Detective Kubu 02; The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu

by Michael Stanley

  ∨ The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu ∧

  10

  Several hundred miles to the northwest, a group of men – four black and one white – were sweltering on a dusty veranda, a lean-to against a corrugated iron building. The inside of the house, now an oven because of its metal walls, was unbearable in the heat of the late afternoon Zimbabwe sun. About a hundred yards away was a dirt airstrip. It looked unused; vegetation was starting to encroach. Only the summer drought had kept it serviceable at all. The men had been expecting the plane for some hours. As the wait lengthened, tension increased and tempers frayed. Only the white man sat quietly, calm, coldly looking at the group around him. He called himself Madrid, but one wag had suggested that a colder city would be more appropriate.

  Johannes Mankoni, Madrid’s man, finally lost patience. “Where are the bastards?” he yelled. “They should’ve been here hours ago. Don’t tell me you don’t know. Find out! Get the pilot on the radio.”

  Others started talking, but the man seated at the head of the table held up his hand, and immediately there was silence. Tall with graying hair, the man had a military bearing that commanded respect. Even Johannes stopped what he was saying. Only Madrid appeared unimpressed.

  “The man we are talking about,” said General Joseph Chikosi, “is one of my most trusted people. Perhaps there has been a problem, a delay. It’s mad to start panicking and talking about stupid courses of action. We wait. If the plane is there, and the pilot is there, there’s no need to call. They will get back here as soon as they can. If the pilot is not there, it’s the police who will be monitoring the radio.” He pointed to his cell phone lying on the table. “Why not just phone the police from here and save them the trouble of tracing us?”

  Madrid’s eyes turned to Chikosi, and he cocked his head. “It’s coming,” he said.

  Johannes started to object, but then he heard it too, the distant drone of a light plane engine. Chikosi’s face broke into a smile, and the fractious mood lifted. Only Madrid remained impassive. “But it’s three hours late,” he said flatly.

  By the time the plane landed hard and bumped to a stop trailing a cloud of dust, they were all gathered at the end of the strip. But the man who climbed out of the Cessna 172 was alone.

  “Where is he?” asked Chikosi. The pilot looked at the faces, now closed, unwelcoming.

  “He wasn’t there. I waited for three hours. Nothing. Then I took off and did a pass over the area, I thought perhaps their vehicle had broken down. Nothing. From the air I had a cell phone signal so I tried to call him. Nothing. It went through to voice mail at once. After that I got out in a hurry.”

  Chikosi’s men said nothing while they digested this. It was Madrid’s voice that cut through the screaming of cicadas. “We don’t know what’s happened, but it’s nothing good. We have to take precautions. We don’t risk our security. The police may have him. Maybe they were caught, maybe they made a private deal. We move out of here right away. The farm will be safe. For the moment.”

  “We may be overreacting,” said Chikosi. “What about Peter? What do we do about him? We should give this some thought.”

  Madrid shrugged as though the matter was of little concern to him. “If he wants to contact us and if he can, he will. If I were you, I’d take the plane out right away. Suit yourself. But we’re leaving now.” He walked off followed by Johannes, who gave the group an angry frown over his shoulder as he left.

  Madrid did not look back. He knew the others would follow him. They always did.

  ∨ The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu ∧

  11

  One of Kubu’s delights, rarely enjoyed when on duty, was a leisurely cup of tea, with the milk poured first of course, two teaspoons of sugar, and a plate of mixed biscuits from which to choose. His wife Joy would comment, out of earshot, that it was not a matter of choice, but of order, because it was rare that any biscuits were left.

  Jackalberry Camp offered Kubu and Tatwa tea and mixed biscuits. Kubu was delighted; Tatwa merely thankful.

  Kubu had just delicately removed one side of a lemon cream and was about to nibble around the filling, when his phone rang. It was Ian MacGregor. There was no mistaking the Scottish brogue.

  Ian told Kubu about Mabaku’s visit and his exploration of the corpse. Kubu snorted with delight at the image of Ian handing innards to Mabaku. Serves him right for being so pushy, he thought, Ian gave a quick summary of what he’d found, including his guess that the same weapon, something like a large wrench, had been used to kill Langa and knock out Tinubu. However, he emphasized that Tinubu’s death was caused by a stab wound to the heart made by a thin, sharp instrument.

  “Could it have been an arrow?” Kubu interrupted.

  “No, that would have been too thick.”

  “What about a miniature arrow? Say one from a Bushman child’s toy kit? They’re sharpened like the adult ones.”

  “I don’t think so. The entry wound would have been different, and Bushman arrowheads are designed to come off the shaft of the arrow. The head would have been left in the body.”

  “Oh.” Kubu was disappointed. “When did the murders take place?”

  “By the time I got to Jackalberry, rigor mortis had set in. I estimate Tinubu died between two and five in the morning. It’s impossible to be entirely accurate, but I am sure it was after midnight. The same for Langa.”

  “Any idea who was the first victim?”

  “Can’t say, I’m afraid. Does it matter?”

  Kubu sighed. Why was it that whenever he asked a question, the response was always to ask his reason for it? As yet, he had no idea what mattered. He changed the subject.

  “Do you have any theory about the ears being cut off and stuffed in his mouth or the cross on the forehead?”

  “In my experience, sometimes mutilations like this are used as a warning. Sometimes as a statement by the killer.”

  Kubu pondered this. He thought Ian might be right.

  After a few more questions, Kubu said, “Thanks for the update, Ian. I should be back in Gaborone tomorrow. I’ll give you a call. Perhaps we can have a drink together, but not a bottle of whisky like last time. My head has yet to forgive me.”

  ♦

  After tea, Kubu looked for the Munro sisters. Dupie said they had returned to their tent and offered to call them.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Du Pisanie. Tatwa and I need some exercise.” The two policemen set off at a leisurely pace.

  Trish and Judith Munro were waiting in their tent. They looked in their early fifties, and were slim and attractive even in stereotypical khaki bush clothes. They were obviously sisters, but Judith looked reserved while Trish had a ready twinkle. They sat on the beds, and Kubu and Tatwa made themselves as comfortable as possible on the two folding canvas chairs. Kubu’s chair bulged disapprovingly, while Tatwa had to sit at a slight angle so that his head did not touch the tent. Trish was having difficulty suppressing a smile. She covered her amusement by offering each of the detectives a glass of water.

  “In England it would be tea, of course. Thomas Twining was our medicine man,” she said. “But all we have in the tent is bottled water.” Kubu and Tatwa thanked her but declined.

  “This shouldn’t take long, Miss Munro. I know you’ve already spoken to Detective Mooka here. I just want to go over a few points. When did you realize something was wrong?”

  He looked at Judith, but it was Trish who replied. “We heard Beauty scream. It sounded dreadful. We thought it might be a hippo or an elephant or even a lion. But we didn’t see what we could do, and we were scared. So we just stayed in the tent. Isn’t that awful?”

  “Probably the sensible thing to do. What happened after that?”

  Trish seemed about to speak again, but Judith cut in. “A few minutes later, we heard Dupie at the next tent, so we went to ask what had happened. He said that Goodluck had been murdered – in the tent only yards from us! It was a horrible shock.” Trish nodded agreement.
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br />   “Did you hear or see anything during the night? Anything at all unusual or suspicious?”

  “We heard his tent zipper about eleven. We were reading. I commented that Goodluck must have found some company at the bar,” Trish said.

  “Are you sure it was eleven?” The sisters nodded.

  “I checked my watch. I was surprised how late it was,” said Judith.

  “Nothing else?” They both shook their heads, but then Trish said, “Something woke me during the night. But I thought it was an animal. There are lots of hippos. They ask us not to wander around after dark.”

  “What exactly woke you?” Tatwa asked, but Trish just shrugged.

  “It must have been a noise, but I don’t recall any particular sound.”

  Kubu changed tack. “Mr. Du Pisanie tells me you are writers. Is that correct?”

  Judith nodded. “We write biographical articles for magazines and Sunday supplements. Stories about interesting, but not necessarily famous, people. It’s great fun doing the research together. Our pen name is Trudy Munro by the way.”

  “Extremely interesting!” said Tatwa unexpectedly. “Are you working on something now?”

  There was a moment’s silence before Judith said, “No, we’re simply on holiday. Even writers stop thinking about writing and go on holiday sometimes, you know.”

  Kubu wondered if that could be true. How do writers switch off? “Do you have any of your work with you?” Trish dug in a carry-on bag and wordlessly handed him a cutting from the London Sunday Telegraph of a few months earlier. “May I borrow it? I’d like to read it later. I’ll return it tomorrow.”

  Trish laughed. “Of course. The only thing writers like as much as being paid is being read! It’s about…”

  But Judith interrupted firmly. “Let the superintendent find out for himself, Trish.”

  “How did you find this camp?” Again there was an odd pause, and again it was Judith who broke the silence.

  “We have a friend who’s a travel writer for a London newspaper. She stayed here and wrote a positive piece about it. We were intrigued and thought Botswana would be wonderful to visit.” She smiled.

  Kubu nodded. “Well, I’m sorry your trip has been spoiled by this experience. Perhaps you can write an article about it and recoup your expenses? Or at least make it tax deductible?” Neither sister knew what to make of these remarks. They started to respond, but Kubu was already on his way.

  “Thanks very much, ladies. That will be all for the moment. I’m sure we’ll see you at dinner.” Tatwa followed him through the flaps, shoulders stooped, head bowed.

  ♦

  After the policemen had left, the two sisters sat in silence for a few moments. Then Judith asked, “Why did you give him the article?”

  “Why not?” Trish replied doubtfully, but then she regrouped. “Don’t you think we should’ve told him why we came here? And what we thought about Goodluck? It might be important.”

  Judith turned away. “We made a promise. And we were mistaken about Goodluck. We must’ve been. It would be a crazy coincidence.”

  “We’ll have to check when we get back to Gaborone.”

  “Trish, I have to admit, I was always afraid our research might hurt somebody. Now someone is dead. I think it’s time to drop it.”

  Trish twisted the ring on her index finger. She did not reply.

  ∨ The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu ∧

  12

  Kubu was bored with the interviews, but knew he had to complete them. The Boardmans had wandered up to the lookout searching for birds, so he and Tatwa turned their attention to the staff.

  “Four to go,” Kubu remarked to Tatwa as they were waiting for Beauty and Solomon. “Then we can have a drink.”

  Before Beauty and Solomon arrived, Kubu’s phone rang again. Mabaku, he thought, answering formally. But he was delighted to hear Joy’s voice instead.

  “How are things going, darling?” she asked. “I miss you already. When will you be home?” Kubu smiled. He was so lucky to have a wife like Joy. Best friend, superb cook, and lover all in one.

  “I’m in the middle of interviewing everyone at the camp,” he replied. “So far, there seems to be only one person who could have committed the murders, and it seems he’s in Zimbabwe already.”

  “Will you be able to extradite him?”

  “If they find him and want to let him go. They may want to keep him. You know the reputation of the Zimbabwe authorities. What’ve you been up to?”

  “Oh, I’ve had an exciting afternoon. I won my first karate match! I went to the dojo after work, and we had proper matches. I beat a woman in her twenties!”

  “That’s wonderful, dear. You’re becoming quite a star.” Kubu didn’t feel as enthusiastic as he sounded. Joy’s obsession with karate had started when he was in the hospital after being assaulted while investigating a case. Joy had announced that if he was in danger in his job, she might well be too. So she was going to take self-defense lessons and learn to shoot. Kubu had protested that looking after her was his responsibility. She refused to budge and got Mabaku’s support for shooting lessons, under police supervision. Then she joined a karate club.

  Kubu had wrestled with feelings he did not really understand. He’d never put any limits on her activities, yet he felt hurt, and a little angry that she wouldn’t listen to him. But he was wise enough not to interfere. He remembered how he had smugly thought that the phase would last a few weeks and that would be that. How wrong he had been! She completed the shooting lessons, but showed no further interest in firearms. However, she took to the karate and its focus on both body and mind like a gemsbok to the desert. Now here she was a year later winning matches!

  Kubu snorted and had to admit, only to himself of course, that he was proud of her accomplishments, particularly since she had never taken part in sport before.

  “I’ve got to get on with my interviews, dear,” he continued. “I’ll phone you this evening, if I can get a signal. With luck I’ll be home tomorrow. I love you!”

  ♦

  A few minutes later, Beauty and Solomon pushed back the flap of Dupie’s office tent. This posed a problem because there was space only for three chairs, so Tatwa had to stand. They rearranged two of the chairs so that he could stand directly in the middle of the tent and not have to stoop.

  “Dumela,” Kubu said politely.

  “Dumela,” they replied.

  “Beauty, Solomon,” Kubu said quietly, continuing in Setswana. “I have to ask you a few questions. I’ll try to keep this as short as possible. Beauty, tell me how you found the body.”

  Beauty took a deep breath. “I went to Rra Tinubu’s tent to clean. The flap was closed, so I called. No answer, so I thought he was eating breakfast. I opened the tent and went in. He was on the floor. Blood everywhere. Throat cut. He was dead.”

  “How did you know he was dead?” Kubu asked.

  “A man on the floor with his throat cut is dead,” Beauty replied looking at Kubu challengingly. Everyone knew that you killed goats and cows by cutting their throats. They always died.

  “Don’t be rude to Rra Bengu,” Solomon admonished. Beauty shrugged.

  “Did you touch anything when you were in there?”

  Beauty shook her head. “I was very scared. I ran to Rra Dupie.”

  Kubu turned toward Solomon. “You don’t stay at Jackalberry Camp, do you?” Kubu asked. Solomon shook his head.

  “No,” he said. “We stay at the village across the water. Enoch picks us up most days.”

  “But not yesterday?”

  “No, Rra Dupie did. He took Rra Zondo to catch a plane.”

  “How do you know he took Rra Zondo to the airstrip?”

  “Rra Dupie told us when he picked us up.”

  “Did you see him take Rra Zondo? Did you hear a plane?”

  Beauty and Solomon shook their heads in unison. “The airstrip is far away,” Beauty contributed. “I did hear the motorboat come across ear
ly in the morning.”

  “What time did he pick you up?”

  “About half past seven,” Solomon replied.

  Kubu looked down at his notebook. “Did you notice anything about Rra Zondo? Did he say anything to you?”

  Beauty shook her head. “I didn’t see him.”

  “I spoke to him,” Solomon said. “Two times. At lunch and dinner two days ago. He was quiet, but very polite. Thanked me for good service.”

  “Did he give you a tip?”

  Solomon shook his head regretfully. “No. Usually only at the end of a visit. And he left too early to see me the next morning.”

  “Just a few more questions. When you cleaned Rra Zondo’s tent the day before he left, did you notice what luggage he had?”

  Beauty hesitated. “A big suitcase and bag. Blue, I think.”

  “And Rra Tinubu?”

  “Brown suitcase and briefcase.”

  Kubu made a note in his book, then looked up.

  “Thank you both. You may go. You can go back to your village, but don’t leave it except for coming here.”

  Beauty and Solomon nodded, again in unison.

  ♦

  Enoch Kokorwe was next. He sat straight up in the plastic chair, his arms folded across his chest. He just nodded in response to the greetings from Kubu and Tatwa.

  “How long have you worked at Jackalberry Camp?” Kubu asked.

  “About twelve years.”

  “How did you get the job?”

  “I know Dupie from hunting trips in the Kalahari. He asked me to come.”

  “What do you do here?” Kubu asked, glancing up from his notebook.

  “I’m the camp manager. I hire the local staff and keep things running properly. Me, not Dupie. And I know the birds. I guide mokoro trips and walks too.”

  “Are you from Botswana or Zimbabwe?”

  “Zimbabwe. Born near Bulawayo.”