Detective Kubu 02; The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu

by Michael Stanley

  “How did they get off the island?”

  “By taking one of the other mokoros.”

  “Did Solomon notice if there was an extra mokoro at the landing when he got to the camp?”

  Tatwa shook his head. “He couldn’t remember.”

  “What about Zondo? He had the money by then. He and Goodluck must have done the swap that night, because he’d arranged to leave early the next morning.”

  Tatwa shrugged. “Maybe not. Maybe he discovered Goodluck’s body, realized it was too late, and sat it out till morning.”

  Kubu shook his head. “Why leave the swap to the early hours? No one was watching them. Right after dinner would be fine.”

  “Well, maybe they did do the swap. Maybe the murderers hit Tinubu, realized that the money was gone, and settled for the drugs.”

  “If they went to the trouble of coming out here, risking a mokoro ride through the hippos and crocs, and murdering two people, they knew exactly what was going on. They wouldn’t have left Zondo sleeping peacefully with a briefcase full of U.S. dollars.”

  “Maybe they stole the money and left Zondo alive?” Tatwa was grasping at straws.

  Kubu pouted. “Then Zondo would have run straight to Madrid who wouldn’t have wasted his time on Dupie and Salome and me. He’d be after the murderers. Anyway, it makes no sense. Why stop at one more murder? Why not just kill Zondo too?”

  They resumed walking. Tatwa was silent as he scanned Kubu’s argument for leaks, but he couldn’t find any damp cracks. It was Kubu who spotted another scenario. Again he stopped in the path, grabbing Tatwa’s arm.

  “Here’s a thought. Suppose they were Zondo’s accomplices? He didn’t know how things would work out. He didn’t know if Tinubu would come alone. Perhaps he mistook Langa for Tinubu’s bodyguard. If you were going to pull off a million-dollar heist, wouldn’t it make sense to have backup? They could have set it all up. The others drive from Ngoma, park in the bush. In the middle of the night, they steal a mokoro, pole over to the island, join Zondo, and hit Tinubu and Langa. They make Tinubu’s murder look like a revenge killing. Probably that’s Zondo’s idea, knowing that at least Dupie would fall for it. Then the accomplices take the money and the drugs and head back to their vehicle on the mainland. Zondo has a good night’s sleep, wakes early, packs, and Dupie takes him to the airstrip. He insists on being left there, no point in Dupie waiting for the plane. Especially since there isn’t one. The accomplices pick him up in their vehicle. He discards his signature hat and coat, selects another passport, and they all head for the nearest appropriate border post – probably at Ngoma. By the time we’re in the picture, they’re far away. Zondo looks different, his passport is different, and he’s driving in a vehicle he isn’t supposed to have. Tatwa, that could be it!”

  Tatwa stood in the path. The tree frogs were getting excited; the end of summer was offering them their last mating chance. No leaks appeared to Tatwa in Kubu’s current thesis either. “Then we were wrong to come here,” he said. “The answers aren’t here after all.”

  Kubu started walking again. “Perhaps. It’s just an idea to explain the missing mokoro. I’m not convinced. There must be other possible explanations.”

  When they reached the tents close to the central area, they could see Dupie at the water’s edge, sinking into the river sand on a camp chair and cuddling his Lee-Enfield .303.

  “Did you check with Moremi about the hat?” Kubu asked softly.

  Tatwa nodded. “I spoke to him before dinner. It’s what we thought. That hat was Zondo’s trademark. Like my cap. He wouldn’t have discarded it for a disguise.”

  “No, he wouldn’t,” said Kubu. Suddenly he stopped again and turned to Tatwa. “I’m not sure if someone came over from the mainland or not, Tatwa. But the mokoro is important. We just have to work out exactly why.”

  There was a sudden thrashing in the water and Tatwa jumped back. “Was that a hippo?”

  Kubu shook his head. He knew something about hippos. “Crocodile,” he said, and walked on to their tent.

  ∨ The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu ∧

  66

  Kubu slept lightly and was an early riser. His subconscious continued to process, and he was alert for any sound of a tent opening. At 4:30 a.m. it was still dark, but he was wide awake. He decided to relieve Tatwa; he felt guilty about his unfair allocation of watching duties in any case.

  He found Tatwa at the lookout, wrapped in a heavy coat, binoculars around his neck, and a police-issue pistol next to him on the bench. He was awake and alert, and scanning with a flashlight. He had heard Kubu lumbering up the path.

  “Hello, Kubu. You’re early. My watch only ends in an hour.”

  Kubu shrugged. “I’m awake. Go and get a few hours sleep before the day starts. Could be an interesting one.”

  Tatwa hesitated, though he was tired. “Shall I keep you company?”

  “No, get some rest. I want to think, anyway.”

  Tatwa handed over the gun and the binoculars and headed toward the tent.

  Kubu settled himself and looked around. It was no longer really dark. There was a mauve line of clouds in the east, a false dawn heralding the true one. He could already just make out the river. And the birds were active; the bush was alive with a variety of calls: piping robins, burbling bush-shrikes, raucous go-away-birds. He tried to compete with bars of the ‘Bird Catcher’s Aria’ from Mozart’s The Magic Flute, but gave up, chuckling. By then the true dawn was turning the clouds into a palette of reds, magentas, and oranges. A disc of fire started to rise from the river, spreading color over the water. God does this every day, Kubu thought. Even if there is no one here to see. He sat for some time watching the sky, river, and bush change around him, listening to the birdcalls, hearing the harsh and quarrelsome but somehow appropriate barks of the baboons. Hippos grunted on their way back to the water after a night’s feeding.

  He found himself humming Moremi’s melody – the one whose name he couldn’t remember. When it was finished, he thought about the mokoro. Who had brought it over to the camp? How had he, or they, got back to the mainland? The theory that had brought him and Tatwa to the camp with three armed constables did not allow for a mysterious accomplice from the mainland. Or did it?

  Kubu’s subconscious demanded attention. The piece of the jigsaw puzzle, Kubu, it seemed to say. It doesn’t fit because you’re holding it the wrong way up. Try turning it around. Kubu did, and the piece fit perfectly. Not only was the mokoro right to be at the camp, it had to be at the camp! Kubu jumped up. That was why William Boardman had been murdered! Now he thought he knew how that had been organized, too. I need a map, he thought. Perhaps Tatwa knows? He almost set off to wake the tall detective, but sighed and settled himself on the bench again. There were loose ends to be thought through and tied off. He needed to work through all the events of the last few weeks. How would he prove his theory? And, if he was right, where were the money and the drugs? He was distracted by the grumbling of his stomach. It did not approve of the idea of an early morning without breakfast.

  Then he heard someone coming along the path from the camp, and he picked up the gun. But it was Tatwa who emerged from the bush, carrying two mugs of tea. A most welcome sight. Even more so when, having settled the tea, he fished a handful of shortbread biscuits from his pocket and gave them to Kubu.

  “Tatwa,” Kubu exclaimed. “What an excellent thought! Couldn’t you sleep?”

  Tatwa shook his head. “I want to get this resolved, Kubu. My first big case. We’re no further than we were the last time we were here. We just have two more murders, that’s all.”

  Kubu shook his head. “I think you’re wrong about that. I think we’re much further along. How far is it from here to Maun? Do you know? In hours?”

  Tatwa extracted a biscuit from his other pocket and started to gnaw. “It’s a long way. Through the Savuti Game Reserve. Really rough tracks. The best idea would be to take the cut-line road down the firebreak bord
er of the national park. But you’d need a four-wheel drive to get through the sand. Tough going. Why do you want to know?”

  “How long do you think it would take?”

  Tatwa shrugged. “Maybe Dupie’s done it and could tell us. I’d say six to eight hours depending on the conditions.”

  “And Maun to Kasane? On the main roads?”

  “Oh, that’s just over six hundred kilometers of paved road. Straight as an arrow. You can do that in six hours, less if you push.”

  “He must’ve been dog tired after all that,” Kubu commented.

  “Who?” asked Tatwa, puzzled.

  Kubu told him.

  ∨ The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu ∧

  67

  After breakfast, Kubu found an opportunity to talk to Salome alone. Dupie was patrolling the island; he clearly thought the police were taking the impending arrival of Madrid too casually. At Kubu’s suggestion, Tatwa had accompanied him.

  Kubu decided a direct approach was best. “Ms. McGlashan, you recognized Goodluck Tinubu when he arrived, didn’t you?”

  Salome looked up sharply. “I’ve already told you that I did not.”

  “But, you see, the literary ladies – as my boss calls them – the Munro sisters – linked the two of you. To a farmhouse. Near Bula-wayo.”

  Salome looked down at her cup of after-breakfast coffee. “What do you know about that?”

  “Only what Dupie mentioned yesterday.”

  “It’s got nothing to do with what happened here.”

  “Please, Ms. McGlashan, I have to have all the pieces of the puzzle. I’m sure you’re right. It has nothing to do with the murders. But let me decide for myself.”

  She looked up from her coffee. “All right, Superintendent. I was fourteen. Rhodesia was trying to defend itself from the world’s ostracism and Britain’s anger. It was a nasty, dirty, civil war. Dupie talks about the noble Scouts. They butchered terrorists and anyone they thought was a terrorist. The noble president of Zimbabwe talks about the freedom fighters. They butchered anyone they could get their hands on. He dishes out land to ‘veterans’ who weren’t even born at the time of the war. The war was vicious, bitter. No holds barred. None.” Kubu nodded agreement, and waited.

  “My family had a farm about thirty miles outside Bulawayo. My father was a really good man. Good to his workers, good with the land. He loved me and my brother. And he loved my mother. You know, we felt safe! Hard to believe. We heard the stories, but it couldn’t happen to us, could it? My father was a sympathizer. He voted against Smith.” She paused, looking at the detective. “You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you? It didn’t matter what side you were on, you see. My father was in town when they attacked the farm. They took us by surprise. They murdered and mutilated my brother, maybe the other way around, God help him. In front of me and my mother. He was twelve. Twelve! Then they raped and killed my mother in front of me, and then they started on me. Do you think the details are important to your case, Superintendent?”

  “Only one. Why didn’t they kill you?” Kubu felt the bitterness of his question and of her response.

  “Yes, why indeed? They thought the soldiers were coming. One of them sounded the alarm. And they left. I lay alone, naked, bleeding, for what seemed like hours. That’s how they found me. That was almost the worst part, but not really.”

  “Was one of them Tinubu?”

  She looked past him, unwilling to meet his eyes. Unwilling to meet anyone’s eyes. There was a long silence between them.

  “Was one of them Tinubu?”

  “Yes, I think so, perhaps. It was thirty years ago.”

  “He was the one who called them off, wasn’t he?”

  “I don’t know what you mean. The leader was raping me. He had first go, you see, since I was a virgin. I understood what they were saying because I spoke the language. There was a line of them, waiting their turns. Like at a bus stop, you know? Laughing and jeering.” She hunched as though protecting herself. “One guy was telling them to let me be. I was a child. I remember what he said. ‘The children are our future.’ Can you beat that? While they’re raping me? The leader told him to get out and keep watch if he didn’t want his turn. A few minutes later he rushed in. Said he’d seen lights. The soldiers were coming. The leader didn’t believe him, but he couldn’t take the risk. He said if it were a lie, this man would die. They left me there.”

  “So this man saved your life?”

  “If you like. In the sense that someone who shoots at you and misses saves your life.”

  “Was this man Goodluck Tinubu?”

  Salome started to cry. Silent tears traced her cheeks. Kubu offered her a napkin, but she pushed it away, and got to her feet and walked off. Earlier, Kubu thought, she seemed to be a self-controlled adult. But inside she was still not much older than fourteen.

  ♦

  Dupie and Tatwa found him sitting alone at the table ten minutes later. They pulled up chairs.

  “All clear,” said Dupie, satisfied. “Not a trace of the bastards. You’ve heard from the guys on the mainland?”

  Kubu ignored that. “Salome told you, didn’t she? That Tinubu was one of the terrorists who attacked her family’s farmhouse?”

  Dupie folded his arms, resting them comfortably on his ample belly. “Is that what she said?”

  “I’m asking you.”

  “She thought so. Hell, it was thirty years ago. I told her she was imagining it. Just ghosts from the past. I don’t believe in ghosts. And we got the bastards. All of them. No prisoners.” He pulled his hand across his throat.

  “Did you check?”

  “Check what? The guy was a salesman from Gaborone. Passport was clean. Sure, he was born in Zimbabwe. Does that make him a terrorist?”

  “Did you search his tent?”

  “Don’t be stupid. What for? Souvenirs from a thirty-year-old mass murder? I told her she was confusing Tinubu with someone who might’ve looked a bit like him. Told her to pull herself together. She accepted that, kept to herself for the rest of the day. But she was okay.”

  Kubu stared at Dupie. “Here’s what I think,” he said. “I think she did recognize Tinubu, and what’s more she was right. I think she got someone here to help her kill him. She couldn’t do it alone. Maybe that was you, maybe Enoch, maybe Moremi, maybe someone from the mainland. I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.” He got up and headed to his tent without another word.

  ♦

  Dupie looked shocked. “He’s gone bananas! What’s he on about? Salome murdering people? It’s ridiculous! We all know Zondo did it. You’re looking for a scapegoat since you let him get away scot-free! You better talk some sense into him.” His large hand grabbed Tatwa’s arm across the table.

  Tatwa extricated himself. “If she’s innocent, there’s nothing to worry about. The assistant superintendent must have evidence for his suspicions. If you know anything, you should tell us. It may help her.”

  For once Dupie was at a loss for words. Then he said, “You’ve seen her. She couldn’t murder anyone. She’s gentle.”

  “What about someone who raped her and – it seems – got away with it. Vengeance is powerful motivation.”

  Dupie shook his head. “Stupid ghosts. Her and her ghosts. Think it’s the first time? She’s always seeing ghosts. Always seeing ghosts.” He pushed back his chair and stood up. “Bloody ghosts.” Then he walked off in search of Salome. Tatwa got up too. He wanted to find Enoch.

  ♦

  Tatwa found him at the makeshift dock. He was working on the boat’s outboard motor. He had the casing off and was tinkering with the innards.

  “Problem with the motor?”

  Enoch nodded. “Not starting well. Dupie said we must be sure it would be ready in case we have to chase those bastards.”

  Tatwa nodded, without comment.

  “Think the fuel filter’s dirty. I’m just flushing it.” He returned to his work. Tatwa seemed to hold no interest for him.


  Tatwa squatted on his haunches next to the boat. “You seem pretty good at this sort of stuff. What caused the breakdown that time you got stuck on the way to Kasane?”

  “Wheel bearing went on the trailer. I didn’t have tools, but Dupie brought them.”

  “Why didn’t you just leave it and head on to Kasane?”

  Enoch splashed petrol over the filter. “Dupie freaked. Said I must wait for him. That the trailer would get stolen.”

  “Who would steal it in the middle of the bush? With a jammed wheel?”

  Enoch shrugged. “Didn’t matter. I just waited for him. We got it rolling, and he took it back.”

  “And you slept in the bush?”

  “It was too late to go through to Kasane.”

  “Why was that? You can drive that road at night.”

  “The Chobe National Park gate closes at eight in the evening. It was too late to get through. And there’s bloody elephants everywhere. Not safe to drive at night.”

  “Why not come back with Dupie? Head out the next day?”

  “Hell, I was halfway there. They didn’t need me here. I don’t mind being on my own in the bush.”

  “Done that a lot, have you? Guess you could tell some stories.”

  Enoch nodded, but he did not smile.

  “You and Dupie go back a long way?”

  “Yes, a long way.”

  “Here in Botswana?”

  Enoch nodded.

  “Before? In Rhodesia?”

  “Yes. What of it?”

  “You were together there? In the Selous Scouts?”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Dupie,” said Tatwa, taking a flyer. “He thinks very highly of you.”

  “We were together. You watch each other’s back. Nothing ever came at you from the front.” He started reassembling the casing for the motor.

  “How did you get to Botswana?”

  “Dupie organized it.”

  “You’d do anything for him?”