Detective Kubu 02; The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu

by Michael Stanley

  So Gomwe was not a murderer, or at least not the murderer of William Boardman. He had been safely asleep at the Nata hotel on the night of the murder. But he was not an innocent either; his false-bottomed briefcase had turned out to contain traces of heroin. If he was buying, the delivery hadn’t been made, or the drugs had been stolen; if selling, where was the money?

  Tatwa was sure he was at least half right; Gomwe was involved in a drug operation that spanned Jackalberry Camp and Elephant Valley Lodge. The key lay in Gomwe’s murder, and was held by his murderer.

  The autopsy had been inconclusive. Indeed, Gomwe’s chest had been crushed and ribs snapped by heavy pressure. It could be an elephant, or it could be the wheel of a vehicle as Kubu had suggested. Indeed, the neck was snapped and cheek crushed by a vicious blow. It could be a raging trunk, or it could be a blunt instrument. But the forensic evidence had been more incisive. The murder scene contained little evidence, but that was to the point. There was too little blood, which on its own was not compelling; when related to the lack of the victim’s footprints into the area, it was convincing. Tatwa wondered why a bush-wise guide, coming on the death scene undisturbed, had been unable to make these deductions and had carelessly moved the body and trampled the area destroying evidence. There might be an obvious answer.

  Parrots, he thought. Allison’s parrots. She said she had shown them to the guide; the guide said she had just described them. One of them was lying, perhaps both.

  There was another interesting item in the forensics report. The victim’s clothing contained no traces of elephant skin or hair, but there were particles of a canvas material. Were they from the tarpaulin Douglas had used to transport the body, or had the body been wrapped to prevent tire marks on the clothes?

  On a whim he phoned Gomwe’s record company in Johannesburg again.

  It was before 9:00 a.m., but the branch manager was already at his desk.

  “Detective Mooka? We’re still all in shock. Gomwe was one of our best people. Great guy. We’re really going to miss him, professionally and personally. Do you have more questions?”

  “Just some background information. Who knew Mr. Gomwe best at a personal level? Socialized with him and so on.”

  “Well, he didn’t have really close friends at work. But he and I were quite friendly. Both single, I guess, and interested in football.”

  “Did you ever jog together? Anything like that?”

  The manager laughed. “Hardly. Boy said the best exercise took place in bed. Sex was his idea of heavy breathing.”

  “You sure he didn’t jog or go to the gym or do other exercise?”

  “Well, pretty sure. He’d hardly keep it a secret. Most men like to boast about their fitness. He certainly had no reticence about his bed workouts!”

  “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”

  “I have?”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  Tatwa said good-bye and hung up. Parrots, he thought. Why did a man who did not like exercise go for a jog instead of watching birds with his girlfriend?

  Tatwa decided he needed another interview with Allison Levine. He also wanted to know more about what was in her luggage. But when he phoned the lodge he was told she had left at first light. She was driving, on her way home to South Africa. Of course, he thought, she was always scheduled to leave this morning. He tried without success to reach Kubu. He had better speak to the director.

  ♦

  Mabaku had no hesitation. “Pick her up in Francistown. She can’t be further than that yet. Have them go over every nook and cranny of her car. I think we’ve got a decent chance she’s carrying some sort of contraband.”

  “What if she objects?”

  “Well, she wants to leave Botswana and enter South Africa, right? If she won’t let us search her car, I’ll get customs to take it apart rivet by rivet. I’ve got a hunch on this one, Tatwa. We’ve got them! I want to hear Beardy start singing when we introduce him to Miss Levine!”

  Tatwa wondered if it could be that easy. But armed with Maba-ku’s instructions, he phoned the police in Francistown and asked them to set up a roadblock on the main road from the north. He gave them a description of the girl and, more helpfully, the details of her four-by-four vehicle, which he had obtained from the lodge. Unlike most guests, she had driven to the lodge herself.

  Well, if she was carrying contraband, she would need her own vehicle, wouldn’t she? thought Tatwa.

  ∨ The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu ∧

  55

  The Bulawayo central police station brooded over Leopold Takawira Avenue, an attractive colonial building spoiled by heavy security mesh. Kubu parked his car in the parallel parking area in the middle of the wide road and made his way inside. Strange, he thought. Why do I feel uncomfortable in a police station? He checked in with the duty officer and was told that Superintendent Pede was at the CID offices, down the street at the Central African Building Society building. Five minutes later Kubu was ushered into the superintendent’s office. Pede was about the same age as Kubu, and about the same height, but much slimmer – in fact quite thin. That, thought Kubu, at least suggests he’s honest.

  Pede’s greeting was polite but cool. “How can I help you, Assistant Superintendent? Did you just arrive this morning?”

  Kubu said he had arrived the previous evening and spent the night at the Holiday Inn. Pede nodded slowly, giving Kubu the impression that he was doubtful. I’d make a dreadful criminal, Kubu thought, embarrassed by his white lie. Good thing I’m a policeman.

  “Would you like some tea?”

  “That would be very nice.”

  They went down the corridor to a tea urn dispensing a well-stewed brew. After that, the ice began to thaw.

  “Director Mabaku will have told you that I’m working on the murder case at a camp on the Linyanti. Two men were murdered. A South African policeman by the name of Sipho Langa and an ex-Zimbabwean – now resident in Botswana – called Goodluck Tinubu.”

  Pede nodded. “And the main suspect is Peter Jabulani, going under the false name of Ishmael Zondo. It seems pretty cut and dried. Problem is that you can’t find him. Or so you say.”

  Kubu bristled. “And you can’t find him. Or so you say.” Pede said nothing.

  Kubu sighed. “Look, I think we’re on the same side here. Why don’t you trust us?”

  Pede gave him a hard look. “Perhaps if your government would mind its own business and not always side with the British, you’d find us more friendly.”

  “Superintendent Pede, what our governments think of each other has little to do with our jobs as policemen. I’m asking for your help as a colleague to apprehend a vicious group of thugs and murderers.”

  “What do you want to know?” Pede sounded a little less hostile.

  “How come you have Tinubu recorded as deceased?”

  “At the time of the war to overthrow the Smith regime, lots of things happened that weren’t properly investigated or reported. There was a raid on a farm. The Smith forces responded quickly and managed to catch up with the raiders. They killed three or four. It was the middle of the night. Who the hell knew what was going on? They didn’t bother with the bodies. Had other things to do. But they brought back trophies, including a wallet belonging to George Tinubu. Had his fingerprints on it, too. They were on record because he’d been held by the regime’s police.

  “He was a teacher and had led a teacher protest when they closed several schools to force the villagers into so-called protected townships. He was held under the security laws for three months. I guess he wasn’t satisfied with peaceful protest after that.” Pede rubbed his mustache. “People forget what this country went through. We had to fight for our freedom. Didn’t get it on a platter with a new national anthem and a flag-raising ceremony like some countries. We’ll go on fighting if we have to. Whatever anyone says.”

  “I guess so,” Kubu said blandly. “So that was it? They declared him dead on the basis of a wallet?”


  Pede shrugged. “They said they took the wallet off a dead body. It’s all in here.” He handed Kubu a folder. “I made you copies of all the documents, prints, and so on.”

  Kubu thanked him, realizing that although the two of them did not see eye to eye, he was getting more help from Pede than he had from Notu.

  “Is it possible that the wallet was just on the ground and the soldier lied about taking it off a body? Or that someone else was carrying it for Tinubu or even had stolen it from him?”

  Pede shrugged again. “It’s pretty well certain something like that happened, isn’t it? It was thirty years ago. Who knows? I suppose you could try to find Smith’s soldier boys. But they were guys from the Selous Scouts. They killed a lot of people in hot and cold blood. I don’t think they’d remember, or want to talk about it if they did.”

  “You’re probably right about that.” Kubu hesitated. “What can you tell me about Zondo? Where does he fit into all this?”

  “We’ve got a detailed file on him, too. I can give you some stuff. Background check, where he was born, fingerprints, that sort of thing. We’ve got information about his other activities, as well. But I can’t give you that. He’s a dissident. Probably working to overthrow the government. As I said, we’re willing to fight against people who want to take us backwards.”

  Kubu did not want to pursue this line, especially after the earlier tension. “I understand that. It’s an internal matter. But what was he doing in Botswana? We now think that there may have been an exchange of drugs and money at the camp. Was he suspected of involvement in anything like that? Did he have any sort of record of smuggling or drug running?”

  Pede had tensed, clearly interested in this theory. “Did you find money? Or drugs?”

  Kubu shook his head. “It’s more complicated than that. There was an issue involving a briefcase. Tinubu obtained one at a pickup in South Africa. Zondo arrived with a tote. After the murders, Zondo apparently left with his tote, but the briefcase, which was still in Tinubu’s tent, was completely empty.”

  “These people need money to buy support. It’s possible they were just picking up foreign currency. Present from the British, probably, who’ll do anything to undermine this country. Maybe it was a lot of money. Maybe Zondo knew we were after him and decided it was enough to set himself up somewhere else.”

  “But where? He gets picked up by a plane we can’t trace – no flight plan from Zimbabwe according to your people – and vanishes. To Zambia? Namibia? Angola? They can’t find him either.”

  “Maybe it was really a lot of money,” said Pede sarcastically.

  Kubu nodded, defeated by the negativity. And it was true. With enough money anyone could buy safety and protection in Africa. In most parts of Africa, he corrected himself.

  “Less than a week later the owners of the camp were attacked by two men. They also seemed to be looking for Zondo and for the briefcase. We think they also came in from Zimbabwe.”

  “Yes, I read the report. A white man calling himself Madrid and a black man, using the name Johannes. We have no record of either of them entering or leaving this country. Why do you think they came from Zimbabwe?”

  Kubu ignored the question. “I see you’ve followed the reports carefully. Thank you. But there’s more that you don’t know. We also asked for information on two other men we believe are in the same gang. We have one of them in custody. He has a thick black beard; we called him Beardy. But your people identified him from his fingerprints. His name is John Khumalo.”

  This seemed to mean nothing to Pede. “What did this lot do?”

  “They tried to kidnap my wife and did kidnap my sister-in-law. The aim was to blackmail me.” Kubu’s voice rang with the anger he still felt. At once Kubu sensed that Pede was on his side. “Bastards! Attack a policeman’s family? That’s outrageous! You make this Khumalo talk. Then we might get some answers to this mess. Will you keep me informed? And we’ll help any way we can. I swear it.”

  Kubu nodded. “I really appreciate that.” He rose to go, picking up the thin file on Zondo and the even thinner one on Tinubu.

  “You’ve been very helpful, Superintendent. Thank you.” Pede nodded, and they shook hands formally. As Kubu turned away, Pede called after him, “Tell me Superintendent Bengu, where did you spend yesterday morning?”

  Kubu looked back. “In Francistown, with my brother-in-law,” he said smoothly.

  “Of course,” said Pede as though he had known this all along.

  ∨ The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu ∧

  56

  Allison estimated that she would be in Francistown by midday. It was too far to drive to Gaborone in one day, but she wanted to be out of Botswana and in South Africa that night. And she had to make the drop-off the following evening.

  She was upset about Gomwe’s death. She had been told they were only going to persuade him not to muscle in on the drug trade at Elephant Valley, to warn him off. A broken arm or some other relatively minor but painful injuries perhaps, but nothing about killing him. Now she was worried about the involvement of the police. They were obviously suspicious, not buying the rogue elephant story. That meant she could become implicated. The tall detective had been polite and had never hinted that she might be involved. Surely he would not have let her leave if he thought otherwise?

  She decided to stop in Francistown for fuel and a snack, and then take a shortcut into South Africa on a dirt road from Palapye.

  She wanted to be out of Botswana by nightfall. After this, someone else can play courier to Kasane, she thought. I’ve had enough.

  Just outside Francistown she came to a police roadblock. She wasn’t worried, such checkpoints were common in Botswana. But when the policemen insisted that she accompany them to the police station in Francistown, she became very concerned. Especially when she saw the roadblock being dismantled behind them.

  ∨ The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu ∧

  Part Six

  NO ROAD THROUGH

  But there was no road through the woods.

  —RUDYARD KIPLING, ‘THE WAY THROUGH THE WOODS’

  ∨ The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu ∧

  57

  Kubu’s emotions were in turmoil during his drive back to Francis-town from Bulawayo. Part of him wanted to believe that Goodluck was the gentle man so many people loved, who was dedicated to preparing the next generation for a better future. On the other hand, it seemed that Goodluck had been involved in something illegal. But what? Buying drugs from Zimbabwe? Kubu couldn’t imagine a person so dedicated to young children would have anything to do with drugs. Transporting money? That was a possibility. Kubu could imagine Goodluck, who had suffered so much for freedom, taking up the reins to restore it. But who in South Africa had provided the money? Where did it come from? Was it a donation or an exchange? And if an exchange, for what? What did Zimbabwe have to offer in return for money? Gold? Platinum? But surely that was difficult to find and sell without drawing attention. And what was the money for?

  Kubu also reflected on the bravery and quiet dignity of Paulus Mbedi and on the tribulations of Zimbabweans, many of whom had lost family members in the struggle for freedom and were now losing family members to the government they had put in power. People are no damned good, he thought, his anger bubbling up again.

  He was so wrapped up in his musings that he did not even notice the long lines and delays at the border post; he dealt with them on autopilot. Nor was he concerned by the unusual search of his car by the Zimbabwe customs official, who was polite but surly. It only later dawned on him that it might be that his police colleague in Bu-lawayo didn’t trust him. And how much could he trust them to help him find Zondo?

  He was stymied by the Jackalberry murders. Now there were related murders in Maun and near Kasane. Who would be next? Who was responsible? Surely not Zondo acting alone? And where was damned Zondo anyway?

  By the time he reached Sampson’s home, Kubu was depressed and morose.
He opened the front door longing for Joy’s consolation.

  “Hello! I’m back,” he shouted. “Come and get me!”

  Silence. No bark from Ilia. Nothing.

  A chill gripped Kubu. Was it possible that after all the kidnappers had not given up? Could they have been followed from Gaborone? Were Joy and Pleasant all right? He scratched around the kitchen looking for a note or any sign of a struggle. Nothing. Then he noticed a piece of paper on the dining room table in Joy’s handwriting. “Gone for a walk. Don’t worry.” But he did worry. The kidnappers had not been apprehended.

  At that moment, his cell phone played its operatic summons.

  “Yes?” Kubu’s abruptness reflected his anxiety.

  “Assistant Superintendent Bengu?”

  “Yes. Who’s this?” Kubu snapped, not recognizing the voice.

  “This is Constable Morake of the Francistown police.”

  Kubu’s stomach contracted. “Yes?”

  “I’m calling because we have someone in custody here connected to the murder in Kasane. Picked her up on her way to South Africa. Tatwa – Detective Mooka – asked me to call you. He said you’d want to speak to her yourself.”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  Quickly he phoned Joy’s cell phone number. She answered after a few rings. “Kubu! Are you back?”

  “Yes, my darling, where are you? I hope you’re not alone out there.”

  “Actually we’re just walking up to the house.”

  He rushed to the front door and saw the two women and Ilia walking down the dusty street. A man, probably a plainclothes officer, followed them a discreet distance behind.

  “Joy, Pleasant, I’m so pleased to find you safe. I was very concerned.” He hugged Joy, giving her an emotional kiss, and put his arm around Pleasant. Feeling ignored, Ilia jumped up and down, pawing Kubu’s trousers. “I missed you too, Ilia!” he said, ruffling her ears.