Detective Kubu 02; The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu

by Michael Stanley

  “This is where the answers are, Tatwa. They were always here, not in Gaborone or Maun, or even in Bulawayo.” He nodded in self-agreement. “Come on, let’s attract attention, and Enoch can take us over. The guys can set up camp here out of sight and launch the boat. I want it ready if we need it.”

  They got out of the Land Rover and walked to the water’s edge. Someone was waving to them from the distant camp. It looked like Moremi.

  ♦

  Kubu was sitting in the tent Dupie called his office. The level of mess was the same, the filing cabinet drawer still jammed open. The Watching Eye still held pride of place in the center of the work table, and there was still a half-finished mug of cold coffee, the same one as before for all Kubu could tell. This time Dupie claimed his right to the chair behind the desk.

  “What’s the plan?” he asked.

  “Plan?”

  “To deal with Madrid and Johannes!”

  “Oh, I see what you mean.” Kubu did not have one, so he improvised. “There are three ways they could come in – by air, overland, or by boat. We’ll be on the lookout for a boat all the time, and a motorboat will be easy to pick up by the noise. After dark it’ll be harder, but we’ll keep someone on guard at the camp all night. Keep the keys to your outboard motor with you. We have our motorboat if we need to chase them over water. By plane seems unlikely. How will they get here from the airstrip? My bet is that they’ll come by vehicle and try to slip across to the camp at night in one of the mokoros.”

  Dupie nodded. “Makes sense. Don’t worry about the camp; we’ve had someone on guard at night anyway. The trick will be to catch them on the shore before they get over here.”

  “Yes, we’ll set up camp a little way upstream so that the area here looks invitingly unprotected. But we’ll be on watch all the time. As soon as they get to the clearing opposite the camp, we’ll have them.”

  “What if they smell rat-pie and make a run for it in the vehicle?”

  “Easy. We just shoot out the tires. They can’t get far. And there’s nowhere to go anyway.”

  It sounded a bit too simple to Dupie. Would Madrid fall for a trap like that? Or would he have another card up his sleeve? “What about a chopper? Straight onto the island? It can be done. The Defense Force brought Sergeant Mooka that way after the last attack, although they landed on the mainland.”

  “We’ll hear it coming, same as a motorboat. We’ll be waiting for them. I don’t think they could take you and Enoch that way, let alone all of us.”

  Dupie smiled. He liked that.

  “What do we do in the meantime?”

  Kubu shrugged. “We wait. Lots of police work is like that.” He picked up the Eye, admiring its glassy indigo symmetry. Dupie reached for it. “Careful with that. It’s valuable.”

  “Oh?” said Kubu, giving it to him. “I thought you said they were all over Turkey.”

  “Yes, but this one’s special. To me. Like a totem, you know?”

  Kubu nodded without evident interest. “Who else is at the camp at the moment?”

  “Just Salome, Enoch, Moremi, and Solomon. Solomon’s been staying overnight to help keep watch. Beauty sleeps in the village. No guests. We took your advice about that.”

  Kubu thought it stronger than advice, but let it go. “Is it possible any of the staff are working with Madrid? Tipping him off?”

  Dupie frowned. “Why would you think that?”

  “Well, seems odd he just went for you and Salome. Why not Enoch and the others? Did he already know that they had nothing to tell him?”

  “Enoch and I go way back. He’s as loyal as they come. Solomon and Beauty weren’t on the island. That leaves Moremi.” Dupie shook his head. “You can’t seriously suspect him.”

  “I think Madrid learned more than you told him. I think we need to watch our steps very closely. I’ll keep my eyes open. I suggest you do the same.” Dupie opened his mouth to argue, but then closed it and nodded.

  “I’ll need to ask Salome some more questions, too. Some pretty odd things have come out since our last meeting, Dupie. Did you know that the Munro sisters knew of Goodluck before they met him here? And I think Salome had seen him before, although perhaps it’s buried in her subconscious now.” Before Dupie had a chance to respond, Kubu continued. “Then there’s William Boardman. He saw something important that night. Important enough to get himself killed.”

  “But that was Madrid!”

  Kubu shook his head. “No, we don’t think so. Why would Madrid go after him? Unless you – or someone else – told him something about Boardman. Did you?”

  “Of course not!”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  Kubu got up and moved to the filing cabinet where there were two framed photographs. One was of a family with two teenage children – a girl and a boy – standing next to a swimming pool. Behind the family stood a smiling, dark-haired young man of about twenty wearing a bush hat set at a jaunty angle. The second photo was of a single-story house with face-brick walls and a tiled roof. To one side grew a large, thirsty-looking palm and in the background a range of hills stretched to the horizon. He picked up the family picture, examining it to see if the athletic-looking youth could have become the man across the desk, then glanced at Dupie, who nodded. “It’s Salome’s family. That’s me in the background.” He indicated the second photo. “That’s my dad’s house on the farm in Rhodesia. Nothing left now, no house, no farm. Dad passed away. In hospital in Bulawayo. At least he didn’t have his throat cut. They might have saved him, but the doctors were too busy, and the nurses couldn’t care less.”

  Kubu skipped meaningless condolences. “And Salome’s family?”

  “They did get their throats cut. Her mother was raped and killed, and her brother had his genitals chopped off and stuffed into his mouth. Salome was fourteen then. She was lucky, you could say. They’d started gang raping her when one of the bastards shouted that the Scouts were approaching, and they took off without even bothering to kill her.”

  “Were you with those Scouts?”

  “Yes. But actually the odd thing is that we were miles away when a terrorist gave the alarm. He jumped the gun. We didn’t get there for another half an hour. But we caught up with the bastards.”

  “What happened?”

  “Took them by surprise.” Dupie pulled his finger across his throat and made a choking noise in the back of his mouth.

  Kubu put down the picture. He wasn’t looking forward to asking Salome about her experience, but it had to be done. Strangely, Dupie’s ambient good spirits seemed restored.

  “Time for a drink,” he said. “It’s white wine for you, isn’t it?”

  ∨ The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu ∧

  64

  While Kubu was talking to Dupie, Tatwa strolled to the dining area. Solomon was setting the tables. The policemen had been invited for dinner. They would all enjoy Moremi’s lasagna and well-grilled chops done on the braai, with mielie meal and tomato gravy. After dinner, two of the three constables would return to their mainland camp in the motorboat and drop off Solomon, who was no longer needed for guard duty.

  “You’ll be happy to get home tonight,” Tatwa said by way of greeting. Solomon nodded and went on precisely aligning knives and forks as though royalty were expected. “Beauty will be pleased,” he commented.

  “Are you happy here, Solomon? Aren’t you worried about all the things that have happened over the last few weeks?”

  “It’s my job. And Mma Salome has been good to us. Maybe now we can help her. It’ll be all right.” He examined the tables critically and started setting out water and wine glasses.

  “That night,” Tatwa began, knowing he did not have to specify which one. “We think Rra Boardman saw something or learned something. Something so dangerous that it got him killed. Was there anything you can remember that was different that night – maybe something you thought about afterwards?”

  “I wasn’t here that night. I left
after I’d set the table for dinner. I only came across the next morning with Rra Dupie. I don’t know what Rra Boardman saw.”

  Tatwa sighed. It had been a long shot. “There was nothing different the next morning?”

  “Well, just that Enoch usually fetches us early in the motorboat unless he takes guests out in it. Then we come across by mokoro. I heard the boat come over earlier than usual, and then the Land Rover driving away. Enoch didn’t come to call us, so I thought we’d take the mokoro. But someone had borrowed mine, and the others were out too, so we just waited. About an hour later Rra Dupie came back and took us over in the boat. He told us he’d taken Rra Zondo to the airstrip.”

  Tatwa liked to plan his interviews, sketch what he needed to explore and how to go about the discovery. But occasionally a detective finds a question in his mind that has no clear purpose. He had watched Kubu come up with a useful lead that way. So when a lateral question occurred to him, Tatwa asked it without hesitation.

  “Who had taken your mokoro?”

  Solomon looked surprised and shrugged. “We borrow each other’s. It doesn’t matter.”

  “When did you get it back?”

  “It was here. At the camp.”

  Tatwa felt a thrill of interest. “You’re sure it was yours?”

  “Yes. They’re all different. Mine’s quite narrow and pointed, faster!”

  Tatwa smiled. A turbo mokoro! “You left it at the camp the night before?”

  Solomon shook his head. “No, I went to the village with it that evening. Someone borrowed it in the morning.”

  For a moment Tatwa was speechless as the field of potential murderers broadened around him. “Solomon, this is very important. Do you remember how many mokoros were at the camp when you left on Sunday evening? And how many were here when you arrived on Monday morning?”

  Solomon looked puzzled. He shook his head. “Two, maybe three.”

  “Were there more or the same number on Monday morning?”

  Solomon shrugged. “I can’t remember.”

  “Please try!”

  Solomon thought, then shook his head. “It was three weeks ago. Why does it matter?”

  “But, Solomon, don’t you see? Someone could have taken your mokoro on the Sunday night. To get across to the camp and commit the murders!”

  But Solomon pursed his lips and shook his head firmly. “Can’t use a mokoro at night. Because of the hippos.”

  Tatwa sighed. Something was believed to be impossible just because it was never done. “Why didn’t you tell us this before?”

  Solomon just looked at him, and Tatwa knew the answer before he heard it.

  “You didn’t ask me,” said Solomon.

  ♦

  At this point Kubu and Dupie joined them from the office tent. “See any weak spots?” Dupie asked.

  Tatwa was supposed to have been checking the security of the central area. He shook his head. “I don’t think we’ll have a problem. It’s like a castle with a moat around it. And the moat is full of crocodiles!”

  Dupie laughed. He liked that. He thumped Tatwa’s shoulder hard enough to jog his St. Louis baseball cap. “Let’s go get a beer to keep your cap company,” he said. “I think we could all use a drink.”

  ∨ The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu ∧

  65

  Dupie made sure they had drinks, then got to work grilling pork chops on the braai. The others settled around the dining table, listening to the frogs call and hippos grunt. Kubu settled himself next to Salome, who had taken the head of the table. Tatwa sat opposite Kubu, with Constable Tau next to him. The other two policemen occupied the foot of the table, leaving two seats for Dupie and Enoch. Solomon hovered.

  Kubu noted with approval that Tau was drinking guava juice with ice. He would have the first watch after they went to bed. Tatwa could relieve him. Kubu would take the dawn watch, in time for an early breakfast. That meant that a glass or two now would not be inappropriate, and Tatwa could have one more St Louis beer because the alcohol level was so low. Kubu thought it very unlikely indeed that Madrid would have another go at the camp. It was the residents of the camp he wanted watched to avoid any unpleasant surprises later on.

  Dupie arrived with a plate of chops and almost collided with Solomon who was carrying a tray of lasagna, a big cast-iron potjie of mielie meal, and a frying pan heaped with a spicy onion and tomato sauce. “Braaivleis!” said Dupie with enthusiasm. “Nothing better! Time for a red, Kubu? I’ve got some Nederburg pinotage 2002.”

  Pinotage was not Kubu’s favorite. Pinot noir – the noble grape of Burgundy – married way below its station with the peasant cinsaut. The wine was designed to grow in South Africa’s Cape region, but not to grow on the palate, was Kubu’s feeling. And 2002 had been an abominable year in South Africa. But he thought it would be snobbish to refuse. And Nederburg wines were good, in general.

  Once the main course was presented, Salome said, “Dupie, won’t you bring in another small table there? Pull out the cloth. Then Solomon and Moremi can join us. They’re also involved.” It was a thoughtful gesture; Moremi and Solomon were guests for once, as well as staff.

  “We don’t know what will happen next, Superintendent,” Salome said to Kubu by way of explanation. “All of us could wake up and find ourselves murdered in our beds!”

  Kubu suppressed a smile, at this unlikely combination of events. “We’ll keep a strict watch,” he assured her.

  “I’ll be awake, too. Backup,” said Dupie. “The 303 might come in handy yet, with a bit of luck.” He had the rifle leaning against the back of his chair.

  “Constable Tau will take the first watch. Ten to two. Will you go next, Tatwa? Two to six. I’ll take over from then.”

  Salome hadn’t touched her food. “When is this nightmare going to be over?”

  The Batswana men were rolling the pappa into balls with their fingers and dipping them into the tomato gravy, while gnawing the well-done chops. Each had a large helping of lasagna for variety. Not without regret, Kubu put down his chop bone. “When we catch the criminals,” he said. “Not before that.”

  “You mean Madrid and Johannes?” asked Salome.

  “Well, yes, them also, but I had the murderers in mind. Madrid is after the cash. He didn’t send Zondo to bump off Tinubu and Langa. If he had, we wouldn’t have heard from him again. He’d have what he wanted. No, Madrid’s the injured party looking for his money. We need to catch the murderers and confiscate the money. Once that happens, Madrid will give up.” Kubu looked pensive while he rolled another pappa ball. “You know, Ms. McGlashan, it’s a funny thing. Every criminal thinks he’s smarter than the police. Never considers the possibility of being caught. Worse than that, he thinks he’s cleverer than every other criminal. So he’ll take on police and criminals all at once.”

  Dupie swallowed a heaped forkful of lasagna. “You’re talking about Zondo?” But Kubu had his mouth full and just shrugged. Dupie spoke across the long table to Salome. “Don’t worry, my dear. Nothing’s going to happen. Not while I’m here.”

  Kubu noticed the looks that met across the table. Something has changed between them, he thought. Interesting. What had Dupie done to win his lady’s favor?

  Enoch ate in silence. Suddenly he met Dupie’s eyes, and touched his chest as though he were about to cross himself in the Catholic fashion. Dupie glanced away, and Enoch let his hand drop back to his food. From somewhere in the lagoon there came a loud series of hippo grunts. There was a loud crack, and a tree descended to comfortable elephant-trunk level. The night-bush was filled with sounds.

  It was left to Moremi to respond to Kubu. “No, not clever,” he said, shaking his head. “Not clever! Not clever!” But whether he was agreeing or just commenting was unclear. “Must go see to dessert. Kweh may eat it!”

  There was apple pie bristling with cloves and drenched in custard. It was delicious. Everyone’s spirits seemed improved, whether or not they’d had alcohol. Dupie told tales from what he
called the ‘old’ Africa, and everyone had a bad-news story from Zimbabwe.

  “How can they let him carry on?” asked Dupie. “Surely someone can bump him off if that’s the only way to get rid of the bastard.”

  “It’s not that easy. He’s got the place tied in knots. Everyone watches everyone else. And everyone is scared of everyone else. Even the police. I was there recently.” Depression and anger sounded in Kubu’s voice. Dupie shook his head at the unfathomable ways of Africa.

  With Kweh on his shoulder, Moremi brought a large pot of boiled coffee. They heard another tree crashing on the mainland and pachyderms engaging in minor quarrels.

  Kubu pushed back his chair, and Tatwa unfolded from his. Constable Tau was deep in conversation with Solomon, but took the cue and jumped up, followed by the other two policemen.

  “We’ll take Tau up to the lookout,” said Kubu. “I want him to keep watch across the river. The guys on the mainland will watch the landing. But Tau’ll be moving around the island during the night. Don’t be concerned.” He turned to Dupie. “And don’t take any potshots!”

  The group broke up. Solomon joined the remaining two constables, and they headed for the motorboat and their posts on the mainland. Kubu and Tatwa walked with Tau to the lookout, settled him there, and strolled back to the guest tent near Dupie and Salome. By mutual agreement, the detectives had decided to sleep in one tent.

  “Tau’ll be asleep in an hour,” said Tatwa.

  Kubu shrugged. “It won’t matter. The dangers are here on the island. Not on the mainland or across in Namibia. We better keep alert, though.”

  Tatwa nodded, but was pensive. He took this first opportunity to tell Kubu Solomon’s story about his mokoro.

  Kubu stopped and turned to Tatwa. “What does it mean?”

  “Well, anyone could’ve come over from the mainland, committed the murders, stolen the money and the drugs, and been gone by morning.”