember the funeral? That was where we met.”
“I remember.” Rampa looked wary.
“You did everything by yourself. I’m sure the family was very grateful.”
Rampa shrugged. “I’m a Christian. We must all do that we can to help people.”
“Have you done any of these charity funerals recently?”
“As a matter of fact, I had one this week. But what has this got to do with the matter you want to discuss?”
Kubu hesitated, and wrote something in his notebook. When he looked up, he asked, “Do you know the Welcome Bar No. 2 on Eland Street?”
Rampa hesitated. “I’ve been there once or twice. Foosball is fun, and I have a drink and chat. You never know who your next client is going to be.” Kubu didn’t smile. Obviously the man realized that he’d be known at the shebeen, so he wouldn’t lie, Kubu thought. He leaned forward.
“Do you ever use the computer there? It’s an Internet café, too.”
Rampa shifted in his chair. “Once. There was no one to play foosball or interesting to talk to, so I took my drink and caught up with personal stuff. Why are you interested in this shebeen?”
“Have you heard of Hushmail, Rra Rampa?”
The undertaker looked down at the scatter of papers on his desk. “Hushmail? What on earth is that?”
“It’s a type of e-mail that you use if you don’t want anyone to know who you are. You give no personal information. There’s no way to trace what messages you send or who you send them to.” Kubu deliberately overstated the security and waited for the man’s reaction.
Rampa shook his head. “Never heard of it. I have a Gmail account. Why would I need something secret?”
“I only asked if you’d heard of it, not if you had an account.”
“What has this got to do with that Saturday night?”
“I’m coming to that.” Kubu made a production of checking his notebook. “Last time we spoke, you told us that you didn’t go out that night. Is that correct?”
The undertaker nodded.
Kubu decided to stretch the truth a bit. “In that case, how would you explain that your car was seen late that night?”
Rampa shook his head. “I didn’t go out.”
“Not even a short trip? Perhaps to buy some milk or something?”
“No, I was at home. I told you. Who says they saw my car?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”
“Well, they made a mistake. There are lots of cars like mine.”
“What sort of car is it?”
“A Toyota Corolla.”
“What color?”
“Red. Look, Detective, you’re wasting my time. I didn’t go out. Someone saw another car and thought it was mine.”
Kubu took his time before he posed his next question. “Have you had any dealings with witch doctors, Rra Rampa? I’m not talking about the albino now. Other occasions.”
“Certainly not! I don’t believe in that sort of stuff. I told you I’m a Christian.”
“Have you ever had a case where the deceased died because of a witch doctor?”
“Detective, we do everything by the book here.” He gestured at the papers on his desk. “In every case we require authorization from the city. There’s no question of anything improper.”
“I didn’t suggest there was,” Kubu said quietly. “Have you ever been approached about a burial where the paperwork wasn’t completely in order? You would have refused, of course. But have you had such a case?”
The undertaker shook his head firmly. “Is that all? I have work to do, Detective.”
Kubu nodded slowly. “That’s all, Rra Rampa,” he said, getting to his feet. “For the moment.”
Kubu crossed the road and turned to look back at the imposing premises of Rampa Undertakers. Why would someone who had a good business—a very good business—want to risk it by witchcraft and murder? An unpleasant thought occurred to him: was it possible that the business was built on evil magic? Was that how Rampa had become successful, or at least how Rampa believed he’d become successful? Suddenly the elegant and formal outside of the premises struck him as a mere façade disguising something unsavory behind it.
He turned away, climbed into his car, and headed to the CID at Millenium Park.