Detective Kubu 02; The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu

by Michael Stanley

  “Enoch had an amazing story to tell Dupie: The briefcase was full of one hundred dollar U.S. bills. From there greed and revenge egged each other on. The plan was to murder Goodluck late that night, strip his body, and dump it in the river. The crocodiles would take care of the rest. Dupie would pretend to take Goodluck to the airstrip early the next morning, giving a family emergency as the reason. So there’d be no murder in evidence at all. Obviously people would look for Goodluck, but the people who were expecting the dollars would put two and two together and get five: that Goodluck had taken off with their money. Dupie and Enoch might’ve got away with that.

  “But the plan went wrong, because when they’d killed Goodluck, they found he no longer had the money. He’d passed it on to someone else. I think this is why Goodluck was found on the floor. They were about to drag him to the river and throw him to the crocs when they realized the money was missing.

  “So Enoch and Dupie had two problems. First, who had the money, and second, how to deal with killing two people. No one would buy a double family emergency that forced two completely independent people to leave the camp early and then disappear.

  “They solved the second problem by actually making Goodluck look murdered. Dupie got clever and mutilated the body to make it look like a revenge killing of some kind. He knew we’d see through that, but his idea was that his hypothetical murderer would want to apply some misdirection to point away from the money.

  “As to who had the money, they assumed it would be one of the black guests. The choice was between Zondo, Gomwe, and Langa. Langa seemed unlikely. He had come with Goodluck. Why give him the money at the camp when they could do it in comfort in the car? Gomwe was a possibility, but he came from South Africa. Why travel across the whole of Botswana to do the exchange? What was wrong with Mochudi itself? That left Zondo. Flown in from Zimbabwe by charter. It made the most sense. So they went after him, and they were right.”

  “So it was Zondo who ended in the river?”

  “That’s right. And the story of the family emergency was transferred to him. They even dressed up Enoch in Zondo’s hat and jacket in case anyone was up and watching when the two of them left, supposedly Dupie and Zondo going to the airstrip. On the mainland, Enoch borrowed a mokoro – it turned out to be Solomon’s – to get back to the camp and take William Boardman bird watching, while Dupie drove toward the airstrip and got rid of Zondo’s hat and coat. Our lucky break was when those were found.”

  “What about Langa and Boardman?”

  “Langa was following Goodluck. He must have realized the money had been passed on to Zondo, so he transferred his attention to him. Maybe he heard something and went to check. Anyway he came upon Dupie and Enoch coming back from the river with bloody hands. He challenged them. That was a fatal mistake.

  “As for Boardman, he was up even earlier than usual, going about his bird watching, and saw the two men crossing the river in a mokoro. Of course he had his binoculars with him and took a look. He spotted that it was Enoch and Dupie, and probably wouldn’t have thought any more about it, but he was surprised by Enoch’s hat. Exactly like Zondo’s. Dupie had been too clever again. But it wasn’t spotting the hole in Dupie’s story that was is fatal mistake, it was trying to use it for blackmail.”

  Mabaku shook his head at the wiles of people. “And they pulled that murder off by setting up a meeting between Dupie and Boardman in Maun, and pretending that Enoch had broken down along the road to Kasane when, in fact, he made his way along the firebreak road to Maun, killed Boardman, and headed back to Kasane on the main road, even making a cell phone call to try to confuse the time of death.”

  Kubu nodded. “Yes, that’s exactly what they did. I wonder if Notu is still trying to find his robbers!”

  “Has Du Pisanie admitted all this yet?”

  Kubu shook his head. “No, he’s sticking to his story: it was all Enoch acting on his own. He only admits providing Enoch with an alibi for the trip to Maun. But no judge will buy that in the face of Enoch’s coherent confession and the disappearance of Ishmael Zondo. Dupie claims Zondo vanished because he still had the goods he was going to swap for the money. But that’s nonsense. In fact, I no longer think it was a swap. It was payment for services about to be rendered. To the new interim military government of Zimbabwe.” Kubu snorted.

  “What about the McGlashan woman? What was her role?”

  Kubu looked pensive. “First I thought she was the brains behind the whole thing, but now I’m not sure. She claims she knew nothing about what was going on, and she’s been pretty convincing. She may have known about them, but she certainly wasn’t actively involved in any of the murders. Enoch is adamant that she knew nothing at all, and he has nothing to gain by saying that. Frankly, whether she knew about the crimes or not, I don’t think we have a case against her unless Enoch and Dupie change their stories. We’ll sweat them a bit longer, but then we’ll have to let her go.”

  Mabaku nodded slowly. “Good work. How did you eventually get four when you put two and two together?”

  Kubu shrugged, a little amazed that the director was so complimentary this morning. “It was a lot of small things. Goodluck had his throat cut after he was dead, and Boardman was tortured after he was dead. It seemed an odd coincidence. The two glasses in Goodluck’s tent with Zondo’s prints on one. Why would Zondo leave a glass there after murdering Goodluck? In fact, Dupie brought the glass there from Zondo’s tent after the murders. Then there was Zondo’s disappearance. Even if he’d planned the whole thing carefully, it was hard to imagine he would vanish so perfectly. We thought maybe the Zimbabwe police had him, but my visit there convinced me otherwise. And if he had gone to – say – South America, then Boardman’s murder was unconnected. That seemed unlikely.”

  Kubu had more to tell. “Finally there was the issue of Zondo’s hat. Why would he discard it? He always wore it at the camp. First I thought that he’d deliberately used it as an inverse disguise – attracting attention to the hat rather than to himself – but Moremi said he had an attachment to the hat, and I believed him. That meant the hat was discarded because Zondo wasn’t around anymore. Once I had that insight, the rest came easily.”

  Mabaku came around from behind his desk and gave Kubu a thump on the shoulder. “Well done! It seems the hippo outfoxed the crocodiles!”

  Kubu thought of Zondo’s consumed body, and Tatwa struggling in the river. “Maybe,” he said somberly. “But it was a close thing.” He rose to leave, but another thought occurred to him.

  “You know, Director, you and I don’t believe in coincidences. Yet in this case there was a huge one. It nearly derailed everything by sending me off in the wrong direction.”

  “The Gomwe murder?” Mabaku suggested.

  “Yes.” Kubu shook his head. “The timing seemed perfect – Gomwe coming back to Botswana just as Boardman was killed and then being murdered himself. But actually he was trying to muscle in on the trans-frontier drug trade. Perhaps the money people in South Africa tipped him off about Jackalberry, and that’s why he was snooping around when Goodluck was there. But actually his death wasn’t directly connected to the money destined for Zimbabwe. I was so desperate to catch the people who were threatening Joy and Pleasant, I convinced myself that Gomwe’s murder was the key. That was almost a huge mistake.”

  Mabaku nodded slowly, digesting this. “How’s Tatwa doing on that case?”

  “It’s going to test his skills even more than the Jackalberry one. We’ve got the woman and the ranger on various drug charges – that’s open and closed. But as for the murder charges, I don’t know. They both claim that the other’s accusations are lies. I’m not sure we have enough hard evidence to convict them. Anyway, we’ll see. Tatwa’s developing into a very good interrogator. Maybe he’ll get a breakthrough.”

  “And Van der Walle owes me one for his bust in Johannesburg. That’s always useful.” Suddenly Mabaku was serious again. “Things are still pretty confused in Zimbabwe, K
ubu, but we’ve asked the government for help to track down Madrid and his thugs. The commissioner has made it clear that if they want cooperation from the Botswana Police Force in the future, they need to deliver on this one.”

  “But they’ll never give us Madrid if they catch him!”

  “Yes, we know that. We just want to be sure he doesn’t get away. Once they’ve got him, he’s no longer a threat. To anyone.”

  Kubu realized that this was the best resolution he could hope for. He was grateful the commissioner had moved so quickly and was beginning to feel a little ashamed of his earlier outburst.

  “Thank you, Jacob. And thank you for your support when things were going badly for me. You won’t regret it.”

  Mabaku smiled. Suddenly he stuck out his hand and warmly shook Kubu’s surprised one. “Oh, and congratulations!” Realizing that Kubu was lost, he added, “On becoming a father, of course.” Kubu’s mouth worked. How on earth does Mabaku know these things? It seemed Mabaku could read this thought too. He laughed. “Oh, I phoned for you yesterday when you were out, and Joy told me. She didn’t mention it to you?”

  Kubu shook his head, but he had a broad smile. Just the reminder was enough to restore his good humor.

  Mabaku gave him another playful thump. “Your life’s going to change, Kubu. But you’ll never be sorry, not for a moment. My kids are grown up now, but they still give us a lot of pleasure. The first twenty-five years are the hardest, though!”

  Kubu grinned. “We better get back to work,” he said.

  ∨ The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu ∧

  Part?

  ALL ALIKE

  He walked by himself, and all places were alike to him.

  —RUDYARD KIPLING, Just So Stories

  ∨ The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu ∧

  80

  Salome walked around the camp thinking of what had been lost and what had been gained. It was not for the last time. She would need at least two trips to Kasane to move the items not part of the sale of Jackalberry Camp. She had been lucky to find a buyer who was willing to negotiate the extension of the concession and pay her a fair price. For the first time in many months she looked around at the river and the view of the hills, hurting from the beauty. Scattered clouds were gathering on the horizon. She would go to the lookout for the sunset. It should be spectacular.

  One more commitment remained. She was tempted to shrug it off, just as she was trying to shrug off the life and the events that had led her to this point. Why, when things were changing for them, had Dupie thrown it all away on a quest for revenge and riches? She shrugged. She needed to move on while there was still time for her to build a life. If there is still time, she thought wryly. Wherever I go, I take myself with me. But she had made a promise, and she did not want any open doors left behind her.

  She needed a spade. Take a spade, Dupie had said from behind the heavy prison glass. She had seen him just that once after her release. Will you come to see me again? he had asked. With sadness in her heart, she had said she would not. He had nodded, almost relieved. That is when he had told her where to go and to take a spade. He had asked her to promise that she would, and after hesitating, she had given her word. They owe it to you, he had said. So now she needed to close this one remaining door.

  The spade, used to trim the camp paths, lived behind the kitchen, so she went to fetch it. There she found Moremi. As always Kweh was on his shoulder, clucking and eating a marula.

  “Will you stay, Moremi?” she asked. “You’re a wonderful cook; the new owner will be lucky to have you. He’ll probably pay you much more than I could afford to. I’ll write a reference, if you like.”

  Moremi smiled but shook his head. “We’re going to see the world, Kweh and me. Kasane, Francistown, maybe even Gaborone!” He did a little pirouette, disturbing the bird. “Don’t worry. We’ll be fine. You, too. We’ll all be fine. It is time.” He started to hum the farewell song.

  She picked up the spade. Moremi watched her as she walked off.

  Where the camp path ended, she had to push through bushes to get down to the river. There was a small inlet with a quiet bay surfaced with fine mud. Salome had no idea what she was looking for, or what was there to find, but she took off her sandals, checked for crocodiles, and waded into the water in her shorts. There was a large log jammed between rocks, red and shiny from water wear. Where Dupie had told her, she started to dig in the silt behind the log. More accurately she scooped the mud away. Very soon, the spade hit metal, and she stepped back, waiting for the now cloudy water to clear. Then she could see a mud-stained muslin bag. Leaning on the spade, she reached down with her right hand and tried to lift it out, but it seemed stuck in the river. After a few tugs, she tossed the spade onto the shore and used both hands to dislodge the bag. It didn’t seem large but it was very heavy. She supposed it was waterlogged and weighed down with mud. There was another bag below the one she had moved.

  Salome dragged the bag to the shore and unwound the wire tie. Then she saw the golden gleam. She lifted out the top bar, shiny, unsullied by the mud or water. On the top was stamped 1 kg, with a mark indicating the source and the purity. Over two pounds of Zimbabwean 20 carat gold, with a value of over thirty thousand U.S. dollars. And the bag was full. And there was at least one more bag in the river. There could be a million dollars worth of gold here, she thought, amazed.

  “They owe it to you,” Dupie had said. Who? The terrorists who killed her family and distorted her life? The people of Zimbabwe? The politicians who had maimed the country as badly as she had been maimed? She stood and thought about this gold and the money for which, she supposed, it was to have been exchanged. Money and gold that had taken four lives, as well as the freedom of Dupie and Enoch. Should she turn in the gold to the police? Be free of it once and for all? But they would give it back to the greedy politicians. Or should she keep it as repayment of a debt everyone else had forgotten?

  Eventually she retied the wire, dragged the bag back into the river, and covered it again with the sandy mud. Perhaps there would be a time for it, but that was not now. She washed her hands and feet in the river and put on the sandals, slippery on her wet feet. She pushed through the brush back toward the camp. Perhaps Moremi had made coffee.

  ∨ The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu ∧

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  In our first book, A Carrion Death, we introduced Detective Kubu, and he struck a chord with readers. We’ve been delighted by all the support he’s received both in reviews and in personal communications. We’d like to thank everyone for their interest, comments, and enthusiasm.

  Among the first Kubu supporters were our wonderful agent Marly Rusoff and her partner Michael Radulescu. We thank them for that and much more. Marly introduced Kubu to Claire Wachtel, Senior Vice President and Executive Editor at HarperCollins, who bought this book as well as A Carrion Death. We are very grateful for her strong guidance, which has greatly improved our books. Our thanks also go to Heather Drucker, our publicist, and to Evie Righter for her meticulous copyediting. Indeed, we are grateful for all the support and encouragement from the team at HarperCollins.

  As with our first book, many people have provided input and suggestions. While the curiosity of a new writing partnership might have motivated the help they gave on the first book, we are delighted that they have been willing to extend their support as enthusiastically and unselfishly to a second.

  The job of focusing the setting for Jackalberry Camp fell to Peter Comley and Salome Meyer. They hosted us at their wonderful property near Kasane, and then spent a week driving us around northern Botswana making sure that we understood the environment of the Chobe and Linyanti Rivers. We thank them for the benefit of their encyclopedic knowledge of Botswana, formed in a lifetime of living and working there, and for their wonderful company.

  We particularly want to thank Thebeyame Tsimako, Commissioner of Police in Botswana, for taking time from his demanding schedule to give us comments and
advice, and for helping with our requests. We also want to thank Superintendent Ntaya Tshepho and others at the Kasane Police Station for showing us around and answering questions about policing the area. They have important work to do, but managed to find time to satisfy a couple of inquisitive writers.

  Despite the efforts of all these talented and generous people, and the breadth of their knowledge and experience, the book may still contain errors. A writing partnership is wonderful for many reasons. Among them is that we each have the other to blame!

  ♦

  Michael Sears

  Stanley Trollip

  ∨ The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu ∧

  GLOSSARY

  Amarula South African liqueur flavored with marula fruit.

  Bafana Bafana South Africa’s national soccer team. Literally ‘The Boys, the Boys.”

  bakkie South African slang for a pickup truck.

  Balswana Plural adjective or noun. “The people of Botswana are known as Batswana.” See Motswana.

  biltong Meat dried with salt, pepper, coriander and other spices. Similar to beef jerky (but much tastier!).

  bobotie South African Malay dish based on lightly curried ground lamb.

  braai⁄braaivleis South African term for a barbecue.

  Bushmen A race small in size and number, many of whom live in the Kalahari area. They refer to themselves as the San people (see Khoisan). In Botswana they are sometimes referred to as the Basarwa. Debswana Diamond mining joint venture between De Beers and the Botswana government.