The Death of the Mantis by Michael Stanley

that Monzo would go to
that particular area that particular morning?
    The waiter topped up Kubu’s water quietly, suspecting that Kubu
was dozing.
    “Thank you,” said Kubu, startling the man.
    Then there were the footprints. Plenty of Bushman footprints,
but just the two large boot prints. It appeared that someone had
walked along the calcrete ridge presumably until he was out of the
area where the murder had been committed. Perhaps after covering
his other tracks? But where had the man come from? How had he left
the area? On foot, in the heat of the desert day? Kubu shook his
head firmly. There was more to find around the scene of the crime.
There must be. He would have to get Lerako to help. They had only
two footprints, but they could lead to the murderer.
    And what of motive? None of his co-workers seemed to have much
time for Monzo. He had been difficult and unpopular. And he
appeared to have an ambivalent relationship with both his boss and
his wife. But there was nothing obvious right now. Nothing that
would lead to a murder. So there must be darker undercurrents.
Someone with reason to hate Monzo, or with something to gain from
his death. That’s where I’ll need to start, Kubu thought.
    He sighed. He had a plan for the next day, but it meant more
travel, more heat, more dust, and more Lerako. He would have been
happier to have none of them. Still, the decision relaxed him, and
he drifted into sleep.
    He woke to the tinkle of ice cubes entering his water glass and
a smile from the waiter. It was getting hot again, and Kubu decided
that a swim was in order. He was not by nature a lover of cold
water, but he felt that the exercise would prepare him for lunch.
So he changed into swimming trunks and wallowed in the pool for
half an hour, even managing a few lazy lengths. Joy is right, he
thought. This exercise is good for me. I have worked up an appetite
for the chicken curry and sambals that make up the hotel’s
Sunday lunch.
    Back in his room, he showered and got back into his shirt and
shorts. He phoned Joy and was delighted that she was having a good
time with his parents and everyone was fussing over Tumi. It seemed
that everything was working out after all. He sang his way through
several arias from Don Giovanni , striking appropriate poses
in the dresser mirror. When he had completed those to his
satisfaction, he headed back to the dining room.
    Since he was restricting himself to just one helping, Kubu piled
his plate with rice and curry, balancing sliced banana, desiccated
coconut and sweet chutney on the top. In the absence of steelworks,
he ordered a light beer to wash it down. And after that I will be
ready for a serious nap, he thought.
    So it was disappointing that a day that had started so well was
to end so badly. For just as he was settling to his nap, his mobile
phone rang. He was surprised to hear Lerako’s voice.
    “Bengu? It’s Lerako here. I have some news for you.”
    Kubu grunted.
    “Well, I sent my Bushman tracker out with those three suspects
yesterday morning. The three you were so sure were innocent. I
thought he could follow the trail from those two footprints, see
where they led.”
    He paused, and Kubu commented that he had been thinking along
the same lines.
    “They don’t lead anywhere,” Lerako stated.
    “What do you mean?”
    “The tracker followed them back to the donga , and he did
find signs that someone had been walking along the calcrete. Not
footprints as such, just smudges and slip marks. Also, he thinks
something big was dragged to the donga edge and probably
pushed over.”
    “So there was someone else there!”
    Lerako ignored him. “But when he followed the boot prints in the
direction away from the murder scene, he found nothing. No smudges,
no slip marks, nothing.”
    “Maybe he missed them, or the man was moving more
carefully.”
    “Actually there was no point in being careful. About five
hundred metres further on, that ridge peters out into the