in the number he’d written in his notebook. After a few seconds Rampa’s phone started to play “Amazing Grace.” Kubu gave a wry smile and cut off the call. Samantha passed Rampa’s phone back to him.
“Look, Assistant Superintendent, we all get spam messages or messages sent to the wrong number from time to time. It happens. Now, how does Rra Molefe claim to know me? If you give me some context, maybe I can help you.”
Kubu stared at Rampa, trying to strip off the formal dark suit and tie and replace them with a leopard skin and baboon mask. Somehow it seemed comical. But if Rampa was indeed the “invisible” witch doctor, then Kubu was looking at an extremely dangerous and vicious man.
“Do you mind telling us where you were on the night of Saturday, the fifth of May?”
Rampa thought for a few moments. “I was at home. I had supper, watched some television. Then I went to bed at around ten.”
“Do you live alone?”
“I do. My wife died about three and a half years ago. And yes, I arranged the funeral. People always ask. What is supposed to have happened on that night?”
“An albino man was abducted and, we believe, delivered to a witch doctor to be used for muti.”
“And you think I was involved?” Rampa sounded angry now, and somehow the image of the baboon mask seemed a better fit.
“I didn’t suggest that. But the text message was probably connected to it.”
Rampa hesitated. “It’s possible I got the message. If I don’t recognize the sender, I often delete the message without reading it. That must’ve been what happened.”
Kubu nodded. “Probably,” he said. He rose, thanked the undertaker for his time, and left with Samantha.
ON THE WAY OUT, Kubu thanked the receptionist and picked up a couple of copies of a flyer advertising Rampa Undertakers and containing a head-and-shoulders picture of Rampa in a jacket and tie. He handed one to Samantha, and when they got to the street he asked her what she’d made of the interview.
“There was no text message on Rampa’s phone, and I quickly checked his contacts for Molefe’s number, but it wasn’t there, either. Still, I don’t think he’s telling the truth. He seemed uncomfortable when you mentioned Molefe, although he hid it pretty well.”
Kubu nodded. “I agree with you. And he immediately thought the call was to his cell phone at nine-thirty at night—I didn’t say that—when a business call at nine-thirty in the morning was more likely.”
“Of course!” Samantha had missed that. “Another thing, if Molefe did send the text message to the wrong person, why isn’t Owido still at the place where they left him?”
Kubu nodded again. “Of course, it’s possible Owido got free eventually and was so scared that he fled, leaving all his possessions behind. That’s credible, and I hope for his sake that’s what happened. But I don’t believe it. I think he’s buried somewhere in an unmarked grave or maybe in someone else’s grave. Certainly not a funeral of distinction.”
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