A Carrion Death & The 2nd Death of Goodluck Tinubu

by Michael Stanley

  Chapter 17

  The next morning, Kubu set off for Mochudi at about eight. Better to be early than late. He negotiated the traffic chaos and emerged in a better mood than anticipated.

  As the traffic thinned, his mind returned to the murders. He knew persistence would pay off, even if the case made little sense at the moment. Somewhere, some time, a clue would emerge or a mistake would be discovered. He had to be alert for that moment.

  Mabaku’s right, he thought. There has to be a connection between Tinubu and Langa. It’s too much of a coincidence that they meet on the road for the first time, and a few hours later they’re both dead. Why did Langa write down Tinubu’s license plate number at the top of a scrawled list? And why are the South Africans stalling on the other license plate that was jotted on Langa’s petrol receipt? And what on earth does the jumble of letters mean? Kubu had them memorized:

  LC*

  WB1

  1L

  KGH-A19

  “1L,” he said out loud. “That’s how I write directions to someone’s home. First left. But it could mean almost anything.” A cow lumbered into the road, and he had to take evasive action. Stupid animals, he thought. They’re better off as rare steaks with garlic and pepper! Preferably washed down with shiraz.

  “LC*.” Kubu resumed talking to himself. “LC*?” Kubu frowned. “L! C! Asterisk!” He broke the group into its parts, pausing between each. It still made no sense. “Maybe it’s LC star? Does that make any more sense?” He did not think so. So he switched to the next group.

  “WB1? Way back at the first street?” Kubu sighed. “I don’t think so. But what else could WB stand for? Some place before turning first left? Willie B’s? Women of Botswana?” He tried various other combinations, but none made sense.

  Kubu tackled KGH-A19 with the same result. He could speculate as much as he liked, but nothing gelled.

  He followed the road to the school and prepared to meet the teachers.

  Seven teachers had gathered in the staff room that morning, as well as deputy headmaster Madi and a few administrative staff. The reaction was unanimous. It was inconceivable that Goodluck had any bitter enemies. In fact, nobody could believe he had any enemies at all.

  When he asked for their opinions of Tinubu, Kubu was overwhelmed by a barrage of comments.

  “We loved him,” said a large woman in a colorful dress. “He would do anything for the children, and he always supported the staff.”

  An elderly man chimed in, “He had been here for many, many years, but he was always working here at the school. I’m not sure he ever slept.”

  A younger man stood up. “I can’t believe this has happened,” he said. “He was quiet and gentle and everyone thought the world of him. What are you doing to catch these men? There is more and more violence these days, and people get away with it! We want some action!”

  There was a murmur of agreement and for a moment the group turned hostile. Kubu held up his hand. “We will catch these men, and they will pay for their crimes. I can tell you the director of the CID has made this our top priority. It is only a matter of time before we solve the case. All we need is your help.”

  The young man looked at him for a few moments and then sat down. The mood changed.

  “Did Rra Tinubu have any good friends he saw regularly? Someone who knew his plans and could tell us? A girlfriend, perhaps?”

  It was a middle-aged woman who responded with a touch of regret, “Where would he find the time?”

  Kubu was touched by the emotions Tinubu’s death had generated. Tinubu must have been a remarkable man. He let the meeting continue for over half an hour, giving everyone a chance to air their anguish. When he decided he would learn nothing more, he thanked the group for their help and promised to keep them informed about the progress of the investigation.

  “May I see Rra Tinubu’s house now?” he asked Madi. The deputy headmaster led him across the grounds past the school classrooms to a small side street.

  “That’s it. First house. Here are the keys.” Madi seemed reluctant to go into the house. Kubu stepped into a small garden that was ill-tended, with few flowers. Obviously gardening had not been one of Tinubu’s hobbies. The house was small and rectangular. Every expense had been spared in its building. As he glanced up at the roof, Kubu caught his breath. He blinked and looked again at the house number. KGH-A19. He looked at the next house. KGH-A20.

  KGH-A19 was the last item of the list on Langa’s receipt. Could he work backward and solve the riddle of the other codes? Kubu wanted to jump into his car immediately, but decided to complete his search of Tinubu’s house. It did not take long even though his mind kept wandering back to the puzzle. The house was as Edison had described. Austere to a fault. Few personal items. No signs of a partner. Tinubu had a small alcove with a desk and office chair, but the desk was clean, no clutter of papers. Well, his school office is just across the road, Kubu thought. Why bring work home?

  He glanced at the photos on the wall. One of a young Tinubu with two friends caught his attention. He concentrated on Tinubu’s companions. One sparked no recognition, but the other looked somehow familiar. Could it be a younger version of the mysterious Ishmail Zondo? Or was he imagining things? He shook his head and moved on.

  With little expectation, he went through the drawers. Bills and financial stuff. Probably where Edison found the bank statements. The bottom drawer contained some pamphlets on a charity organization supporting Zimbabweans trying to make a new life in Botswana. There was also a schedule of its meetings in Gaborone. Three had large crosses against them. Kubu pocketed the list and a few of the pamphlets, took a last look around, and locked up. Then he went back to the office to thank Madi, who walked him to his car. As he was about to get in, Kubu handed the deputy headmaster his card, asking that he contact him if he thought of anything that had the smallest chance of being significant. Madi looked at the card for a moment.

  “There was one thing,” he said. “Your card reminded me of it. I suppose it means nothing, but it was strange. Two white ladies came all the way from Gaborone in a proper taxi.” Madi shook his head at such extravagance. “They wanted to see Rra Tinubu, but he’d already left on his holiday. They said they wrote stories for a newspaper and wanted to write about our school. I offered to show them around, but they said they would come back in a few weeks. They were also going on holiday in the bush. Then they drove away in their taxi.”

  “Did they tell you their names?”

  “They gave me a card. To prove who they were, I suppose. I’ve got it here somewhere.” He rummaged in his wallet, which seemed to contain everything except money, and produced a dog-eared card.

  It introduced Judith and Trish Munro, writers for the London Sunday Telegraph.

  Chapter 18

  Kubu sat in his car pondering what he had just learned. The Munro sisters had told him that they were just on holiday in Botswana. However, their story about knowing a journalist who had been to Jackalberry was probably a lie. Now it turned out that they had tried to visit Tinubu a few days before his death and possibly followed him to the camp where he was murdered. He was fascinated. He would interview them again and crank up the pressure until they explained what they were really doing at Jackalberry Camp.

  But of more immediate interest was the puzzle.

  “If KGH-A19 is indeed Tinubu’s house, it’s reasonable to think of the other groups of letters and numbers as a set of directions.” Once again Kubu spoke out loud. “If I drive down Rasesa Street the way I came, I have to turn left to get to Tinubu’s house. If 1L means first left, then it is first left after whatever WB1 is. Let’s find out.”

  Kubu drove to Tinubu’s house at the end of the little street and turned around. At Rasesa Street he turned right, and crept down the road looking to both sides. It was only a few hundred yards before he came to an intersection. He looked around carefully. Then he had it. Across the street was the Welcome Bar Part 1. WB1! Of course. Edison had men
tioned it.

  He continued down Rasesa Street, wondering about LC*. He reached the main road to Mochudi and stopped. No commercial buildings were nearby.

  “LC*. Turn left at C asterisk? Turn left at C star?” Kubu mumbled to himself. Then a small sign across the road caught his eye. It was a sign to a mosque. Next to the words Islamic Centre and Mosque was a quarter moon and star. Kubu laughed aloud. “That’s the C*! He had to use another sign because the street sign was missing. That’s just the sort of direction I would write down if I was driving alone. Abbreviate easy-to-see buildings or signs. Make it easy to retrace your steps.”

  So Langa hadn’t chanced on Tinubu for the first time on the road to Kasane. He had followed him to his house—probably from Zeerust—making brief notes of the directions on the only paper he had available—the Zeerust petrol receipt. But why? Perhaps Mabaku would have the information from the South Africans about the owner of the other registration number on the receipt.

  Kubu’s flesh tingled. At last the chase was on! A few hours ago he had nothing. Now he knew there were connections between Tinubu and Langa, and between Tinubu and the Munro sisters. Maybe even between Tinubu and Zondo! Next he had to find out what the connections were.

  Heading back to CID headquarters, he was actually looking forward to his meeting with Mabaku.

  As he encountered the crowded streets of northern Gaborone, Kubu’s phone rang its rousing tune. He pulled over and parked on the sandy verge, scattering chickens and receiving dirty looks from scrawny dogs.

  “Bengu,” he said.

  “Kubu, it’s Edison. I’ve got Tinubu’s phone records. He doesn’t make too many calls. A few to the deputy headmaster’s home, as well as to some of the teachers. He phoned a travel agent a couple of weeks ago. I checked with them, and they confirmed he made a reservation for Jackalberry Camp for three nights. His request, not their suggestion. Paid for it by check. And that’s it. No other calls.”

  “What about calls from his office? Can you get those checked too?”

  “I’ve got the records,” Edison said. “We’re checking them now. That’s going to take some time.”

  “I asked his assistant if he’d received any calls out of the ordinary,” Kubu said. “She said that nothing caught her attention. Give her a call and see if she remembers anything last Thursday. Maybe Tinubu said something about going into Gaborone.”

  “One last thing. Forensics called to say that Tinubu’s briefcase had no traces of drugs.”

  “Okay, thanks. I’ll check with you when I’ve finished with the director. I’ve got to report to him as soon as I get back. He’s really revved up about this case.”

  When the conversation was over, Kubu took a couple of deep breaths, signaled he was pulling back onto the road, accelerated, and prayed that it was in no one’s interest to run into him.

  Chapter 19

  Had Kubu known what was happening in Director Mabaku’s office, he would not have looked forward to his upcoming meeting. Mabaku had a visitor. The two men had known each other for many years and had great respect for each other’s skills. There were no titles between them, nor did they use first names. Their relationship was professional and had always been cordial. Until now.

  Mabaku shouted as he towered over his visitor. “You’re telling me that Langa was a South African policeman? A South African policeman following a Botswana citizen into Botswana! And you didn’t let me know! Did you let anybody in Botswana know?”

  “We didn’t expect…” the visitor started to say.

  “I don’t care what you expected! No policeman—from South Africa, from Namibia, not even from the United Kingdom—no policeman comes into Botswana without notice, unless he’s a tourist with his own money and no professional agenda!” Mabaku shook his finger in the visitor’s face. “If it ever happens again, you’ll find it impossible to get any cooperation from us!” Mabaku crashed his fist on his desk. Everything jumped, including Director Van der Walle of the South African Criminal Investigation Department.

  “You have my apologies,” Van der Walle said contritely. “You know we’ve been trying to track the hot money on drug routes.”

  Mabaku glared at him without a word.

  “Mabaku,” Van der Walle continued, “we didn’t expect or authorize Langa to come into Botswana. He was following a money-smuggling suspect. He got to Zeerust and saw a briefcase change hands with your fellow Tinubu. He made a snap decision to follow Tinubu and got the Zeerust police to follow the original courier back to Johannesburg.”

  “Snap decision?” snarled Mabaku. “Since when do plain-clothed police travel with passports and car registration papers? And an overnight suitcase? He expected to come to Gaborone, and you didn’t let me know.”

  “Sit down, Mabaku,” Van der Walle said, exasperated. “We’ve worked together long enough to trust each other. I promise we didn’t expect Langa to cross the border. If I thought it a possibility, I would have let you know—in advance.”

  “But he would have let the Zeerust police know where he was going. Are you saying you weren’t told?”

  “The Zeerust police assumed we knew what Langa was up to. They didn’t realize it needed urgent authorization.”

  Van der Walle hesitated. “Look, Mabaku, I take full responsibility. Langa was working for me. He should’ve known better. That’s how it was. I’m sorry.” Mabaku glared at him, unconvinced.

  Van der Walle stood up and extended his hand. “Shake on it, Mabaku. I’m sorry about what happened. Now let’s focus on the case.”

  Mabaku sighed and shook his head. “Okay. Okay. Just don’t let it happen again.” The two shook hands and sat down. Mabaku ordered tea and biscuits from an amused Miriam, who had been enjoying the explosions from beyond the closed door.

  “What do you know about Tinubu?” Mabaku asked. “Bring me up to date on what you think is going on.”

  “We know nothing about Tinubu. The first we heard of him was a call from Langa in Mochudi, saying he was following a guy who had taken the briefcase from our suspect in Zeerust. He’d spent the night outside his house and was following him north. He reported in at Francistown as well—nothing new though.”

  “You’re saying he was reporting back to you while he was in Botswana, and you didn’t let us know?” Mabaku’s voice had flipped to the other end of the spectrum. Van der Walle could barely hear what Mabaku was saying.

  Van der Walle rolled his eyes. “Come on, Mabaku. Cool it. I’ve apologized. Everyone simply assumed that Langa’s activities had been authorized. The detective who took Langa’s call didn’t raise the issue immediately, but was going to wait until our weekly meeting to report on what Langa was doing. I don’t know what Langa was thinking of. Heat of the moment decision, I suppose. We’ll never know for sure now.”

  With obvious reluctance, Mabaku let it go. “And then what happened?”

  “The last call we got was that he’d helped Tinubu fix a puncture and was going to join him at a camp somewhere. Then we heard from you guys.” He paused. “Frankly it took us a day or two to decide what to do.”

  “You mean you were deciding whether to tell me or not!”

  “No. It took some time for me to get all the information. When I realized what had happened, I didn’t want to make matters worse by giving you wrong information. I decided the best thing was to get down here right away and discuss it face to face. We’ve a vested interest in this too, you know. One of my men was killed following someone we suspect was involved with drugs.”

  “So tell me about this drug thing.” Mabaku’s voice returned to its professional volume.

  “Okay. As you know, one of the main heroin conduits into South Africa is now through Zambia and Botswana. The other is through Mozambique. It’s smuggled from the Far East, first into Tanzania. We’ve been trying to follow a money trail. We’ve been watching a number of people who have had unusual financial transactions—large amounts of money changing hands outside the banking system. Usually d
ollars. We’ve been unable to pin anything on them. In fact, they all seem squeaky clean. It’s very odd. So we decided to do nothing but watch, in the hope we’d give them enough rope.” Van der Walle paused as Miriam came in with the tea. She poured it, offered the biscuits, and left.

  “That’s what Langa was doing,” Van der Walle continued. “He didn’t know where the Johannesburg guy was going. Ended up in Zeerust. The Johannesburg guy had lunch with someone, who picked up a briefcase and headed back into Botswana—that’s Tinubu, of course.”

  “Tinubu is a respected headmaster in Mochudi. Left Zimbabwe after the war and settled here. Has been a great asset to the community. Never been in any trouble. Not even parking tickets. Everyone says he spends all his time working at the school. Nothing significant with his bank account either. He’s a most unlikely suspect for a drug smuggler.”

  “What about the murders? Do you have any suspects?”

  “The most likely suspect is a man calling himself Zondo—from Zimbabwe. False name, fake passport. We sent fingerprints to Zimbabwe. They tell us that his real name is Peter Jabulani and that he is a dissident. He shouldn’t be leaving Zimbabwe because they confiscated his real passport.” Mabaku shook his head. “We’ll have a tough time getting to him if the Zimbabwe authorities find him. Apparently he was quite a hero in the war, but turned against the president when he started making his own rules. I guess he feels that his war efforts have come to nothing.”

  Van der Walle nodded.

  “The strange thing is that the Zimbabwe police tell us that Tinubu died at the end of the war. They have his fingerprints, death certificate. Everything. There must be a screwup somewhere. Tinubu was definitely alive before he was killed,” Mabaku said with unintentional irony.

  The two sat in silence, finishing their tea.