“I didn’t know they’d kill Gomwe,” she said at last. “Douglas told me that they were just going to teach him a lesson. Show him who ran things around Kasane. That he better back off.” A sob wracked her body. “I liked him. I never wanted him killed.” She buried her head in her hands.
Kubu sat watching her cry for a time, deciding she was telling the truth. She thought this was easy money, he thought. An easy game. But the game has harsh rules, which she chose to ignore. He shook his head. Fool, he thought. What a fool.
She asked for a drink, so Kubu fetched her a glass of water. She grasped the glass in both hands and sipped. Several minutes passed before Kubu decided he could continue.
“Ms. Levine,” he said quietly. “I now want to go in a different direction. A few weeks ago, there were two murders at a camp in the Linyanti. We believe that they were drug related, and we think your friend Gomwe was involved; he was a guest there. Then another guest at the camp was murdered a week later in Maun. About the same time, the camp owners were assaulted, my wife was nearly kidnapped, and her sister was kidnapped.” He paused, but Allison said nothing. “We’re sure the people you work for are involved in all of this. I need you to tell me everything you know about your contacts, particularly in Zimbabwe. Who are they? Where can they be found? How can they be contacted?”
Allison frowned.
“I think you’re wrong,” she said at last. “As far as I know Botswana is divided up by different groups. They’ve sort of carved out the territory between them. Douglas told me that Gomwe was trying to get in on the action. Seems as though he was trying to set something up for himself. Nobody up here had ever done business with him.”
“Have you heard anything about a drug deal in a place called Jackalberry in the Linyanti?”
Allison shook her head. “But then I wouldn’t hear about it. You should ask Douglas. He’s closer to things than me.”
For the next ten minutes Kubu questioned and bullied Allison, trying to pry out of her any information that would lead him to the kidnappers. But he got nothing. He eventually decided she had nothing to offer. Frustrated and disappointed, he ground his teeth and thumped his fist on the table, making both Constable Morake and Allison jump. “Take her back to her cell,” he told Morake, and turned away. Allison shouted that she needed a fix, but Kubu ignored her.
Alone in the office, Kubu closed his eyes to concentrate his thoughts. What were his next steps? He was equidistant from Kasane and Gaborone. Should he go and help Tatwa deal with Douglas, the game ranger, or should he head back to his office and be at the center of activities? He decided he should head home and leave Tatwa to cope on his own.
What about Joy and Pleasant? Would they want to stay in Francistown for another week, which he hoped would be the case, or would they want to return to Gaborone? He shook his head. He realized he could not predict what they would want to do. He sat quietly for a few contemplative minutes, then picked up the phone and called Sampson’s house. Joy answered almost immediately—Sampson had gone to watch a soccer game.
“My dear,” Kubu started tentatively. “I need to get back to Gaborone. Do you want to stay on with Sampson for another week or so, or…”
“I love Sampson,” Joy interrupted, “but I couldn’t stand another week with him. Pleasant and I were talking a few minutes ago. We’re ready to leave.”
“Are you sure you want to go back? We haven’t caught the kidnappers yet.”
“You may never get them. We’re ready to go home!”
“Okay, okay, we’ll leave tomorrow.” Kubu was peeved that he had no say in the matter. “I’ll be back in half an hour. Can you make us some lunch?”
“Lunch will be ready as soon as you get back. I had a notion you might want something to eat.”
Kubu was not sure whether Joy was being sarcastic or funny, so he ignored the comment. “Thank you, darling. I’ll see you in a few minutes. I love you.”
Chapter 59
Tatwa was nervous before entering the empty office that served as the interrogation room in the Kasane police station. This was the first interview he had done by himself. Part of him wanted Kubu with him, but another part, struggling to emerge, wanted him to take charge and prove himself. Since Kubu was three hundred miles away, there was no option. Taking a deep breath, Tatwa opened the door.
“You don’t mind if I call you Douglas, do you?” Tatwa said in Setswana to the ranger slumped in the chair on the other side of the table. “Mr. Legwatagwata is a bit of a mouthful.”
Douglas nodded.
“I’m going to tape this conversation as an official record.” Tatwa was nervous and wanted to do everything correctly. It took a couple of minutes to provide the proper introduction on the tape, as well as to read Douglas the customary caution.
“Before I start,” Tatwa said, “I want to tell you that you’re in big trouble. You could spend the rest of your life in jail. But the more you cooperate, the more inclined we’ll be to help you. Do you understand?”
Douglas nodded again. Then at Tatwa’s prodding said, “Yes” for the tape recorder.
“Let’s start with the easy stuff. First, we are going to charge you with drug trafficking. Your friend, Ms. Levine, told us that she picks up drugs from you whenever she visits Elephant Valley Lodge. In exchange she gives you a lot of money. Of course, we are always careful to check whether someone is lying. So we did some checking. We found traces of heroin in your backpack.”
“She’s talking bullshit,” Douglas spat out. “Trying to get herself out of trouble. I always thought she was too good to be true.”
“What do you mean?”
“Coming back to Elephant Valley Lodge time after time. Always finding a single guy and then screwing his eyes out.”
“Why would she finger you then?”
“She wanted sex with me, and I turned her down. So she hates me.”
Tatwa pondered this unexpected tack for a few moments.
“How then do you explain the heroin in your backpack?”
“She must have planted it. Insurance if she got caught. Then she could blame it on me. Exactly what she’s done. And get me back for rejecting her.”
Allison Levine had not struck Tatwa as someone who would be upset about being rejected by Douglas. She would think he was just an idiot.
“Then how do you explain this?” Tatwa asked, consulting his notebook. “A few days after she visits Elephant Valley Lodge, every single time, your bank balance jumps by five thousand pula. Same amount every time. Always a week after she leaves. Always a cash deposit. Who are the big tippers, Douglas? You must be an excellent guide and ranger. Five thousand pula. That’s nearly my monthly salary. Is it Ms. Levine who tips you so generously every time she is here? For what, Douglas? For favors? I don’t think so. She may charge for favors, certainly not pay for them. No, Douglas. I think you get paid in cash every time you deliver the money to your Zimbabwean friends. Only you are too stupid to realize you shouldn’t deposit it in your bank account.”
Douglas stared at Tatwa, but did not respond.
“Come on, Douglas. Surely you know who is being so generous to you!”
Douglas continued to stare, but his focus slowly slid from Tatwa’s face into the middle distance.
He’s feeling trapped, Tatwa thought. Doesn’t know what to say. Let’s see how he reacts when I put more pressure on him.
“You know how serious this government is about reducing drug usage. Trafficking is not treated lightly. My guess is you’ll get twenty years or more for that. At least you won’t have to pay your board and lodging, right?”
Still Douglas did not respond. He looked down at his hands.
“However, we know you are a small cog in this business—an important cog, but a small one. If you give us information about the people you work with, I’m sure we can come to a deal.”
Tatwa gazed at Douglas, who wouldn’t meet his eyes. Tatwa waited until he was sure Douglas was not going to say anything. Then he said, “Wh
o do you get the drugs from and who do you give the money to?”
Douglas sat, head down. The only movement Tatwa could see was a clenching and unclenching of the jaw muscles. They sat in silence for several minutes, Tatwa hoping Douglas would break, but he did not.
“Okay, Douglas. I’ve given you your chance to help us. You’ve blown it. Now we’ll deal with the serious stuff. In addition to charging you with trafficking in drugs, I’m also going to charge you with murder—the murder of Boy Gomwe.”
Douglas looked up. “That’s bullshit. And you know it.”
Tatwa continued. “Ms. Levine says that you told her where to take Gomwe on the morning of his murder. You said he needed to be taught a lesson for trying to muscle into the market around Kasane. You knew what was going to happen; in fact you set it up. That makes you one of the murderers.”
“That’s a lie,” Douglas shouted. “She’ll say anything to save herself. You’ve nothing on me except her word. It’s all bullshit.”
Tatwa glared at Douglas, knowing he was right. All the evidence was circumstantial. They would never win a case based mainly on Allison’s word. Tatwa’s self-confidence took a dive. He was sure Douglas was implicated, but how was he to shake him?
Tatwa inhaled sharply. He was his own man now. He had to play the game himself.
“I’m arresting you, Mr. Legwatagwata, for the possession of a controlled substance, namely heroin. I expect to add charges of dealing in a controlled substance, as well as of murder. Take him away, Constable.”
“You can’t do this,” Douglas yelled. “You’ve got no evidence. You’ve nothing at all. You can’t keep me here!”
Tatwa looked at Douglas as he was led struggling from the room. “You’ll have your chance to prove that.” Tatwa spoke quietly with more confidence than he felt. “You had your chance to cooperate, but now it’s too late.”
Tatwa bit his lip, hoping the gamble of keeping Douglas in custody for a few days would make him change his tune.
Chapter 60
While Kubu was interrogating Allison, and Tatwa was trying to make progress with Douglas, Moremi was once again walking among the vendors of the Kachikau Saturday market. He was doing three things. His philosophy was that if you could do several things at the same time, perhaps you could fit two or even three lifetimes into one. So he was singing a song of his own composition to an apparently appreciative Kweh. He was thinking of Botswana in the far past, before white people, before Tswana people, before even San people, and how it might have been. Most important of all, he was keeping a lookout for a man wearing a very special hat.
Suddenly he spotted it. He stopped singing and walking, and moved the thoughts of the past out of his conscious mind. Disappointed, he realized that although the man had the right type of build and height, he was not Ishmael Zondo. He stared at the man for a few seconds.
“I’m sure it’s Rra Zondo’s hat, Kweh. Don’t you think so?” While asking the question, he was moving toward the man. An advantage of being thought eccentric was that you could do eccentric things and people were not surprised. So approaching a stranger and discussing his hat was entirely in character.
“Dumela,” he began politely. The man looked at him, wondering what this was about. He had heard of the strange cook from Jackalberry Camp. The man nodded, but said nothing.
“Your hat is very fine!” Moremi continued. “Is it perhaps a family heirloom? A man must be very proud to wear such a hat.”
Surprised, the man reached up and touched it. It was an ordinary felt bush hat, quite worn and faded, with a floppy brim all around, good for shielding the face from Botswana’s scorching sun. It had three guineafowl feathers carefully sewn onto one side apparently for decoration. When Moremi had asked about them, Zondo had said each feather was for a different type of luck. Moremi had laughed, delighted by the idea and the symmetry. There was no question that this was the same hat. And it seemed that it hadn’t brought luck to its owner after all.
“What would such a hat cost?” Moremi continued. “I suppose it’s very expensive. A poor man like me would not be able to afford such a hat.” He could see from the clothes of the hat wearer that he too was poor. He held out his hand in greeting.
“My name is Moremi. I am happy to meet you. This is my bird. His name is Kweh.” Seeing no harm in this peculiar man with his fixation on hats, the wearer introduced himself. Some small talk followed, in the course of which the possibility of the hat being for sale entered the conversation. Moremi asked if he might hold it, and checked it carefully, particularly admiring the feathers. He asked where it had been obtained, and the man said it was a gift, and then that he had found it, contradicting himself in the same sentence.
Moremi nodded, then, with apparent regret, he said, “My friend, this hat is stolen. I know it’s stolen because its owner valued it and wouldn’t have given it away or sold it. Now you must tell me how you got it and where.” Frightened, the man lunged for the hat, but Moremi whisked it behind his back with a flourish. Kweh ruffled his feathers, put up his crest, and stared with beady eyes.
Moremi shook his head. “Shall we call for help, my friend? Tell them that I am stealing your hat? Tell them how you came to have this hat, and so it is yours?” The man began to edge away, but Moremi added quietly, “If you tell us the story of the hat, I will buy it from you for a fair price.”
“I found it. It was in the bush, thrown away.”
“Where was that?”
The man gave a complicated description of the location. It was near the airstrip that served Jackalberry Camp. Moremi nodded as if he had known this all along.
“What did you do with the other things you found? The clothes and stuff?”
The man swallowed hard. This madman knew too much. “There was nothing else!”
Moremi nodding as though in agreement, jauntily placed Zondo’s hat on his own head. Kweh investigated the new addition to what he regarded as his domain.
“What did you do with the other things?”
The man capitulated. “There was only a coat. It was with the hat. Nothing else. I gave the coat to my brother.” He threw up his hands. “I kept the hat. You can have it. I don’t want it anymore.”
Moremi walked away without another word. He knew he could find this man again, knew that Constable Shoopara would now believe him, and call the fat detective or the tall one. But he felt very sad. He had liked Ishmael Zondo and his unlucky hat with the guineafowl feathers. He hummed the snatch of music that had intrigued and puzzled Kubu.
Chapter 61
The trip back to Gaborone was uneventful. Unlike Joy and Pleasant, who seemed to have an infinite number of observations about Sampson, his house, his diet, and his apparent lack of girlfriends, Ilia was uncharacteristically quiet. Except for a short visit to the grass ditch at the edge of the road, she slept the whole way.
“What’s wrong with the dog?” Kubu asked.
“She’s just homesick,” Joy replied.
They had decided to stop for tea at Kubu’s parents since they’d missed their usual Sunday lunch together, and Kubu wanted to fill them in on the details of the attacks on Joy and Pleasant. Fortunately Kubu still had the picnic chairs in the back of his Land Rover. He brought one up to the veranda so they could all be seated.
“We must buy some more chairs,” Amantle said to Wilmon, embarrassed by not being able to provide adequate seating. “When Pleasant comes to visit, we will need at least one more.”
“Why don’t you keep this one,” Kubu responded. “I have several more, and we only use them when we’re with you and Father in any case. I can always get it back if I need it.” Kubu knew that buying another chair for the occasional time when Pleasant visited would seem an extravagance to his parents. On the other hand, they would be mortified by not having enough chairs. His offer finessed both issues.
Even before tea appeared, Wilmon and Amantle wanted to hear every detail of what had happened to Joy and Pleasant. Amantle had collected
several newspapers with reports on the event, and several times contradicted one or other of the younger generation, telling them that the newspaper had a slightly different version. She obviously felt that anything in print must be correct.
When all the details had been laid to rest, Amantle leaned over and touched Pleasant on the shoulder. “At least you are safe. You must have been very scared. I think I would die if someone kidnapped me. These days you do not know what they might do to you.”
“It was horrible,” Pleasant said, holding Amantle’s hand. “I didn’t know whether to cry or scream or keep quiet. Fortunately, they only wanted to use me to get a briefcase from Kubu.”
“Which I didn’t have!” Kubu snorted.
“But they didn’t know that, did they, darling?” Joy’s question rekindled Kubu’s guilt at leading the kidnappers on.
Surprisingly, it was the normally quiet Wilmon who spoke. “I do not understand why it was Joy who found Pleasant. Why did Kubu not do it? You have not rejoined the police, have you, Joy?”
“Father, Joy is a very difficult wife sometimes,” Kubu said trying to keep a serious tone to his voice. “I told her to stay at home with two policemen to look after her, in case the kidnappers came again. When she heard about Pleasant, she climbed through the bathroom window and was able to use her friends’ help to locate where Pleasant was being held.” Kubu paused. “I have to say that even though she shows me no respect, I was proud of how she solved the problem. I’ll have to ask Director Mabaku whether there is an opening in the CID. At least I’ll be able to keep an eye on her.”
Amantle was far from satisfied. “Have you caught these wicked men?” she asked. “If you have, you must take the whip to them.” Kubu smiled to himself. His parents did not understand the difference between the traditional tribal courts, where flogging was an acceptable punishment, and the country’s formal legal system, which did not mete out justice in that way.
A Carrion Death & The 2nd Death of Goodluck Tinubu Page 72