A Carrion Death & The 2nd Death of Goodluck Tinubu

by Michael Stanley

  “You think this works on a timetable? The principals aren’t here now. They’ll be here for a trade. In the next few days. Check in at Elephant Valley Lodge. Someone will contact you. Then it’s up to you. Everyone will be nervous about you—even with my introduction.” A glimmer of a smile crossed his lips. Mandla stood up. “I’d like my money now. The amount Jarvis told you to bring.”

  Gomwe pulled an envelope out of his pocket and shoved it to Mandla.

  “I’m paying a lot for fucking little. No names, no arrangement. Just cool my heels and wait for something to happen. This better work out or you’ll be hearing from me again.”

  “Don’t worry. It will work out. Just the way we’ve planned.” Mandla pocketed the money and left without further word.

  If everyone in the trade is such an idiot, Gomwe thought, I’ll make a fortune. They couldn’t organize themselves out of a paper bag. He looked around and caught the attention of a waiter. “Bring me another gin and tonic. A double.”

  As Mandla sat down in his car, he pulled out his mobile phone and dialed a South African number. He got voicemail. “Jarvis, it’s Mandla. I met your friend. He drinks too much. He’ll be at Elephant Valley Lodge tomorrow. You wanted a favor; you owe me.” Then he cut the connection and drove off. He had other business to handle, important business.

  Chapter 30

  As Kubu walked to Mabaku’s office, Edison passed on the message from deputy headmaster Madi. One of the journalists from England had phoned and asked for Mr. Tinubu. She had expressed condolences when she heard the news of his murder, but hadn’t seemed particularly shocked. Perhaps it was because she hadn’t known the late headmaster, Madi had suggested. Or perhaps she already knew he was dead, Kubu thought. He was greatly looking forward to his next meeting with the Munro sisters.

  Once again Mabaku was in a foul mood. He glared at Kubu who, to the best of his recollection, had done nothing to annoy his boss. Mabaku immediately disabused him.

  “Your friend William Boardman got himself killed in Maun.”

  Kubu wanted to respond that Boardman was certainly not his friend, but the shock of the news erased that. “Killed? What happened?”

  Mabaku growled. “Beaten up. Tortured. Murdered.”

  Kubu collapsed into a chair without invitation. “Do we know why? Any suspects?”

  Mabaku glared at him. “Probably the mob that attacked Jackalberry Camp. They want something and aren’t particular about how they get it.” He paused, recalling Monday’s phone call. “You haven’t heard anything from so-called Smith, have you? No bribes of French champagne delivered to your house?”

  Kubu was disturbed by the concern below the sarcasm. “No, nothing, Director. I suppose he saw through my ploy. I’m not a great actor. But why go after Boardman? He didn’t have the briefcase, or anything else, as far as we know. Was his wife in Maun with him?”

  Mabaku shook his head. “He was there alone. He was found this morning in a bungalow at the Maun Toro Lodge. Beaten up, with cigarette burns on the face and chest. Room trashed. Eventually they killed him and left with, or without, what they wanted.” Worry crept into his voice again. “That idiot Notu is in charge of the case. He thinks it’s a break-in that went wrong. Moron!” He stood up and paced to the window, taking comfort in Kgale Hill.

  Kubu pouted. Notu was indeed an idiot who held his job because he had married the niece of someone very influential. Only his undeniable incompetence had kept him from more senior positions. So far. Now Kubu was up against some very nasty people whose attention was focused on the police, thanks to Kubu himself.

  “I’ll go up to Maun tomorrow,” he said. “I’d like Tatwa to come down from Kasane. I think I can use an elevated perspective.” Mabaku just looked at him and nodded, the joke falling flat. “Leave early,” he said.

  It was a long road and boring. Two hundred miles past Mochudi to Serowe, where Kubu allowed himself a quick bacon-and-cheeseburger washed down with a chocolate milkshake and coffee for the caffeine. Then two hundred and fifty miles on the flat, straight road west to the edge of the Okavango Delta. At 6:00 p.m., after twelve hours of driving, he arrived at Maun. Once a sleepy gateway to the miracle of the delta, it was now a bustling tourist town shunned by the old timers who still liked to think of Botswana as the old, wild Africa. Expecting less than enthusiastic cooperation from Notu, he checked into the Toro Lodge in order to have an excuse to do his own snooping. Plus, it was inexpensive; Mabaku would approve. A mediocre supper at the Lodge restaurant completed the exhausting day.

  He was too tired to explore. After a hot bath, he crawled into bed with the newspaper, and called Joy. She was bubbling with enthusiasm. Pleasant’s boyfriend, Bongani, had come to dinner with them, and the evening had gone very well. They had emptied one of Kubu’s bottles of red wine, perfectly matched with her steak and mushroom sauce, and greatly enjoyed it. Kubu tried to be enthusiastic. He was suffering from heartburn from the doughy chicken pie he’d eaten for supper. After the call, Kubu fell asleep within minutes, the reading light still on, and the Daily News on his chest heaving in time with his snores.

  Chapter 31

  “Well, you’ve come a long way to take an interest in my case.” Assistant Superintendent Notu’s manner indicated that he considered the interest to be interference.

  Kubu tried to be diplomatic. “I think your case may be directly relevant to mine. Ours,” he corrected himself looking at Tatwa.

  “And how is that?” Notu examined his fingers as if expecting a more sensible answer from them.

  “Well, the murder victim was one of only ten people on an island in the Linyanti where the double murder we’re investigating took place.”

  “This man, Broadman I think was his name, was the victim of a violent robbery that went over the top.” Notu shrugged. “There are such things as coincidences.”

  Kubu shook his head. “I keep hearing that. I don’t believe in them. And his name was Boardman.”

  Tatwa interrupted. “Assistant Superintendent Notu, do you have many opportunistic robberies where the victim is forced into his hotel room, robbed, tortured, beaten to death and his room ransacked? It’s certainly never happened in Kasane, as far as I know.”

  “Sergeant Mooka, perhaps you haven’t seen as many robberies as I have. Perhaps Kasane is still a bit of a backwater. Here there are too many rich, careless tourists. Easy prey.” He rubbed his chin and then resumed the study of his fingers. “It’s unfortunate,” he finished without apparent regret.

  “Sergeant Mooka is right,” Kubu said firmly. “It doesn’t add up. This wasn’t a street mugging. The perpetrators waited for Boardman outside his room. Forced him into it. And beat him to death. For a few hundred pula? In a hotel unit where there was a good chance of him being heard screaming? I don’t buy it. Let me tell you what happened on our island in the Linyanti last week.” Kubu described the attack on Jackalberry Camp. “Do you still think this is a coincidence?”

  Notu stroked his jowls again and checked his watch. “What do you want to know?”

  Kubu sighed. “Please take the time to tell us exactly what happened.”

  “I told you what we think. You’re the one who thinks differently.” Nevertheless Notu fetched the file. “The body is still with the pathologist.” He looked up at Kubu. “Your chap, MacGregor, drove up to examine the body at the scene. You should be satisfied with that at least.” He pored over the file again. “From his examination, he thinks the victim was killed between ten that Monday night and three the next morning. Actually we know he died around half past one.”

  He paused, but Kubu was listening intently and didn’t comment. Tatwa was taking notes. “I’ll tell you why later,” he said, his moment spoiled. “The man had been assaulted. Punched in the face, kicked, or attacked with a bat. He had cigarette burns on his face and chest. Brutal.” He set aside the preliminary notes from the pathologist and pulled another note toward him. “His wallet was gone. But his car keys were still in his pock
et. They searched the rest of his room too. Threw all the stuff out of his suitcase, ripped up the bed, searched the closet, threw out his toiletries.”

  He looked up at Kubu again, pointedly ignoring Tatwa. “Maybe they thought he had more money hidden in the room? Perhaps they had a tip-off from someone? He’d been going around markets buying items for cash. Plenty of cash. Curio dealer or something.” There was a note of triumph in the last statement. These interlopers ought to appreciate his thoroughness.

  “And what have you done about catching the murderers?” Kubu asked, unimpressed.

  Notu sighed. “Well, it’s early days yet. We’ve interviewed the hotel staff and the guests who were around. But no one seems to have heard anything. Except the person who called in.” This was his trump card, and he meant to make them beg for it. This time Tatwa obliged at once. “Who called in? What did he say?”

  “One of the guests. He heard shouting and screams. He phoned reception to complain. He thought it was a domestic row getting out of hand. The reception guy was half asleep but walked around the camp and heard nothing. He checked with the security guard, but he hadn’t heard anything either. So he shrugged it off and went back to sleep. He forgot all about it until they found the body in the morning.”

  Tatwa was almost out of his seat. “What did the guest hear, exactly? Did he hear any words? Could he confirm the exact time?”

  Again Notu’s fingers seemed the better company. “Actually we couldn’t find the guest who phoned. He must have checked out before the body was discovered. But we got a good report from the receptionist.”

  “And you haven’t tried to trace him?” Kubu was incredulous.

  “What more is it going to add? The receptionist noted the time as shortly after one thirty. The caller complained how late it was. Don’t you believe Broadman would scream while they tortured him to death? Do you think the caller made it up?” Amazingly, he seemed to be vaguely amused by the whole matter.

  Kubu swallowed. It was close to lunchtime, and they had achieved almost nothing the whole morning. “Did the receptionist note the room number of the caller?”

  “He couldn’t tell. It was an outside call, and the caller didn’t give his name or room number. Shouted about being woken in the middle of the night.”

  Tatwa was puzzled. “An outside call? Why was it an outside call?”

  Notu gave him a pitying look. “This lodge isn’t the Gaborone Sun, you know. It’s free-standing bungalows over several acres. They don’t have phones in the rooms.” He stared over their heads, waiting for the unwelcome visitors to leave.

  Kubu had had enough. He was getting hungry. “Do you mind if we talk to the people at the lodge? Chat to MacGregor when he’s through?” Notu looked offended. “Help yourself. Director Mabaku said I was to give you every assistance. Now, if you’ve no more questions, I want to get back to work.” Kubu and Tatwa left, dismissed. They realized that without Mabaku paving the way, they wouldn’t have been granted an audience at all.

  Reaching the door, Kubu turned back. Notu was as thick as a plank, and surly with it, but he certainly didn’t look undernourished. He likes his food, Kubu thought with grudging approval. Perhaps he could be of some help.

  “Anywhere good to eat lunch around here? I’m quite keen on Italian.”

  Notu didn’t look up from his desk. “The canteen opens at twelve thirty,” he replied.

  Kubu had no intention of subjecting himself to a police staff canteen and walked out. But Notu’s secretary called after him. “Excuse me, Assistant Superintendent. There aren’t any nice Italian restaurants in town, but the Bon Arrivé is always decent. It’s around the corner, opposite the airport. We go there sometimes for a celebration. Bit pricey, but the food is really good. I’ve been a few times lately.”

  Kubu smiled and thanked her. The young lady was attractive, and he imagined she would receive many invitations to dine away from the canteen. Cheerful and bright, she was the complete opposite of her boss.

  Outside, Tatwa exploded. “Idiot! He’s done nothing. These bastards are miles away by now, and he sits at his desk looking for ink on his fingers! He hasn’t even thought of tracing that call to find out who the caller was.” Kubu just nodded, distracted as he was. He was keen to get to the restaurant.

  They found it easily. It had an aviation theme, and model airplanes, aviation paraphernalia, and copies of newspapers with aviation headlines adorned the walls and ceilings. The menu was decent, and peppered with aviation jokes. The place was starting to fill up, so Kubu directed Tatwa to a table for four. Tables for two were too cramped for the multiple plates he liked.

  When they had ordered, Kubu turned to Tatwa. “All right, Tatwa. Out with it. You’ve been dying to tell me something ever since we met at Notu’s office.”

  Tatwa looked surprised, then blurted out, “I think I may have a breakthrough in the case. How did you know?”

  Kubu laughed. “I’m a detective. Let’s hear your ideas.”

  “Well, we finally got something useful out of that guy the South Africans have on the case. I hoped to tie the two murders together, so I checked where all the people who’d been at Jackalberry Camp were when Boardman was murdered.” He paused for effect, and Kubu nodded. “Good thinking,” he encouraged.

  “All the camp staff were running a braai for guests at the time of Boardman’s murder. Except Enoch, and he was stuck in the bush.”

  “Is it possible that he could actually have been driving to Maun when he was supposed to be stuck?”

  Tatwa shook his head. “He was halfway to Kasane towing a trailer when it broke a wheel bearing. Dupie had to drive there, meet him, and tow the trailer back. It would’ve been impossible to get to Maun in time for the murder after all that. Especially at night. The roads through the Savuti section of Chobe are awful.” Kubu nodded, accepting that.

  “The Munro sisters are in Gaborone at the Grand Palm, and they had dinner there that night. I phoned the headwaiter to confirm. Mrs. Boardman was in Cape Town. That leaves our friend Boy Gomwe.”

  “Or a reappearance of Zondo? Perhaps he came back for another victim?”

  “I suppose that’s possible. But why not bump Boardman off at the camp along with the others? My money’s on Gomwe. And I’ll tell you why.”

  Before Tatwa could explain, a waiter arrived with a plate of pâtés and a basket of bread. Kubu was enjoying his first mouthful, when to his amazement he looked up and there stood Ian MacGregor.

  “Ian!” Kubu exclaimed. “What good luck to bump into you here! Just the person we want to talk to.”

  “Och, wasn’t luck,” Ian said, shaking hands. “I spoke to Mabaku, and he said you’d be having lunch here.” Kubu was silent. How on earth does Mabaku know these things? Did he phone Notu and speak to the secretary who suggested the restaurant? Has he eaten here on a previous visit? Kubu shook his head. Mabaku was always one step ahead. When you stepped out of line, you bumped into him.

  Ian settled into a chair and examined the menu. “Good choice of restaurant. The tripe is delicious.” Even Kubu was glad he’d chosen something a little less exotic. Tatwa looked as though he might pass on lunch altogether.

  “Tatwa was just about to explain a theory to me,” Kubu said to Ian. “You’ll be very helpful on the case here. But spare us any grisly details until after we’ve eaten.” Tatwa looked grateful for that. “Go on, Tatwa.”

  “I’ve just explained that none of the group present when Goodluck was murdered—other than Zondo, of course—could’ve killed Boardman, except Boy Gomwe. We’ve discovered that he was in Botswana when Boardman was killed, but we haven’t been able to trace him yet. So he had opportunity. I think he had a motive as well.” He waited while the other two men digested this. “It turns out that the South African police have been keeping an eye on Rra Gomwe. They’re pretty convinced that he’s in the drug business, using his music salesman persona as a front. They don’t have much evidence, but he’s got an old conviction for possession,
and his name comes up in investigations from time to time. Now guess what the major smuggling routes for heroin into South Africa are?”

  Kubu suddenly saw where Tatwa was heading. “You think Gomwe was picking up drugs at the border?”

  Tatwa nodded. “Probably Goodluck too. The South African police were trying to track hot money when they followed him there. Money goes to the border, drugs come over it. Two plus two equals?”

  “But why the murders? Sounds all nice and cozy to me.” Ian was puzzled, but Kubu had jumped ahead. “What if Zondo decided to keep the money and the drugs? Or Goodluck and Gomwe were rivals? So the thugs who attacked Jackalberry would have been after the missing drugs and money. In cahoots with Gomwe? But where does Boardman come in?”

  Tatwa frowned. “I haven’t quite worked that part out yet.”

  The food arrived, accompanied by soda water for Ian and a Coke for Tatwa. Kubu was pleased to receive an acceptable steelworks. He worked his way through a fine rump steak, while Ian savored his tripe. Tatwa had chosen a vegetarian dish, which he pronounced very good, but he toyed with it, perhaps put off by the smell of the tripe. Eventually Kubu had to finish it for him in order to avoid waste.

  When the empty plates had been pushed back, and Kubu had reluctantly passed on dessert due to his current diet, the three men went back to discussing the case.

  “Ian, what can you tell us about Boardman?”

  “Well, death occurred at midnight, plus or minus a couple of hours. But, of course, there was the report of screams some time after one and silence thereafter. That’s consistent with the medical evidence. The neck was broken. Very hard blow, like a karate chop.”

  “That would gel with the thugs who attacked the camp,” Tatwa interjected.

  Ian nodded and continued. “There were a lot of blows—or kicks—to the body as well. But from the bruising, several of them were post mortem.”