Kachani stifled a smile. Mr. Ntaso was obviously embellishing to make himself out to be a hero. Who could blame him? Here was a man who had probably been a servant all his life. Serendipity had suddenly placed him at the center of attention and he loved it. The untruths in his story were obvious. Even from looking at the photograph in the newspaper Kachani knew that Ebeso’s hands had not been bloody. And the notion of Ebeso begging Malawi for forgiveness was laughable. Kachani kept these thoughts to himself. He could get the information he needed without tearing away Mr. Ntaso’s moment of glory.
“Could you show me where you were when you heard the gunshot?”
Ntaso took Kachani and Patrick up a short flight of stairs. “Here. Just outside his study.”
“And you ran?”
“As fast as I could.”
“You didn’t see the killer?”
“No, the instrument of God’s fury was already gone by the time I got there.”
Kachani had a few more questions and then he made for the car.
“That was a waste of time,” grumbled Patrick.
“Why do you say that?”
“He was obviously lying.”
“I know, but he still helped. Now, to the two suspects.”
“You mean three?”
“Two,” he insisted. “As much as Mr. Ntaso was adding to the story, you can be sure that if he had seen the killer he would have told us about it. He may have added a few things like a halo glowing around the killer’s head, but he would have mentioned it. You saw how long the corridor was? The killer ran all the way down it in the time that Mr. Ntaso took to run down the stairs. With Zikomo’s limp, he couldn’t have run that fast.”
Chundira opened his mouth, then shut it. “You’re right.”
Kachani smiled with satisfaction, then added, “St. Paul’s Church is ten minutes away.”
When Kachani was younger, he had been deeply religious. A crucifix had dangled from his neck and a Gideon’s Bible in his back pocket had frequently been consulted. His religious and political disillusionment had occurred simultaneously. After Malawi’s first dictator, Kamuzu Banda, had been removed from power, Kachani had been one of the most hopeful. He had praised God and thrown himself into trying to serve his people as a policeman. But in the face of poverty, AIDS, and harsh droughts, none of the presidents who followed Kamuzu helped Malawi. Neither had God.
When Kachani stepped into St. Paul’s Church, he felt none of the awe he would have twenty years earlier. A lone figure knelt in front of the crucifix at the far end of the church. Kachani and Chundira approached Archbishop Mpocha. His skin was an inky black that seemed to blend into the suit he wore. His priestly collar was a thin white island in an opaque sea. He did not respond to their approach. His head remained bowed, his expression solemn. His mouth moved soundlessly.
It was a long prayer. Eventually the archbishop’s eyes opened and he rose. His wrinkled face, greying beard, and penetrating stare made him look impossibly old. “I was praying for forgiveness.”
Chundira jumped at the bait. “A great man like you doesn’t need forgiveness.”
“I took a life,” Archbishop Mpocha announced. “Even a man as vicious as Ebeso was a child of God.”
“You did Malawi a glorious service. It was a—”
“Why were you at the palace?” Kachani cut in.
“I had a meeting with Ebeso about the demonstrators he imprisoned last week.”
“So after years of standing silent while he imprisoned and executed thousands, what was it about the latest incarcerations that moved the Church to action?”
“I’m sorry,” Patrick said desperately. “Please excuse him, he—”
“Do you think this is the first time I have heard insults like that?” The archbishop was unruffled. The only part of him that moved were the fingers of his left hand. They played absently with the hem of his suit. “Blaming the Church is an easy thing for frustrated people to do. We did not stay silent.”
“You’re right,” Kachani replied. “The Church was very vocal in supporting Ebeso. Whenever he ordered a judge removed or one of his rivals disappeared, the Church would denounce that person and every congregation in Malawi would hear how that man had been a sinful Judas.”
Archbishop Mpocha’s gaze still had a calm, superior veneer. He smiled as one would to a silly child. “So you are so much more righteous? While Ebeso was in power, how many murder investigations did you end prematurely when the evidence led to Ebeso’s cabinet? And what did the police ever do when the people committing violence were Ebeso’s followers?”
Kachani opened his mouth to reply but the archbishop held up his hand. “On some level, everybody collaborated with Ebeso. It is easy to say, ‘You should have stood up to him, you shouldn’t have been silent,’ but we were all afraid. Of course we were. We did not want to be the next one eliminated. The most anyone could do was find ways to do some good within the restrictions. I was guilty every day because the Church had to support Ebeso and turn a blind eye to his deeds. Yesterday I had been pushed too far. When Ebeso went to the toilet, I knew he was vulnerable for once.”
Kachani struggled to control his anger and think logically. “You were carrying a gun?”
“Yes.”
“Why? If you didn’t plan to kill him, why would an archbishop be carrying a gun?”
“Malawi is not as safe as it once was. I am ashamed to admit it, but I sometimes have to carry a gun.”
“Weren’t you searched when you arrived at the residence?”
“The guards who let me through were Catholic. My word was enough for them.”
“Where is the gun now?”
“I panicked. I threw it away.”
“Where?”
“I’m not sure. Somewhere on my drive back here.”
Convenient, thought Kachani. “Where did you meet him?”
“In his study.”
“And how did he react when you brought up the incarcerations.”
“He told me he did not care what I thought. That’s why when he got up to go to the toilet—”
“You followed him down the corridor and shot him. In the toilet.”
“Yes.” The archbishop’s restless fingers were now threading the rosary around his neck.
“Think about this. Are you saying that’s what happened? You walked down the corridor after him, and shot him in the bathroom.”
“Yes.”
“We’re done,” Kachani said to Patrick and began to walk away. “He didn’t kill Ebeso.”
“What?” the archbishop objected. He finally sounded angry, and this pleased Kachani.
Chundira remained in the church for a few minutes more — probably apologising and grovelling. He was enraged when he exited. “You can’t talk to him that way.”
“It’s how he deserves to be talked to. Have you seen the house he lives in? He has a legion of servants, a pool, and a satellite dish. Many Malawians share a loaf of stale bread with their whole family for dinner, but still give money to the Church every week. This is what it’s used for.” Kachani pointed at a large red Volvo parked behind the church.
“You called him a liar with no basis.”
“He said he followed Ebeso down the corridor and shot him in the bathroom, but he also claims to have met Ebeso in his study. You were there, Patrick; Ebeso’s study was upstairs but the bathroom he was shot in was downstairs. The archbishop didn’t mention the stairs.”
Patrick thought about it. “That’s hardly enough.”
“I know, but every important thing about the murder is in the paper. Only the tiny details can reveal the liars.”