A Carrion Death & The 2nd Death of Goodluck Tinubu

by Michael Stanley

  Mabaku looked at Kubu, waiting. The detective hadn’t come to his office to tell him this. There must be something else coming.

  Kubu looked uncomfortable. “Jacob, I’m worried sick about Joy.”

  Mabaku, whose eyebrows had risen at the use of his first name, started to reassure Kubu saying that he could have the constable with her as long as necessary. But Kubu brushed it aside.

  “She doesn’t want that. I don’t know what’s got into her. One minute she’s hoping that the thugs will try again so she can try out her latest karate chop, the next she’s in tears that they’ll murder Pleasant. And it’s affecting her physically too. This morning she was throwing up again. Said it was the strain of the last few days. I’m really concerned. Pleasant seems okay, but she sticks as close to Joy as her shadow.”

  Mabaku started to say something, but Kubu rushed on.

  “I want them to go to their brother in Francistown until we catch these bastards. They’ll be safe with him, and the local police can keep an eye on them. They won’t be going to work, following their usual routines, doing all the things that make it easy for kidnappers.”

  “Well,” Mabaku commented, “it’s up to you and them. But it’s not a bad idea. Will Joy go?”

  Kubu nodded. “Yes, because she’s worried about Pleasant, who’s as stubborn as she is and wants to go back to work!”

  “Fine. I’ll arrange the surveillance with Francistown CID.” He pulled the telephone toward him, but Kubu had more to say. “Director, I’ll take them myself.” Mabaku nodded. “And then I’d like to spend a couple of days in Bulawayo. Private trip.”

  Mabaku’s eyebrows rose again. “Oh, a private trip like the late Sipho Langa’s, perhaps?”

  “I want to find out some more about Tinubu. His background’s got to be the key. Where did he come from? What made him leave Zimbabwe? How did he get sucked into all this?” He decided it was time to play his trump card. He shoved the letter from Endima Shlongwane across the desk to the director. Mabaku read it carefully. For a few minutes he said nothing. Then he handed it back to Kubu.

  “It won’t hurt to stir the Zimbabweans up a bit with a visit,” he said unexpectedly. “But it’ll be aboveboard, official permission for everything you do. No cloak-and-dagger stuff.”

  “Exactly as you say, Director,” said Kubu demurely. Mabaku tried to look stern, but his lower lip was giving him away. “Do what you have to, Kubu, but watch yourself. The Zimbabwe police won’t respond well to anyone stamping around on their patch. And they’re not quite as strict about habeas corpus as we are.”

  Kubu left with a feeling of elation. At last he was going to do something, take the initiative instead of just reacting. But the director’s warning stuck in his mind. He would have to be careful. Very careful.

  Chapter 49

  Boy Gomwe had a swim in the pool and then sunned himself on the deck of the Elephant Valley Lodge, enjoying a gin and tonic. A small group of the valley’s namesakes were helping themselves to a drink from the waterhole in front of the lodge with equal enthusiasm.

  When he had arrived at Elephant Valley Lodge several days earlier and checked in under the name Boy Biko, he knew he had found the right place. It was perfect. It was accessed by a rough dirt track from the border post near Kasane and lay poised a few hundred yards away from the unfenced boundary road. The border patrols between Botswana and Zimbabwe along this border were a joke. With a little care and a few greased palms, anyone could travel across the border and meet a contact staying at the Lodge. The best part was that although less than thirty minutes from Kasane by Land Rover, Elephant Valley was lonely, isolated. No one would notice an exchange of goods for hard currency.

  All he had to do was wait for Mandla’s contact. He kept expecting someone to join him at the bar, to engage in social chitchat before revealing himself. But nobody had approached him.

  Now it was five days later, and he still hadn’t heard anything. He was getting anxious. Had something gone wrong? Had the exchange been canceled or postponed? None of the other guests looked like drug runners. He snorted. Of course they didn’t. They’d be innocuous. His contact would be a regular guy like himself. He toyed with his gold necklace. Relax, he said to himself. Patience. He had to admit that he had enjoyed unwinding at this lodge. Nothing to do but eat, drink, and be lazy. Very appealing.

  He ordered another drink and sat back to enjoy the elephants at the waterhole. Nice, he thought. Back to nature. Away from people with all their greed and violence. Maybe I’ll buy this place when the time is right. But very discreetly, of course.

  He looked around. Female company would be nice. As though on cue, Allison Levine, the woman he had met on the morning game drive, strolled over and appraised his strong legs and well-built torso. She was wearing a white one-piece swimsuit, which set off the smooth tan of her skin. She was not pretty, but her figure was fine.

  He offered her a drink, and she settled on the beach chair next to him. A joint would be nice, he thought. Perfect for the mood. But Gomwe stayed squeaky clean when he traveled. So, while they waited for the drinks, he lit a cigarette, and the girl accepted one too.

  “What brought you here?” she asked.

  “I’m keen on the wildlife. Elephants are great, aren’t they?” One had started demolishing a tree not far off. “Great location too,” he added without thought.

  “Certainly is,” she said. “I’ve been here a few times. I work in Johannesburg.” She did not volunteer the type of work.

  Gomwe signed for the drinks, and they toasted wild Africa. He was starting to like the girl. She really had a great figure.

  “Shall we have dinner tonight?” he suggested.

  She laughed. “Yes, dinner is good. Let’s have it together!” He laughed too, and she added, “We can have a nightcap after that. In your tent if you like. You’ve got one overlooking the waterhole, haven’t you? The floodlights are on all night. It’ll be wonderful.”

  “Sure,” said Gomwe, preening. “You can lie in bed and watch the game. Great!” Every night, he thought. I’ll have a girl like her every night.

  The next morning Gomwe would have liked to sleep in, but he’d promised Allison they’d go for a bird walk together. She had spoken about the local bird life with enthusiasm over dinner. He’d joked that he didn’t care much for birds of the feathered variety. She’d laughed and said he would when he got to know them. Anyway, she was up before the damned birds and dragged him out of bed.

  “You were involved in that Jackalberry business, weren’t you?” she asked as they chewed rusks and drank instant coffee on the patio while waiting for the guide.

  He nodded. “How’d you know I was there? Hell of a mess. Cops everywhere.”

  “Read about it in the newspaper. Look, the guide must’ve over-slept. Let’s go by ourselves. I know the way.”

  “Is that safe?”

  “Oh yes. I’ve got you to protect me, haven’t I?” She winked at him and set off without waiting for his reply.

  It was a brisk walk, and they did not look at many birds. Allison promised a great spot just ahead. Very private and romantic, she said, with a reeded pool. Great for wading birds. But when they got there, it was just a clearing in the bush with a couple of bedrolls on the ground, each with a well-used backpack next to it. A small gas burner supported a sooted kettle. There was a beaten-up Land Cruiser parked at the edge of the clearing, although there were no obvious vehicle tracks leading into the clearing. Two men were sitting in the vehicle. They got out when they saw the couple approach.

  “Hello, guys,” said Allison. “Let me introduce the person Mandla sent us.” But actually she did not make any introductions, and the men did not look friendly. Gomwe decided the walk had been a big mistake.

  No one missed Gomwe until after breakfast. Allison said she had joined him for coffee at dawn, and then he had gone for a jog around the camp. He had promised to stay close. She had wandered between the tents behind the lodge itself, looking
for bird life in the trees and shrubs. She was excited about seeing a flock of parrots and had asked Douglas, one of the guides, which type they were.

  The camp’s two guides started a search of the area, one on foot close to the camp, while Douglas took one of the game-viewing vehicles and headed slowly along the track from the lodge. Gomwe had gone farther than expected, and it was a while before Douglas radioed in. He had found Gomwe near a small clearing some way into the bush. It seemed he’d had an unfortunate encounter with one of the valley’s massive inhabitants.

  As manager of the Elephant Valley Lodge, Adam Kamwi felt a heavy responsibility for his guests. He wanted them to return in the future, and to tell their friends in foreign countries of their wonderful experiences. And their safety was his highest priority. The radioed message from Douglas could not have been worse news. “Stay where you are,” Kamwi said after getting careful directions. “I’ll come right away.” He took the other vehicle and headed out.

  Crunching his way over the scrub following Douglas’s vehicle tracks, he came to the clearing. Douglas had driven his vehicle right up to Gomwe’s body—a sensible precaution with a rogue elephant nearby—and now was standing next to it as he watched Kamwi’s approach. The manager stopped, turned off the engine, and called, “Where’s the elephant?”

  Douglas shook his head. “I’ve heard nothing. I think he’s moved off.” But there were plenty of signs. Huge elliptical footprints, scuff marks, broken shrubs. Kamwi walked over and looked down at the remains of the man. The elephant had crushed the chest cavity, stomping or perhaps even kneeling on him. His khaki bush shirt was crimson-stained, but there was not a lot of blood. His head was at a strange angle, and one cheek seemed to be crushed in also. It was a shocking injury, perhaps a vicious blow with the trunk. Nearby was a signature pile of dung. It was no longer steaming but still damp, giving off its distinctive sweetly pungent smell reminiscent of wet compost. It seemed that Gomwe’s killer had scant respect for its victim’s earthly remains.

  Douglas was walking around the body as if he needed multiple perspectives to establish that Gomwe was dead. “There’s a tarpaulin in the vehicle. We can lift him between us.”

  “We should call the police.”

  “We can’t leave him here. There are predators all over the area. I’m not waiting here.” Douglas was adamant. He was already pulling the canvas sheet from the vehicle. Kamwi shrugged. May as well get it over with. As they dragged the body onto the sheet, it made strange gurgling sounds and an awful smell enveloped them. Kamwi was glad when they had heaved it onto the back of Douglas’s vehicle, and he could retreat to the sanctuary of his own.

  They took the body to the Kazungula police station, where there was discussion but not much interest in Boy Biko. Then one of the constables opened the wallet found on the body and saw that the man’s name was Gomwe. Immediately there was consternation. This was the man the police had been hunting for over a week. The senior officer put through a call to Kasane at once. Soon he was speaking to Detective Sergeant Mooka.

  Tatwa arrived with a white man, a Kasane doctor who did occasional work for the police. While the doctor unwrapped the tarpaulin and examined the body, Kamwi spoke to Tatwa in Setswana.

  “This is going to kill us! First the murders at that Linyanti place, then the attack there last week, the murder of that tourist in Maun, and now this. Almost worse than another murder!” He glanced at the doctor, and his voice dropped. “It’s not the first time, you know. The elephants around here go rogue. It’s the poaching from the Zimbabwe side. I’ve called the parks people. I want the bastard shot. Sooner the better.” He bit his lip. “We’re already getting tour operators worried about safety issues up here.”

  Tatwa was dubious. Maybe the elephant could be tracked, but it seemed unlikely they would find him unless he was still close by.

  The doctor joined them. “Broken neck, smashed rib cage. Knelt on, I’d say. Broken neck is good. Didn’t suffer long, poor devil.”

  “Who found him?” Tatwa asked Kamwi.

  “The staff missed him at breakfast, and we sent the rangers out to look for him. When Douglas radioed in, I went out there myself. It was nearly a mile from the camp.”

  The doctor looked surprised. “What the hell was he doing out there?”

  Kamwi shook his head disgusted. “Tourists fall into two categories. The ones who’re scared stiff half the time and won’t walk to their tents without a guard, and the ones who think they’re invincible. Those go around telling everyone that being in the bush is safer than driving a car, and then go jogging there alone.” He shook his head. “We called the police and brought the body here.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, it was a violent death! We had to inform the police.”

  “No, I mean why did you move the body?”

  “We couldn’t leave it for the hyenas!” Kamwi grimaced. “Look, what do you want us to do, Detective? Get the body up to the hospital? Will you notify next of kin and so on?”

  Tatwa thought about it. “Is there any possibility that he wasn’t killed by accident? That there could be foul play involved?”

  The others looked at him in surprise. The doctor shook his head. “No man could do that sort of massive damage. You think there’s a homicidal maniac out there with a trained elephant?”

  “Look,” said Kamwi, switching to Setswana again. “We don’t want this to get worse than it is. Let’s get the body to the morgue, try to keep it all low key, and get on with our business. Kasane lives on the tourists. Gomwe—if that’s his real name—decided to play Russian roulette and lost.”

  Still Tatwa hesitated. “You’ll sign the death certificate?” he asked the doctor, who nodded. Tatwa thought back to Jackalberry Camp. Eight guests gather for dinner on a Sunday night. The next morning two are dead and one has vanished. Before the end of the week the camp owners are assaulted by thugs looking for a briefcase. A few days later another of the guests is murdered in a supposed robbery that actually isn’t. Now another of the guests is dead. Five out of eight! Coincidence? He shook his head.

  “I’m investigating this as a suspicious death. We’ll send the body to Gaborone for a proper autopsy, and I want a forensics team to come with me to the place where the body was found.” Kamwi looked as though he was going to explode, but Tatwa held up his hand. “No need to make a big scene of it. We’ll keep it quiet. No announcements for the moment. Doctor, go ahead with the death certificate. I want to be very careful, but I’m probably wrong. If I am, this’ll all be tied up quickly.” He did not say what would happen if he were right.

  He called Kasane for the forensics team and asked them to make arrangements for the body to be driven to Gaborone. Unfortunately, autopsies were done nowhere else in the country because of the shortage of trained pathologists.

  Tatwa followed Kamwi and Douglas back to the lodge. His first call was Gomwe’s tent. It was a luxurious affair with a queen-size bed, hanging space for clothes and a dresser, and a separate shower and toilet. Judging by the way the bedclothes were tossed back on both sides of the bed and the look of the pillows, Gomwe had enjoyed company the night before. There was a hard-body suitcase on the dresser, and on top of that was a briefcase. Well, Tatwa thought, lots of travelers have briefcases, but just suppose…

  He took a pen knife and checked the catches, careful not to touch the case with his fingers. Both catches snapped back cleanly, and he used the knife to lever the case open to avoid smudging any prints. The lid had a notebook, business cards, a calculator, all neatly held in pockets. The case itself held music magazines and catalogues. But the detective was suspicious. He slid the knife blade down the side of the case until it reached the base. Comparing the knife against the outside of the case, he could tell that the supposed base was much too shallow. There was something hidden below the magazines with their screaming covers. He was sorely tempted to find out what. But he did not want to spoil Forensics’s game. He snapped the catches shut using the bac
k of the knife and lifted the briefcase using a handkerchief. It was too risky to leave it in the unsecured tent. Then he went outside to break the latest bad news to Kubu.

  Chapter 50

  Kubu left home at 9:00 a.m. after a good breakfast. He wanted to leave late enough to miss the traffic headed north, and he wanted to leave on a full stomach. “Your brother knows nothing about food,” he grumbled to Joy. She was busy packing and ignored him.

  Kubu carefully checked his Land Rover, and the family settled in. The plan was for Pleasant and Joy to stay with Sampson for a week, but the vehicle was bursting with luggage. It looked as though they could all survive for at least a month in Francistown. Even Ilia had a huge bag of her favorite dog biscuits.

  “You can’t always get them,” Joy explained.

  “The dog never eats biscuits anyway,” said Kubu. “She doesn’t like them. She always has our scraps. That’s why she gets fat and has to have expensive diet biscuits.”

  Quick as a flash, Joy responded, “No one would get fat on your leftovers.” Pleasant thought this very amusing. Kubu subsided, and squashed Ilia’s rations into the back of the vehicle.

  Francistown is a five-hour drive along a road that is good but offers little interesting scenery. A double-lane highway led them to Mochudi and after that the road was two-lane, but wide and well maintained. Kubu started to feel they were setting off on holiday rather than fleeing a murderous group of Zimbabwean kidnappers. In celebration, he launched into an aria from Aïda. Pleasant and Joy also relaxed and hummed along. Ilia was less sanguine and howled when he reached the high notes.