Detective Kubu 02; The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu

by Michael Stanley

  “That’s what Langa was doing,” Van der Walle continued. “He didn’t know where the Johannesburg guy was going. Ended up in Zeerust. The Johannesburg guy had lunch with someone, who picked up a briefcase and headed back into Botswana – that’s Tinubu, of course.”

  “Tinubu is a respected headmaster in Mochudi. Left Zimbabwe after the war and settled here. Has been a great asset to the community. Never been in any trouble. Not even parking tickets. Everyone says he spends all his time working at the school. Nothing significant with his bank account either. He’s a most unlikely suspect for a drug smuggler.”

  “What about the murders? Do you have any suspects?”

  “The most likely suspect is a man calling himself Zondo – from Zimbabwe. False name, fake passport. We sent fingerprints to Zimbabwe. They tell us that his real name is Peter Jabulani and that he is a dissident. He shouldn’t be leaving Zimbabwe because they confiscated his real passport.” Mabaku shook his head. “We’ll have a tough time getting to him if the Zimbabwe authorities find him. Apparently he was quite a hero in the war, but turned against the president when he started making his own rules. I guess he feels that his war efforts have come to nothing.”

  Van der Walle nodded.

  “The strange thing is that the Zimbabwe police tell us that Tinubu died at the end of the war. They have his fingerprints, death certificate. Everything. There must be a screwup somewhere. Tinubu was definitely alive before he was killed,” Mabaku said with unintentional irony.

  The two sat in silence, finishing their tea.

  “Tell me about the guy Langa was following from Johannesburg. The one the Zeerust police followed back.” Mabaku drained his cup.

  Van der Walle shifted in his chair, embarrassed. “Unfortunately, they lost him. He must have noticed them and then shook them off. We don’t know who he is or where he is. The car registration – the one Langa wrote on that receipt you found – is false. We blew it! We’ve got nothing.”

  Even Mabaku kept quiet. Van der Walle was suffering enough.

  “I’d like to have one of my men work with you on this case. He can stay in Gaborone for a few weeks or until you close the case.” Van der Walle looked at Mabaku.

  Mabaku took a deep breath. “I’m reluctant to allow that after what has happened. I’ll let you know each week what’s happening here.”

  “Come on, Mabaku,” Van der Walle said. “Don’t be pig-headed. Langa was a South African and a policeman. We have to be involved. Tinubu met someone in South Africa before he was killed. And on top of that, you’ll need lots of information from us. My man can act as liaison so that you get what you need right away.”

  Mabaku glared at him. “Getting information at all will be an improvement! But you’re right. We need your help and you need ours. It’s just that I’m still angry that your Langa came into Botswana without my permission.” He paused. “I’ll get over it.”

  Mabaku then proceeded to lay out exactly how the detective from South Africa was to operate in Botswana. “And if he steps one inch out of line, he’ll be across the border so quickly his hair will char. Is that clear?”

  Van der Walle’s smile warmed. This was the Mabaku he knew and loved.

  ∨ The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu ∧

  20

  Boy Gomwe sat in the manager’s office at the Blast music store in Soweto, a sprawling southern suburb of Johannesburg. He was selling. It was what he did best. At that moment he was sipping instant coffee and making small talk. Part of his sales technique. Chatty.

  “You look tired, Joe. You should take a break. Do you good. I was just on holiday. Great!”

  Joe Petersen, the manager nodded, but looked sour. “Guess that’s why you’re late. Shit! I was worried. Got commitments, you know? Where’d you go anyway?”

  “Botswana. Nice.”

  “What were you doing there?”

  Gomwe gave him a look. “Holiday, like I said. None of your business anyway.”

  Petersen shrugged. “Sure. Just curious.”

  “I don’t like curious,” said Gomwe. He finished the coffee. “Let’s get to the music. How are the sales?” Petersen started describing what was, and was not, selling, and Gomwe pretended to be interested. But he was not listening, and when the manager stopped talking he pulled out an order book. “Great price on the new Jo B16 CD. Special – R50. How many you want?”

  “I don’t know. He’s not so popular anymore. Some people weren’t impressed with that Rwanda story, trying to buy that kid and all that.”

  “He didn’t buy him. It was an adoption. He’s loaded. We should be so lucky!” Gomwe gave Petersen a friendly shove. “I’ll put you down for fifty.”

  The discussion went on in this way for about half an hour. Petersen heard some snatches from new releases, liking some, disliking others. Gomwe put him down for all of them. At last he tore off the top sheet of his order book and gave it to the manager. Petersen had learned that he could not reject anything, but he could negotiate on numbers. He pushed up a few and lowered several. Then he gave the order back to Gomwe, who glanced through it sourly. He had his reputation as the company’s best traveling salesman to maintain. Hell, he wanted to win the trip to Mauritius. But it looked all right. He nodded.

  “You got my other order?” asked Petersen, trying not to sound too eager.

  “Of course.” Gomwe opened a case apparently stuffed with music magazines. Actually, there were only a few. The bottom was false. He lifted out a bag of white powder, weighing perhaps a couple of ounces. Petersen opened it carefully, smelled it, and tasted a touch on his finger. Gomwe looked on, disgusted. Petersen was pathetic. He probably could not tell the difference between salt and sugar, let alone judge the quality of heroin.

  Petersen was satisfied. The packet vanished, and money changed hands. A lot of money. No negotiation here either.

  “I’ll get your order processed as soon as I’m back in the office. That new stuff will sell like hot cakes once it hits the airwaves. You’ll be glad you put in a good order while we had stock. Thirty days as cash and five percent discount. As usual. Okay?” Petersen said it was fine. He did not see Gomwe out.

  Gomwe had one more call to make in Johannesburg. To settle a score.

  ∨ The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu ∧

  21

  Dupie maintained his happy-go-lucky appearance despite all the disruptions at Jackalberry Camp. Salome, however, was showing the strain. Police scouring every nook and cranny; the camp being closed to visitors for four days; the endless questions. She was not in the mood to entertain these guests, the first since the camp had reopened. So after dinner she sat quietly next to Dupie, saying very little. Dupie, on the other hand, was in fine form, and the guests were enjoying beers, liqueurs, or Dom Pedros.

  At least we’ll make some money, Dupie thought. He was surprised that the group was hanging together. There were two friends sharing a tent, who had arrived at the airstrip in a decrepit Cessna 172. From Maun, they said. The first man was Spanish, short and swarthy. The second, who said he was a Zulu, was big and black, with a barrel chest and heavy muscles. An odd couple. Faggots, most likely, thought Dupie. Then there was an English couple on their first tour of the wilds of Africa; a young South African couple on their honeymoon; and an elderly French couple, whose English was limited. Enoch had met them at Ngoma that morning.

  Most of the conversation was carried by the English and French couples, gesticulating energetically to communicate. They were obviously enjoying themselves, and Dupie was happy to keep their glasses filled.

  Suddenly one of the women screamed and lifted her legs off the ground.

  “A scorpion,” she cried. “A huge scorpion!”

  A large, gray creature, about the width of a whisky glass, darted from under her chair into the open near the fire.

  “That’s not a scorpion,” Dupie said. “It’s a spider. See, it doesn’t have pincers or a stinging tail.”

  “A spider? It looks more
like a scorpion to me,” said her husband.

  “No. It’s definitely a spider,” Dupie said emphatically. “Actually, it’s a spider endemic to this area. It can be a real pest, especially with people who use rooftop tents. You know, those tents on the top of their Landy or Land Cruiser.”

  The group fell silent, sensing Dupie’s next story.

  “It’s called the ladder-climbing spider,” he said earnestly. “You see those long legs? It jumps from one step on a ladder to the next. People in rooftop tents are safe from lions. But they never think of those spiders!”

  The woman drew her legs up to her chest, huddling closer to her husband.

  “It is quite scary,” Dupie continued, “to wake up with one of those spiders sitting on your face.”

  Several members of his audience gasped. Salome shook her head and rolled her eyes, like a wife hearing her husband’s story for the hundredth time.

  “The problem is you can’t just run away. A rooftop’s a long way to the ground!” He paused for effect. “But you have to remember they’re completely harmless. They feel dangerous when they’re on your nose or eyes. But they’re harmless. Just brush them off and ignore them.”

  “Will they come into our tents?” asked the English lady.

  “No, you don’t have to worry about them. Your tents don’t have ladders, so the spiders aren’t interested in you. That’s why our tents are on the ground.”

  Most of the members of the group sucked their drinks, not knowing whether to believe Dupie. Salome tried to keep a straight face.

  Conversation soon picked up again, but Dupie noticed that the women constantly checked whether the spider was near them. When it did reappear, it was running past the Spaniard. With a lightning movement, he stamped it into the ground and kicked the corpse toward the fire.

  “Hey, you react fast,” said Dupie, impressed. “But it wasn’t doing any harm.” The man said nothing and continued to sip his beer.

  About a quarter of an hour later, the honeymoon couple left for their tent. The English and French couples, now firm friends despite understanding very little each other had said, followed soon. The Englishman was still demonstrating to his French counterpart how the spiders climbed ladders by using one hand to climb his other arm. Salome took advantage of the exodus and said goodnight as well.

  “What can I get for you, gentlemen?” Dupie said. The Spaniard, who had the unlikely name of Madrid, and his friend Johannes had nursed an after-dinner drink for all of an hour. “How about an Amarula on the rocks? Or an Amarula Dom Pedro?”

  Both declined with shakes of the head.

  “You had problems here this week?” Madrid asked. He spoke good English with a strong Spanish accent.

  “We read about it,” said Johannes.

  Dupie warmed to the story. He embroidered the gruesome murders and had dozens of police scouring the island for days. “Of course, I knew who the murderer actually was!”

  His two guests looked at him impassively and waited.

  “He called himself Zondo,” Dupie said, “and he came from Zimbabwe. Actually I think he was a drug dealer. He killed his customers and took off with the drugs and the money too.”

  “Why do you think it was him?” Madrid asked.

  “Zondo?” Dupie paused. “The murders were on Sunday night. He was going to leave on Tuesday lunchtime. He suddenly changed his mind and left early on Monday. I took him to his plane just after dawn. After I got back, we found the bodies.”

  “Who was killed?”

  “The one called himself Goodluck Tinubu. A salesman from Gaborone, I think. The other was from South Africa, Sipho Langa. Not sure what he did. I think they were buying drugs from Zondo and got bumped off for the money. Zondo leaves with the drugs and the money. Nice deal.”

  “I didn’t know there was much drug stuff in Botswana.”

  “Oh, yes,” Dupie responded. “It’s one of the supply routes into South Africa, though the police deny that.”

  They watched the cracking logs and grasping flames in silence.

  “Were you able to get the registration of the plane?” Madrid asked. He sounded casual, but Dupie looked at him sharply. His skin tingled as it always did when he sensed danger. Who were these two? Why on earth would they want to know about the plane’s registration?

  “I never saw the plane. When I dropped him off, it hadn’t arrived yet. I left right away because I had to pick up some of the staff from the village. Apparently the police haven’t been able to trace it either. Flew below the radar, as they say. Mark my words, it’s back in Zimbabwe right now, and Zondo is living it up.”

  “Nobody heard anything? The camp isn’t that big.”

  Dupie shook his head. “Both were hit on the head. No noise. Langa’s body was on the far side of the island, down a bank near the water. The blow killed him straight away. We found Tinubu in his tent, throat cut. They were killed in the middle of the night. Nobody heard a thing.”

  “Where do the staff sleep? Isn’t someone on duty all night?” Johannes’s curiosity was insatiable.

  Dupie shook his head. “I sleep at the far end of the tents. Enoch – he picked you up at the airstrip – he and the cook sleep back behind us, out of sight. If I didn’t hear anything, they certainly wouldn’t have.”

  “How did the police get here? It’s a long way from Maun.”

  “They flew in from Kasane, not Maun. It’s closer. The Defense Force brought them up in some sort of twin-engine plane. After that they used a helicopter.” Dupie’s skin tingled again. Usually people wanted all the gruesome details of events like these – what the bodies looked like, how much blood, how the bodies had been discovered. These questions where different, more like an interrogation. “Normally they’d drive, but the camp’s far away from anything. Even the landing strip is quite far. A chopper’s much easier. By the time they’d finished, I think the chopper had made six or seven trips, what with detectives and pathologists. Must’ve cost a fortune. The animals around here didn’t know what was going on.”

  Johannes digested that. “How’d you call the police anyway?” he asked casually.

  “Cell phone.” Dupie was getting increasingly suspicious. He glanced at Madrid, who had said nothing for a while.

  “What happens if you lose reception for the phone? How do you contact the outside world?” he asked.

  “We have a radio,” Dupie replied. “We don’t use it a lot because it’s not private, but it works fine.”

  “Did the police agree with your theory about the other guest? Zondo, wasn’t it?” Johannes was not about to let up.

  “They didn’t say anything. Just did their investigation, gathered up the evidence, and took off.”

  “How was Zondo when you took him to his plane?”

  Dupie had had enough. “He was quiet, that’s all. He was quiet when he arrived too. Hardly said a word.” He stood up with some difficulty. He had been sitting in a particularly low chair and had enjoyed several brandies and Coke. “Well, I’m off to bed. Have to get up early in the morning. Get either of you a nightcap?”

  Johannes said no, and Madrid shook his head. With a wave, Dupie walked toward his tent, leaving them to watch the dying fire. Perhaps I’m wrong, he thought. Perhaps the murders have made me oversensitive. Perhaps they are just curious about a gruesome event.

  ♦

  Salome lay in bed unable to sleep, her mind racing. She tried lying on her side, on her back, on her front. Nothing worked.

  She heard Dupie’s tent zipper open and close. That triggered more thoughts. What was he going to do if she closed the camp? He’d been good to her, helping with everything at the camp, as well as providing humor and support. The camp could not have survived this long without him.

  She had known him almost all her life. He’d grown up on the neighboring farm, and the two families were as one. Doing everything together, they helped each other in times of need, and often holidayed together on South Africa’s glorious Natal coast.
>
  Salome rolled over onto her back and thought about the Dupie of today. He was reliable, handy. And they were friends. What other friend did she have? None, she thought. He was the only one.

  Salome heard Dupie’s tent zip again. Must’ve had too much liquid! She thought she heard someone speaking, but decided it was her imagination. Suddenly, the zip on her own tent opened. Startled, Salome sat up. How should she react if it were Dupie? A bright light momentarily blinded her. A second later, a rough hand clamped over her mouth.

  “Don’t make a sound! If you do, I’ll kill you.” Salome did not recognize the voice. She clawed frantically at the hand, trying to pull it from her face. She felt she was suffocating.

  “Stand up!”

  The man grabbed her by an arm and jerked her to her feet. She clutched her nightdress at the neck and folded her other arm tightly across her breasts.

  “Do what I say, and you won’t get hurt. I’m going to gag you and tie you up, but no one will touch you. Understand?” Salome stood, frozen. Suddenly the man grasped her throat and started choking her. He let go her mouth and, as she gasped for air, shoved a rag in her mouth. Then he released his hold on her throat. She started screaming, but the gag dampened the sound almost completely. Finally he wound heavy tape around her head and over her mouth.

  Terrified, Salome flailed at the man with her fists. With ease he caught her by the wrist and twisted her arm behind her back. He pushed her onto the bed.