Kubu skipped meaningless condolences. “And Salome’s family?”
“They did get their throats cut. Her mother was raped and killed, and her brother had his genitals chopped off and stuffed into his mouth. Salome was fourteen then. She was lucky, you could say. They’d started gang raping her when one of the bastards shouted that the Scouts were approaching, and they took off without even bothering to kill her.”
“Were you with those Scouts?”
“Yes. But actually the odd thing is that we were miles away when a terrorist gave the alarm. He jumped the gun. We didn’t get there for another half an hour. But we caught up with the bastards.”
“What happened?”
“Took them by surprise.” Dupie pulled his finger across his throat and made a choking noise in the back of his mouth.
Kubu put down the picture. He wasn’t looking forward to asking Salome about her experience, but it had to be done. Strangely, Dupie’s ambient good spirits seemed restored.
“Time for a drink,” he said. “It’s white wine for you, isn’t it?”
Chapter 64
While Kubu was talking to Dupie, Tatwa strolled to the dining area. Solomon was setting the tables. The policemen had been invited for dinner. They would all enjoy Moremi’s lasagna and well-grilled chops done on the braai, with mielie meal and tomato gravy. After dinner, two of the three constables would return to their mainland camp in the motorboat and drop off Solomon, who was no longer needed for guard duty.
“You’ll be happy to get home tonight,” Tatwa said by way of greeting. Solomon nodded and went on precisely aligning knives and forks as though royalty were expected. “Beauty will be pleased,” he commented.
“Are you happy here, Solomon? Aren’t you worried about all the things that have happened over the last few weeks?”
“It’s my job. And Mma Salome has been good to us. Maybe now we can help her. It’ll be all right.” He examined the tables critically and started setting out water and wine glasses.
“That night,” Tatwa began, knowing he did not have to specify which one. “We think Rra Boardman saw something or learned something. Something so dangerous that it got him killed. Was there anything you can remember that was different that night—maybe something you thought about afterwards?”
“I wasn’t here that night. I left after I’d set the table for dinner. I only came across the next morning with Rra Dupie. I don’t know what Rra Boardman saw.”
Tatwa sighed. It had been a long shot. “There was nothing different the next morning?”
“Well, just that Enoch usually fetches us early in the motorboat unless he takes guests out in it. Then we come across by mokoro. I heard the boat come over earlier than usual, and then the Land Rover driving away. Enoch didn’t come to call us, so I thought we’d take the mokoro. But someone had borrowed mine, and the others were out too, so we just waited. About an hour later Rra Dupie came back and took us over in the boat. He told us he’d taken Rra Zondo to the airstrip.”
Tatwa liked to plan his interviews, sketch what he needed to explore and how to go about the discovery. But occasionally a detective finds a question in his mind that has no clear purpose. He had watched Kubu come up with a useful lead that way. So when a lateral question occurred to him, Tatwa asked it without hesitation.
“Who had taken your mokoro?”
Solomon looked surprised and shrugged. “We borrow each other’s. It doesn’t matter.”
“When did you get it back?”
“It was here. At the camp.”
Tatwa felt a thrill of interest. “You’re sure it was yours?”
“Yes. They’re all different. Mine’s quite narrow and pointed, faster!”
Tatwa smiled. A turbo mokoro! “You left it at the camp the night before?”
Solomon shook his head. “No, I went to the village with it that evening. Someone borrowed it in the morning.”
For a moment Tatwa was speechless as the field of potential murderers broadened around him. “Solomon, this is very important. Do you remember how many mokoros were at the camp when you left on Sunday evening? And how many were here when you arrived on Monday morning?”
Solomon looked puzzled. He shook his head. “Two, maybe three.”
“Were there more or the same number on Monday morning?”
Solomon shrugged. “I can’t remember.”
“Please try!”
Solomon thought, then shook his head. “It was three weeks ago. Why does it matter?”
“But, Solomon, don’t you see? Someone could have taken your mokoro on the Sunday night. To get across to the camp and commit the murders!”
But Solomon pursed his lips and shook his head firmly. “Can’t use a mokoro at night. Because of the hippos.”
Tatwa sighed. Something was believed to be impossible just because it was never done. “Why didn’t you tell us this before?”
Solomon just looked at him, and Tatwa knew the answer before he heard it.
“You didn’t ask me,” said Solomon.
At this point Kubu and Dupie joined them from the office tent. “See any weak spots?” Dupie asked.
Tatwa was supposed to have been checking the security of the central area. He shook his head. “I don’t think we’ll have a problem. It’s like a castle with a moat around it. And the moat is full of crocodiles!”
Dupie laughed. He liked that. He thumped Tatwa’s shoulder hard enough to jog his St. Louis baseball cap. “Let’s go get a beer to keep your cap company,” he said. “I think we could all use a drink.”
Chapter 65
Dupie made sure they had drinks, then got to work grilling pork chops on the braai. The others settled around the dining table, listening to the frogs call and hippos grunt. Kubu settled himself next to Salome, who had taken the head of the table. Tatwa sat opposite Kubu, with Constable Tau next to him. The other two policemen occupied the foot of the table, leaving two seats for Dupie and Enoch. Solomon hovered.
Kubu noted with approval that Tau was drinking guava juice with ice. He would have the first watch after they went to bed. Tatwa could relieve him. Kubu would take the dawn watch, in time for an early breakfast. That meant that a glass or two now would not be inappropriate, and Tatwa could have one more St Louis beer because the alcohol level was so low. Kubu thought it very unlikely indeed that Madrid would have another go at the camp. It was the residents of the camp he wanted watched to avoid any unpleasant surprises later on.
Dupie arrived with a plate of chops and almost collided with Solomon who was carrying a tray of lasagna, a big cast-iron potjie of mielie meal, and a frying pan heaped with a spicy onion and tomato sauce. “Braaivleis!” said Dupie with enthusiasm. “Nothing better! Time for a red, Kubu? I’ve got some Nederburg pinotage 2002.”
Pinotage was not Kubu’s favorite. Pinot noir—the noble grape of Burgundy—married way below its station with the peasant cinsaut. The wine was designed to grow in South Africa’s Cape region, but not to grow on the palate, was Kubu’s feeling. And 2002 had been an abominable year in South Africa. But he thought it would be snobbish to refuse. And Nederburg wines were good, in general.
Once the main course was presented, Salome said, “Dupie, won’t you bring in another small table there? Pull out the cloth. Then Solomon and Moremi can join us. They’re also involved.” It was a thoughtful gesture; Moremi and Solomon were guests for once, as well as staff.
“We don’t know what will happen next, Superintendent,” Salome said to Kubu by way of explanation. “All of us could wake up and find ourselves murdered in our beds!”
Kubu suppressed a smile, at this unlikely combination of events. “We’ll keep a strict watch,” he assured her.
“I’ll be awake, too. Backup,” said Dupie. “The 303 might come in handy yet, with a bit of luck.” He had the rifle leaning against the back of his chair.
“Constable Tau will take the first watch. Ten to two. Will you go next, Tatwa? Two to six. I’ll take over from then.”
Salome hadn’t touched her food. “When is this nightmare going to be over?”
The Batswana men were rolling the pappa into balls with their fingers and dipping them into the tomato gravy, while gnawing the well-done chops. Each had a large helping of lasagna for variety. Not without regret, Kubu put down his chop bone. “When we catch the criminals,” he said. “Not before that.”
“You mean Madrid and Johannes?” asked Salome.
“Well, yes, them also, but I had the murderers in mind. Madrid is after the cash. He didn’t send Zondo to bump off Tinubu and Langa. If he had, we wouldn’t have heard from him again. He’d have what he wanted. No, Madrid’s the injured party looking for his money. We need to catch the murderers and confiscate the money. Once that happens, Madrid will give up.” Kubu looked pensive while he rolled another pappa ball. “You know, Ms. McGlashan, it’s a funny thing. Every criminal thinks he’s smarter than the police. Never considers the possibility of being caught. Worse than that, he thinks he’s cleverer than every other criminal. So he’ll take on police and criminals all at once.”
Dupie swallowed a heaped forkful of lasagna. “You’re talking about Zondo?” But Kubu had his mouth full and just shrugged. Dupie spoke across the long table to Salome. “Don’t worry, my dear. Nothing’s going to happen. Not while I’m here.”
Kubu noticed the looks that met across the table. Something has changed between them, he thought. Interesting. What had Dupie done to win his lady’s favor?
Enoch ate in silence. Suddenly he met Dupie’s eyes, and touched his chest as though he were about to cross himself in the Catholic fashion. Dupie glanced away, and Enoch let his hand drop back to his food. From somewhere in the lagoon there came a loud series of hippo grunts. There was a loud crack, and a tree descended to comfortable elephant-trunk level. The night-bush was filled with sounds.
It was left to Moremi to respond to Kubu. “No, not clever,” he said, shaking his head. “Not clever! Not clever!” But whether he was agreeing or just commenting was unclear. “Must go see to dessert. Kweh may eat it!”
There was apple pie bristling with cloves and drenched in custard. It was delicious. Everyone’s spirits seemed improved, whether or not they’d had alcohol. Dupie told tales from what he called the “old” Africa, and everyone had a bad-news story from Zimbabwe.
“How can they let him carry on?” asked Dupie. “Surely someone can bump him off if that’s the only way to get rid of the bastard.”
“It’s not that easy. He’s got the place tied in knots. Everyone watches everyone else. And everyone is scared of everyone else. Even the police. I was there recently.” Depression and anger sounded in Kubu’s voice. Dupie shook his head at the unfathomable ways of Africa.
With Kweh on his shoulder, Moremi brought a large pot of boiled coffee. They heard another tree crashing on the mainland and pachyderms engaging in minor quarrels.
Kubu pushed back his chair, and Tatwa unfolded from his. Constable Tau was deep in conversation with Solomon, but took the cue and jumped up, followed by the other two policemen.
“We’ll take Tau up to the lookout,” said Kubu. “I want him to keep watch across the river. The guys on the mainland will watch the landing. But Tau’ll be moving around the island during the night. Don’t be concerned.” He turned to Dupie. “And don’t take any potshots!”
The group broke up. Solomon joined the remaining two constables, and they headed for the motorboat and their posts on the mainland. Kubu and Tatwa walked with Tau to the lookout, settled him there, and strolled back to the guest tent near Dupie and Salome. By mutual agreement, the detectives had decided to sleep in one tent.
“Tau’ll be asleep in an hour,” said Tatwa.
Kubu shrugged. “It won’t matter. The dangers are here on the island. Not on the mainland or across in Namibia. We better keep alert, though.”
Tatwa nodded, but was pensive. He took this first opportunity to tell Kubu Solomon’s story about his mokoro.
Kubu stopped and turned to Tatwa. “What does it mean?”
“Well, anyone could’ve come over from the mainland, committed the murders, stolen the money and the drugs, and been gone by morning.”
“How did they get off the island?”
“By taking one of the other mokoros.”
“Did Solomon notice if there was an extra mokoro at the landing when he got to the camp?”
Tatwa shook his head. “He couldn’t remember.”
“What about Zondo? He had the money by then. He and Goodluck must have done the swap that night, because he’d arranged to leave early the next morning.”
Tatwa shrugged. “Maybe not. Maybe he discovered Goodluck’s body, realized it was too late, and sat it out till morning.”
Kubu shook his head. “Why leave the swap to the early hours? No one was watching them. Right after dinner would be fine.”
“Well, maybe they did do the swap. Maybe the murderers hit Tinubu, realized that the money was gone, and settled for the drugs.”
“If they went to the trouble of coming out here, risking a mokoro ride through the hippos and crocs, and murdering two people, they knew exactly what was going on. They wouldn’t have left Zondo sleeping peacefully with a briefcase full of U.S. dollars.”
“Maybe they stole the money and left Zondo alive?” Tatwa was grasping at straws.
Kubu pouted. “Then Zondo would have run straight to Madrid who wouldn’t have wasted his time on Dupie and Salome and me. He’d be after the murderers. Anyway, it makes no sense. Why stop at one more murder? Why not just kill Zondo too?”
They resumed walking. Tatwa was silent as he scanned Kubu’s argument for leaks, but he couldn’t find any damp cracks. It was Kubu who spotted another scenario. Again he stopped in the path, grabbing Tatwa’s arm.
“Here’s a thought. Suppose they were Zondo’s accomplices? He didn’t know how things would work out. He didn’t know if Tinubu would come alone. Perhaps he mistook Langa for Tinubu’s bodyguard. If you were going to pull off a million-dollar heist, wouldn’t it make sense to have backup? They could have set it all up. The others drive from Ngoma, park in the bush. In the middle of the night, they steal a mokoro, pole over to the island, join Zondo, and hit Tinubu and Langa. They make Tinubu’s murder look like a revenge killing. Probably that’s Zondo’s idea, knowing that at least Dupie would fall for it. Then the accomplices take the money and the drugs and head back to their vehicle on the mainland. Zondo has a good night’s sleep, wakes early, packs, and Dupie takes him to the airstrip. He insists on being left there, no point in Dupie waiting for the plane. Especially since there isn’t one. The accomplices pick him up in their vehicle. He discards his signature hat and coat, selects another passport, and they all head for the nearest appropriate border post—probably at Ngoma. By the time we’re in the picture, they’re far away. Zondo looks different, his passport is different, and he’s driving in a vehicle he isn’t supposed to have. Tatwa, that could be it!”
Tatwa stood in the path. The tree frogs were getting excited; the end of summer was offering them their last mating chance. No leaks appeared to Tatwa in Kubu’s current thesis either. “Then we were wrong to come here,” he said. “The answers aren’t here after all.”
Kubu started walking again. “Perhaps. It’s just an idea to explain the missing mokoro. I’m not convinced. There must be other possible explanations.”
When they reached the tents close to the central area, they could see Dupie at the water’s edge, sinking into the river sand on a camp chair and cuddling his Lee-Enfield .303.
“Did you check with Moremi about the hat?” Kubu asked softly.
Tatwa nodded. “I spoke to him before dinner. It’s what we thought. That hat was Zondo’s trademark. Like my cap. He wouldn’t have discarded it for a disguise.”
“No, he wouldn’t,” said Kubu. Suddenly he stopped again and turned to Tatwa. “I’m not sure if someone came over from the mainland or not, Tatwa. But the mokoro is imp
ortant. We just have to work out exactly why.”
There was a sudden thrashing in the water and Tatwa jumped back. “Was that a hippo?”
Kubu shook his head. He knew something about hippos. “Crocodile,” he said, and walked on to their tent.
Chapter 66
Kubu slept lightly and was an early riser. His subconscious continued to process, and he was alert for any sound of a tent opening. At 4:30 a.m. it was still dark, but he was wide awake. He decided to relieve Tatwa; he felt guilty about his unfair allocation of watching duties in any case.
He found Tatwa at the lookout, wrapped in a heavy coat, binoculars around his neck, and a police-issue pistol next to him on the bench. He was awake and alert, and scanning with a flashlight. He had heard Kubu lumbering up the path.
“Hello, Kubu. You’re early. My watch only ends in an hour.”
Kubu shrugged. “I’m awake. Go and get a few hours sleep before the day starts. Could be an interesting one.”
Tatwa hesitated, though he was tired. “Shall I keep you company?”
“No, get some rest. I want to think, anyway.”
Tatwa handed over the gun and the binoculars and headed toward the tent.
Kubu settled himself and looked around. It was no longer really dark. There was a mauve line of clouds in the east, a false dawn heralding the true one. He could already just make out the river. And the birds were active; the bush was alive with a variety of calls: piping robins, burbling bush-shrikes, raucous go-away-birds. He tried to compete with bars of the “Bird Catcher’s Aria” from Mozart’s The Magic Flute, but gave up, chuckling. By then the true dawn was turning the clouds into a palette of reds, magentas, and oranges. A disc of fire started to rise from the river, spreading color over the water. God does this every day, Kubu thought. Even if there is no one here to see. He sat for some time watching the sky, river, and bush change around him, listening to the birdcalls, hearing the harsh and quarrelsome but somehow appropriate barks of the baboons. Hippos grunted on their way back to the water after a night’s feeding.
A Carrion Death & The 2nd Death of Goodluck Tinubu Page 74