She glared at the mild-mannered detective as though the fault were his.
“Mrs. Boardman, I’m terribly sorry for your loss. I only met your husband once, but I thought he was a fine man. I wish there was something I could do.” Amanda seemed surprised and touched by his short speech. “Thank you, Detective. Well, you can tell me what the police have done to catch his killer.”
“I’m hoping you can help me with that. We – Assistant Superintendent Bengu and myself – don’t think this was just a robbery. We believe it was somehow connected with the murders at Jackalberry Camp.”
“Yes, of course. I said as much to Assistant Superintendent Notu, but he couldn’t see it. A vicious, brutal murder for a few pula? That would be believable in South Africa, detective, but not in Maun.”
Tatwa was intrigued. “So you agree your husband was somehow…” He stumbled, not wanting to say ‘involved’…“Somehow connected with what happened at Jackalberry?”
“I think there may’ve been something he knew or guessed about what happened. He seemed almost pleased about it – not about the murders, but in the way you can be pleased when you know a useful secret. He didn’t tell me what it was, though. William kept things to himself, business and such, even though we worked together. He’d wait until the deal was closed, then he’d let me know. Almost as though he thought saying it out loud would tempt fate. I know it sounds silly, but he was like that.”
“Why did you think that in this case?”
“There was something about him after the interview with you and the Superintendent. Almost as though something important had been confirmed. Something he’d find valuable in the future. That’s the impression I had at the time. But then it was gone, and he was back to normal. I knew better than to quiz him about it.”
Tatwa felt a stir of excitement. Was it possible that Boardman had somehow stumbled on Gomwe’s involvement? Perhaps seen him that night when looking for an owl? If that were true, and he’d tried to use it in some way such as blackmail, then Gomwe might have a motive for staging a violent and deliberately fatal attack.
“Mrs. Boardman, did your husband say anything about what he was doing here on Monday? Particularly Monday night?”
“Well, of course, he was here to buy stock for our shop. He’d done pretty well, judging by his full trailer. But I know he was meeting someone. He usually calls me every day when he’s on a trip. He phoned about six, but I was out, so he left a message on the answering machine. He was meeting someone for drinks after dinner that evening. He thought he might be late, so he’d phone the next morning. So, you see, he was definitely expecting someone.”
Tatwa hesitated, then asked, “Could it have been a woman?”
Amanda laughed. “You’re not married, are you, Detective?” Tatwa shook his head. “Well, if you were having an affair, would you call your wife and tell her you were expecting to have drinks with an unnamed person?” Tatwa admitted that seemed unlikely.
“Very unlikely, I’d say. I’m sure William was looking forward to telling me another of his secret successes in the morning. But the morning never came, did it?” She stared at the ceiling, forced to focus on that gruesome night. Her voice dropped. “That’s all I can tell you, detective. Perhaps you would leave me now?”
Tatwa nodded, muttered his thanks, and rose to go. “We’ll catch this man, Mrs. Boardman, I promise that.”
“Yes, I suppose you will,” she said.
∨ The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu ∧
36
Kubu and Joy came close to one of their infrequent rows that Sunday morning. Kubu was adamant that he and Joy should stay at home. Joy was still not feeling well after Friday’s frightening experience with the intruders, and Kubu argued that a quiet day with him and Ilia would do her good. Joy, on the other hand, had begun to feel like a prisoner in her own home and desperately wanted to get out and about. It was Sunday, she railed, and on Sundays they visited his parents.
“I’m not going to stay here and be a sitting duck.” Her voice rose angrily. “They know I’m here. And you want me to stay? Not a chance! We’re going to see your parents. I’ve already invited Pleasant and told your mother we’re bringing food for a picnic.” Kubu thought it unwise to challenge Joy in this mood. He decided to live with being told what to do.
Grudgingly, he conceded that Joy’s choice of a picnic was a sound idea. This way his mother would not have to cook. Although she would complain that Kubu and Joy had brought the food the previous Sunday, she would not press the point too far. “But,” Kubu said firmly, “we say nothing about your attack. My parents will worry, and everyone in Mochudi will know tomorrow. We want to keep this quiet.” Joy understood and agreed, but she knew Kubu very well. She suspected there was something else behind his insistence.
♦
Since there were to be five adults and one dog in his old Land Rover, Kubu decided on a picnic spot close to where his parents lived. With everyone in the car, and Ilia curled up on Wilmon’s lap to enjoy her ears being rubbed, he drove up into the semicircle of hills that surround Mochudi. He turned up a paved road near the hospital and followed it as it wound up the koppie, through rock fig trees with grasping roots that enveloped huge boulders. At the crest they reached the Phuthadikobo museum – an elegant colonial building, once a school, overlooking southern Mochudi.
After checking that there were no acacia thorns to damage the tires, Kubu parked off the road near the museum. The entire area was covered with rocky outcrops, and Kubu chose a flat rock in the shade of a wonderboom tree. From there, they could almost see Amantle and Wilmon’s house on the east side of town. In the distance, through the haze, Kubu thought he could see Kgale Hill.
Kubu spread a blanket on the rock and unfolded a small table and two chairs which he offered his parents. Joy and Pleasant covered the table with a colorful cloth and unpacked the contents of two baskets. Soon a dish of cold meats was surrounded by salads, cold pap, and a bowl of chopped tomatoes and onions – Wilmon’s favorite. Joy then covered the table with mosquito netting to keep off flies. Finally, Kubu regretfully took only soft drinks out of a cooler – Wilmon would not countenance alcohol on the sabbath. Kubu had fleetingly considered replacing the contents of a ginger ale bottle with sparkling wine. However, he had rejected the temptation as disrespectful to his father. Wilmon and Amantle ate at the small camping table while the others sat on the blanket with plates on their laps.
After the meal Wilmon said to Joy, “You look tired, Joy. Are you well?”
She laughed. “It is Kubu’s fault. He is always making me work and giving me a hard time.” They all laughed except Wilmon. Kubu’s chuckle was a little forced.
Wilmon looked serious. “When we go home, I will give you some leaves for making tea. It will make you calm and help you sleep. It is quite harmless. Even Kubu and Ilia can have some.” A glimmer of a smile lit up his wrinkled face.
Wilmon had the reputation in Mochudi of being someone you could trust for muti or herbal medicines. He was not a witch doctor, but knew and understood what local plants offered for dealing with a variety of human ailments. Rather than an incantation, Wilmon usually attached a silent prayer to each vial he dispensed – a Christian prayer, of course.
Then Amantle turned the spotlight on Pleasant’s unacceptable marital status, as Kubu and Joy had warned Pleasant she would. Amantle’s interrogation began slowly and gently with questions about Pleasant’s work at the travel agency, how her brother Sampson was faring in Francistown, and whether he was married yet. When Amantle realized that he was in his early thirties and still single, she gave Pleasant a lecture on how distressed her parents would have been had they been alive. Pleasant solemnly agreed that Sampson was shirking his responsibilities and promised to have a word with him. Joy sat back, enjoying that this Sunday she was not being interrogated.
Wilmon, sensing Pleasant’s discomfort, voiced his approval of Sampson’s government position. “He will receive a good pension.”
“But who will he share it with?” Amantle demanded, determined not to let the initiative slip. Wilmon lapsed back into silence, unable to respond to this challenge.
Amantle then leaned forward and took Pleasant’s hand.
“My dear, you are nearly thirty,” she said in a scandalized tone. “Soon the only people who will look at you will be dry old men who already have children. Soon you will be too old to bear your own children.”
“Mma Bengu,” Pleasant replied. “I thank you for your concern, but I’m happy at the moment. I’d like to be married and have children, but I haven’t met someone yet who I want as my husband.”
“A man does not like a woman who works,” Amantle said. “He thinks he will look more important and successful if his wife stays at home. Actually, he is afraid that his wife will earn enough money to do what she wants. Then he cannot tell her what to do. That will make him feel bad. You should give up your job and find a man. When you marry, you can go back to work.”
“Mma Bengu, you are wise,” Pleasant replied. “But how will I live if no one wants me? I have to work.”
Joy thought it was time to support her sister. “Pleasant is seeing a very fine man. He is a professor at the university. Very clever and famous. His work is known by people all over the world.”
“Why does he not ask you to marry him?” Amantle asked. “He must be blind not to want such a beautiful girl as you.”
“I don’t think I’m clever enough for him.”
“What nonsense! How can a professor be so stupid? Can he not see you will carry children well? Kubu, you must speak to him!”
“Mother, times have changed,” said Kubu, alamed by this turn of events. “Today’s young people think differently from you and Father. They do what they want.”
“We know that, Kubu!” Amantle interjected. “Your father and I nearly gave up on you ever getting married. You were lucky to meet a sensible woman like Joy. I know she had to take charge. You were so blind with your police work.” Amantle turned back to Pleasant. “Tell me about this professor. I am sure I can help you open his eyes.”
Wilmon had been thinking the matter through. “Perhaps the problem is the lobola. Maybe he does not have enough cattle to pay a proper bride price. And it is hard to negotiate because your father is not alive.” He scratched his head, willing memories to surface. “I recall that it was necessary to talk to two of your uncles to resolve the matter when you and Kubu married. I sorted it out quite easily, though. I wrote them a fine letter – Kubu helped me – and then my brothers and I went to Francistown to visit them. They are fair men, and we discussed all the issues, and when it was all agreed we had a drink on it.” This was such an unusual occurrence for Wilmon that he thought it worth mentioning.
Pleasant had been ready for Amantle’s questioning but Wilmon’s suggestion caught her by surprise. “Rra Bengu, Bongani is a fine man from a good Batswana family. I think he just needs some time. He’s very busy with his career. He has studied at the university in Gaborone and in America. He’s very clever. He works with computers and satellites.”
“How can he be clever if he does not see your wide hips and happy smile?” Amantle interjected.
“Remember that time when the Botswana Cattle and Mining Company had so many problems?” Pleasant asked, ignoring Amantle’s question. “Bongani helped Kubu solve that case. He used his satellite to find a Land Rover in the desert. Doesn’t that prove he’s clever?”
“I do not understand these things, so I do not know if he is clever. But I do know he is stupid! Kubu, you must tell him to ask Pleasant to marry him, and your father will help you sort out the lobola.”
“Mother,” Kubu said, “you always know what is best. I’ll see him this week and give him your message. I’m sure he’ll agree immediately!”
“Thank you, Mma Bengu,” Pleasant said quietly. “I miss my family every day, so it’s wonderful to have a second mother looking after me.” Pleasant seemed genuinely touched by the old couple’s concern, but Kubu and Joy were having difficulty keeping their faces straight. It seemed prudent to pack up and drive back to Wilmon and Amantle’s small house for tea.
♦
Amantle made tea while Wilmon went to his little garden behind the house to pick the ingredients for Joy’s muti. Ilia was not sure whether to stay on the veranda and hope for crumbs from the Marie biscuits that Amantle would inevitably serve, or to accompany Wilmon to the garden where she knew she would have her ears rubbed and tummy tickled. Having been spoiled at the picnic, she opted for the latter and trotted off to be with the old man.
By the time Wilmon reappeared with a small brown packet, tea was ready. Remembering that his parents had only four chairs, Kubu said that he was tired of sitting and would stand. Everyone then insisted that they had been sitting for much too long. So the five people stood around the four empty chairs. Ilia was pleased because they had trouble controlling the cups, saucers, and Marie biscuits simultaneously. She accepted several dropped biscuit pieces with enthusiasm. After tea, Kubu, Joy, and Pleasant said their farewells and started for Gaborone.
As they drove off, they dissolved into laughter. Ilia was puzzled and broke her usual habit of sleeping on the way home to jump around the car, licking faces. Eventually the humans sobered.
“What wonderful parents you have,” Pleasant said to Kubu. “They’ve such dignity and concern for other people. You’re so lucky to have them. You’re their pride and joy.”
“I’m lucky indeed. They’ve always been good to me.”
The three sat in silence as Kubu threaded his way back into Gaborone through the myriad of taxis, animals, and pedestrians.
“Look after my sister,” Pleasant said to Kubu as they dropped her off at her apartment. “You never know if those thugs may turn up again.”
“She’s going to stay at home for a few days with a police guard. They won’t dare to try something. They know I’ll rip them apart.”
Pleasant patted Ilia and hugged Joy. As Kubu and Joy drove off, she waved after them. Feeling a little lonely, she started up the stairs to enjoy a quiet evening at home.
∨ The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu ∧
37
On Monday morning, Kubu waited at home until Edison arrived with Constable Mashu, taking advantage of the opportunity to have a proper breakfast and two cups of coffee. Joy was annoyed to be treated as a liability and irritated with Kubu. On the previous night he had insisted on sitting up to guard her in the bedroom with his police pistol. A bottle of Allesverloren vintage port kept him company. The result had been that he snored in the armchair all night, keeping her awake. She appreciated his commitment, but not his macho approach, and certainly not his execution. Having him in bed with her would have been much better.
“Kubu, I’m not staying at home all day. I’ve things to do. And I’m having lunch with Pleasant. This whole business is ridiculous. I can look after myself. And I have Ilia.” The dog wagged her tail in agreement, perhaps suggesting a reward would not go amiss.
“Joy, my darling, I have work to do and won’t be able to do anything if I think you’re in any danger. I know you can look after yourself. You proved that very convincingly. But we have to track down these bastards! Please humor me.” He grasped for a straw. “Edison is very good at Scrabble. Perhaps you can play. Make them some coffee.”
“Scrabble doesn’t have enough M or K letters to play properly in Setswana,” Joy replied grumpily.
Edison and Mashu sat quietly waiting for the domestic ripples to subside. They looked at each other and nodded. All men have such problems with their wives.
“I’ll phone Pleasant and explain that you’re staying at home,” Kubu said. “Why not make a nice lunch here and introduce her to Mashu?”
“You know she’s quite involved with Bongani,” she snapped. However, she did give Mashu an appraising look. He was well built and had a wide, cheerful face lit by a ready smile. Pleasant might like to meet him. She wonder
ed if she had enough mutton neck to do a curry.
“I’ll phone her myself,” she said.
But Pleasant wasn’t at work, nor was there any answer at home. When Joy tried her mobile phone, she heard a voice that she recognized at once. The voice with the foreign accent. Suddenly a sweetish acrid smell seemed to fill the room. She had to throw up. She gave the phone to Kubu and rushed to the sink.
“Hello, this is Assistant Superintendent Bengu. Who am I talking to?”
The others couldn’t hear the other side of the conversation, but they could see Kubu’s face tighten and his fists clench. Then they could hear the dial tone. Kubu carefully replaced the receiver.
“They have Pleasant,” he said at last. “They have the nerve to threaten my family and kidnap my sister-in-law! These pigs will rot in jail and then rot in hell. And hell will be a relief for them.” Joy had never seen him so angry.
“Did you speak to her? Is she all right? What will you do?”
“The pig said she’s fine. But he is lying vermin! They’ll wish they were dead when I get my hands on them.”
“Yes, but what about Pleasant? What about her? Can you give them what they want? You can catch them afterward.”
“I don’t know what the shits want! They talk in riddles. Look, I’ve got to get to the office. We’ll search every house in Gaborone if necessary! Every house! From top to bottom. Who the hell do they think they are?”
Joy spoke very calmly although her pulse was racing and nausea building up again.
“Kubu, I need to help you with this. I’ll come with you to the CID. I’ll be absolutely safe there. You can’t leave me here to play Scrabble. Besides, I know how Pleasant thinks. That’ll help you.”
Kubu was not listening: “Darling, I’ve explained already. I must know you’re safe, or I’ll be distracted. I promise you that Pleasant will be free and with us this evening for supper. I’ll phone you every hour, and you can give us any information you can think of. Don’t worry. It’ll be all right. I promise.” Joy started to reply but he was already halfway through the door, shouting instructions to Edison.
Detective Kubu 02; The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu Page 18