A Carrion Death & The 2nd Death of Goodluck Tinubu

by Michael Stanley

  “Director Mabaku! It wasn’t necessary for you to come yourself. And how did you get here so quickly? Jonny phoned a few minutes before I arrived. I’ve only been here about ten minutes.”

  For a few seconds all three men looked at each other, puzzled. It was Cecil who realized what was causing the confusion. “Oh, of course, you’ve come to see me about the other matter you mentioned on the phone yesterday. It’s nothing to do with the break-in, is it?”

  Mabaku hesitated, glanced at Kubu, and turned toward Cecil with a frown. “Did you have a break-in here?”

  “Yes. Last night, we believe.”

  “Well, of course we’ll investigate it immediately. It is fortunate we are here. By the way, this is Assistant Superintendent David Bengu. He’s in charge of the other case I mentioned.”

  Kubu muttered that they had already met at the reception for Cecil’s niece and nephew, but Cecil showed no sign of recognition. He shook hands briefly and at once returned his attention to Mabaku.

  “Early this morning one of the security guards discovered that a window on the ground floor was broken, but nothing else seemed to be disturbed. But—here, let me show you.”

  He herded them around his desk and pointed to the top right drawer. The fascia was made from rich golden walnut with a delicate inlay of other woods. It was obvious that the drawer had been forced open. The lock was bent, and there was a chip out of the top of the drawer and a scrape above it on the once perfectly fitting frame.

  “This is an eighteenth-century French antique! You can see for yourself how beautiful it is. It’s very valuable too. Restoration will cost a fortune, and it’ll never be perfect again. I’m absolutely furious about it. Barbarians!”

  “What was in the drawer?” Kubu asked mildly.

  “Well, I keep some petty cash there, for odds and ends, such as staff presents, taxis, whatever.”

  “How much cash was in the drawer last night?”

  “Oh, perhaps a thousand pula. It’ll cost more than that to do the restoration. Look at the way the front panel has different wood pieces inlaid. Those will have to be matched, if it’s even possible to get the right woods.”

  “Who knows about the money?”

  “Well, it’s not a secret. Any one of my staff would know. They aren’t going to be tempted by such a small amount of money, I can assure you.”

  “Was anything else taken?”

  Cecil hesitated and glanced down at the damaged desk again. “Not as far as we can tell. The cupboards over there”—he waved at the built-in fittings along the opposite wall, but kept his eyes on the desk—“have a lot of sensitive and important company information. But how can we tell if anything’s been taken—or copied?”

  Mabaku interrupted. He had been on his mobile phone to the station, telling them not to send an investigating officer but rather a forensics team.

  “It’s a very serious matter,” he said rather pompously. “This is one of Botswana’s flagship companies. There is no telling what it would do to our investment rating in the international community if confidence in our security is lost.”

  “Indeed. I’d be grateful if we could keep the whole matter low-key, for exactly that reason.” Cecil seemed almost to regret that his secretary had called the police in the first place. “I know this is way below your level, Director, but I’m grateful that you are here. You’ve put your finger on the key issue right away. We don’t want any hysteria. Not over some petty thief after a few pula, for God’s sake.”

  Kubu was still thinking about the burglary rather than international finance. “Do you lock your door when you leave the office?”

  “Yes, always.”

  “Does anyone else have a key?”

  “Oh, yes. My secretary, Jonny, has a spare key. He’s always in and out.”

  “And who would know about that?”

  “Well, again, all the senior staff. But it rather misses the point, doesn’t it, Superintendent Bengu? Someone broke in through the window in the men’s toilet on the ground floor. None of the staff would have to do that.”

  “That’s true.” Kubu nodded, appearing to indicate that this was a good point. After a moment’s pause, he asked, “What time did you leave last night?”

  “About six o’clock, I think.”

  “And this morning you came in only a little before we did?”

  “Yes, I’ve already said that.”

  “Was your secretary here when you left?”

  Cecil thought about this. “He wasn’t at his desk, but I didn’t see him leave. Sometimes he goes to our gym. He often works late too.”

  “You are sure nothing else was taken from the desk drawer?”

  Cecil shook his head. “I keep only the money in there.”

  Kubu looked disappointed. He turned to Mabaku.

  “Perhaps we should talk about the other case, Director? Then I want to interview the secretary and the security guard, look at the broken window, and check who else was around. But I don’t think we should waste too much of Mr. Hofmeyr’s time, do you?”

  Mabaku had to agree. He looked inquiringly at Cecil.

  “By all means, gentlemen. Please sit down.” Cecil, already seated behind his precious desk, obviously expected the policemen to sit opposite him. He had a conference table, but he was making it clear that this was not to be an extended meeting. He was not in the mood for socializing. Kubu looked at the desk’s matching eighteenth-century chairs with their spindly legs and wondered if they would hold him. He sat gingerly, but the chair felt sturdy despite its delicate appearance. Eighteenth-century Frenchmen who could afford furniture of this quality probably overindulged in foie gras and Bordeaux wines. They would have had weight problems of their own.

  Kubu looked around. On the wall hung another portrait of Roland. This time it was of Roland and Cecil together on horses, somewhere in the African veld. Kubu thought Roland looked like the one with drive and energy, while Cecil looked deferential. Another painting reminded Kubu of a Skotnes. There was a magnificent Walter Battiss, whom Kubu regarded as an honorary Motswana because of his knowledge and love of the Bushman people and their art. This particular painting gave the impression of sand dunes in the haze. It was made up of thousands of meticulously rendered calligraphic figures resembling the forms seen in Bushman art. Another Battiss, from a different period, an abstract with bright, contrasting colors, was apparently of flowers and animals. Whatever it was, Kubu thought, he would like it on his own wall.

  Mabaku got to the issue at once. “Cecil, I mentioned the body we found at a waterhole in the southern part of the Central Kalahari Game Reserve, not too far from Letlhakeng. Gruesome. Eaten beyond recognition by scavengers. Well, we believe that the vehicle that was used to take the victim there—or to take the body there, if the victim was already dead—may have been a BCMC vehicle.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  Before Mabaku could answer, Kubu broke in. “A sensor picked up the color of the vehicle. It seems it was BCMC yellow.”

  “Of course,” Mabaku hastened to add, “it might have been stolen. Have you had any stolen vehicles reported, Cecil?”

  “Not as far as I know. But after about five years, we sell our vehicles and upgrade. Maintenance costs start getting high, and it works out cheaper to renew them. Obviously we sell them without repainting them. It’s hardly a registered trademark, you know.”

  Neither Kubu nor Mabaku had thought of this embarrassingly obvious explanation. Kubu was the first to recover.

  “Yes, of course, I see that. It would be very helpful, though, to check the records of sales as well as current records. We’re quite short of leads.”

  “Yes. Well. We’ll be happy to help with any of your inquiries. I’ll tell Jonny to make sure you are given every assistance. Now, if there is nothing more?”

  Neither policeman could think of anything else, so they accepted Cecil’s rising as a dismissal and finished with formal handshakes.

  Once out of
the inner sanctum, Mabaku went off to meet the forensic team, Kubu to speak to Cecil’s personal assistant. The personal assistant could add nothing to what they already knew. As part of his general information gathering, Kubu asked her to get him a copy of the previous week’s appointment book, and then went to look at the broken window. After about half an hour they reconvened to interview the secretary. He showed them to a meeting room and went off to arrange for coffee.

  “What did you discover downstairs?” Mabaku asked.

  “A small window was broken in the toilet. Nothing subtle. Probably hit with a crowbar. The intruder didn’t bother to clear out the glass shards at the bottom. He or she would probably have got cut climbing through. He or she did remember to break it from the outside and to choose a window facing the tarred road so there would be no footprints. The window was above the toilet itself, so you would expect footprints on the lid, but there was nothing like that. It’s all obvious nonsense. This is an inside job. No petty thief would break into BCMC headquarters, go straight to the chairman’s suite, open it with a key from the secretary’s drawer, break into an antique desk, and get out with a thousand pula and a feeling of a job well done. And that’s leaving aside the issue of getting past the outside security on the way both in and out.”

  Before Mabaku could comment, Jonny returned with a tray containing coffee cups, matching sugar bowl and milk jug, and a steaming pourer fresh from the filter. After the coffee rites had been completed, he sat opposite them.

  “I’m so ashamed,” he began at once. “Mr. Hofmeyr’s been good to me, so I feel terrible about this whole issue. I was careless. It’s my fault.”

  Kubu asked mildly, “Why is it your fault?”

  “I left his office unlocked when I went home last night. I always spend at least an hour in the gym each evening—we have one in the building for the staff, and I try to keep fit—and when I got back at about half past six, Mr. Hofmeyr had already left. I had some papers that I’d finished but hadn’t given to him yet, so I opened his office and put them on his desk. As I was closing his door, I thought I heard a crash—like a window breaking. I went to my window, which overlooks the front of the building. But I couldn’t see anything. So I packed up and went home. When I changed clothes later, I found the key to Cecil’s—Mr. Hofmeyr’s—office in my pocket. That’s when I realized that I hadn’t locked his door because I’d been distracted. Thank God I didn’t bump into the thief on the way out! But I feel terrible about leaving the office open.”

  “Did you tell Mr. Hofmeyr this?” Kubu asked.

  “No. But I suppose he’ll have to know. He’ll probably fire me.” He didn’t sound particularly concerned.

  “How long have you worked for Mr. Hofmeyr?”

  “About six months. I really enjoy the job. A lot of responsibility.”

  Kubu nodded. “So we see. And you often stay late?”

  “Yes, I have a lot of important work.”

  “And sometimes you stay late with Mr. Hofmeyr?”

  Jonny didn’t seem to like the question. “Sometimes,” he said cautiously.

  There was a rather uncomfortable pause. Then Kubu asked gently, “How much were you paid for what you took from Mr. Hofmeyr’s desk?”

  Oddly, neither Mabaku nor Jonny looked particularly surprised.

  “I didn’t take anything! I’ve been open with you and tried to help. I don’t think you should make completely unsubstantiated allegations and accuse me like that.”

  Kubu wanted to ask this pretty young man with his carefully gym-toned body and feminine lilt how well he knew Mr. Hofmeyr—whom he called Cecil—but he doubted if Mabaku would be happy with that question. So instead he asked, “Do you have a habit, Jonny? Need money in a hurry sometimes?”

  Even this was too much for Mabaku. “You don’t have to answer that,” he snapped. But then, after a few seconds, he added more thoughtfully, “It would be helpful if you did, though.”

  Jonny emphatically denied having a drug problem. They evidently had decided to pin the crime on him, he said, since they couldn’t be bothered to find the real culprit. He wanted a lawyer if he was to answer any further questions.

  “Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary,” Kubu said. “I don’t think we need to ask you anything else at the moment, do we, Director?” Mabaku shook his head. Jonny got up and went out, carefully closing the door behind him to show that he was too well trained to give way to temptation and slam it.

  After a moment Kubu said, “They’re lying.”

  “Who?”

  “Both of them. Something much more important than a thousand pula was taken from Cecil’s desk. He was upset about the desk, but there’s something else. The thief has to be Jonny. I don’t buy his nonsense about hearing the window break and forgetting to lock the door. This is a modern, sound-insulated building, and the toilet window is on the other side of it, five floors down. He didn’t hear the window break; he broke it—on his way out, in case a security guard did hear the noise. He didn’t throw away this nice job, with its benefits on the side, for a lousy thousand pula.”

  Mabaku didn’t ask what he meant by “benefits on the side,” and for once he didn’t argue. His morning had not gone well, and his mood had soured. “I’ll go and chat to Cecil about it,” he said. “Why don’t you get a taxi back to the office? Start thinking about tracing all the sold-off BCMC vehicles.” Kubu didn’t argue. He had had quite enough of BCMC for one day.

  Chapter 28

  After Mabaku left, Cecil sat for several minutes glaring at the painting on the opposite wall—the one Kubu had thought to be of animals and flowers. It was actually a watercolor of stylized Bushman paintings, similar to those at the Tsodillo Hills. He felt like throwing his ornate paperweight at it, but restrained himself. It was, after all, a Battiss original and quite valuable. His anger was kindled by the desecration of his desk, but it was stoked by betrayal. He pressed the buzzer for his secretary. When Jonny came in, he told him to close the door and left him standing in front of the desk.

  “Who paid you to steal the letter?” he asked. His voice was calm but Jonny knew him well enough to be scared.

  “I don’t know what you mean. I know how much you love that desk, Cecil. I’d never—” But Cecil interrupted him.

  “Don’t you dare lie to me. The police saw through you immediately. They know it had to be an inside job, and you are the obvious candidate. Did you really think you could get away with something so unutterably stupid?” He drummed his fingers on the desk, and his gaze went back to the painting. “You have a choice. You can cooperate with me, and I’ll protect you, or you can wait for the police to hunt you down. You’ll spend a few years in jail and the rest of your life on the street. Decide right now. I’ve wasted enough time on this already.”

  Jonny slumped into a chair. Having recently supported Kubu, it accepted Jonny’s slender frame without complaint.

  “Cecil, I’m really sorry. I mean it. It was Kobedi. He forced me to do it. I needed the money. I’m scared of him.”

  “Why didn’t you come to me?” But Cecil already knew the answer. Jonny had been Kobedi’s creature all along. There really is no fool like an old fool, he thought.

  “Never mind. Is it heroin?”

  Jonny looked down. “Kobedi said he’d wipe out the debts if I helped him, if I…um…,” he hesitated and then ended with a euphemistic shrug, “worked for you.”

  “But he wanted more, didn’t he?”

  “Somehow he knew about the letter. He asked me if I knew where it was. I’d seen you read it and store it with the petty cash. Kobedi offered me a lot of money for it. Cecil, I needed that money badly last night.”

  “You are going to help me get that letter back. Then I’ll drop the charges. Get you admitted to a drug-abuse clinic. I’ll pay. It’ll look good to the police. After that you are on your own. I never want to see you again. Clear out your desk and go home and wait for me to call you there. Now get out of my office.”


  Cecil was still very angry, but there was a silver lining. For the first time he had something on Kobedi. He didn’t know how he would use it, or even if he could use it, but his gut feeling was that Kobedi had gone too far this time. He went back to his contemplation of the Battiss painting. But it only reminded him of his difficulties with the Bushman land claims. Suddenly he came to a decision. He lifted the phone and dialed an unlisted number. Kobedi answered almost at once. It was too early for him to have embarked on a tour of his favorite haunts.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Cecil Hofmeyr. I want that letter back. I want it back right now. Jonny will come over and get it. If that’s not convenient, I’ll send over the police to get it instead. You’ve gone way over the line this time, Kobedi.”

  “Letter? Oh, that letter. Jonny said it might be worth something to me. He’s very anxious to please, isn’t he? Did he tell you about his little habit? All that extra money you gave him just wasn’t quite enough, was it? Especially as he had to share it with me; my finder’s fee, you might say.”

  “Listen, Kobedi, I’m not interested in the pimping you’re so proud of. That letter is a business matter. There’s nothing in it that embarrasses me, but it could be valuable to our competitors. If you don’t return it, I’ll have no hesitation in sending the police. The director of the CID—Mabaku—is a personal friend. Don’t think you can pull me down with you over this. You’ll be sitting in an uncomfortable cell for a long time, starting about half an hour from now. Mabaku is very concerned about Botswana’s investment climate. He’s had some good stock tips from me, which makes it a personal issue for him. He won’t be happy about industrial espionage at all.”