Detective Kubu 02; The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu

by Michael Stanley

  “You don’t buy it?” asked Mabaku.

  “Well, if they used a wrench, where did it come from? No one at the camp reported one missing. And the ones we tested were all clean. Whichever way I look at it, it seems premeditated. More important, the whole thing doesn’t ring true with Tinubu’s character. I can’t reconcile his work at the school in Mochudi over all those years with what happened. Tinubu, a murderer? Drug smuggler?”

  Kubu shook his head. “It was something else. I think Goodluck was a victim.”

  Mabaku looked grim. “Well, I have some information to contribute. The Munro sisters actually came out to Botswana to follow the lives of some people involved in the Rhodesian war. One of those people was Salome McGlashan and another was a George Tinubu – the name Goodluck used when he lived in Rhodesia.” He filled the group in on his meeting with the Munro sisters. “Kubu needs to follow up with them. We haven’t had the opportunity with all this other business. The point is that there’s now a real chance that Tinubu and Salome knew each other. Maybe they didn’t recognize each other and maybe they did. But it’s a connection; before we had strangers. It raises the possibility of other motives.”

  “Revenge is a powerful motivation,” said Ian. “Could Salome have been the murderer?”

  Kubu shook his head. “Based on my assessment of her, I doubt it. And what about Langa?”

  “Maybe he caught her in the act while keeping an eye on Tinubu as you suggested,” Ian responded.

  “Why kill him at the other end of the camp? Hardly likely she’d be able to do that if she’d lost the element of surprise anyway. And how was she going to explain the bodies in the morning?”

  “She could blame the murders on Zondo!” said Zanele excitedly. “Exactly what happened!”

  “According to Dupie and Enoch, she didn’t know Zondo was leaving early. And how would she know he was going to disappear?”

  Zanele was unconvinced. She seemed to like Salome in the role of vengeful fury. “What if she had help from Du Pisanie? Or one of the other camp staff?”

  “Well, Dupie certainly had no love to waste on black Zimbabweans – especially the ones running the country there now. He still refers to them all as terrorists. But to commit murder on the spur of the moment in front of a camp full of people for revenge when the truth was sure to come out? He knew where Tinubu lived and could have chosen his moment.” Kubu shook his head again. “It doesn’t add up. But we do need to dig deeper into this issue with the Munros.”

  Mabaku looked pensive, but he could not fault Kubu’s reasoning.

  “Does that mean that it had to be Zondo? Because he was the only one who knew about the briefcase and so had a motive?”

  Tatwa broke in excitedly. “That’s what we thought. But it’s not right. Tinubu lost his keys at one point and was very upset about it. They turned up, but could easily have been lifted and used to search the stuff in his tent in the meantime. One of them could have been a key to the briefcase. So someone not involved in the smuggling could’ve known about the contents of the briefcase. Mind you, there wasn’t a briefcase key on the ring we found in his tent, but that could be because the murderer needed it to open the briefcase.”

  Kubu joined in. “So anyone who was nosy could’ve discovered a briefcase full of money, and then would have a motive. The only thing is, he would have to be suspicious to make him look in the first place. Someone who had an inkling of what was going on. And that brings us to Boy Gomwe.” Kubu looked at Joshua Bembo, inviting him to share what the South African police had discovered. Joshua obliged by filling in the background and their suspicions of Gomwe’s drug-running activities, lamenting that Gomwe always seemed to be one step ahead.

  “That makes Gomwe a suspect. What was he doing at the camp? And he would’ve guessed or suspected what was in the briefcase. Enough motivation to steal the keys and take a look. And then…” Tatwa trailed off leaving the rest to their imaginations.

  Kubu was no longer concentrating. The fatcake was long gone, and he was thinking about breakfast. There was a real danger the meeting would go on all morning. He would have to think of something; he doubted he could hold out until lunch.

  Mabaku picked up the story. “Then on Thursday night two thugs attack Du Pisanie and McGlashan at Jackalberry Camp. They were after the briefcase. That means Tinubu’s murder wasn’t a hit or a personal vendetta, it was for the money and drugs or whatever. And the thugs knew Zondo. They came to the camp because Zondo wasn’t at the airstrip when the plane arrived to pick him up. That looks as though Zondo decided to take off with the lot. To cut his bosses out. Perhaps he thought the Zimbabwe police were on his trail. Perhaps he just got greedy. Then, of course, Kubu stuck his neck out and damned nearly had it chopped off.”

  “What we need to do now…” Ian began, but Kubu interrupted.

  “What we need to do now is take a break while we order more tea and send out for muffins. Plenty of muffins.” Without waiting for Mabaku’s approval, Kubu was on his feet and heading for the door. “And I need to call home to check on Joy.”

  The others were happy enough to stretch their legs. Even Mabaku felt that a muffin might help his indigestion.

  ♦

  Once the food had been assembled, the meeting resumed. Kubu would have liked to eat in peace, but Mabaku was impatient to continue. “Let’s get to the murder of William Boardman,” he said selecting a banana muffin as his second. Kubu was busy with a chocolate one and waved to Tatwa.

  “Boardman was murdered late on Monday night. Assistant Superintendent Notu thought it was an opportunistic robbery, but that makes no sense. Boardman was accosted at his room at the Maun Toro Lodge. Either he was forced into it, or he let the murderer or murderers in. Once again, there was a lot of misdirection. Whoever killed Boardman wants us to think it happened later than it did. Someone pretending to be one of the guests phoned reception at one thirty to report a big noise in one of the bungalows, but Kubu and I established first that no one heard the noise and, second, that none of the guests phoned in. In fact, the murderer made the phone call when he was already well on his way. Our trace on the call showed it came from Boardman’s own cell phone, no doubt taken from the murder scene. That suggests he wanted to confuse us or establish a false alibi.”

  Ian took his pipe out of his mouth. “Another thing was thrown in to confuse us. I think that Boardman was attacked and killed and then tortured. Not much point. Dead men can’t talk, as the saying goes. I can’t be absolutely sure on the order, but, at the latest, he died very shortly after the torture started.”

  “So if it was the thugs who attacked Jackalberry and then Joy and Pleasant, why do that?” Tatwa continued. “And the search of Boardman’s room was exaggerated. Clothes strewn around, toiletries emptied. The thugs were looking for a briefcase, not something small. But they left Boardman’s car keys in his pocket and apparently didn’t bother to look in his trailer with his African art works and curios.” He shook his head. “Also Mrs. Boardman told me that her husband was meeting someone that night. Quite excited about it apparently. But that person never turned up – at least not to the meeting. According to the restaurant, Boardman ate on his own – quite late – and then had a couple of drinks, clearly waiting for someone. Finally he gave up and went to his room.”

  Zanele had another thought. “Could Boardman have been involved in the Jackalberry murders? Did he have curios there?”

  Kubu turned his attention from the muffins – he was on his third – long enough to reply. “As a matter of fact, he admitted to wandering around that night, and his wife noticed. And they did have curios. What of it?”

  “I was thinking they might’ve been used to smuggle the contents of the briefcase off the island. Maybe it wasn’t bulky at all. Something like diamonds that could be hidden in a mask or drum.”

  Kubu didn’t like that idea at all. “If it was that small, anyone could’ve hidden it anywhere. They’d all have opportunity.”

  “Any oth
er prints in the room or other forensic evidence?” asked Zanele.

  “Nothing that idiot Notu could find,” Kubu growled.

  Tatwa was trying to regain the floor. “There’s another issue. I’ve looked into it very carefully. If we accept that the Boardman murder and the camp murders are related – and I think we do,” he paused, but no one challenged this, “then we must look at who had opportunity. Apart from the victims, there were ten people at Jackalberry Camp that Sunday night of the murders – nine excluding William himself.” He counted the potential suspects on his fingers. “Last Monday night Dupie, Salome, and Moremi were all entertaining guests at the camp. Beauty and Solomon were at the village on the mainland, as they were on the night of the murders. Enoch wasn’t at the camp because he’d broken down on the road to Kasane, and Dupie had to drive out to help him. Enoch slept in the vehicle and went in to Kasane the next morning. That’s four of them accounted for. The Munro sisters were having dinner in Gaborone in the dining room at the Grand Palm Hotel. Two more. Boardman’s wife was in Cape Town. That’s seven in total, leaving only Gomwe and Zondo.” He paused and looked around the group. Now he was enjoying being the center of attention. No one interrupted.

  “So there are only three possibilities. Boardman was murdered by Zondo, who somehow returned to the middle of Botswana with the whole country looking for him and disappeared again, presumably the same way. Or the thugs from Zimbabwe did it and maybe hit him too hard, killing him before they could find out what they wanted to know. Or he was killed by Gomwe looking for the valuables.” He looked around. “And Gomwe’s office told me he was expected in Gaborone. He did meet with the owner of a music store here on Saturday morning and stayed at the Oasis Hotel on Saturday and Sunday nights, and left early on Monday morning. After that he disappeared. No record of his leaving Botswana. No flights under his name. He had plenty of time to drive to Maun.”

  Mabaku decided to sum up. “Okay. Good job, Sergeant Mooka. I think you’ve put it together very well. Kubu?” Kubu nodded. He had been through it all with Tatwa before and could not fault it. Yet it seemed too pat, too straightforward. Kubu’s instinct told him some piece was missing, some assumption not as solid as it seemed. He nodded again but with just a hint of uncertainty, which Mabaku ignored.

  “Right,” Mabaku said. “We pressure Beardy. We try to find the two Zimbabweans and get them into an interrogation room as soon as possible. We smash this drug ring or whatever it is. Big feather in our caps. And we use that as a lever to force them to tell us everything about Zondo. Everything!” He banged his fist on the table again in time with the last word. “In parallel we go after Gomwe. Get to the bottom of whatever he’s up to. And if he’s a murderer hiding behind these Zimbabwe thugs, he’s going to wish he’d never been born!”

  “Right!” said Kubu. “Let’s get to work!”

  ∨ The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu ∧

  44

  First things first. Kubu checked if anything new had come up on Zondo and was not surprised to discover there was still no trace of him. Either Zondo had a careful plan to disappear with the fruits of his treachery, or somewhere he had met an unpleasant demise. Kubu was beginning to lean toward the latter explanation as the case developed. Then he checked if there was anything new from the border stations on the Zimbabwean kidnappers. But they, too, seemed to have disappeared once they crossed into South Africa. Kubu ground his teeth. He wanted to catch them very badly. As long as they were at large, his family was not safe. He tried not to blame Edison for the debacle. Mistakes happen. But he was very concerned. He made another quick call home.

  “Kubu,” said Joy. “This is the third time you’ve called. The house is swarming with police, Pleasant and I are bored out of our minds, and you spend the day worrying. This can’t go on.”

  “The house is hardly swarming with police. Just Constable Mashu. How are you feeling now?” The last question was motivated by Joy’s persistent nausea. Kubu wanted her to see a police counselor; Joy thought this was nonsense.

  Not in the mood to chat, she repeated, “This can’t go on.”

  Kubu sighed. He had thought of a plan but had wanted to get Mabaku aboard before trying it out on Joy. He was not sure how either would react. Well, here goes, he thought. He put his proposal to Joy and waited for her to explode. There was silence on the line for long seconds. “Yes, all right,” said Joy in a matter-of-fact voice. “Provided we’re left alone there. I’ll talk to Pleasant. Now, for heaven’s sake get to work and catch those horrible men. I’ll speak to you later. Bye, darling.” And the line went dead. Kubu sat holding the receiver for a few moments listening to the dial tone. I’ll never understand women, he thought. Even the great male poets don’t understand women. I’m not convinced that even women understand women!

  He replaced the receiver, but lifted it again almost immediately. He needed to arrange to see two other women, whom he probably wouldn’t understand either. The Munros seemed keen to see him, too; they had left two messages with the duty constable during the morning.

  It was Trish who answered Kubu’s call. “Oh, Assistant Superintendent. So good to hear from you! Director Mabaku told us to wait here until you contacted us, but we want to leave tomorrow. We’ve delayed our return twice already, and we really want to get home now. Of course, Judith’s in no rush!” She laughed as if this would mean something to Kubu, and then gushed on.

  “We’re so keen to talk to you, too. Remember that you suggested we write a piece about what happened? Will you help us? Perhaps we could ask you a few things about Botswana and the police and what you do. Just a few. And then you could ask us anything you want to know.” She made it sound like taking turns in a game, and Kubu was not sure how to respond. But then Trish played her trump card. “Could you join us for lunch? Say in half an hour? The Palm has a very good restaurant, and I’m sure you’ll find something to your liking.”

  Kubu was tempted, but he wasn’t sure socializing was appropriate. On the other hand, the Munros were witnesses in a murder investigation, and there had been a formal interview with Mabaku, so this was really just a follow-up. He had to have lunch, and there was much to do this afternoon if Mabaku accepted his plan. He felt himself weakening.

  “The veal with lemon sauce is particularly good,” said Trish. Kubu’s mouth was watering as he heard himself accepting their invitation without further ado.

  ∨ The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu ∧

  45

  Mabaku decided to join Edison for the interview with Beardy. Kubu had wanted to go, but Mabaku had forbidden it, promising that he would give a full report. On the drive to the Princess Marina Hospital, where Beardy was being held, Mabaku sat silently involved with his thoughts and his after-lunch indigestion. Edison felt it prudent to keep as low a profile as possible and drove carefully at the speed limit.

  But once at the hospital, Mabaku cheered up. “What do we know about this villain?”

  “Not much. He’s refused to say anything. But we know who he is. The police in Zimbabwe identified him from his prints. His name is John Khumalo.”

  “If we do this properly, Detective Banda, we may walk away from here a lot further ahead with this case. I’ll lead, but be ready to jump in at the right moment.” Edison wondered how he would know when that would be, but nodded firmly.

  “Has he been advised of his rights?” Mabaku asked, and again Edison nodded.

  Beardy was in a private room, with an armed, uniformed constable slouched in the visitor’s chair. He jumped to attention when Mabaku entered and saluted smartly.

  “Yes, yes, Constable,” the director said. “Go and find another two chairs for us.” The constable marched off, pleased with this challenging assignment. Mabaku walked over to Beardy’s bedside. “How’s the leg?” he asked, giving a bandaged thigh a solid thump. Beardy winced. “Sore, is it?” Mabaku sounded pleased. “Well, don’t get too used to these comforts. You’ll be having a much rougher time once we get you out of here.
Not recommended, kidnapping the wife of a senior police officer.” Seeing the look on Beardy’s face, he continued, “Oh, they didn’t mention that to you, did they? You’re in very hot water, Mr. Khumalo. Boiling water, I’d say.” Beardy turned away.

  The constable returned with the extra chairs, and they settled themselves around Beardy like hyenas circling a wounded impala.

  “Then there’s the indecent assault on our policewoman,” Mabaku said with satisfaction. This at last elicited a response.

  “I didn’t touch the bitch! She pretended to be a fucking prostitute!”

  Mabaku nodded thoughtfully. “I suppose that’s what prostitutes do,” he commented, “but she wasn’t one, you see.”

  “And there’s resisting arrest,” Edison chipped in, hoping this was the moment.

  “Quite right,” said Mabaku.

  Beardy looked disgusted. “All right, you’ve made your point. What do you want to know, and what’s in it for me?”

  Mabaku looked pensive. “Well, we want to know everything, actually. Who you work for, who was with you, how you got into Botswana, why you attacked an assistant superintendent’s wife and sister-in-law. That would be a good start. As for what’s in it for you, if you cooperate, things may go a bit easier on you. That’s all I’m offering right now. Let’s see how it all goes.”

  Beardy shrugged. “This guy Johannes hired me for the job. I don’t know who pointed him to me. Said it was an easy job. Just guarding a house and a woman for a few days in Gaborone. He’d get what he was after, we’d let the woman go – no rough stuff – and get out. I’d get ten thousand pula for a week’s work. I had no problems with that.”

  Edison was making notes. “Where did he hire you?”

  “Bulawayo.”

  “Who were the other men with you here?”

  “We called them Setu and Johannes.”