A Carrion Death & The 2nd Death of Goodluck Tinubu

by Michael Stanley

  He heard the shower in the bathroom and considered the implications of Dianna inviting him to her apartment and then immediately taking a shower. Each of the previous times, she had decided when they would have sex. It was time to change that. He swallowed the rest of the Scotch and walked to the bedroom door. Opening it quietly, he went in. Through the open bathroom door, he could see Dianna showering behind the frosted glass. The shower was large enough for two. He hesitated for just a moment, thinking back to the nightclub and wondered how well he really knew this woman. Then he let his instincts take charge. He stripped, piled his clothes neatly on a chair, and opened the shower door gently so as not to scare her.

  There was a momentary flash of surprise in her eyes. Then she said, “What are you doing?” He said nothing, so she gave him the soap. He started to lather it over her shoulders and then worked down to her breasts while the water flew off her body, liquid diamonds. He spent a while on her breasts, teasing the nipples to stand up in his fingers.

  “I didn’t realize my breasts needed so much cleaning,” she said, but the breathlessness of her voice belied the sarcasm. His hands moved down her body to the private triangle, and at the same time he kissed her lips. Then his mouth moved to her hard nipples. She was breathing hard now and started to spread her lather over his body with her hands. Her fingers took his maleness and guided it to her. Gently he lifted her at the waist and brought her body down to it. She grasped his shoulders as he moved inside her, her grip tightening as their passion rose. When he came, her fingers dug into his flesh, but without release. She let him relax and rinse her again, this time without passion. Then they dried each other with the generous towels. She was still breathing heavily, and her pulse was high.

  Her eyes fastened on his heavy shoulders and the thick mat of hair on his chest, his strong legs and what still remained excited between them. Small bruises were developing on his shoulders where her nails had dug into him. He saw a slender and attractive, physically hard woman with a designer body, probably sculpted by a personal trainer. Neatly toned but missing some of the softness of feminine curves. Dianna indeed, rather than Venus. He held her eyes. To her chagrin, it was she who flushed and dropped them first.

  Turning away, she put on a silk dressing gown offered by the hotel. There was one for him too, but he ignored it and followed her naked into the bedroom. She stretched out on the bed, letting her legs push open the gown.

  “I’d like some champagne,” she said. “There is some in the fridge.” She was still tense, unsure if she wanted him to leave. He returned with the bottle of Dom Perignon and two flutes. He poured carefully, and they watched the bubbles form and rise. They sipped. It was heavenly wine, but they were distracted.

  Suddenly he leaned over and roughly pulled the gown from her body. Then he poured the golden, tickling fluid between her breasts so that it flowed down around them, making a tiny lake in her navel before flowing still further down. When it reached the silk sheet beneath her thighs, he stopped pouring and said, “It’s very expensive champagne. Pity to waste it.”

  His tongue started to follow the rivulet from her breasts, emptied the miniature lake, made its way on to the delicate triangle of hair, and then below. She moaned softly, and then he was in her again, his lips and teeth caressing her nipples. She felt her sexual tension rise still further and arched her body against his. And when she felt him ready again, she sank her teeth as hard as she could into his shoulder. He cried out, but he was already coming inside her. With that, and the taste of his blood on her lips, she climaxed too. When the waves stopped, she relaxed against his body. He was still inside her, but now quiet. She reached for her champagne, but her hand was shaking.

  He was holding his shoulder, which was gently bleeding. “You’re a bitch,” he told her, but without rancor, and she ignored it. She looked at him again. His beard ran into the mat of chest hair that stretched between his shoulders, over his stomach, and down to the bushiness of his private parts. He’s a gorilla, she thought. But my gorilla, she added with a sudden possessive thrill in her loins. And he works at it. I have to give him that.

  Taking a mouthful of champagne, she leaned over and kissed him deeply, letting the champagne follow her tongue into his mouth. When she separated her lips from his, she was pleased to feel that he was hard again. She sipped more champagne and kissed him a second time, not wanting sex again yet, but enjoying the taste of him mixed with the champagne, and her power to keep him aroused.

  You are a delicious man, she thought as her tongue worked round his mouth, but there’s one thing you’re going to have to learn the hard way, lover boy. I’m not looking for allies; I’m looking for tools.

  Then she felt him start to thrust inside her again, and she didn’t think of anything else for some time.

  Chapter 13

  The cocktail party to welcome Angus and Dianna Hofmeyr back to Botswana was the most lavish anyone could remember, more so even than the one the U.S. embassy had thrown when President Bush visited Botswana in 2004. The foyer of the headquarters of the Botswana Cattle and Mining Company glittered like the diamonds it mined. The Kalahari String Quartet played familiar works with an African rhythm. The flowers had been flown in from Cape Town, ericas and proteas in abundance, and strelitzias, all coddled by subtle hues of purple fynbos. Mountains of Mozambique prawns punctuated the tables, while Botswana springbok carpaccio and a variety of marinated beef dishes showcased the company’s agricultural heritage.

  Kubu wondered why he had been invited. It had been years since he had communicated with Angus Hofmeyr, and he hardly remembered his sister, Dianna. Yet Angus had welcomed him enthusiastically, and Joy was having a wonderful time. She had spent almost a month’s salary on her sequined gown, which moved on her like a second skin, and Kubu thought she was the most beautiful woman there. But he would have thought that in any case. She will be storing it all up to tell her sister, he thought, smiling.

  Kubu went off for another helping of the excellent prawns—there was no shortage—and a refill of champagne. It was from a house he had not heard of before—Gobillard et Fils—but it was the 2001 vintage and rather good. Kubu approved of giving new imports a chance—and preferably a second and third chance, if someone else was paying. As the waiter was pouring the champagne, Kubu reflected how lucky he had been to have Michael Rose as a lecturer in his English class at university. Not only had he inspired Kubu to read more, but he had introduced him and several other favored classmates to the pleasures of wine. Once a month he would have a small wine-tasting party, encouraging the students to articulate the tastes they were enjoying.

  “Language is about expression,” he often said. “You need to be able to describe the difficult things in life—taste, smell, feelings. It takes practice, feedback, and collaboration.”

  At first Kubu thought this was a rationalization for the parties, but later he began to believe it to be true.

  His glass full, he headed to the buffet, where he bumped into Mabaku.

  “Bengu!” Mabaku said with a smile. “Let me introduce you to Colonel Hamilton and Dr. Martins. The colonel was just telling us about a very interesting fraud case.” He sounded puzzled. “But I must get back to Marie. She wanted another couple of prawns.” Mabaku hurried off, carrying a plate heaped with shellfish.

  Kubu nodded and shook the hands of the two elderly gentlemen. Since he knew no one but the hosts and Mabaku, he decided to make an effort to listen. It would free his mouth to concentrate on the more urgent business of the prawns. But the exchanges seemed to have only one word in common on each side, and he was soon lost.

  “Bad job when those lawyers get at you in court,” offered the colonel, shaking his head so violently that he spilled whisky on his dinner jacket.

  “Court? Did you hear that Matthews collapsed at the club playing tennis? Gone in a flash, and he was superbly fit,” came the reply from the doctor.

  “Was it a fit? I thought it was a heart attack.”

  �
��Oh, he had a heart attack a few years ago, you know. Never fire without smoke.”

  “I didn’t think Matthews smoked. Maybe he gave it up recently. Did you buy that tobacco stock I recommended?”

  Kubu didn’t wait for the answer. Indicating that his glass was empty, he returned to Joy, collecting a full glass en route. Joy was having no difficulty finding people to chat to, albeit all males. Now she had found Angus.

  “Kubu, your wife is absolutely gorgeous, and much too smart even for me! How on earth did you persuade her to marry you? Lucky for you she didn’t ask my advice.” While they were expanding on the joke, Dianna joined them. She seemed put out and spoke directly to her brother, ignoring the Bengus.

  “Angus, we have to discuss the financials with Cecil. I’ve just been talking to Andy—the financial director, and I think—” Angus interrupted. “Do you remember David Bengu? My school cricket friend? I always called him Kubu. And this is his gorgeous wife, Joy.”

  Dianna nodded to them. “But, Angus, we really need to talk seriously. I’m not getting the answers I want from Cecil.”

  “Look, Di, leave this to me. I’ll chat to Cecil next week. I’ll take care of it. Why don’t you enjoy yourself tonight?”

  For a moment Dianna said nothing. “Leave it to the men, not so? Mustn’t worry my pretty little head about business things? Just like Cecil. He treats me like a little girl, something to show off the family looks. He refuses to take me seriously too. You’re both exactly like Dad used to be.”

  “Uncle Cecil’s done a great job as chairman of the company.”

  “And how would you know one way or the other?”

  Angus tried to recover the situation. “Look, Di, we’re having a party. We can sort this out later. Have a glass of champagne.”

  “You’ll just get on with your playboy life style, won’t you, Angus? Let Cecil go on calling the shots and pulling the strings? Well, I count too. And it’s not going to be like that. Believe me.”

  Angus’s ears reddened, partly in anger and partly in embarrassment at this inappropriate exchange in front of Kubu and Joy.

  “Di, you’re not running the show here. I’ll decide what’s best for the company and the trust, and for you, for that matter. That’s the way Dad wanted it, and that’s the way it is.”

  “Don’t you dare talk to me like that,” she said through clenched teeth. She turned away from Angus and muttered something. Then she cursed in a deep, bitter voice. At first Kubu thought she was talking to him, but she was looking somewhat to his right, and her eyes were focused behind him. He looked round, but there was no one there. When he turned back, she seemed to see him for the first time. She stared at him for a moment and then walked away without a word. After a moment’s hesitation, Angus said he’d better go after her, and followed.

  “What did you make of that?” Kubu asked Joy. “Was she talking to us?”

  Joy shook her head. “I don’t think so. She seemed to be looking past you. She was upset with Cecil Hofmeyr. Was he standing in that direction?”

  Kubu shook his head. “He’s on the other side of the room.”

  As the conversation around them picked up again, Mabaku came over with his wife, Marie.

  “What was that all about?”

  “Brother-and-sister spat, I’d say,” said Kubu, helping himself to a couple of mini-pizzas with caviar from a passing tray. “I’m sure it’s not important.”

  Joy didn’t agree. Her instincts told her otherwise. And in the long run, she would turn out to be right.

  Part Three

  READING THE WRITING

  A carrion Death, within whose empty eye There is a written scroll! I’ll read the writing.

  —SHAKESPEARE, THE MERCHANT OF VENICE, ACT 2, SCENE 7

  March

  Chapter 14

  The morning after he’d returned from Dale’s Camp, Kubu arrived at his desk a little later than usual. He put down his briefcase and went to the canteen for a cup of tea. As Kubu poured milk into his cup, Edison Banda appeared on a similar mission. He was an immigrant from Malawi, and also a detective. Kubu told Edison about the Kamissa murder and asked him to watch for reports of missing white people. Then Edison filled Kubu in on some of his recent cases—an attempted robbery of a liquor store and a few break-ins at private residences. Kubu nodded sympathetically, because he knew how much time such cases took, usually with no glamor and little likelihood of success.

  As Kubu turned to go back to his desk, Edison said, “Did you hear that Ms. BCMC has found herself a man?” He was referring to Dianna Hofmeyr. “He’s developing a mine near the Central Kalahari Game Reserve. Apparently they met about six months ago. She’s been down to his mine a couple of times since then. Then one of the guys saw them go up to her room at the Grand Palm a few weeks ago. He was back in town over the past weekend, and the same thing happened. Probably he’s just her local entertainment while she’s here.”

  “Interesting,” Kubu murmured. “Thanks for the news.” He wondered how this kind of gossip managed to spread so quickly. We’re a social species, he reminded himself. We are interested in other people, especially if we know them or know of them. He recalled Dianna’s strange behavior a couple of months earlier at the cocktail party the Botswana Cattle and Mining Company had thrown for her and her brother Angus, who was expected soon to take control of the company. Angus and Kubu had been together at Maru a Pula school, and even though there was four years’ difference in age, they had become quite friendly because they passionately shared certain interests, such as cricket. Angus had been a fine all-rounder, already playing for the First XI even though he was only fifteen. Although Kubu loved the game, he was too big and uncoordinated to play, but was the official scorer for the team. By the nature of cricket, there was a lot of time for the two to get to know each other. But then Angus’s father had died in a terrible plane crash. As soon as they finished the school year, Angus and Dianna were whipped off to England by their mother, who made no pretense of liking Africa in general, or Gaborone in particular.

  After Angus left, he and Kubu had kept up a correspondence for about three years. Angus complained about the British, about the weather, and about the fact that he had to study hard to keep up at school. He never mentioned either his mother or sister in any of his letters. In the years after that, the two exchanged no more than Christmas greetings. Kubu felt that too would soon end. He had very fond feelings for Angus, for it was he who had given Kubu his nickname. “You’re David?” Angus had exclaimed in disbelief when they first met. “David Bengu? That’s not right. You aren’t a David. Not even a Goliath! You’re Kubu. That’s what you are—a big friendly Kubu!” Kubu is the Setswana word for hippopotamus. Kubu remembered being upset at first, but he came to like the special familiarity of the name. It made him feel closer to Angus. The other kids had laughed, of course, but soon Kubu was his name. He was sure some of his friends didn’t even know his real name.

  Back at his desk, Kubu telephoned his wife’s sister, Pleasant Serome, at the Gaborone Travel Agency to get names and contacts for all resorts within fifty miles of Kamissa to check for missing persons. Some of the more upscale resorts had telephone numbers and e-mail addresses, while the others could only be contacted via radio. He suspected, of course, that even these had satellite phones for emergencies, but did not want to give those numbers out because of the costs. Typically, the travel agent acted as their point of contact.

  An hour later Pleasant called back and told him that she had faxed through contact information for five resorts. She asked after Joy, which Kubu thought was amusing, since the two spoke about five times a day. He told her that Joy had promised him that Saturday would be a night to remember. He smiled broadly as he wondered how Joy would react when Pleasant shared this news.

  Kubu picked up the fax and started calling the resorts. Most of my time is spent on dull, routine activities, he thought, as he worked his way through the numbers with no success. As much as he disliked it, routine
often did more to solve cases than did flashes of inspiration. The last camp on his list was the Rucksack Resort, a popular stop for many of the trans-Africa safaris. A woman answered, and he explained what he wanted. After a brief pause, she told him that a German group had come through about a week before on its way to the Central Kalahari Game Reserve. When the driver came back several days later, he was irritated because one of his passengers had decided to leave the tour and spend extra time in the Khutse game reserve. He was cross because the man had not bothered to inform him directly, but had just sent a message with another passenger. Kubu asked if she knew who the missing person was, but she did not. He then asked for the name of the tour group and the name of the driver. After a minute or two, she came back with the information. Kubu thanked her and hung up.

  Kubu phoned Pleasant again. “Ever heard of the Münchener Reisegruppe tour group?” he asked.

  She knew of the group. “It’s based in Munich. Occasionally the group contacts us for add-ons for their clients, but not often. I’ve a contact number in Munich, if that would be useful.” Kubu thanked her and wrote down the number. “Anything else I can do for the police?”

  “You never know,” he said. “I may need more information late on Saturday. Bye, and thanks.”

  “Kubu,” Pleasant said, “Joy didn’t know anything about what you said she had planned for Saturday!”

  “Oh, she wouldn’t admit to something like that, would she? She’d be embarrassed. Where is a good place to buy champagne?” Now she was sure he was teasing, because Kubu was Gaborone’s self-proclaimed expert at finding good wines at good prices. “I’ve got to go now,” he said, giving her no chance to comment. “Thanks again.”