Moremi nodded, then, with apparent regret, he said, “My friend, this hat is stolen. I know it’s stolen because its owner valued it and wouldn’t have given it away or sold it. Now you must tell me how you got it and where.” Frightened, the man lunged for the hat, but Moremi whisked it behind his back with a flourish. Kweh ruffled his feathers, put up his crest, and stared with beady eyes.
Moremi shook his head. “Shall we call for help, my friend? Tell them that I am stealing your hat? Tell them how you came to have this hat, and so it is yours?” The man began to edge away, but Moremi added quietly, “If you tell us the story of the hat, I will buy it from you for a fair price.”
“I found it. It was in the bush, thrown away.”
“Where was that?”
The man gave a complicated description of the location. It was near the airstrip that served Jackalberry Camp. Moremi nodded as if he had known this all along.
“What did you do with the other things you found? The clothes and stuff?”
The man swallowed hard. This madman knew too much. “There was nothing else!”
Moremi nodding as though in agreement, jauntily placed Zondo’s hat on his own head. Kweh investigated the new addition to what he regarded as his domain.
“What did you do with the other things?”
The man capitulated. “There was only a coat. It was with the hat. Nothing else. I gave the coat to my brother.” He threw up his hands. “I kept the hat. You can have it. I don’t want it anymore.”
Moremi walked away without another word. He knew he could find this man again, knew that Constable Shoopara would now believe him, and call the fat detective or the tall one. But he felt very sad. He had liked Ishmael Zondo and his unlucky hat with the guineafowl feathers. He hummed the snatch of music that had intrigued and puzzled Kubu.
∨ The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu ∧
61
The trip back to Gaborone was uneventful. Unlike Joy and Pleasant, who seemed to have an infinite number of observations about Sampson, his house, his diet, and his apparent lack of girlfriends, Ilia was uncharacteristically quiet. Except for a short visit to the grass ditch at the edge of the road, she slept the whole way.
“What’s wrong with the dog?” Kubu asked.
“She’s just homesick,” Joy replied.
They had decided to stop for tea at Kubu’s parents since they’d missed their usual Sunday lunch together, and Kubu wanted to fill them in on the details of the attacks on Joy and Pleasant. Fortunately Kubu still had the picnic chairs in the back of his Land Rover. He brought one up to the veranda so they could all be seated.
“We must buy some more chairs,” Amantle said to Wilmon, embarrassed by not being able to provide adequate seating. “When Pleasant comes to visit, we will need at least one more.”
“Why don’t you keep this one,” Kubu responded. “I have several more, and we only use them when we’re with you and Father in any case. I can always get it back if I need it.” Kubu knew that buying another chair for the occasional time when Pleasant visited would seem an extravagance to his parents. On the other hand, they would be mortified by not having enough chairs. His offer finessed both issues.
Even before tea appeared, Wilmon and Amantle wanted to hear every detail of what had happened to Joy and Pleasant. Amantle had collected several newspapers with reports on the event, and several times contradicted one or other of the younger generation, telling them that the newspaper had a slightly different version. She obviously felt that anything in print must be correct.
When all the details had been laid to rest, Amantle leaned over and touched Pleasant on the shoulder. “At least you are safe. You must have been very scared. I think I would die if someone kidnapped me. These days you do not know what they might do to you.”
“It was horrible,” Pleasant said, holding Amantle’s hand. “I didn’t know whether to cry or scream or keep quiet. Fortunately, they only wanted to use me to get a briefcase from Kubu.”
“Which I didn’t have!” Kubu snorted.
“But they didn’t know that, did they, darling?” Joy’s question rekindled Kubu’s guilt at leading the kidnappers on.
Surprisingly, it was the normally quiet Wilmon who spoke. “I do not understand why it was Joy who found Pleasant. Why did Kubu not do it? You have not rejoined the police, have you, Joy?”
“Father, Joy is a very difficult wife sometimes,” Kubu said trying to keep a serious tone to his voice. “I told her to stay at home with two policemen to look after her, in case the kidnappers came again. When she heard about Pleasant, she climbed through the bathroom window and was able to use her friends’ help to locate where Pleasant was being held.” Kubu paused. “I have to say that even though she shows me no respect, I was proud of how she solved the problem. I’ll have to ask Director Mabaku whether there is an opening in the CID. At least I’ll be able to keep an eye on her.”
Amantle was far from satisfied. “Have you caught these wicked men?” she asked. “If you have, you must take the whip to them.” Kubu smiled to himself. His parents did not understand the difference between the traditional tribal courts, where flogging was an acceptable punishment, and the country’s formal legal system, which did not mete out justice in that way.
“No, Mother,” he answered regretfully. “Unfortunately we haven’t.”
Amantle gave a disapproving nod and headed to the kitchen to fetch the tea.
For the next half hour, they talked about Pleasant’s kidnapping and the unsolved murders of Goodluck and William Boardman. When Kubu told them that yet another guest who had been at Jackalberry Camp had been murdered near Kasane, Amantle stood up, fear in her voice.
“Aaaii. Now you make me worried for all of you. These are very bad men. I think a witch doctor must have made an evil spirit live inside them. They are evil! I will not sleep until they are caught and locked up. You were right to go to Sampson’s house. But you should have stayed there.”
“I will calm your mother,” Wilmon said, standing up. He touched her gently on the cheek. “Do not worry, Amantle. Our son is after them. They will never get away. He is more clever than them.”
With his parents standing, Kubu thought it a propitious time to leave. He kissed his mother on the cheek, encouraged her not to worry, and formally took leave of his father, thanking him for taking care of Amantle. Joy and Pleasant cleared the table and took the teacups and plates to the kitchen. They both hugged Amantle and Wilmon. Again Kubu saw the fleeting look of pleasure lighten the reserve of his father’s face. He wants to be warm, Kubu thought, but doesn’t know how.
Eager to get home, Kubu drove faster than usual from Mochudi and eventually pulled up to the house on Acacia Street only a few minutes after the desert night had enveloped the capital city. He hoped they had done the right thing in returning. The kidnappers were still at large.
∨ The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu ∧
62
Kubu had a restless night worrying about Pleasant and Joy. At 6:00 a.m. he made coffee and toast and gave Ilia her biscuits. About half an hour later Joy and Pleasant appeared. He asked them to be careful and to let no one into the house. Before Joy could argue, he kissed her and headed off to the CID.
After pouring himself another cup of coffee, he settled at his desk and found a fax in his in-basket from Kachikau about a hat. He was intrigued. Zondo’s hat. Another piece of the puzzle. He closed his eyes, not to snooze, but to let the fringes of his consciousness nibble at the unsolved cases.
Kubu had always loved jigsaw puzzles. The sky was often the hardest part. Too uniform, too blue. Some sneakier puzzles had sky pieces with one almost straight edge. So you would try to fit them into the border of the puzzle without success because they actually belonged in the middle.
Kubu took off his shoes and put his feet on the desk, thinking about pieces of a puzzle made to look as though they fit in one place, whereas they actually fitted somewhere else altogether.
This
was the sight that greeted Mabaku as he entered Kubu’s office. Kubu’s substantial feet in carefully darned clean socks were nudging his in-basket out of the way. His eyes were closed. Mabaku viewed this for a moment or two with a peculiar mixture of disapproval and envy. “I can see you’re busy,” he said at last. “I’ll come back later.”
Kubu opened his eyes, gave the director an apologetic smile, and waved him to the well-worn guest chair. He maintained his comfortable position.
“Why did Zondo throw away his hat?” Kubu asked. “He always wore it. What sense did that make?”
“Threw away his hat? What are you talking about?”
Kubu filled the director in on Moremi’s discovery at Kachikau.
Mabaku pouted. “Maybe that was part of his plan? Always wearing the same hat, same jacket. Then abandon them both and put on something else. A disguise by default.”
“Yes, but why didn’t he just keep the hat and wear something else?” Kubu asked. “Why toss it into the bushes? Moremi seemed to think it was important to him. That’s why he knew Zondo hadn’t given it away.” This is a puzzle piece with a straight side, Kubu thought. But it’s not an edge piece.
“I’ve been thinking about the group at the camp that night,” Kubu continued. “We divided them into two groups. Those who were divorced from the events – just bystanders – and those directly involved. Who’s in the first group, who’s in the second? But they were all involved really, you know. Let’s go through the guests.”
He started counting on his fingers. “The Munro sisters. Nice society journalists from a liberal English newspaper? Yes, they are. But they were also tracking Goodluck and Salome through their past. Then suddenly they’re all there together. Coincidence, fate, or design?” He uncrossed his legs and stretched to get more comfortable.
“The Boardmans. Curio traders and long-time friends of Dupie and Salome. I think William discovered something the night of the murders, or perhaps the next day, and thought he could use it to advantage. Obviously it was valuable enough to make him dangerous. Too dangerous to stay alive.”
Kubu extended a thumb to join the four fingers already raised. “Gomwe. Definitely involved in drugs, but I’m not quite sure how. Perhaps it was plain greed? I don’t know. Perhaps he found what he was looking for at Jackalberry. Perhaps he had to wait until Elephant Valley Lodge. He wasn’t an innocent either.” He lifted three fingers on his other hand. “That leaves the three who were directly involved. Tinubu and Zondo, who were obviously doing some sort of exchange of goods for cash, and Langa, the South African policeman on their trail.” He lowered his hands and rummaged in his desk drawer for a packet of mints. He helped himself, and offered the box to Mabaku, who took one without comment. He knew this mood. Kubu was heading somewhere, and it would be worth following.
“Then we have the camp staff. Salome, who connects with Tinubu through the Zimbabwe war. Dupie, and probably Enoch, linked with them the same way. Moremi, who seems to see the relationships between people, even though he’s never met them before. Solomon and his wife, who appear to be bystanders, but who knows?” He popped another mint into his mouth.
“So where does that leave us?” Mabaku prompted.
Kubu was concentrating on his mint. “Madrid and Johannes were expecting Zondo to bring back the money. No question about that. So they’re also looking for Zondo. Obviously with no more success than we’re having. So where is Zondo? Where is the money? Where is whatever it is they were exchanging for the money? All vanished.” Suddenly he sat up, changing tack.
“What did you get from Beardy?”
“It was Madrid all right. Beardy knew that name, although he wouldn’t admit it. And the Johannes who hired him is the same Johannes who terrorized Salome. The fingerprints matched. As I told you, Beardy said it was drug money, but he wasn’t really convincing.”
Kubu shook his head, removed his feet from the desk, stood up, and walked over to the window. He suddenly noticed he was not wearing his shoes and vaguely looked around for them. “And what’s Madrid’s next move?”
“Beardy doesn’t know, or he’s not saying. My bet is that he’ll give up on this money and get on with making more. We need to keep an eye on Joy and Pleasant, though, in case I’m wrong.”
Kubu was looking at the director, but his mind was moving the pieces of his puzzle around. “I think we’re short of a murder, Director.”
Mabaku looked annoyed. “I think we’ve got quite enough murders already! It’s getting as bad as the BCMC affair. Why would we want another?”
Kubu did not answer. He collapsed into his chair, replaced his feet on the desk, and wriggled his toes.
“The camp, Director. Madrid must go back to the camp.” He nodded firmly and explained why.
∨ The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu ∧
Part Seven
The Thing Which Was Not
Here he spoke the thing which was not.
—RUDYARD KIPLING, ‘THREE AND AN EXTRA’
∨ The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu ∧
63
When Kubu finished the story of the attacks on his family, there was silence on the line for a few moments. When Dupie responded, it was with a single syllable that conveyed shock, surprise, even a touch of guilt, although the last may have been Kubu’s imagination.
“Shit!”
“Yes. That pretty much sums it up.”
“What about the one you caught? Has he told you what it’s all about?”
“Well, the director has been handling that himself because I’d probably tear the bastard apart. But it seems to be drugs and drug money. The briefcase and the tote are what they’re after.”
“So why hit us? Why don’t they go after Zondo?”
“I’m sure they have. Either they’ve found him empty-handed – or only with one hand full – or they’re still looking for him, like the rest of us. Something you said to Madrid must’ve put them onto me.”
“He asked me to describe the policemen who came after the murders,” Dupie said quickly. “That’s all. I had to. They were going to kill Salome!”
“I understand. Can you remember exactly what you said?”
“I think I said you were very large and from the CID in Gaborone. The other detective was tall and slim from Kasane.”
“Nothing about the briefcase?” Kubu probed.
“No, I don’t think so,” Dupie lied. “I can’t exactly remember. I was pretty shaken up.”
Kubu grunted. He was not convinced. “You were asking about Khumalo – the man we caught guarding my sister-in-law. He’s cagey, but from what he’s said we’re pretty clear what their next move will be. Now they know I haven’t got the briefcase. So it’s back to you.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means we’re sure you can expect another visit shortly. And this time they won’t leave empty-handed.”
“But there’s nothing here!” Dupie’s voice was tense.
“You know that, and I know that, but it seems Madrid is convinced that one of us has the money. Perhaps he did find Zondo. I don’t know.” Kubu paused, then continued. “But the good news is that this time he won’t have the advantage of surprise. Tatwa and I will be heading out to you with some armed constables in the next couple of days. We’ll be ready for him.”
“What about the guests?” Kubu noticed a hint of excitement in Dupie’s voice. Perhaps Dupie was relishing getting even, maybe ahead, with a bit of luck and the police on his side.
“How many have you got there?”
“Two couples. Leaving the day after tomorrow. Then a group of six on Friday.”
“Put them off,” Kubu ordered. “It’ll be too dangerous.”
“Hey, wait a minute,” Dupie spluttered. “They’re foreign tourists. You can’t just dump them on an airstrip. And anyway we need the money.”
“Find them another lodge. You want them in the crossfire?”
Dupie didn’t answer, but the point was take
n. “When will you get here?”
“I’ll fly to Kasane tomorrow and link up with Tatwa. We’ll come out in a couple of vehicles the next day. The uniform guys can camp on the mainland, keeping a low profile until Madrid makes his move.”
“Okay. We’ll expect you on Wednesday afternoon. Meanwhile I’ll hold the fort. This is an island, you know. Easy to defend. Ask…”
“Yes, I know,” Kubu interrupted. “Ask Winston Churchill.”
♦
Kubu and Tatwa set out from Kasane on Wednesday morning after a good breakfast at the Old House, and even Kubu left satisfied. From there they drove the few blocks to the police station, picked up three constables, their gear, and a power boat on its trailer, and headed toward Ngoma.
After Ngoma, the road deteriorated to a badly corrugated dirt track, and the going was tough. The policemen stopped at the Kachikau arts and crafts store for soft drinks and rudimentary take-out before heading on toward the Linyanti. After the town the road was wide, but the surface consisted of loose sand with multiple vehicle tracks crisscrossing each other to avoid sink holes, ruts, and corrugations. It was necessary to change in and out of low-range gears whenever they hit soft sand, and any forward momentum they had slowed. By the time they reached the Linyanti, Kubu was hot, irritated, and dissatisfied with packets of artificially flavored chips.
At the end, they battled to find Jackalberry. Tatwa had done it once by land, but the driver with him had known the area. Eventually they found the track and came to the makeshift jetty. When the vehicles were switched off, it was quiet, even the birds temporarily silent. The dust churned up by the vehicles mixed with the heat haze. Once again Kubu looked at the idyllic waterway, the mokoros, and the small motorboat on the far bank. The verdant smell was a pleasant change from the dusty dryness of the south. A lot of water had flowed down the Linyanti since he had seen it last, even though it was only a few weeks ago. Then, he’d had no idea what to expect. Now it was different.
Detective Kubu 02; The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu Page 30
