A Carrion Death & The 2nd Death of Goodluck Tinubu

by Michael Stanley

  At about three thirty that afternoon, a messenger delivered an envelope from Forensics. It contained the cash slip Kubu had found with Bongani at Kamissa. Apparently it was standard issue and came in preprinted books. The paper had been dusted for fingerprints. They had found a number, most of which were smudged and undecipherable. One, however, was clear and well formed. They had run it through the computer, but there was no match to any known criminal. Kubu had been given a high-resolution copy of the slip. He looked at it carefully. It was from the Number One Petrol Station in the town of Letlhakeng. Probably the only petrol station there, Kubu thought, and snorted. It was for two hundred and fifty pula and a volume of petrol he couldn’t make out. There was an illegible signature, but the date was clear—the twenty-third of February, four days before Andries and Bongani had discovered the body.

  He dialed the number on the slip and waited.

  “Yes?” said a voice at the other end.

  “Is that the Number One Petrol Station?”

  “Yes. What do you want?”

  “Good afternoon. This is Assistant Superintendent Bengu from the CID in Gaborone. I would like to ask a few questions to help me with a case that I’m working on.”

  “Okay.” The voice seemed to think that telephone calls were charged by the word rather than by the minute. Kubu sighed.

  “Could you tell me who I’m speaking to?”

  “Noko.”

  “And you are?”

  “The manager.”

  Deciding that this was as good as it was going to get, Kubu plunged ahead.

  “Well, Mr. Noko, we found a cash slip for petrol sales from your garage at the scene of a crime. We think that the criminals may have bought the petrol on the way there. We’d be grateful if you could tell us anything about the sale.”

  “What’s the number on the slip and the date?”

  Kubu told him. He was rewarded by a crisp, “Wait.”

  After a few minutes Noko returned. “We keep records,” he said, as if Kubu had challenged this. “The sale was made on the Thursday-night shift. We don’t keep the car registration numbers for cash sales.”

  “Who made the sale?”

  “It was Mashu. He was on duty on that day, and you can see his signature on the slip.”

  “May I speak to him?”

  “No. He’s not here.”

  Kubu took a breath. Noko was not unhelpful; he was just not helpful. “Where is he?” he asked, and then, guessing the response, he added, “and when will he be back?”

  “He’s off. He’ll be here during the day tomorrow.”

  “Fine. I’ll call tomorrow, then.”

  “Okay, Mr. Superintendent.” And without waiting for any acknowledgment, the line went dead, leaving Kubu to contemplate the dial tone.

  It was nearly four o’clock before Kubu tracked down the tour-bus driver, who confirmed that Tjeerd Staal, a student from the Netherlands, had deserted the tour at Khutse. The driver asked Kubu why the police were interested. Kubu told him and then asked, “When did you last see him? Did you see or hear anything that seemed as though he was in trouble in any way?”

  “Ag, no. When we were at Rucksack Resort, he and another student, from Germany, had a big argument in the bar the last evening—something about how the Botswana government is treating the Bushmen. The German’s first name was Joachim, but I don’t remember his last name. I can get it for you if you want.”

  “Was that the last time you saw Staal?”

  “Ag, no. They both were on the bus the next day, at opposite ends. Funny! When Staal didn’t show up for the trip back, it was the German who said that Staal had met a girl who was with a camping group and decided to stay on at Khutse, and then she would give him a lift back to Gabs. I thought it was strange that he would know what Staal was doing. Still, I didn’t worry because that sort of thing happens the whole time. Young people are always changing their plans.”

  Kubu paused, thinking through what he had heard. “Do you make the return-flight arrangements back to Germany?” he asked.

  “Usually. Wait a minute; I’ve found the trip schedule. Both of them are going back at the end of next week. Both leaving from Gabs and going via Johannesburg. Staal is on the KLM flight to Amsterdam from Johannesburg on Saturday. Tannenbaum—that was the German’s surname—leaves on Thursday to Joburg, then via Lufthansa to Frankfurt. Tannenbaum leaves Gabs at four in the afternoon on Thursday’s Air Botswana flight 123; Staal leaves on the same flight on Saturday.”

  “You have been very helpful, Mr. Van der Merwe. I assume you have no idea how to contact either of them?”

  “No way. They are on their own now.”

  “Anyway, if you hear from either of them before they leave, please let me know.” Kubu gave him his telephone number and hung up. “Oh, no!” he exclaimed out loud. He knew another long trip was in his future.

  He telephoned the car pool to arrange a vehicle and, just before he left for home, told Director Mabaku’s assistant, Miriam, that he was leaving for the Rucksack Resort in the morning. He prayed she wouldn’t suggest he tell Mabaku directly, and sighed with relief when she said she would pass on the message.

  Chapter 15

  This time Kubu chose Don Giovanni for his long drive. He felt in need of the Don’s advice. Joy had held him to the story he had told Pleasant and was now expecting a special event. He had a grin you couldn’t kick off his face, and he sang with zest and enthusiasm.

  Deciding to kill two sandgrouse with one stone, he made a detour to Letlhakeng but struggled to find the Number One Petrol Station. The main road was under construction, and the detours were very confusing—in many places appearing to be any piece of open land near the road. Eventually Kubu asked directions from a group of youngsters who were sitting on a wall and watching with amusement as drivers passed, only to return several minutes later, desperately trying to make sense of the maze. They told him that the petrol station, or garage, as they called it, was off the main road to Khutse. Kubu wasn’t particularly happy with this information; he had been on that road before and had not seen it. When questioned further, they told him the garage was actually not on the Khutse road, but behind a high security fence a hundred yards or so away. They pointed out a mobile telephone tower in the distance and said the garage was right next to it.

  Arriving at the Number One Petrol Station, Kubu found a seedy establishment with a variety of broken-down vehicles on the apron, and the pumps in need of paint. One seemed to have had an altercation with a truck—which the truck had won—and leaned crazily. He pulled up at one of the other pumps and waited. A bored attendant sauntered out and looked at him inquiringly.

  “Hello. Are you Mashu?” The man nodded. “I’m Assistant Superintendent Bengu from the police. I’d like to ask you a few questions. You may be able to help me.”

  Mashu didn’t look happy. “I’m on duty,” he said.

  “I can see how busy you are,” Kubu commented, looking at the derelict cars and empty petrol bays. “It won’t take long. Noko knows about it.”

  “Okay. You’d better come into the office, Rra.”

  The office turned out to be an annex to an area that was mis-named the workshop. Little work was taking place. One man was doing some accounts; he nodded but said nothing. Kubu wondered if this was the terse Noko.

  Mashu offered Kubu some coffee, which he accepted to break the ice. When it arrived, it had some nondescript creature floating in it. Things are pretty bad when the flies go for black coffee, Kubu thought, placing the cup at a respectable distance.

  He told Mashu the background to his questions and was pleasantly surprised to find that Mashu remembered the sale quite well.

  “Yes, I remember them, Rra,” he said. “I was asleep. No one comes through Letlhakeng at night. Why should they?” He paused, but Kubu correctly assumed that the question was rhetorical. “They woke me up. Hooted loudly. I was dreaming about my Maggie. Yes, well, anyway, they hooted, so I woke up and came out. I ga
ve them the petrol, and they left.” He smiled, pleased to have concluded his contribution.

  “What time was it?”

  “Near dawn. Must have been around four o’clock.”

  “Can you describe the car and the people in it?”

  “Well, the car was a BCMC Land Rover—bright yellow. There were two men in the front. They were in the dark, so I couldn’t see them well. The driver was a white man with a beard.” He paused. “It was red. I didn’t see the other guy very well, but I’m sure he was black.”

  “Was it an open truck or a station wagon? Two-door or four-door? Did it have a BCMC logo on it? Do you recall anything about the license number?”

  Mashu was trying to remember. At last he said, “It was a station wagon—four doors, I think, Rra. I don’t know if it had a BCMC logo, but it was their yellow, all right.”

  “Did you look in the back of the vehicle while you put in the petrol?” Mashu shook his head.

  “Can you describe anything else about the men?”

  “Well, it was dark. I was half asleep, Rra. I’m sorry.”

  Kubu thought about the cash slip. “Did they ask you for the cash slip?” It seemed very unlikely that a couple of murderers would put in expense claims. Mashu shook his head yet again.

  “The man with the red beard gave me three one-hundred-pula notes, and I gave him fifty pula back with the cash slip. We always give a cash slip with the change. It’s Rra Noko’s rule.” Kubu nodded, satisfied.

  “Can you describe anything else at all about the men?”

  Mashu shook his head. “It was dark,” he said for the third time. “And white men all look the same anyway,” he added with a shrug. “Just the driver’s beard—very thick. I didn’t like the look of him much. I tried to clean the windscreen, but he just waved me away and gave me a few coins as a tip. Turned out it wasn’t even real money!” He gave a wry grin. “He cheated me, Rra!”

  Kubu was suddenly interested. “What do you mean, it wasn’t real money? Do you still have the coins?”

  Mashu nodded, reached into his pocket, and came up with a small, grubby change bag. He dug in it and produced three coins, which he handed to Kubu. The bag rapidly disappeared again.

  Kubu looked at the coins. It was Angolan money totaling five New Kwanza, worth nothing in Botswana and not much more in Angola.

  “I’ll give you five pula for these,” he offered Mashu. Mashu could hardly believe his luck, but with the suspicion of the very poor, he asked slyly, “Perhaps it’s worth more?” Kubu tossed the coins on the table and said, “It’s okay. I don’t really need them. You can keep them.” Mashu folded at once and took the pula.

  That was all that Kubu got out of him. Not much to go on really, but much more than he had expected. He finished by asking Mashu to let him take his fingerprints. Mashu was very nervous about this and actually asked if he should see a lawyer first. Kubu just laughed. He doubted that Mashu had ever even sold petrol to a lawyer. Inevitably, while Kubu was taking the prints, Noko entered the room.

  “What has he done?” he demanded. “Are you arresting him?”

  “No, no, he’s done nothing,” Kubu said patiently. “I just want to check his prints against the one we found on the cash slip.”

  Noko nodded, but looked at Mashu suspiciously. Kubu tried to rescue the situation by commenting on how helpful Mashu had been and even shaking hands all round. All he got for his trouble was a smudge of residual ink from Mashu and some automobile grease from Noko. Giving up, he settled for directions to Rucksack Resort.

  Chapter 16

  Rucksack was quite different from Dale’s Camp. As Kubu drove up, he could tell immediately that this was not an upscale accommodation. A dozen or so tents were pitched around the central buildings. This was a backpackers’ resort—for people who wanted to see Africa on the cheap. They would spend four or five weeks in a bus, trekking across Africa.

  Kubu introduced himself at the reception desk, asking the receptionist to arrange for him to see the manager in about half an hour. He asked if he could use a large towel so he could wash the dust off in the meantime. This was not a place with porters, Kubu thought. He decided to get a steelworks for himself.

  The receptionist suggested he make use of the public showers in the campsite and gave him a towel. Kubu had the impression that she did not want him sponging himself off in the men’s room next to the dining area. A half-naked three-hundred-pound black man might upset the guests, even if most of them were young.

  Looking around, Kubu realized that the focal point of the resort was a large bar that offered simple food as well. It was a low-budget operation designed for low-budget visitors.

  “Is that the usual barman?” Kubu asked the receptionist.

  “Oh, yes,” she replied, smiling. “And owner, manager, bouncer, and general handyman. We only have a small staff here.”

  “I’ll speak to him as soon as I am presentable,” Kubu said.

  Fifteen minutes later, Kubu went over to the bar and introduced himself. The barman told Kubu that his name was Dieter Papenfuss from Switzerland. He had set up the camp five years ago and enjoyed providing young people with inexpensive accommodation in his favorite country in the world.

  “I did a trans-African safari fifteen years ago,” he explained. “We were twenty students in an overland truck. We spent a week in Botswana, mainly in Chobe and Savuti. I fell in love with it then, and I still love it now. I meet many young people here and a few older ones too, who do not have the money to pay high prices. I charge everyone the same, no matter how rich or poor. I think having two prices is ridiculous—one for locals and one for foreigners. It will kill the tourist trade eventually. People are very greedy.”

  Kubu shared these sentiments, but did not say so aloud. He liked Papenfuss’s accent, which was definitely Germanic, but was quite soft with a purring sound at the back of the throat.

  “Mr. Papenfuss. As you know, a body—”

  “Everybody calls me Dieter!”

  “Thank you, Dieter. A body was found near the Kamissa waterhole. We think it had been there for about four or five days. I spoke to a bus driver you know: Koos van der Merwe. He said that one of his group did not show up for a trip to Maun a week ago. Apparently he and another traveler had a big fight here in the bar.”

  “Ja. It is correct. Two students were arguing about the Bushman people—whether the government was right to resettle them out of the Kalahari. One, a Dutchman, said since they had ancestral lands there, they should continue to live where they please and to wander as they needed. The other, who was from Germany, said they were interfering with a great wilderness area, hurting conservation of an irreplaceable ecosystem, and that the government had every right to give them some land of their own. They had too much to drink, and it became a very angry argument. The Dutchman called the other a Nazi for suggesting the Bushmen should be transported, as he called it. He said the next thing would be to exterminate them because they were a nuisance, just like the Germans had tried to exterminate the Jews. Mein Gott—what a fight. I had to bang their heads together and throw them out.”

  “Did it seem that one wanted to kill the other?” Kubu asked.

  “I doubt it—but they were very angry. I think the Dutchman was still angry about what the Germans had done in World War II. Several members of his family were killed, I think. Maybe he was Jewish. They were young with hot heads and too much beer and schnapps. I think they would have liked to hurt each other. But kill? No.”

  “But they were still angry the next morning. Van der Merwe told me they sat at opposite ends of the bus.”

  “Ja. Ja. But you must remember they are young, with pride.”

  “While they were here, Dieter, did either mention that they were changing their plans and not returning with the bus? Apparently the Dutchman—his name is Tjeerd Staal—left the tour at Khutse.”

  “Nobody mentioned anything to me. You may want to ask the receptionist. She is very popular because she
is young like the students. She often has a drink or two with them after work. No, I think you are barking at the wrong bush. These are kids, not animals.” Dieter’s tone indicated that he had made his final pronouncement on the subject. “May I offer you a drink, Mr. Detective?”

  “Aaaah, yes. Thank you. A double steelworks would be wonderful.”

  “Nobody knows you here. You can have a real drink if you want. Nobody will tell.”

  Kubu smiled. “Thank you, but I need something long and cold.”

  After lunch, Kubu talked to the pretty receptionist, who told him that her name was Siphile. She remembered the fight and the two angry men. She too did not think that one would kill the other. They both seemed quite sweet, she said. Both had offered her a drink, but she had declined because she was still on duty. Anyway, by the time she was off duty, the fight was over, and the two had been banished from the bar. So she did not get to speak to them again.

  Kubu thought that this whole trip had been a waste of time. Just two hotheaded kids having a fight! Shortly afterward he waved farewell to Dieter and started the long drive home.

  Chapter 17

  Although the next day was Saturday, Kubu was in the office by nine. He wanted to see if anything new had turned up while he was touring the southern Kalahari. He sat down to check his messages, his ordinary mail, his e-mail, and other paperwork.

  As usual it was a mixed bag. He was disappointed to find no missing-persons reports that could possibly shed light on the victim. He listened to several messages asking for return calls on other cases he was working on. There were no e-mails of real interest. He wished he could stop those promising to improve his manhood or to provide graphic videos of horny teens “at spring break,” which he assumed was some sort of bacchanalian festival in the United States. He speculated how long the Internet could survive the onslaught of pornography and solicitous e-mails.