The Death of the Mantis Read Free Page B

More a
pay-as-you-go.”
    Vusi winced at the term. “So what? We need to get this over
with. It was an accident, wasn’t it?”
    Ndoli nodded and went to join the detective. Vusi was left
wondering why he felt guilty and a little scared.
    ♦
    It was hardly a pristine crime scene. There were scuff marks and
footprints everywhere. Monzo had been strapped to a stretcher,
carried out of the donga at a point where it was less steep,
and driven to a spot where the helicopter could land, so the whole
area had been trampled. The entire staff must have been here
milling around, Lerako thought with dismay. Anything could have
happened at the edge of the donga . He dumped the evidence
bag he had carried from the vehicle and turned to Ndoli. “Tell me
how it was.”
    Ndoli hesitated, looked down, and then met the detective
sergeant’s impatient look. “Well, the vehicle was back up there
where we parked,” he indicated the location vaguely, “and Monzo was
over here.” He pointed at the precise spot. He remembered the scene
perfectly, and it was clearly marked by the efforts to get Monzo on
to the stretcher. What else should he say? “I’m not sure what more
you want to know, Sergeant Lerako.” Lerako was an odd name. He
wondered if it somehow matched the man’s personality. He had no
intention of asking, though.
    “Why did you move it? Monzo’s vehicle?”
    “Why abandon it out here? We thought it was an accident.” He
looked down at the glaring sand. “I still think it was an
accident.”
    “All right. Go on.”
    “Well, I stopped when I saw Monzo’s bakkie . Then I
followed his footprints. I lost them once or twice, but eventually
they led me to the edge of the donga .” He pointed to a
position above them at the top of the steep incline. “Monzo was
lying down here, and one of the Bushmen was squatting next to him.
The other two were standing over there. I thought he was dead. When
I got to him, one of the Bushmen was trying to give him water. Why
would you do that if you wanted to kill him?”
    Lerako ignored the question. “Did you notice footprints? Were
there any up there except for Monzo’s? Any down here except for the
Bushmen’s?”
    Ndoli frowned. He’d just assumed the ones at the top of the donga all belonged to Monzo. Once he’d spotted the ranger
lying crumpled below, he’d forgotten about footprints. Now, with
all the prints from the rescuers, it was unlikely that anything
could be identified. He shook his head, feeling foolish.
    Lerako made him describe the scene exactly, and then nodded. “I
see it,” he said. “Wait. I’ll call if I need you.” Puzzled, Ndoli
did as he was told, finding a thorn tree with a thick canopy
nearby. If only there was a breeze!
    Lerako photographed the scene, and then started walking upstream
from where Monzo had fallen. The tracker walked with him, a few
paces to his right. Here there were no footprints. Only the tracks
of buck – springbok judging by the size – and some old hyena spoor.
Nothing recent. Their eyes scanned the ground. From time to time
one of them would stop for a closer look before moving on.
    Ndoli wiped sweat off his face with his sleeve, wondering what
on earth the policeman hoped to find. The sun didn’t seem to bother
him. His clothes looked fresh despite the oppressive heat and the
journey from Tsabong. By comparison, Ndoli’s khaki uniform already
felt like wet rags.
    About fifty metres from where Monzo had lain, Lerako stopped and
bent over for a careful look. He called the tracker over and
pointed something out before walking back for his evidence bag.
Then he retraced his tracks back up the river, yelling for Ndoli to
join him. When he caught up, Lerako pointed to a chunk of calcrete,
a convenient shape to hold. It was partially covered with a russet
stain. There was no doubt about what that was. Even after a day and
a half of drying in the sun, there were several flies.
    “That’s what killed your friend,” Lerako said.