“No, Mother,” he answered regretfully. “Unfortunately we haven’t.”
Amantle gave a disapproving nod and headed to the kitchen to fetch the tea.
For the next half hour, they talked about Pleasant’s kidnapping and the unsolved murders of Goodluck and William Boardman. When Kubu told them that yet another guest who had been at Jackalberry Camp had been murdered near Kasane, Amantle stood up, fear in her voice.
“Aaaii. Now you make me worried for all of you. These are very bad men. I think a witch doctor must have made an evil spirit live inside them. They are evil! I will not sleep until they are caught and locked up. You were right to go to Sampson’s house. But you should have stayed there.”
“I will calm your mother,” Wilmon said, standing up. He touched her gently on the cheek. “Do not worry, Amantle. Our son is after them. They will never get away. He is more clever than them.”
With his parents standing, Kubu thought it a propitious time to leave. He kissed his mother on the cheek, encouraged her not to worry, and formally took leave of his father, thanking him for taking care of Amantle. Joy and Pleasant cleared the table and took the teacups and plates to the kitchen. They both hugged Amantle and Wilmon. Again Kubu saw the fleeting look of pleasure lighten the reserve of his father’s face. He wants to be warm, Kubu thought, but doesn’t know how.
Eager to get home, Kubu drove faster than usual from Mochudi and eventually pulled up to the house on Acacia Street only a few minutes after the desert night had enveloped the capital city. He hoped they had done the right thing in returning. The kidnappers were still at large.
Chapter 62
Kubu had a restless night worrying about Pleasant and Joy. At 6:00 a.m. he made coffee and toast and gave Ilia her biscuits. About half an hour later Joy and Pleasant appeared. He asked them to be careful and to let no one into the house. Before Joy could argue, he kissed her and headed off to the CID.
After pouring himself another cup of coffee, he settled at his desk and found a fax in his in-basket from Kachikau about a hat. He was intrigued. Zondo’s hat. Another piece of the puzzle. He closed his eyes, not to snooze, but to let the fringes of his consciousness nibble at the unsolved cases.
Kubu had always loved jigsaw puzzles. The sky was often the hardest part. Too uniform, too blue. Some sneakier puzzles had sky pieces with one almost straight edge. So you would try to fit them into the border of the puzzle without success because they actually belonged in the middle.
Kubu took off his shoes and put his feet on the desk, thinking about pieces of a puzzle made to look as though they fit in one place, whereas they actually fitted somewhere else altogether.
This was the sight that greeted Mabaku as he entered Kubu’s office. Kubu’s substantial feet in carefully darned clean socks were nudging his in-basket out of the way. His eyes were closed. Mabaku viewed this for a moment or two with a peculiar mixture of disapproval and envy. “I can see you’re busy,” he said at last. “I’ll come back later.”
Kubu opened his eyes, gave the director an apologetic smile, and waved him to the well-worn guest chair. He maintained his comfortable position.
“Why did Zondo throw away his hat?” Kubu asked. “He always wore it. What sense did that make?”
“Threw away his hat? What are you talking about?”
Kubu filled the director in on Moremi’s discovery at Kachikau.
Mabaku pouted. “Maybe that was part of his plan? Always wearing the same hat, same jacket. Then abandon them both and put on something else. A disguise by default.”
“Yes, but why didn’t he just keep the hat and wear something else?” Kubu asked. “Why toss it into the bushes? Moremi seemed to think it was important to him. That’s why he knew Zondo hadn’t given it away.” This is a puzzle piece with a straight side, Kubu thought. But it’s not an edge piece.
“I’ve been thinking about the group at the camp that night,” Kubu continued. “We divided them into two groups. Those who were divorced from the events—just bystanders—and those directly involved. Who’s in the first group, who’s in the second? But they were all involved really, you know. Let’s go through the guests.”
He started counting on his fingers. “The Munro sisters. Nice society journalists from a liberal English newspaper? Yes, they are. But they were also tracking Goodluck and Salome through their past. Then suddenly they’re all there together. Coincidence, fate, or design?” He uncrossed his legs and stretched to get more comfortable.
“The Boardmans. Curio traders and long-time friends of Dupie and Salome. I think William discovered something the night of the murders, or perhaps the next day, and thought he could use it to advantage. Obviously it was valuable enough to make him dangerous. Too dangerous to stay alive.”
Kubu extended a thumb to join the four fingers already raised. “Gomwe. Definitely involved in drugs, but I’m not quite sure how. Perhaps it was plain greed? I don’t know. Perhaps he found what he was looking for at Jackalberry. Perhaps he had to wait until Elephant Valley Lodge. He wasn’t an innocent either.” He lifted three fingers on his other hand. “That leaves the three who were directly involved. Tinubu and Zondo, who were obviously doing some sort of exchange of goods for cash, and Langa, the South African policeman on their trail.” He lowered his hands and rummaged in his desk drawer for a packet of mints. He helped himself, and offered the box to Mabaku, who took one without comment. He knew this mood. Kubu was heading somewhere, and it would be worth following.
“Then we have the camp staff. Salome, who connects with Tinubu through the Zimbabwe war. Dupie, and probably Enoch, linked with them the same way. Moremi, who seems to see the relationships between people, even though he’s never met them before. Solomon and his wife, who appear to be bystanders, but who knows?” He popped another mint into his mouth.
“So where does that leave us?” Mabaku prompted.
Kubu was concentrating on his mint. “Madrid and Johannes were expecting Zondo to bring back the money. No question about that. So they’re also looking for Zondo. Obviously with no more success than we’re having. So where is Zondo? Where is the money? Where is whatever it is they were exchanging for the money? All vanished.” Suddenly he sat up, changing tack.
“What did you get from Beardy?”
“It was Madrid all right. Beardy knew that name, although he wouldn’t admit it. And the Johannes who hired him is the same Johannes who terrorized Salome. The fingerprints matched. As I told you, Beardy said it was drug money, but he wasn’t really convincing.”
Kubu shook his head, removed his feet from the desk, stood up, and walked over to the window. He suddenly noticed he was not wearing his shoes and vaguely looked around for them. “And what’s Madrid’s next move?”
“Beardy doesn’t know, or he’s not saying. My bet is that he’ll give up on this money and get on with making more. We need to keep an eye on Joy and Pleasant, though, in case I’m wrong.”
Kubu was looking at the director, but his mind was moving the pieces of his puzzle around. “I think we’re short of a murder, Director.”
Mabaku looked annoyed. “I think we’ve got quite enough murders already! It’s getting as bad as the BCMC affair. Why would we want another?”
Kubu did not answer. He collapsed into his chair, replaced his feet on the desk, and wriggled his toes.
“The camp, Director. Madrid must go back to the camp.” He nodded firmly and explained why.
Part Seven
The Thing Which Was Not
Here he spoke the thing which was not.
—RUDYARD KIPLING,
“THREE AND AN EXTRA”
Chapter 63
When Kubu finished the story of the attacks on his family, there was silence on the line for a few moments. When Dupie responded, it was with a single syllable that conveyed shock, surprise, even a touch of guilt, although the last may have been Kubu’s imagination.
“Shit!”
“Yes. That pretty much sums it up.”
“Wha
t about the one you caught? Has he told you what it’s all about?”
“Well, the director has been handling that himself because I’d probably tear the bastard apart. But it seems to be drugs and drug money. The briefcase and the tote are what they’re after.”
“So why hit us? Why don’t they go after Zondo?”
“I’m sure they have. Either they’ve found him empty-handed—or only with one hand full—or they’re still looking for him, like the rest of us. Something you said to Madrid must’ve put them onto me.”
“He asked me to describe the policemen who came after the murders,” Dupie said quickly. “That’s all. I had to. They were going to kill Salome!”
“I understand. Can you remember exactly what you said?”
“I think I said you were very large and from the CID in Gaborone. The other detective was tall and slim from Kasane.”
“Nothing about the briefcase?” Kubu probed.
“No, I don’t think so,” Dupie lied. “I can’t exactly remember. I was pretty shaken up.”
Kubu grunted. He was not convinced. “You were asking about Khumalo—the man we caught guarding my sister-in-law. He’s cagey, but from what he’s said we’re pretty clear what their next move will be. Now they know I haven’t got the briefcase. So it’s back to you.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means we’re sure you can expect another visit shortly. And this time they won’t leave empty-handed.”
“But there’s nothing here!” Dupie’s voice was tense.
“You know that, and I know that, but it seems Madrid is convinced that one of us has the money. Perhaps he did find Zondo. I don’t know.” Kubu paused, then continued. “But the good news is that this time he won’t have the advantage of surprise. Tatwa and I will be heading out to you with some armed constables in the next couple of days. We’ll be ready for him.”
“What about the guests?” Kubu noticed a hint of excitement in Dupie’s voice. Perhaps Dupie was relishing getting even, maybe ahead, with a bit of luck and the police on his side.
“How many have you got there?”
“Two couples. Leaving the day after tomorrow. Then a group of six on Friday.”
“Put them off,” Kubu ordered. “It’ll be too dangerous.”
“Hey, wait a minute,” Dupie spluttered. “They’re foreign tourists. You can’t just dump them on an airstrip. And anyway we need the money.”
“Find them another lodge. You want them in the crossfire?”
Dupie didn’t answer, but the point was taken. “When will you get here?”
“I’ll fly to Kasane tomorrow and link up with Tatwa. We’ll come out in a couple of vehicles the next day. The uniform guys can camp on the mainland, keeping a low profile until Madrid makes his move.”
“Okay. We’ll expect you on Wednesday afternoon. Meanwhile I’ll hold the fort. This is an island, you know. Easy to defend. Ask…”
“Yes, I know,” Kubu interrupted. “Ask Winston Churchill.”
Kubu and Tatwa set out from Kasane on Wednesday morning after a good breakfast at the Old House, and even Kubu left satisfied. From there they drove the few blocks to the police station, picked up three constables, their gear, and a power boat on its trailer, and headed toward Ngoma.
After Ngoma, the road deteriorated to a badly corrugated dirt track, and the going was tough. The policemen stopped at the Kachikau arts and crafts store for soft drinks and rudimentary take-out before heading on toward the Linyanti. After the town the road was wide, but the surface consisted of loose sand with multiple vehicle tracks crisscrossing each other to avoid sink holes, ruts, and corrugations. It was necessary to change in and out of low-range gears whenever they hit soft sand, and any forward momentum they had slowed. By the time they reached the Linyanti, Kubu was hot, irritated, and dissatisfied with packets of artificially flavored chips.
At the end, they battled to find Jackalberry. Tatwa had done it once by land, but the driver with him had known the area. Eventually they found the track and came to the makeshift jetty. When the vehicles were switched off, it was quiet, even the birds temporarily silent. The dust churned up by the vehicles mixed with the heat haze. Once again Kubu looked at the idyllic waterway, the mokoros, and the small motorboat on the far bank. The verdant smell was a pleasant change from the dusty dryness of the south. A lot of water had flowed down the Linyanti since he had seen it last, even though it was only a few weeks ago. Then, he’d had no idea what to expect. Now it was different.
“This is where the answers are, Tatwa. They were always here, not in Gaborone or Maun, or even in Bulawayo.” He nodded in self-agreement. “Come on, let’s attract attention, and Enoch can take us over. The guys can set up camp here out of sight and launch the boat. I want it ready if we need it.”
They got out of the Land Rover and walked to the water’s edge. Someone was waving to them from the distant camp. It looked like Moremi.
Kubu was sitting in the tent Dupie called his office. The level of mess was the same, the filing cabinet drawer still jammed open. The Watching Eye still held pride of place in the center of the work table, and there was still a half-finished mug of cold coffee, the same one as before for all Kubu could tell. This time Dupie claimed his right to the chair behind the desk.
“What’s the plan?” he asked.
“Plan?”
“To deal with Madrid and Johannes!”
“Oh, I see what you mean.” Kubu did not have one, so he improvised. “There are three ways they could come in—by air, overland, or by boat. We’ll be on the lookout for a boat all the time, and a motorboat will be easy to pick up by the noise. After dark it’ll be harder, but we’ll keep someone on guard at the camp all night. Keep the keys to your outboard motor with you. We have our motorboat if we need to chase them over water. By plane seems unlikely. How will they get here from the airstrip? My bet is that they’ll come by vehicle and try to slip across to the camp at night in one of the mokoros.”
Dupie nodded. “Makes sense. Don’t worry about the camp; we’ve had someone on guard at night anyway. The trick will be to catch them on the shore before they get over here.”
“Yes, we’ll set up camp a little way upstream so that the area here looks invitingly unprotected. But we’ll be on watch all the time. As soon as they get to the clearing opposite the camp, we’ll have them.”
“What if they smell rat-pie and make a run for it in the vehicle?”
“Easy. We just shoot out the tires. They can’t get far. And there’s nowhere to go anyway.”
It sounded a bit too simple to Dupie. Would Madrid fall for a trap like that? Or would he have another card up his sleeve? “What about a chopper? Straight onto the island? It can be done. The Defense Force brought Sergeant Mooka that way after the last attack, although they landed on the mainland.”
“We’ll hear it coming, same as a motorboat. We’ll be waiting for them. I don’t think they could take you and Enoch that way, let alone all of us.”
Dupie smiled. He liked that.
“What do we do in the meantime?”
Kubu shrugged. “We wait. Lots of police work is like that.” He picked up the Eye, admiring its glassy indigo symmetry. Dupie reached for it. “Careful with that. It’s valuable.”
“Oh?” said Kubu, giving it to him. “I thought you said they were all over Turkey.”
“Yes, but this one’s special. To me. Like a totem, you know?”
Kubu nodded without evident interest. “Who else is at the camp at the moment?”
“Just Salome, Enoch, Moremi, and Solomon. Solomon’s been staying overnight to help keep watch. Beauty sleeps in the village. No guests. We took your advice about that.”
Kubu thought it stronger than advice, but let it go. “Is it possible any of the staff are working with Madrid? Tipping him off?”
Dupie frowned. “Why would you think that?”
“Well, seems odd he just went for you and Salome. Why not Enoch a
nd the others? Did he already know that they had nothing to tell him?”
“Enoch and I go way back. He’s as loyal as they come. Solomon and Beauty weren’t on the island. That leaves Moremi.” Dupie shook his head. “You can’t seriously suspect him.”
“I think Madrid learned more than you told him. I think we need to watch our steps very closely. I’ll keep my eyes open. I suggest you do the same.” Dupie opened his mouth to argue, but then closed it and nodded.
“I’ll need to ask Salome some more questions, too. Some pretty odd things have come out since our last meeting, Dupie. Did you know that the Munro sisters knew of Goodluck before they met him here? And I think Salome had seen him before, although perhaps it’s buried in her subconscious now.” Before Dupie had a chance to respond, Kubu continued. “Then there’s William Boardman. He saw something important that night. Important enough to get himself killed.”
“But that was Madrid!”
Kubu shook his head. “No, we don’t think so. Why would Madrid go after him? Unless you—or someone else—told him something about Boardman. Did you?”
“Of course not!”
“I didn’t think so.”
Kubu got up and moved to the filing cabinet where there were two framed photographs. One was of a family with two teenage children—a girl and a boy—standing next to a swimming pool. Behind the family stood a smiling, dark-haired young man of about twenty wearing a bush hat set at a jaunty angle. The second photo was of a single-story house with face-brick walls and a tiled roof. To one side grew a large, thirsty-looking palm and in the background a range of hills stretched to the horizon. He picked up the family picture, examining it to see if the athletic-looking youth could have become the man across the desk, then glanced at Dupie, who nodded. “It’s Salome’s family. That’s me in the background.” He indicated the second photo. “That’s my dad’s house on the farm in Rhodesia. Nothing left now, no house, no farm. Dad passed away. In hospital in Bulawayo. At least he didn’t have his throat cut. They might have saved him, but the doctors were too busy, and the nurses couldn’t care less.”
A Carrion Death & The 2nd Death of Goodluck Tinubu Page 73