Detective Kubu 02; The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu

by Michael Stanley

  Mma Zarte called out, “Any of you girls had new clients recently? Black man with a foreign accent?”

  One of the girls said through a mouthful of hamburger, “A Zimbabwean? They’re hardly foreign anymore.” They all tittered.

  “Oh, yes,” said Joy. “He might very well be a Zimbabwean. They cause a lot of trouble these days.” She felt she was on safe ground now. No one would protect a Zimbabwean who was seducing a good Batswana girl.

  The prostitute finished her hamburger and wandered over. Obviously she was dressed for work, and Joy was amazed at how little was left to the imagination. It was fortunate that Gaborone was in the grip of a heat wave.

  “I’m Rachel,” said the girl. “So what about this guy?”

  Belatedly, Joy realized that men wouldn’t leave a forwarding address at a brothel, even if they weren’t criminals. “I want to know where to find him,” she said lamely.

  The girl nodded. “What’s it worth?”

  Joy would have paid any price, but Mma Khotso interrupted, “Ten pula.”

  “Fifty,” said Mma Zarte firmly. “Half for me.”

  “You got the lotion!” said Rachel. Mma Zarte gave her a cuff. “As though it’s any use to me! In my day I didn’t need cream to get a client to screw me! You girls are all spoiled.”

  “It’s agreed,” said Mma Khotso, cutting through the domestic tiff. “Now, what do you know, Rachel?”

  “Maybe he’s at that house that was for rent on Ganzi Street. Number 15, 17, 19. Something like that.”

  “How do you know?” asked Joy, amazed.

  The girl looked sullen. “He didn’t tip me enough. Ten pula! He had a good time even if I did make him wear a condom. I went through his wallet while he was using the toilet. He had the address written on a piece of paper between the money. I left it there after I read it.” She did not say how many of the pula notes she had not left.

  Joy asked what the man had looked like. Her heart sank when she learned he had a heavy beard. Both the men who had attacked her had been clean shaven. But it was still her best chance. She was grateful and gave Rachel a hug. Rachel was touched and volunteered, “There was a second address on the paper. Not near here though. It was in Acacia Street. I’m not sure about the number.”

  “Was it 26 perhaps?”

  “Yeah, that may’ve been it. How’d you know?”

  “Because that’s my address,” said Joy quietly. She paid Mma Zarte the fifty pula, thanked her and Rachel, and the two women left.

  “We must go there at once,” said Joy. This was not at all Mma Khotso’s understanding of the agreement, and she told Joy that the time had come to call Kubu.

  Joy shook her head firmly. “We must get Pleasant out first. Then we’ll call the police.”

  Mma Khotso took a deep breath. “Joy, my darling, how are we going to do that? There are at least three men – the two you met and the one with the beard. They’re sure to have guns. It’s one thing catching them by surprise with a bit of help from Ilia – and that was wonderfully brave of you both – but quite another attacking their fortress. What’ll you do? Walk up to the front door, knock politely, and threaten to practice beginner’s karate on them if they don’t immediately hand over Pleasant?”

  “I’m not a beginner,” Joy said sullenly, but she took the point. She had no resources and no plan. It was a job for the experts.

  “But suppose we’re wrong, and no one’s there? Then I’ll be back under house arrest and cooking for my jailers. We have to be sure. The house isn’t far. Let’s go there carefully and see. Then we can call the police.”

  Mma Khotso was dead against this idea, which she felt could only lead to trouble. But Joy was adamant. If her friend would not join her, she would go alone. Eventually Mma Khotso capitulated, but on the condition that Joy phoned Kubu the moment they arrived at Ganzi Street. So they set off.

  ∨ The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu ∧

  41

  Kubu traced the car to a small local rental agency, which had accepted a fake international driver’s license and a large cash deposit in lieu of a meaningful address. He sent out an all-points bulletin with the description of the car and the license number. This exercise had temporarily taken his mind off Joy, but once the alert was out he felt lost again. What should he try next? Then his cell phone rang.

  “Kubu, it’s Joy.”

  “Joy, where on earth are you? I’ve been worried to death.”

  “Oh, darling, I’m sorry. I couldn’t help myself. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sweetheart, I do,” he lied. “This is all my fault. Just tell me where you are, and I’ll come to fetch you.”

  “I’m with Mma Khotso. We’re in Ganzi Street, near Tlokweng. Kubu, I think they’ve got Pleasant in one of the houses here. It’s a pretty poor area. Not nice at all.”

  Kubu felt his throat close and go dry. He did not ask why Joy thought that, nor how she had got there. Instead he asked if there was a green Hyundai parked in the street.

  Joy looked around until she spotted it. “Yes, Kubu, across the road from us. Its number is B234JRM.”

  “Joy, my darling, listen to me very carefully. That car was used to kidnap Pleasant. Probably the bastards are very close! Stay where you are, but keep out of sight. We’ll be there in ten minutes, and we’ll get Pleasant out and catch these pigs. I’m coming right now.” Kubu was already walking and signaling to Edison. “Call the director!” he shouted. “I know where Pleasant is. And Joy’s there too!”

  ♦

  For Kubu it was a nightmare trip. Every traffic light was red, every lane blocked by the slowest driver in Gaborone. He cursed himself for not bringing a police vehicle with a siren. Soon he emulated the minibus taxis, helping himself to sidewalks and passing on solid lines. From time to time he checked that Joy was still there, terrified something would happen to her before he arrived. At last he was in Ganzi Street, and there was a small, green car parked in front of a run-down house. But there was no sign of the women.

  “Joy, where are you?” he yelled into the phone. They emerged from a narrow service alley. He pulled over, and they clambered in. “You remember my friend Mma Khotso?” said Joy, not forgetting her manners. Kubu nodded, then moved down the street. It was not encouraging. The house was dilapidated, its uncurtained windows watching the street. You could not get close to the house unnoticed.

  “We’ll go back to the café on the main road and meet Mabaku,” he said. “We need a plan.” There was no suggestion that Joy would be excluded from the proceedings. Kubu had learned his lesson.

  ♦

  Mabaku drank foul take-out coffee as he listened to the group. This was an extraordinary situation. They were discussing a delicate police operation with two civilians – women at that – and actually deferring to their opinions. But they had solved the puzzle of Pleas-ant’s location swiftly, and the police would have had little success at Happiness House. The problem was what to do next. Kubu is completely out of it, Mabaku thought sourly. No idea what’s going on.

  He wants to call out the army! Mabaku knew that massive assaults on positions with hostages often led to the death of the hostages as well as their captors. That was out of the question. He held up both hands to stop the debate.

  “This is what we’re going to do,” he said firmly. “We’re going to secure the area and watch the house. Sooner or later they’ll contact Kubu. If we can get two of them out of the house, our chances are much better. They’ll set up a meeting with Kubu somewhere away from here. My guess is that the one with the beard, who can’t keep his pants on, is the hired help and not smart. Brothel down the road for heaven’s sake!” He directed a smile at Mma Khotso.

  “Yes, but they won’t leave Pleasant unguarded. How do we get to her?” Joy was still desperately concerned for her sister.

  “I’m betting they’ll leave Beardy for that. And we know what he likes. This is a job for you, Mma Khotso. Do you think you could get one of our younger policewomen
looking like one of the ladies up the road?”

  Mma Khotso smiled. “Get me back to African Mall and tell her to meet me there.”

  ♦

  Mma Khotso had a cup of rooibos while she caught up at the shop. No sales, again. No one seemed to sell anything when she was not there.

  “Must we all end up on the street?” she berated the unfortunate Minnie. “Did you offer the customers fresh tea? And biscuits? Or did you just try to sell them things they didn’t want?” Minnie looked at the large tea leaves floating in her cup. Mma Khotso snorted. “I can tell your fortune without those!” she said sarcastically. But then she spotted a well-dressed lady examining an elegant Italian rain jacket made in China. She bustled over.

  “They’re really the height of fashion,” she told the customer. “But it never rains here, so what’s the point? Although it does seem a bit threatening this afternoon. And they are rather pricey. Most people can’t afford them, although I do have one myself, of course. Why not have a cup of tea, rather? We’ve just made a fresh pot.” But the lady was in a hurry, so she bought the jacket and left.

  The next woman who entered was conservatively dressed, in a gray suit. She was in her early thirties, short with curves in the right places, and a face of well-defined features. She looked lost. Mma Khotso realized immediately that Mabaku had sent her.

  “I’m Sergeant Amy Seto,” the woman told her.

  “Come, my dear, we’ll find you some clothes. Then we’ll come back and do some makeup. Yours is too sophisticated, I’m afraid.” She shouted back at her assistant, “Minnie! I’m going out. Try to sell something while I’m away. A jar of Love Lotion at least! Find some man and show them how it works!” Everyone laughed.

  Mma Khotso took Amy to a shop that sold clothing for teenage girls and selected a miniskirt that would need binoculars to see the knees. She also bought hip-long black stockings and shoes with suicide heels. Amy had wonderfully shaped legs, and she was quite taken with the effect. She wondered what her boyfriend would think.

  Mma Khotso looked at Amy critically. “That blouse is hopeless. She needs a tank top,” she told the shop assistant.

  “Does Madam take a medium or a large?” asked the confused girl.

  “A small,” replied Mma Khotso firmly.

  The top was so tight that all three were a little shocked by the effect. But Mma Khotso was still dissatisfied. “Come here, my darling.” She reached her hands into Amy’s bosom and carefully slipped her bra cups down so that the breasts were lifted, and the freed nipples stood out clearly. “Perfect!” she said. The shop girl was speechless, but accepted Amy’s money and gave her change. Amy then asked for a cash slip, making the poor girl blush by telling her it was a business expense. Amy did a few turns in front of the mirror, a little smile on her face. It would be fun to dress like this for her man. In private, of course. Mma Khotso smiled too, and decided they would be friends.

  “Come, my dear,” she said. “We need to spoil the excellent way you’ve applied your makeup.”

  ♦

  The call came at about 5:00 a.m. “Superintendent Bengu? It’s time to trade. Now we have something you want.”

  Kubu knew he must not be too eager. “My sister-in-law? Come on! You must do better than that.”

  There was a moment of tense silence. “Look, Bengu, I don’t want to play silly games. But I’ll add a bonus to the deal. If it all goes smoothly, no hitches, I won’t kill your wife. And I was looking forward to that since she was so uncooperative.”

  Kubu folded at once. “I’ll give you the briefcase.”

  “The briefcase and the tote.”

  “I only have the briefcase.”

  “What’s in it?”

  Kubu bluffed. “Look, you know perfectly well what I’ve got. I’ll give it to you. You give me Pleasant and leave us alone. That’s the end of it.”

  There was silence for a long heartbeat, then the voice said, “Take it to the Gaborone Sun at exactly eight this evening. When you turn into the parking lot, there’s a row of carports on your right. Drive to the last one. There’s a dumpster there. Put the briefcase in it. Don’t stop. Drive straight on. And no stakeouts or other nonsense. It’ll be very easy to get to your wife, Kubu. At her sister’s funeral, for example.” Kubu wanted to insist on speaking to Pleasant, but the line went dead. It struck him that they would have to catch all the members of this gang if his family was ever to be safe again.

  ♦

  At 7:30 p.m., two men came out of the house, climbed into the bottle-green Hyundai, and drove off. It was clear they were heading for the Sun. Fifteen minutes later Amy hammered on the door of number 17 Ganzi Street, the sad house with peeling paint. The man who answered was broad, tall, and bearded, matching Rachel’s description. His eyes fixed on Amy’s protruding breasts and obvious nipples. “What the hell do you want?”

  “Your friends sent me. They’re at Happiness House. They said you couldn’t leave here. But I do house calls.” She smiled and rubbed her leg against his.

  “Bastards! They were supposed to be going to meet someone! Someone at Happiness House it turns out.” He shook his head. “Look, darling, you’re lovely but I’m busy. Some other time, eh?”

  Amy did not have much time. She pulled down one side of the top and let Beardy have a good look. “Come on, you can’t be that busy. A quickie. Whatever you want. It’s paid for already.” She gave him an appraising look. “Not that you’d have to pay anyway, lover-boy.” She considered a wink but did not want to overplay her hand.

  He hesitated. “All right. Come on then.”

  “Anyone else here, darling? I’m shy, you know.”

  He laughed. “No just us. Let’s go to the bedroom.”

  Amy followed him to the bedroom, alert for the unexpected. He pulled off his shirt, took a heavy automatic out of his pocket, and put it on top of the wardrobe out of her reach. Then he dropped his pants and pulled off his shoes. He was down to slightly grayed briefs. What was happening inside them made it clear that Love Lotion would not be required.

  “Get your dress off,” he said. Obviously foreplay was not his strong suit. Instead he found himself looking at a small caliber pistol, which had a deflating effect on his ego, as well as the contents of the briefs.

  “What the fuck?” He started to raise his hands in pretended surrender, and then with a roar he rushed the diminutive policewoman. With clinical precision, she shot him in the fleshy part of each thigh.

  ♦

  When he heard the gunshots, Kubu was out of the car and moving toward the house faster than his colleagues would have believed possible. But the Special Support Group team in camouflage clothing and flak jackets was already in the building. Following training that they had seldom needed, they searched the house rapidly, securing it. Beardy received no quarter; he was handcuffed before anyone showed interest in his wounds. Then the paramedic checked that he was not bleeding to death from a severed artery. Amy observed his grimaces and heard his bellows of pain with satisfaction. He would not be kidnapping a policeman’s family again in a hurry.

  With unerring instinct, Kubu headed to the back of the house. “Pleasant!” he yelled. “It’s Kubu! We’re in control. Where are you?” The response came from behind the door of a room to the right.

  Pleasant, showing her good sense, shouted, “I’m here! I’m alone! I’m all right!”

  “Break it down,” Kubu instructed one of the uniformed men, who tried a powerful kick. The door shuddered but held, the only solid item in the rickety house. The man tried again with similar results.

  Kubu pushed the man aside. “I’ll do it myself.”

  Giving himself a short run and summoning value from every calorie he had ever enjoyed, he threw his bulk against the door. The lock ripped out, and he landed in a heap. But moments later he was holding Pleasant in his arms and enjoying the warm feeling of rescuing the damsel in distress. The next morning he would be enjoying the warm feeling of a variety of bruises and abrasion
s, but that was tomorrow.

  Kubu found Joy waiting impatiently with Mabaku in the street. She rushed to Pleasant and hugged her. Both started to cry.

  “I told her to stay in the car but she wouldn’t listen. For that matter I told you to stay in the car,” the director commented. “I’ve radioed Edison at the Sun. He knows we have Pleasant and have secured the house. He’ll pick up the Hyundai as soon as it appears. We’ve got the bastards, Kubu!” His enthusiastic, triumphal punch hit Kubu on his door-bashing shoulder. Mabaku did not notice the wince. A flash of white teeth lit up his face. “They’re about to become guests at the president’s pleasure. And for a very long time!”

  ∨ The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu ∧

  42

  Shortly after 9:00 p.m., a bottle-green Hyundai slunk into the parking lot of the Gaborone Sun. Well-heeled patrons were leaving, those who had come for dinner or drinks with business colleagues. The night was still young for the blackjack and roulette enthusiasts. This was where Botswana’s success was most ostentatiously evident: designer clothes, designer cars, designer gambling losses. The Hyundai made its way through the revelers to the last carport. The driver pulled over, double parking in front of the dumpster that occupied the last space. He was to wait one minute, phone a cell phone number, walk casually to the dumpster, and describe it. Next he was to light a cigarette, smoke it, and throw the stub into the bin.

  It did not take that long. The moment he got out of the car, he found himself surrounded by police holding a variety of intimidating weapons. The driver, scared witless, put up no resistance. The cell phone was knocked out of his hand.

  By the time Edison arrived from the car where he had been waiting, the suspect was secured and the area cordoned off. Edison looked at the scrawny youth with surprise rapidly deteriorating to dismay.

  “Where are the others?” he asked in Setswana. He grabbed the youth by his T–shirt and yelled, “Where are the others? Tell me!”