A Carrion Death & The 2nd Death of Goodluck Tinubu

by Michael Stanley

  He opened the door with a smile. Before he could say a word, a man who had been out of sight jumped forward and knocked Jason back into the apartment. The girl followed, shutting the door behind her.

  “Not a sound,” the man hissed, holding the sharp blade of a folding knife hard against Jason’s neck. “Turn around!” Jason complied, terrified.

  “Take everything,” he whispered, scarcely able to breathe. “There’s some money in my wallet. I’m just a tourist. My camera is on the table.”

  “Where’s your wallet?”

  Jason pointed to the kitchen table. The girl flipped through the wallet and shook her head. She dropped the wallet in her handbag, as well as the camera.

  “Where’s your passport?” The man increased the pressure on the knife at Jason’s throat.

  “In the safe,” Jason gasped, pointing to the bedroom. The man pushed Jason into the bedroom. “Open it!”

  Jason swung the cupboard door open and punched in his code. The bolt purred back. The man pulled Jason back while the girl rifled through the safe.

  “Got them,” she said, holding up two passports. She grabbed the rest of the contents—traveler’s checks, a few hundred pula, some pounds and dollars, a bunch of receipts, a mobile phone, and an old-fashioned paper airline ticket. They joined the wallet in her handbag.

  Still holding him from behind, the man pushed Jason toward the bed.

  “Please don’t kill me.” Jason’s voice was barely loud enough to hear. “I can get you more money. Lots more money!”

  As they reached the bed, the man jerked the knife into Jason’s throat and slid it sideways. Blood spurted out as he pushed Jason onto the bed. Jason grabbed at his throat, gargling sounds coming from his mouth. Seconds later he was motionless. Blood continued to pump onto the sheets. The man and the girl watched until it stopped. Satisfied, the man wiped his knife on the bed, closed it, and slipped it into his trouser pocket. The girl opened the door, holding the handle through her dress. They headed for the elevators, hand in hand, letting the door close behind them.

  Chapter 62

  Kubu left home early on Wednesday morning, giving himself plenty of time. At the airport, he checked in his overnight bag and got his boarding pass. With directions from the reception desk, he walked firmly through the swing doors marked “Authorized Personnel Only.” No one tried to stop him. Once on the tarmac outside, he followed the directions to the BCMC hangars. And, indeed, a sleek Learjet was sunning itself on the apron. A man in a khaki uniform was fussing around it and giving instructions to the maintenance crew. He turned out to be the pilot who had flown Dianna down to the Cape coast. Kubu felt that his luck was turning. He showed the pilot his police identification and asked about the flight to Plettenberg Bay. It had been uneventful. Then Kubu asked, as if it was an afterthought, “Did she have a lot of luggage?”

  The pilot looked surprised, and then shrugged. He looked down and kicked a loose piece of tar out of the way. “Not specially.”

  “Anything like a Coleman cooler or one of those camping fridges?”

  Joubert looked up sharply. “Ja, as a matter of fact she did. How did you know that? One of those little freezers you can run on gas or twelve volts. It was off, of course. But tied up tight with rope.” He grimaced. “Seemed hellishly cold,” he added with unintended irony. “Water condensed on the outside.”

  “Did you ask what was in it?”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t. Not my business. But she told me anyway. Said the meat in South Africa isn’t as good as ours. Liked to take her own from here. Just volunteered it. Odd. She wasn’t very chatty otherwise.”

  Kubu realized that he should be getting ready to board his flight. He thanked Joubert for his help. But the pilot’s attention was already elsewhere. He was shouting at the man fueling his plane. The grounding cable hadn’t been connected. He waved to Kubu over his shoulder as he ran back to the jet.

  At George Airport Kubu rented the cheapest car available. It was quite a way to Fairwaters, and the drive was uncomfortable. The seat was too narrow for his frame, and his legs touched the steering wheel even with the seat pushed back. He had given up on the pathetic air conditioner and lowered the windows. The clinic was off the beaten track, and he was surprised that he hadn’t got lost.

  At the imposing gates, a polite but firm security guard insisted on phoning to confirm his appointment. He parked next to a Mercedes sports car, and tried not to touch its virginal whiteness with the brick red of his door as he squeezed his bulk out.

  Nearly half an hour early, instead of heading straight to reception, he walked around the side of the building. He wanted to get a feeling for this highbrow clinic. Lawns ran down from the front of the main building to a large “infinity” swimming pool. It wasn’t crowded, but a variety of patients were tanning or chatting in the pool. The only black faces were those of waiters rushing fanciful drinks to the clients. Alcohol-free, no doubt, Kubu thought sourly.

  “Excuse me, sir, can I help you?” One of the waiters was at his side.

  “Umm, yes, I was looking for reception.”

  “It’s at the front of the building. Allow me to show you.” He shepherded Kubu back to the front entrance and took him inside. He didn’t leave Kubu until a woman came to take charge of him.

  “I’m Superintendent David Bengu. I have an appointment with the manager, Ms. Kew?”

  The receptionist nodded and phoned through. “She’ll see you now, Superintendent.”

  Kubu was taken to a large office, formally furnished, with a magnificent view across the lawns to the Outeniqua Mountains.

  “Wonderful!” he said to the straitlaced Ms. Kew. She nodded but seemed disinclined to chat.

  “You said you were from the CID, Superintendent. Do you have some identification?”

  He handed his identification card to her, which she examined carefully. When he had made the appointment, he hadn’t mentioned that his CID was in Botswana, not South Africa. He held his breath. She might refuse to talk to him; if she did, he could do nothing about it. He was out of line being here without a host from the SAP. But she seemed satisfied and passed the ID back to him.

  “You understand, Assistant Superintendent, that I can’t discuss anything about my patients. There is the usual doctor-patient privilege, and our patients are particularly concerned about their privacy. That’s why they come here. It’s hardly a public facility.”

  Kubu nodded. He had checked the rates. At around two thousand U.S. dollars a day, he could well believe her. “As I told your secretary when I phoned, Ms. Kew, it’s all quite routine. I need to check on someone’s movements, that’s all. I don’t want to know anything about his illness.”

  “I’ll try to help you, Mr. Bengu. But even that may be difficult. Many of our clients use assumed names. We don’t mind; it’s all part of the confidential nature of our work here.”

  Kubu nodded. “I’m interested in the dates Mr. Angus Hofmeyr was here. I don’t think he used an assumed name.”

  Ms. Kew seemed to soften. “Such an awful business. He was a very nice person, you know. Not at all the standoffish prima donna type. A gentleman, and very cooperative.”

  “He was a friend of mine, actually. We were at school together.”

  “I’m sorry.” She sounded as though she actually was.

  Kubu nodded. “Can you confirm that he was here from Wednesday, March 15, to Tuesday, March 21?”

  She consulted a file in front of her. “Yes, that’s correct. He left on Tuesday morning.”

  “While he was here, he made a contribution to a meeting in Gaborone by phone. Did you know about that?”

  “Oh, yes. He brought his own equipment with him. Earphones, tape recorder, fancy phone set. We discourage patients from carrying on their usual business commitments, but we made an exception in this case.”

  “What was the tape recorder for?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose he wanted to record the conversation so that he would have h
is own record of it.”

  Kubu nodded. “That’s probably right.” He hesitated. “Under the circumstances, I don’t suppose you could tell me why he checked into the hospital?”

  “I’m afraid not, Mr. Bengu,” Ms. Kew said defensively. “Mr. Hofmeyr’s death doesn’t change our commitment to confidentiality.” She checked her watch. “I have a staff meeting shortly. Is there anything else?”

  Kubu made no effort to get up. His considerable bulk would be difficult to shift without his cooperation. “How did you learn of Angus’s death?”

  “It was on the radio. One of the nurses told me.”

  “Did you see it in a newspaper?”

  “No, we don’t get them delivered here. It often disturbs the patients,” she said, impatience creeping into her voice.

  “Just one last thing, Ms. Kew. You’ve been very helpful, and I won’t keep you from your work any longer.” Kubu pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket and extracted a passport-size photograph. He passed it to Ms. Kew. “Have you ever seen this man before?”

  The manager looked at the picture carefully, thought about it. Then she returned it to him. “No. We have a lot of patients here for relatively short periods, but I don’t usually forget a face. I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen that man before.”

  Kubu nodded, took the photo back, and put it in the envelope. Then, almost as an afterthought, he withdrew another and handed it to Ms. Kew. “And this man?” he asked.

  She glanced at it, and then looked at him sharply to see if he was having her on. But she met only a bland and marginally interested look. “Well, of course I know him. That’s Angus Hofmeyr. He didn’t have a beard when he was here, though.” Kubu nodded again, and returned the second photo to the envelope.

  She rose, indicating that the interview was at an end, and this time Kubu took the hint. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help,” she said. Kubu shook her hand warmly. “You’ve been very patient,” he said. “Thank you.”

  And silently he added that she had been very helpful indeed. For now he knew for certain that Angus had been murdered, and roughly how, when, and why it had been done.

  Chapter 63

  Kubu found the Knysna police station on Main Street without much difficulty and parked right outside. He stretched, allowing his body the space the subcompact car had denied it, and enjoyed the warmth of the morning sun. He had spent the night in George and had driven along the beautiful coastal road to Knysna. There was denseness to the air that he found unfamiliar. It must be the proximity of the sea, he decided.

  The building looked as though it had once been a 1930s tourist hotel. A balcony ran along the front, defined by an ornate wrought-iron railing, the windows evenly spaced. He walked into the reception area, which certainly could have been the reception for a hotel. The constable on duty told him that Detective Inspector Swanepoel’s office was upstairs to the right. He buzzed Kubu through a security gate and pointed out a set of wide stairs. Slowly Kubu went up, wishing that the station’s budget had included a lift. He took the stairs slowly, not only because of his bulk, but because each time he put his weight on a step, the staircase creaked ominously.

  He found Bakkies in a small office overlooking Main Street. The room was cluttered with filing cabinets, but it looked as though all the files were out on the desk. It hardly seemed possible the massive Bakkies could fit amid all the chaos. However, he rose with surprising grace and greeted Kubu warmly.

  “You must be Kubu,” he said with his guttural accent. “Your nickname fits you well! I’m Bakkies, but I guess you already worked that out.” He laughed. “Let’s get some coffee. I’ve got a couple of doughnuts.” He indicated a white cardboard cake box almost hidden by the mess on his desk. “Then we can chat.” Kubu thought this a most attractive proposition.

  They got to know each other while they drank their mugs of instant coffee and demolished the jam doughnuts. Kubu was pleased that there were two each. And, after all, breakfast was already two hours behind him. It seemed unfair that Bakkies converted the food to muscle while he turned it to fat. But that’s life, he thought philosophically. At last there was silence while they examined the empty cake box.

  “So, Kubu, what’s the story with your case?”

  Kubu wasn’t sure where to begin, so he started with their first contact. “You remember our telephone conversation? You said: ‘Suppose your body is Angus Hofmeyr? Murdered in Botswana, and now they are trying to cover up the crime by planting evidence of a shark attack here?’ I think you hit the nail on the head. I just wasn’t ready to see it. I’m sure now that the body found near the Kamissa waterhole was that of Angus Hofmeyr.”

  “But you said that was impossible!”

  “Yes, because we were supposed to think it was impossible. If the arm belonged to Angus, so did the Kamissa body. I’m certain the DNA samples will match.”

  Bakkies frowned. “I don’t remember that you asked for a DNA sample.”

  “Oh, I think our pathology people dealt directly with yours,” Kubu said quickly. “The point is, I’m sure that the arm you found was the missing arm of our body.”

  Bakkies was trying to take it all in. “If that’s the case, then Hofmeyr was murdered. There was always something funny about the so-called shark attack. But the murder didn’t happen here.” He shook his head. “But what about Dianna Hofmeyr? She was with Angus the day before he disappeared.”

  Kubu looked grim. “There are only two possibilities. Either the body is not Angus, and he was kidnapped, or she is in it up to her neck. I think we’ll find out when we talk to her. I’m looking forward to interviewing the new chairperson of BCMC.”

  Bakkies hesitated. “Yirrrr,” he said finally, rolling the r’s of a traditional Afrikaans response to something awkward. “Yirrrr. There’s bad news, Kubu. Ms. Hofmeyr has just left. She flew out of Plettenberg Bay this morning. There was no reason for me to stop her.”

  Kubu grimaced. “Did she say where she was going?”

  “I didn’t speak to her, but one of my men reported that she and her mother left in their private Learjet. We can find out from air traffic control.” He busied himself on the phone for a few minutes. “The flight plan is to Johannesburg,” he told Kubu. “Lanseria Airport. But the pilot mentioned they are going through to Gaborone after a couple of days.”

  “Perfect. I can be back to meet them.”

  “Should I alert the police in Johannesburg?”

  Kubu thought for a minute. “Don’t do anything that might scare them off. Just ask traffic control to watch that plane and alert us as soon as it’s off somewhere.” He changed tack. “Where exactly did you find the arm? Did you take pictures?”

  “We did, but I can do better than that. I’ll show you. Good to get out of the office for a bit. You can explain all this as we drive. Then we can go up to the house. They have a maid there. If there’s time, we can have some lunch in Plettenberg Bay.” Kubu thought that a fine suggestion.

  Knysna was a village that had outgrown its quaintness, Kubu decided. It seemed to be buzzing with people, most of them white, which Kubu found quite different from Botswana. Main Street had only one through lane and one turn-only lane at each major intersection, and the traffic lights caught one every time. Bakkies was stopped at one of these behind a huge South African Breweries truck that took up the entire road, when Kubu noticed two beggars working the traffic. A shabbily dressed young black woman—really only a child herself—guided a blind boy from car to car. She held out a scruffy red plastic bowl. He stumbled along with a rough-cut stick and vacant eyes. You don’t see this often in Gaborone, Kubu thought. It would be too shameful to have a relative—no matter how distant—begging in the public road. They would get some sort of support from their extended family.

  Bakkies noticed Kubu’s attention on the couple. “Most of them are just faking,” he said. He sounded irritated. Despite his stick, the boy missed the edge of the road divider and stumbled. To Kubu, he didn’t seem to be
faking. Bakkies cursed. He dug in the change pocket of his pants and found a one-rand coin. He held it at arm’s length out of the car window until the two beggars shambled over, and he could drop it into the plastic bowl, where it joined a few other small coins. The beggars accepted it with the same stoic indifference they had shown to the tight-shut windows of other drivers. The lights changed to green, and Bakkies drove on.

  “So, what do you think happened?” Bakkies had his mind back on the case.

  “I believe Angus was murdered, and his body was dumped in a game reserve area. The killers went to a lot of trouble to hide the identity of the body in case it was found. And finding it was just chance. If the game ranger hadn’t been out that way helping a scientist from the university, there would have been nothing left to find.” Kubu paused, remembering that the mess of bone, sinew, and dried blood had been his friend. “Then they staged the shark attack here to make it look like an accident.”

  Bakkies shook his head. “Why not just stage an accident immediately in Botswana? Why go to the trouble of disposing of most of the body and taking the rest halfway across Africa?”

  This had worried Kubu too. “I think that they needed Angus alive for the board meeting of the big company I was telling you about—the Botswana Cattle and Mining Company. I’m not sure why, but I think we’ll find the answer in the will of Angus’s father or in the deed of the Hofmeyr Trust. The accident had to happen after that meeting.”

  “Then why not just kill him after the board meeting? Couldn’t they just have arranged a car accident? Surely those happen in Botswana?”

  “They certainly do!” Kubu recalled his close encounter with the mother pig. “I think that was probably their plan. But something went wrong, and Angus was killed too soon. That’s when they had to come up with this other idea.”