A Carrion Death & The 2nd Death of Goodluck Tinubu

by Michael Stanley

“I must admit that the letter was rather a disappointment. All those geological goings-on at that mine, but nothing really juicy. But it does suggest everything’s not altogether right there, doesn’t it? I’m not sure you’d want all that read out in court—especially that last bit about stolen diamonds. I think the police might be here already if that was all there was to it. But I am your consultant, after all, so I’m concerned about your welfare first and foremost. I’ve proved that pretty convincingly once before, haven’t I?” He paused and gave a theatrical sigh. “But you are so behind in your payments. I tell you what, send over dear Jonny with my money—in cash—and you can have the letter back. That’s a very generous offer, because I already have a much better one, and I’d still be expecting my payment from you. We do want to stay friends, don’t we, Cecil?”

  Cecil thought about it. “Who’s the other offer from?” he asked, not doubting that it existed. Someone had commissioned Kobedi to get that letter through Jonny in the first place.

  “No, I’m sorry. It would be very unprofessional to answer that. You know how careful I am about business ethics.”

  Suddenly Cecil was tired of the whole sickening business. He really couldn’t afford any sort of fuss, with the big board meeting coming up. He promised himself that, as soon as he had breathing space, he was going to get rid of Kobedi once and for all. Now he would back off.

  “All right. I’ll come myself. I’m not trusting Jonny with that sort of money.”

  “Excellent decision, Cecil. My other client will be very disappointed. But I suppose the break-in never really happened, did it? Turned out to be impossible. Perhaps you’ll want to keep the letter somewhere safer in future? My other client isn’t a very nice person. Can get quite violent, actually.”

  Suddenly Cecil realized how he might get even with Kobedi. He knew how to let Kobedi’s other client know that the break-in had in fact taken place. All he said before he hung up was, “I’ll see you in about an hour. I’ll have to go to the bank in person.”

  Then he called in his personal assistant. He told her about the break-in and that he had fired Jonny, mentioning only that Jonny had forgotten to lock the office on his way out the night before. She looked surprised, but didn’t comment.

  “So I need a new secretary—you select one for me. I don’t seem to be too good at doing that myself, do I? Also, I wouldn’t mind this appearing in the newspapers—something about a rumor that personal papers and money were stolen from BCMC headquarters. No real details. We don’t want investors to panic, do we, Paulina? But it may help the police.” He didn’t expand on how it might help the police, nor did he mention that he knew Paulina was seeing a young man at the Daily News. He was smart; she was smart. Between them they would work out how he wanted the story to appear.

  “Another thing. Our security is a joke. Get some quotes on a complete alarm system for the whole building. I have to go out now for about an hour. Some private business. Cancel all my appointments. I’ll see you when I get back. Don’t worry about a driver, I’ll take a taxi.” Cecil was feeling much better. But he had completely forgotten about Jonny waiting in his apartment.

  Chapter 29

  It was half past eleven by the time Kubu returned to his office. Before opening a case file on the break-in, he stopped at Edison Banda’s desk.

  “Hello, Kubu,” Edison said. “I hear that you moved like lightning on that BCMC break-in this morning. What’s the story?”

  “It was just a coincidence. Mabaku and I were going to meet Cecil Hofmeyr about the Kamissa case. When we arrived, everyone was in a flap because Cecil had just found out that someone had broken into his desk and stolen some money. He was most upset by the fact that his precious desk was damaged. I suppose that makes sense, though.”

  Kubu pulled up a chair. “It was obviously an inside job pulled by his assistant. Do you know a Jonny Molefe, by any chance?”

  “Never heard of him,” answered Edison.

  “Anyway, Molefe pretended that it was an outside job, but it was obvious he’d done it. The strange thing is that he’s well paid, so why would he take such a risk for a few hundred pula? It just doesn’t make sense. Molefe must have been after something else. But what? And why didn’t Cecil mention it? Unless it was something incriminating. I thought at first it might be a blackmail note from Molefe himself—my hunch is that Molefe and Cecil have more than a professional relationship. But why would Molefe steal back his own letter? Maybe someone saw them together and thought it a way to profit from Cecil’s wealth. Again, why would Molefe want to steal it? Makes no sense.” Kubu leaned back in the chair—a plastic one whose back was deformed from his previous visits.

  “Perhaps Molefe was working for a competitor?” said Edison speculatively. “Maybe it had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with company secrets.”

  “Wouldn’t Cecil want the police to know about that? He wouldn’t need to reveal what was in it.” Kubu sucked on a ballpoint pen. “Unless it was an illegal transaction, or he was blackmailing someone. Then he wouldn’t want us to know.”

  “My guess is that Hofmeyr has been doing something under the table and got caught! That would make him want to keep it quiet,” Edison said.

  “Edison, could you do me a favor, please? Run a quick check on Molefe and see whether he has a record. Cecil fired him, so I think I’ll have another talk to him. I’ll leave in fifteen minutes—as soon as I have the file opened on the case.”

  Jonny had cleared out his desk and gym kit and had gone home to wait for Cecil’s call. He wasn’t going to wait long, though. He had his money and would need a fix soon. Also, the thought of the drug rehabilitation center took away the guilt. He promised himself that he was going to be cured and would go straight after this. He had learned his lesson and was lucky to get away with a slap on the wrist. But until the center cured him, he had no choice but to continue the habit. He could wait for an hour or two. Not much longer.

  Two hours later, he was starting to fidget. Then the buzzer sounded. With relief, he went to find out what he needed to do to get the promised absolution. But when he opened the door, it wasn’t Cecil. He was so surprised that it took him a few seconds to recognize the large, stern-looking black man in his doorway. It was Assistant Superintendent Bengu.

  “What do you want?”

  “The lady at your office told me you were at home. She didn’t expect you back in a hurry. I thought you could come down to police HQ and help us with our inquiries, as they say in the TV crime programs.”

  “I can’t go anywhere. I’m waiting for Cecil—Mr. Hofmeyr—to tell me what to do. He’ll sort out this matter. It’s nothing to do with me. It’s just a misunderstanding.”

  “Yes. But, you see, I checked. Your record for possession of a banned substance, for example. I suppose you didn’t mention that in your job interview with Mr. Hofmeyr, did you?”

  “He said he’d sort it out. Drop the charges.”

  Kubu looked down at Jonny, trying to find it in his heart to feel sorry for him. “Well, it’s not quite that simple, you see. This is a criminal matter. My boss is very upset about it. You remember Director Mabaku? Very stern man. Very worried about his investments. Quite religious too. Do you read the Bible? Eye for an eye, and all that? He’s very strict about sexual preferences too. That won’t go down well with the judge either. I think you’d better come down to HQ.”

  Jonny backed into the doorway. “I’m waiting for Mr. Hofmeyr.”

  Kubu sighed. “Look, perhaps we can sort this out here. Either come out, or let me in. I get irritable standing in doorways.”

  Jonny hesitated, but then led Kubu into his apartment. Kubu looked at the worn, cheap, secondhand furniture and thought about Jonny’s good salary and probably generous benefits on the side. He still couldn’t feel sorry for him, but found himself angry with the people who had expensive furnishings paid for by Jonny’s addiction.

  “No eighteenth-century French chairs?” he asked as he settled himse
lf onto a worn leather couch, which creaked insultingly under his weight. He regretted the jibe at once. We are not here to judge, he reminded himself.

  “Jonny, you’re in a lot of trouble. You waited until Mr. Hofmeyr left last night, broke into his desk, took the money and the other things you wanted, and then broke the window on the way out to your car. I can’t prove that yet, but I will. I will talk to everyone at the company, work out all the timings, check all the prints, find whatever it was you used to break the window—you left your prints on that, didn’t you?—and find what you stole. Then you’ll go to jail for a long time. We take this sort of thing very seriously in Botswana. We don’t want the place to end up like South Africa, do we? And jail won’t be pleasant for you, will it? No dope. Plenty of not very savory characters with dubious sexual appetites. Not very pleasant at all.” His stomach growled, and he added, “And the food will be terrible.” He shook his head as if genuinely appalled by all this.

  “Mr. Hofmeyr said he’d help me. If I help him.”

  “Well, that’s a coincidence, Jonny, because I’ll also help you if you help me. You see, I can get the charges dropped. But I want to know what’s going on, Jonny. I don’t like people with antique furniture playing games with me when I’m trying to do my job.”

  Jonny said nothing, but Kubu smiled encouragingly.

  “Good. Now what did you take from the drawer?”

  Jonny looked away from him. “The money. About a thousand pula. I don’t have it anymore.”

  “Of course not. And what else did you take?”

  “Nothing.”

  Kubu spread himself further over the couch. It creaked again. Looking at Jonny, he waited.

  “I took the money. I needed it for a fix. I was desperate. You don’t understand—”

  Kubu sighed and looked at his watch. “It’s getting close to lunchtime. I’m hungry and don’t really want to waste too much time on this. Let’s finish up, and I’ll buy you something at the pizza place down the road. Otherwise it’s back to HQ, and I’ll eat my lettuce and tomato sandwiches. I don’t know what you’ll get, though.” Kubu realized that he really was getting hungry. Good, he thought, it will make me irritable.

  Jonny didn’t want lunch, but he knew that if he went to HQ, he wouldn’t get what he did want. “There was a letter. I took that,” he said quickly. Kubu nodded encouragingly as if he’d known this all along. “Yes. And who did you take it to?” Jonny said nothing, so Kubu changed tack. “How much did he pay you for it?”

  “Five thousand pula.” Kubu looked disbelieving but said nothing.

  “And he wrote off my debts. My other debts—”

  “Who?”

  “I’m not answering any more questions. I want a lawyer.”

  “Oh, come on! You’ve already admitted to stealing a thousand pula as well as a valuable document belonging to BCMC, which you then sold for an unspecified sum to a dope pusher. What do you want a lawyer for? You say Mr. Hofmeyr is willing to drop the charges, and why should I care? But I want to know who paid you.”

  “I can’t tell you that.” Jonny sounded genuinely scared.

  Kubu’s stomach grumbled again. A calzone, he thought. With anchovies and mozzarella cheese and tomato sauce. Perhaps only a medium, since he was on a diet. He looked at Jonny hopefully. “Why did this person want the letter?”

  Jonny shook his head. “I don’t know. I only glanced at it. It was all about the geology of a diamond mine. Perhaps he wanted to buy shares? Or sell it to a competitor? That might be it.”

  “Very likely,” said Kubu. Perhaps with olives also, he thought. Olives go well with anchovies. He checked his watch again.

  “You know, I don’t think Mr. Hofmeyr is going to call. I think he’s had another idea about all this. That leaves you on your own, doesn’t it? I’m getting really hungry,” he added almost wistfully. He took out his notebook and tore out the back page. “I’ll tell you what you should do,” he said. “Just write down the name on this piece of paper and leave it on the table. Then we’ll go out and get some lunch.” He passed the paper to Jonny with his pen. Both were now keen to leave, but Jonny was getting desperate. He quickly scribbled down a name and put the paper and pen on the table. As they left, without apparent interest, Kubu scooped them up and into his pocket.

  He let Jonny go his own way, and went to the restaurant alone. “Thembu Kobedi,” he said to himself. “That rings a bell. Where have I heard that name?” Kubu puzzled over this for a few minutes before he remembered. He’d seen Kobedi’s name on the copy of Cecil Hofmeyr’s appointment book he had taken from BCMC. His mind flooded with questions. Who is Kobedi, and what’s he done? Why does he want the letter? What’s in the letter? Why did Cecil keep it a secret? Was Kobedi’s appointment with Cecil Hofmeyr linked to the letter? He decided the best way to find answers was to pay Mr. Kobedi a visit.

  That decision made, he focused on more immediate matters and ordered a steelworks and a calzone with all the trimmings. A large calzone.

  Chapter 30

  After lunch Kubu set out to discover where Kobedi lived and whether he had a police record. It didn’t take long. There was a long list of arrests, but few convictions. The arrests were mainly for drug-and prostitution-related offenses, but none had stuck, and he hadn’t even been charged for most of them. There were a few convictions for minor offenses, including shoplifting (as a teenager), a suspended sentence for knocking an assailant unconscious and then maliciously breaking all the fingers on both his hands. The assailant had attacked him with a lead pipe, but appeared to be no match for Kobedi, who retaliated in self-defense. Sounds like a drug-related affair, thought Kubu.

  Kubu asked Edison about Kobedi and was surprised that he knew a good deal about him. “Thembu Kobedi,” Edison said, “is no good. He’s into drugs, both use and sale. He’s known to be both a prostitute, swinging both ways, and a pimp. We think he uses force when people get in his way, but have never been able to prove it. He has a vicious streak, capable of anything.”

  “Where would I find him?”

  Edison shrugged. “Who knows? You could try the Highflyer later on.”

  “The Highflyer?”

  “On Kaunda Road. It’s a nightclub. We think the name’s not entirely inappropriate.”

  Kubu grunted his thanks. He had to be in court that afternoon on another matter. But he would try Highflying after his dinner.

  The Highflyer was an ostentatious nightclub, overdecorated in a pseudo-African style that seemed hardly necessary in real Africa. It was smoky, but not so noisy that you couldn’t hear the person next to you shout. A long, elegant bar, surfaced in what used to be called Rhodesian teak, protected the barman from thirsty customers, and a variety of tables were scattered around the edge of the dance floor. A small band was taking its ease while the disc jockey chose a selection of harmless music.

  Kobedi was sitting at a small table, chatting to a girl who was dressed to attract male attention, preferably of the paying kind. She was wearing a miniskirt that displayed all of her legs—which she crossed and uncrossed from time to time to emphasize the point. For his part, Kobedi was wearing tight jeans—a couple of sizes too young for him—and a garish short-sleeved shirt.

  Eventually the girl got up with an artificial smile, handed Kobedi an envelope, and drifted away. Kobedi gave her a wave and counted the money. This is so easy, he thought. Fifty percent, and she does all the work. And she takes the risks. Kobedi made a mental note to remind her to have her monthly AIDS test. It must be hard to insist that a paying client use a condom, he mused. Especially if they are willing to pay extra for “flesh on flesh.” He wondered if he was getting his half of that extra.

  Kobedi finished his Scotch and was about to signal the barman for another when he noticed a large man in a crumpled suit pushing through the swinging doors. Not the usual clientele, unless he was looking for a high-class call girl. Kobedi thought not. He could smell a policeman across the Kalahari, so he sat back to watch.
The man walked to the bar and spoke to the barman, who pointed at Kobedi. The man nodded and walked over.

  “How are you doing, Kobedi?” asked Kubu in a chatty way. “Can I buy you a drink?” Kobedi looked him over, wondering what this was all about.

  “Sure, why not? I’ll have a double Chivas on the rocks.” Kubu waved to the bartender and ordered the same for himself. Kobedi wondered whether this was an official meeting, given that the man was drinking.

  “Can we talk?” Kubu asked.

  “Sure, fire away. As long as I’ve got this drink, we can talk. You don’t get much of my time for one drink though,” he said cheerfully.

  “I understand you do some work at BCMC,” Kubu said. “In the cattle business, are you?”

  “I’m over there occasionally,” Kobedi said warily, wondering why the policeman hadn’t introduced himself. He actually thinks I don’t know he’s a cop! “Do some consulting for them.”

  Kubu looked interested. “What sort of consulting would that be?”

  “Some specialist animal husbandry,” Kobedi replied with a broad and attractive smile, thinking of the good old days in bed with Cecil. Cecil’s first big mistake.

  “Include practical demonstrations, does it?” Kubu asked.

  Kobedi stared at the man for a moment, wondering whether to rise to the bait. Instead, he laughed out loud, but didn’t reply. They drank in silence for a few minutes. Kobedi had decided to let the policeman make the moves.

  Kubu broke the silence. “I heard you might be selling something—for them, of course.”

  “Did you indeed?” Kobedi replied blandly.

  “So who’s your principal up at BCMC?” Kubu asked casually, as though he was only looking for something to fill the conversation gap. But Kobedi didn’t like that at all. He wanted to keep his dealings with Cecil strictly between the two of them. He decided he had had enough of the game. He leaned forward and glared at the man.