A Carrion Death & The 2nd Death of Goodluck Tinubu

by Michael Stanley

  “Are you sure they said they’d never met before?” Kubu asked.

  Dupie nodded.

  Kubu changed tack. “Was that the last time you saw Tinubu?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how about Zondo. Had you talked to him at all?”

  “Nothing more than small talk. Seemed a little on edge, but didn’t say much.”

  “You’re sure he and Tinubu never spoke?”

  “I never saw them, but I don’t see everything.”

  “Did you see Zondo again before you took him to the mainland?”

  “Yes, about half an hour after dinner, I went to the storeroom at the back of the kitchen to get some more Amarula. As I came back, he startled me by walking out of the shadows. He told me he had just received a phone call and had to leave first thing in the morning.”

  “Did you ask him why?”

  Dupie shook his head. “No.”

  “When was he scheduled to leave?”

  “He was going to spend three nights here, so he would have left around lunchtime today.”

  “He must’ve got the call on his cell phone,” Kubu said. “Do you know if Zimbabwe phones work down here?”

  Dupie hesitated. “There’s a Namibian tower across the river in Linyanti. He must have had roaming on his phone.”

  “Did he look anxious, angry, perturbed?”

  Again Dupie shook his head. “No. His normal, tense self.”

  “So you told him you’d meet him in the morning and take him to the airstrip?”

  “That’s right. Enoch was taking William Boardman bird watching, and I said I’d pick up the staff from the mainland. We left at about six thirty, I think. I dropped him off about half an hour later. The plane hadn’t arrived yet, so he told me to go. He would wait for the plane. I picked up Beauty and her husband, Solomon, when I got back to the river. Most days we give them a lift over in the motorboat, if it’s convenient. It takes them longer in a mokoro. Beauty cleans, and Solomon is our waiter.”

  “Did you hear the plane arriving?” Kubu looked at Dupie.

  “No. The airstrip is quite a long way away, so it depends on which way the wind is blowing and where they come from and where they’re going. I’d say we only hear a few of the planes that use the strip.”

  “Is it possible that Zondo wasn’t picked up by plane?”

  Dupie shrugged. “The airstrip’s in the middle of nowhere. How else was he going to get away?”

  “Do any of the other camps use the strip?” Kubu asked.

  Dupie nodded. “Yes, there are about half a dozen places nearby that use it occasionally. It’s not busy. A few guests fly into Kasane International, and we pick ’em up there. But it’s a hell of a long trip overland.”

  Kubu made a few more notes, then leaned carefully back in the chair. He thought through everything Dupie had said. It seemed to hang together.

  “Are you a partner in the concession?” Kubu asked.

  “No. It’s Salome’s.”

  “Does she pay you to work here?”

  Dupie shook his head. “No. We use the money from guests to pay the staff and maintain the camp. That includes our food. For the most part guests pay for my drinks. I’ve some money left over from my hunting days. Occasionally, we dip into that if things are not going well here.”

  “How are things at the moment?”

  “Not great, but not bad. We could really do with a more consistent stream of guests. I wish we could hook up with a tour operator of some sort. That would help a lot.” Dupie nodded, agreeing with himself.

  Kubu looked at his notes again. “Just a couple more questions and we’re done. What luggage did Zondo have when he left? Was it the same as when he arrived?”

  Dupie frowned. “I never thought about that. I didn’t see him arrive, because Enoch brought him. He left with a carry-on suitcase and a small tote bag. The suitcase seemed quite heavy by the way he lugged it. But you can’t imagine how people travel these days. Everything but the kitchen sink.”

  Kubu stood up. “Thank you, Mr. Du Pisanie. Please don’t leave the island until I say so. I apologize for the inconvenience. Please ask Ms. McGlashan to come in.”

  When Dupie left the tent, Tatwa took off his St. Louis cap, placed it carefully over Dupie’s Watching Eye, and left it there. Kubu gave him a sharp look, but did not ask him to remove it. Then Tatwa said, “Exactly what he told me. I didn’t ask about the luggage though. I wonder what was in those bags?”

  “Tatwa, remind me to ask Enoch about the luggage Tinubu and Zondo brought to the island. See if he noticed anything unusual about any of the bags.”

  Tatwa nodded as Salome pushed open the tent flap.

  Kubu motioned to the chair. “Please sit down, Ms. McGlashan,” he said, studying her drawn face. “I’ll keep this as short as possible. It must’ve been a bad shock.”

  Salome nodded and looked down at the floor.

  “You have a wonderful setting here,” Kubu asked. “How is the camp doing?”

  Salome’s shoulders sagged. “We’re struggling. I don’t have the money to upgrade the camp, and the camp is not posh enough for most overseas visitors. This murder could be the end of the camp for me. I’m not sure I can go on. And when the concession ends next year, I may not have the money to renew it.”

  “Well, I hope it doesn’t come to that, Ms. McGlashan. Had you ever seen Zondo, Tinubu, or Langa before?” Salome stared at him, and then shook her head.

  “Just a couple more questions for now. Did you hear or see anything unusual on the night Mr. Tinubu and Mr. Langa were killed?”

  “No,” she said quietly. “I heard Dupie zip up his tent around ten thirty or eleven, and I heard him leave the tent early the next morning. Must have been around half past five or so. Otherwise I heard nothing. I didn’t leave my tent.”

  “When did Mr. Du Pisanie tell you he had to take Zondo to the airstrip?”

  “Dupie didn’t tell me. Enoch told me when I went to the kitchen around seven.”

  “A few personal questions to end off.” Kubu paused. “What is your relationship with Mr. Du Pisanie?”

  Salome hesitated and twisted a strand of hair around her fingers. “He and I are friends. We’ve known each other for a long time.”

  “Just friends?” Kubu raised his eyebrows. “Nothing closer?”

  Again Salome hesitated, shifting in her chair. “Just friends,” she said, her voice tight.

  Kubu finished writing his notes, and looked up with a smile. “Thank you for your time, Ms. McGlashan. I may need to talk to you again.”

  Salome looked down. “How long is this going to take? We can’t survive a long period of uncertainty and no paying guests.”

  Kubu thought for a moment. “Not too long, I hope. We’ll resolve this as quickly as we can.”

  Chapter 9

  Before Boy Gomwe arrived, Kubu’s cell phone started playing the Grand March from Aïda again. He groaned, fearing it was Mabaku checking up on him. To his relief, it was a detective from Kasane.

  “Superintendent Bengu, I’ve got information from Forensics for you. First of all, Immigration has confirmed that nobody by the name of Zondo left the country in the past forty-eight hours. Of course, if he had one fake passport, it’s likely he had others.” He paused for Kubu to comment, but the detective did not. “We’ve found some interesting things. In Tinubu’s tent we found fingerprints from the deceased, the maid, and a partial of Enoch Kokorwe’s on the suitcase handle. But this is the interesting part. There were two water glasses in Tinubu’s tent—one with Tinubu’s prints, and guess whose prints were on the other?”

  “Tell me. The director doesn’t like to pay for long calls.” Kubu did not like guessing games.

  “Well, we’re not sure actually, but the prints matched some on Zondo’s registration form and several partials we found in his tent. So it looks like Tinubu and Zondo had a chat before Tinubu died.” Kubu grunted.

  “We’re trying to get positive IDs on all t
he prints. Nothing in our computers, but we’ve sent them to South Africa, Zimbabwe, and the UK. Nothing back yet.”

  “What was in the glasses?”

  “We’ve sent them for analysis, but it seems to be plain water.”

  “What about the luggage?”

  “There was a black briefcase. The odd thing is that it was empty. Nothing in it at all.”

  “Send it to Forensics in Gaborone for testing. See if they can find out what was in it. What else?”

  “Then there was an old, brown suitcase. All of Tinubu’s clothes were off the shelf, probably bought in Gaborone. His wallet was in his slacks. Hadn’t been tampered with and only his prints on it. There was his identity document—he lived in Mochudi, just north of Gaborone. Doesn’t seem he was married. One hundred and twenty South African rands and two hundred and seventy pula in notes, and a few coins.”

  “I know Mochudi well,” Kubu interjected. “I grew up there, and my parents still live there. I’ve never heard of him, though.” He wondered why Tinubu was carrying South African currency.

  The detective continued. “Oh yes. He was born in Zimbabwe according to his identity document. I’ve sent his information and prints to the Zimbabwe police, and I’m trying to find out when he first came to Botswana.”

  “He arrived at the camp by car?” Kubu asked.

  “Yes,” the detective replied. “Rra Du Pisanie told us Tinubu and Langa arrived together. Apparently Tinubu drove from Gaborone, but his car broke down. Langa stopped to help. Langa had been to Botswana only once before, a couple of years ago. What’s interesting though, is that Tinubu was in and out of South Africa the day before. Went through the border at Ramotswa at eleven and returned the same way around three in the afternoon.”

  “How often has he been to South Africa in the past few years?” Kubu asked.

  “This is the sixth time in fifteen months. Same thing each time. In and out the same day. In and out a few days later. Maybe he had a woman over the border.”

  “Six times in fifteen months? Can’t be a very serious relationship,” Kubu responded. “Sounds more like he picked something up and then dropped something off. Have you found Tinubu’s car yet?”

  “All we’ve had time to do is get the make and registration number. An old Peugot 404. We’ll send some people out to all the repair shops to see where he left it to get fixed. I’ll let you know if we find it.”

  “And Langa’s car? Have Forensics been through it yet?” Kubu asked.

  “Yes. It’s a 2003 Focus with a Gauteng registration. We’re waiting to hear back from South Africa with the details. They must be overloaded at the moment. Haven’t heard back from them about Langa either.”

  “Anything of interest in the car?”

  “Not really. He got fuel in Zeerust and then again in Gaborone later that night. He also bought some fast food at the garage in Gaborone. The next day he drove up here and refueled in Francistown and Kasane. We’ve found all the receipts.” The detective hesitated, then continued. “One other thing, there were some notes written on the Zeerust petrol receipt. One looks like a Gauteng car license number—BJW 191 GP. We’ve sent a query to South Africa. The second is a Botswana license—B 332 CAX. We’re checking on that too. And I’ve no idea what the rest is all about. First on the list is LC*. Under that WB1. Under that is 1L. And finally under that KGH-A19.”

  Kubu wrote it down and puzzled over it. “Nothing obvious to me right now. I’ll think about it later. What about next of kin for Tinubu and Langa? Have they been notified?”

  “We couldn’t trace anyone for Tinubu. I’ve asked the SA police to check on Langa.”

  “Let me know if you learn anything useful. Did you find anything interesting in Zondo’s tent or in any of the others?”

  “Nothing in Zondo’s. In Langa’s, there was his luggage and some clothes strewn around. The only prints we found were his and the maid’s. Everyone else’s tents were clean too. The Boardmans had an old Bushman hunting kit, with a bow, some arrows, a pair of sandals, a miniature bow and arrows, and a few empty containers that may have been used for poison.”

  “And the camp staff?” Kubu asked, not expecting much.

  “Same thing. Nothing of interest.”

  “Thanks,” Kubu said. “There’s one other thing you could check. Try to track down where the plane could have gone after it picked up Zondo. What airstrips and airports are in range. Let me know immediately if anything turns up. Good work!”

  Before the detective could respond, Kubu hung up and said to Tatwa, “Seems Zondo had a drink with Tinubu—his prints were on a glass in Tinubu’s tent. So they did know each other and possibly had something in common. That may lead us to a motive.”

  Tatwa shrugged. “I wonder why they didn’t have dinner together. Isn’t it odd that they went for a quiet nightcap in the tent without talking beforehand?”

  “Water? Hardly my idea of a nightcap.” Kubu shook his head with disapproval. “It seems they went to some trouble to look as though they didn’t know each other. But there seems to be nothing connecting Langa and Zondo.”

  “It certainly looks like Zondo is the one we need to find,” said Tatwa.

  Kubu wasn’t listening. “There was nothing in Tinubu’s black briefcase. I bet it wasn’t empty when he arrived.”

  Boy Gomwe sat down opposite Kubu and folded his arms. He looked casual, but to Kubu he appeared ill at ease. He glanced at Gomwe’s registration form.

  “Mr. Gomwe, I see you’re scheduled to leave tomorrow. I’m hoping that will be possible.”

  “Yes, well, I’m busy, you know. This was just a short break. Sort of squeezed in.” He hesitated and shrugged. “Still, doesn’t bother me if I stay an extra day. As long as you’re paying.”

  “Did you know Mr. Tinubu or Mr. Langa?”

  Gomwe shook his head. “No. The first time I met them was here at the camp.”

  “Did either of them seem nervous then or later?”

  “They seemed fine.” Gomwe hesitated. “There was just the issue of the keys.”

  This was news to Kubu. “What issue was that?”

  “Tinubu lost his keys. He was very upset, suggested they’d been stolen. Enoch found them at the salad buffet. Must have dropped out of his pocket. But he was beside himself! It was silly. They couldn’t be far away.”

  “What keys? The tents don’t lock.”

  “I don’t know. He had a small bunch of keys with him. Maybe his house keys.”

  “Perhaps. What do you do for a living, Mr. Gomwe?”

  Gomwe played with his neck chain and checked his watch. Does he have another appointment? Kubu wondered.

  “I’m a rep for one of the big music companies—EMI. Good at it, too. I’ve accounts throughout South Africa. And Gaborone. I’m on the road a lot. Last year I got a trip to Cape Town as a bonus for my high sales.”

  “Why did you come to Jackalberry Camp?” Kubu looked up from his notebook.

  “I needed a break. Someone in Gaborone told me about this place. I decided to give it a spin.”

  “It’s very quiet here. I would’ve thought you’d prefer one of the more sociable camps in Kasane.”

  Gomwe shrugged. “I like the quiet. Birds and stuff.” He looked over his shoulder at Tatwa as if seeking confirmation.

  “Any family?”

  Gomwe laughed. “Over my dead body.”

  “Did you talk to Zondo?”

  “Yes. He was really intense. Seemed to think everyone in the Zimbabwe government was corrupt. And he always wore that silly hat with the feathers.”

  “The hat with the three guineafowl feathers?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Did he tell you what he did for a living?”

  Gomwe shook his head. “I didn’t ask.”

  “Did you hear or see anything out of the ordinary the night Tinubu was murdered?”

  Gomwe shook his head again. “No, nothing at all. The first time I realized there was a problem was at
breakfast when the maid started screaming.”

  Kubu heaved himself out of his chair.

  “Thank you, Mr. Gomwe. We’ll let you know when you can leave.”

  “Yes. Well, the sooner I can get back to work, the better.” Gomwe got up and left.

  “Not much to go on there,” Tatwa commented. “Everything seems right. Dates and places in his passport match what he said. His ticket shows a return tomorrow. And Salome confirmed that he made a late booking. The bit about the keys is new though.”

  “It’s time for a cup of tea and perhaps a biscuit,” Kubu said, stretching. “Then we can interview the Munros, the Boardmans, and the rest of the staff. Please ask Du Pisanie to make sure Beauty and her husband are available in an hour. We’ll speak to Enoch Kokorwe and the cook after that.”

  Chapter 10

  Several hundred miles to the northwest, a group of men—four black and one white—were sweltering on a dusty veranda, a lean-to against a corrugated iron building. The inside of the house, now an oven because of its metal walls, was unbearable in the heat of the late afternoon Zimbabwe sun. About a hundred yards away was a dirt airstrip. It looked unused; vegetation was starting to encroach. Only the summer drought had kept it serviceable at all. The men had been expecting the plane for some hours. As the wait lengthened, tension increased and tempers frayed. Only the white man sat quietly, calm, coldly looking at the group around him. He called himself Madrid, but one wag had suggested that a colder city would be more appropriate.

  Johannes Mankoni, Madrid’s man, finally lost patience. “Where are the bastards?” he yelled. “They should’ve been here hours ago. Don’t tell me you don’t know. Find out! Get the pilot on the radio.”

  Others started talking, but the man seated at the head of the table held up his hand, and immediately there was silence. Tall with graying hair, the man had a military bearing that commanded respect. Even Johannes stopped what he was saying. Only Madrid appeared unimpressed.