Detective Kubu 02; The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu

by Michael Stanley

  “Needing a fix, Ms. Levine?” Kubu murmured. “Better get used to it. You’re not going to find any in jail. You’ve been very foolish, my dear.”

  He ended the session and turned off the tape recorder. “Constable Morake here will get you a cup of tea,” he said. “I’ll be back shortly.”

  ♦

  Kubu found the office he had used earlier, shut the door, and went to work.

  First, he located Mabaku, who was shopping with his wife Marie in the Game City mall. He seemed only too pleased to get a call from Kubu on this Saturday morning. Quickly Kubu recounted the pertinent details of Allison’s confession.

  “The South African police will want to use Levine to get her principals,” Mabaku said.

  “She’s expected in Johannesburg later today,” Kubu said. “I doubt if they can set it up that quickly. Anyway, we can’t let her go. We may never get her back if she leaves the country.”

  “I’ll give Van der Walle all the information,” Mabaku said. “He may want to try to do something anyway.”

  “I can get photos of Levine to Van der Walle,” Kubu said, “if he wants to use someone who looks like her. I can also arrange for her cell phone to be taken to the border so that the messages will register as coming from South Africa. Someone can pick it up and use it to set up a rendezvous. They can easily get a car that looks like hers. I’ll send them the number plates too. I suspect the drug traders won’t fall for it, but it may be worth a try.”

  “Good, fax all the information to me. I’ll send it to Van der Walle.”

  “She’s suffering from withdrawal,” Kubu said. “I may be able to get a lot more out of her later. She’s beginning to look desperate.”

  “Don’t let her do anything stupid. Keep an eye on her. Better get a doctor to look at her, too. Meanwhile, give Tatwa a call and fill him in.” He paused. “I’ll have to leave Marie here to finish shopping and go across to the office.” He did not sound unhappy about that at all. Before Kubu could add anything, the phone went dead.

  Kubu checked with Morake about the shoes. It looked likely that there was a match between one of Allison’s shoes and the faxed footprints they had found. Kubu nodded, pleased.

  Next Kubu phoned Tatwa who was delighted to have a reason to bring the ranger in for questioning. He was pretty sure they could now at least charge Allison with being an accessory to murder. He asked Kubu to send the shoes to him as soon as possible.

  For the next hour, Kubu filled out the necessary paperwork for charging Allison for the possession and trafficking of drugs. He also drafted a confession relating to the drug charges for Allison to sign. Finally, he briefed one of the Francistown detectives on all aspects of the arrest, as well as what was happening in Kasane.

  Kubu was feeling quite satisfied. A drug charge that would stick; a potential murder charge; and the possibility of finding some high-up dealers in Johannesburg. Now it was time to pressure Allison to get the information he really cared about – the relationship between the drug smugglers and the murders at Jackalberry Camp.

  ♦

  Kubu sat down opposite Allison and completed the necessary preliminaries.

  He paged through his notebook, stopped, and then looked at Allison who was now even more on edge.

  “Just a few more questions, Ms. Levine.” Kubu stood up and paced.

  “How did you know where to take Gomwe on the morning he was murdered? It was quite far from the camp and not easily found.” He waited, but Allison did not answer. He decided to gamble.

  “Come on, Ms. Levine, we know you took Gomwe to the clearing where he was murdered. We’ve identified your footprints with Gomwe’s going from the camp to the clearing. You lied, Ms. Levine. You said Gomwe went jogging. That’s not true, is it? We checked with his friends. They laughed when we suggested that he got killed while jogging. They said if he jogged, he most probably died of a heart attack, not from an attack by a rogue elephant. He wasn’t into that sort of exercise at all.” He waited for a response, but Allison did not say a word.

  “Anyway, our trackers said that the two sets of footprints – yours and Gomwe’s – were walking not jogging. You’re lying, Ms. Levine. You knew what you were doing. You deliberately led Boy Gomwe to his death.” Allison was looking down, not meeting his eyes, silent.

  “Who told you to take Gomwe to the clearing, Ms. Levine? If you don’t tell us, then I will charge you with the murder of Boy Gomwe. But you know, I don’t think you murdered him. I think you were used. Why would you die for those scum? You know that Botswana has the death penalty for murder, don’t you? We aren’t soft like South Africa. You kill someone here, you die for it.” Kubu knew this was an exaggeration, but then it was not a lie either.

  Allison looked as though she could barely keep herself on the chair. All resistance had drained from her. Kubu was surprised to see that she was crying.

  “I just did this for the money,” she whispered. “I needed the money.” To keep up appearances, Kubu thought. To be able to play the field. To pay for her fixes. He waited.

  “I didn’t know they’d kill Gomwe,” she said at last. “Douglas told me that they were just going to teach him a lesson. Show him who ran things around Kasane. That he better back off.” A sob wracked her body. “I liked him. I never wanted him killed.” She buried her head in her hands.

  Kubu sat watching her cry for a time, deciding she was telling the truth. She thought this was easy money, he thought. An easy game. But the game has harsh rules, which she chose to ignore. He shook his head. Fool, he thought. What a fool.

  She asked for a drink, so Kubu fetched her a glass of water. She grasped the glass in both hands and sipped. Several minutes passed before Kubu decided he could continue.

  “Ms. Levine,” he said quietly. “I now want to go in a different direction. A few weeks ago, there were two murders at a camp in the Linyanti. We believe that they were drug related, and we think your friend Gomwe was involved; he was a guest there. Then another guest at the camp was murdered a week later in Maun. About the same time, the camp owners were assaulted, my wife was nearly kidnapped, and her sister was kidnapped.” He paused, but Allison said nothing. “We’re sure the people you work for are involved in all of this. I need you to tell me everything you know about your contacts, particularly in Zimbabwe. Who are they? Where can they be found? How can they be contacted?”

  Allison frowned.

  “I think you’re wrong,” she said at last. “As far as I know Botswana is divided up by different groups. They’ve sort of carved out the territory between them. Douglas told me that Gomwe was trying to get in on the action. Seems as though he was trying to set something up for himself. Nobody up here had ever done business with him.”

  “Have you heard anything about a drug deal in a place called Jackalberry in the Linyanti?”

  Allison shook her head. “But then I wouldn’t hear about it. You should ask Douglas. He’s closer to things than me.”

  For the next ten minutes Kubu questioned and bullied Allison, trying to pry out of her any information that would lead him to the kidnappers. But he got nothing. He eventually decided she had nothing to offer. Frustrated and disappointed, he ground his teeth and thumped his fist on the table, making both Constable Morake and Allison jump. “Take her back to her cell,” he told Morake, and turned away. Allison shouted that she needed a fix, but Kubu ignored her.

  Alone in the office, Kubu closed his eyes to concentrate his thoughts. What were his next steps? He was equidistant from Kasane and Gaborone. Should he go and help Tatwa deal with Douglas, the game ranger, or should he head back to his office and be at the center of activities? He decided he should head home and leave Tatwa to cope on his own.

  What about Joy and Pleasant? Would they want to stay in Francistown for another week, which he hoped would be the case, or would they want to return to Gaborone? He shook his head. He realized he could not predict what they would want to do. He sat quietly for a few contemplative minutes, the
n picked up the phone and called Sampson’s house. Joy answered almost immediately – Sampson had gone to watch a soccer game.

  “My dear,” Kubu started tentatively. “I need to get back to Gaborone. Do you want to stay on with Sampson for another week or so, or…”

  “I love Sampson,” Joy interrupted, “but I couldn’t stand another week with him. Pleasant and I were talking a few minutes ago. We’re ready to leave.”

  “Are you sure you want to go back? We haven’t caught the kidnappers yet.”

  “You may never get them. We’re ready to go home!”

  “Okay, okay, we’ll leave tomorrow.” Kubu was peeved that he had no say in the matter. “I’ll be back in half an hour. Can you make us some lunch?”

  “Lunch will be ready as soon as you get back. I had a notion you might want something to eat.”

  Kubu was not sure whether Joy was being sarcastic or funny, so he ignored the comment. “Thank you, darling. I’ll see you in a few minutes. I love you.”

  ∨ The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu ∧

  59

  Tatwa was nervous before entering the empty office that served as the interrogation room in the Kasane police station. This was the first interview he had done by himself. Part of him wanted Kubu with him, but another part, struggling to emerge, wanted him to take charge and prove himself. Since Kubu was three hundred miles away, there was no option. Taking a deep breath, Tatwa opened the door.

  “You don’t mind if I call you Douglas, do you?” Tatwa said in Setswana to the ranger slumped in the chair on the other side of the table. “Mr. Legwatagwata is a bit of a mouthful.”

  Douglas nodded.

  “I’m going to tape this conversation as an official record.” Tatwa was nervous and wanted to do everything correctly. It took a couple of minutes to provide the proper introduction on the tape, as well as to read Douglas the customary caution.

  “Before I start,” Tatwa said, “I want to tell you that you’re in big trouble. You could spend the rest of your life in jail. But the more you cooperate, the more inclined we’ll be to help you. Do you understand?”

  Douglas nodded again. Then at Tatwa’s prodding said, “Yes” for the tape recorder.

  “Let’s start with the easy stuff. First, we are going to charge you with drug trafficking. Your friend, Ms. Levine, told us that she picks up drugs from you whenever she visits Elephant Valley Lodge. In exchange she gives you a lot of money. Of course, we are always careful to check whether someone is lying. So we did some checking. We found traces of heroin in your backpack.”

  “She’s talking bullshit,” Douglas spat out. “Trying to get herself out of trouble. I always thought she was too good to be true.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Coming back to Elephant Valley Lodge time after time. Always finding a single guy and then screwing his eyes out.”

  “Why would she finger you then?”

  “She wanted sex with me, and I turned her down. So she hates me.”

  Tatwa pondered this unexpected tack for a few moments.

  “How then do you explain the heroin in your backpack?”

  “She must have planted it. Insurance if she got caught. Then she could blame it on me. Exactly what she’s done. And get me back for rejecting her.”

  Allison Levine had not struck Tatwa as someone who would be upset about being rejected by Douglas. She would think he was just an idiot.

  “Then how do you explain this?” Tatwa asked, consulting his notebook. “A few days after she visits Elephant Valley Lodge, every single time, your bank balance jumps by five thousand pula. Same amount every time. Always a week after she leaves. Always a cash deposit. Who are the big tippers, Douglas? You must be an excellent guide and ranger. Five thousand pula. That’s nearly my monthly salary. Is it Ms. Levine who tips you so generously every time she is here? For what, Douglas? For favors? I don’t think so. She may charge for favors, certainly not pay for them. No, Douglas. I think you get paid in cash every time you deliver the money to your Zimbabwean friends. Only you are too stupid to realize you shouldn’t deposit it in your bank account.”

  Douglas stared at Tatwa, but did not respond.

  “Come on, Douglas. Surely you know who is being so generous to you!”

  Douglas continued to stare, but his focus slowly slid from Tat-wa’s face into the middle distance.

  He’s feeling trapped, Tatwa thought. Doesn’t know what to say. Let’s see how he reacts when I put more pressure on him.

  “You know how serious this government is about reducing drug usage. Trafficking is not treated lightly. My guess is you’ll get twenty years or more for that. At least you won’t have to pay your board and lodging, right?”

  Still Douglas did not respond. He looked down at his hands.

  “However, we know you are a small cog in this business – an important cog, but a small one. If you give us information about the people you work with, I’m sure we can come to a deal.”

  Tatwa gazed at Douglas, who wouldn’t meet his eyes. Tatwa waited until he was sure Douglas was not going to say anything. Then he said, “Who do you get the drugs from and who do you give the money to?”

  Douglas sat, head down. The only movement Tatwa could see was a clenching and unclenching of the jaw muscles. They sat in silence for several minutes, Tatwa hoping Douglas would break, but he did not.

  “Okay, Douglas. I’ve given you your chance to help us. You’ve blown it. Now we’ll deal with the serious stuff. In addition to charging you with trafficking in drugs, I’m also going to charge you with murder – the murder of Boy Gomwe.”

  Douglas looked up. “That’s bullshit. And you know it.”

  Tatwa continued. “Ms. Levine says that you told her where to take Gomwe on the morning of his murder. You said he needed to be taught a lesson for trying to muscle into the market around Kasane. You knew what was going to happen; in fact you set it up. That makes you one of the murderers.”

  “That’s a lie,” Douglas shouted. “She’ll say anything to save herself. You’ve nothing on me except her word. It’s all bullshit.”

  Tatwa glared at Douglas, knowing he was right. All the evidence was circumstantial. They would never win a case based mainly on Allison’s word. Tatwa’s self-confidence took a dive. He was sure Douglas was implicated, but how was he to shake him?

  Tatwa inhaled sharply. He was his own man now. He had to play the game himself.

  “I’m arresting you, Mr. Legwatagwata, for the possession of a controlled substance, namely heroin. I expect to add charges of dealing in a controlled substance, as well as of murder. Take him away, Constable.”

  “You can’t do this,” Douglas yelled. “You’ve got no evidence. You’ve nothing at all. You can’t keep me here!”

  Tatwa looked at Douglas as he was led struggling from the room. “You’ll have your chance to prove that.” Tatwa spoke quietly with more confidence than he felt. “You had your chance to cooperate, but now it’s too late.”

  Tatwa bit his lip, hoping the gamble of keeping Douglas in custody for a few days would make him change his tune.

  ∨ The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu ∧

  60

  While Kubu was interrogating Allison, and Tatwa was trying to make progress with Douglas, Moremi was once again walking among the vendors of the Kachikau Saturday market. He was doing three things. His philosophy was that if you could do several things at the same time, perhaps you could fit two or even three lifetimes into one. So he was singing a song of his own composition to an apparently appreciative Kweh. He was thinking of Botswana in the far past, before white people, before Tswana people, before even San people, and how it might have been. Most important of all, he was keeping a lookout for a man wearing a very special hat.

  Suddenly he spotted it. He stopped singing and walking, and moved the thoughts of the past out of his conscious mind. Disappointed, he realized that although the man had the right type of build and height, he was not Ishmael
Zondo. He stared at the man for a few seconds.

  “I’m sure it’s Rra Zondo’s hat, Kweh. Don’t you think so?”

  While asking the question, he was moving toward the man. An advantage of being thought eccentric was that you could do eccentric things and people were not surprised. So approaching a stranger and discussing his hat was entirely in character.

  “Dumela,” he began politely. The man looked at him, wondering what this was about. He had heard of the strange cook from Jackal-berry Camp. The man nodded, but said nothing.

  “Your hat is very fine!” Moremi continued. “Is it perhaps a family heirloom? A man must be very proud to wear such a hat.”

  Surprised, the man reached up and touched it. It was an ordinary felt bush hat, quite worn and faded, with a floppy brim all around, good for shielding the face from Botswana’s scorching sun. It had three guineafowl feathers carefully sewn onto one side apparently for decoration. When Moremi had asked about them, Zondo had said each feather was for a different type of luck. Moremi had laughed, delighted by the idea and the symmetry. There was no question that this was the same hat. And it seemed that it hadn’t brought luck to its owner after all.

  “What would such a hat cost?” Moremi continued. “I suppose it’s very expensive. A poor man like me would not be able to afford such a hat.” He could see from the clothes of the hat wearer that he too was poor. He held out his hand in greeting.

  “My name is Moremi. I am happy to meet you. This is my bird. His name is Kweh.” Seeing no harm in this peculiar man with his fixation on hats, the wearer introduced himself. Some small talk followed, in the course of which the possibility of the hat being for sale entered the conversation. Moremi asked if he might hold it, and checked it carefully, particularly admiring the feathers. He asked where it had been obtained, and the man said it was a gift, and then that he had found it, contradicting himself in the same sentence.