A Carrion Death & The 2nd Death of Goodluck Tinubu

by Michael Stanley

  “When did it happen? The attack?” Tension was back in Bongani’s voice.

  “We don’t know that it was an attack. Probably a drunk driver. They think it was between eleven and midnight. Why?”

  Bongani shook his head. “I’m going to have another Scotch and wait for your sergeant.”

  Kubu nodded. “I’ll let myself out.” He was already halfway to the door.

  Bongani stood up and followed him. “Kubu!”

  “Yes?”

  “Please take care of yourself.”

  Kubu glanced back and nodded. Then he was gone.

  Kubu took in the walls of glossy lime-green paint, the worn plastic-covered chairs, and the pervasive smell of disinfectant. The haggard man waiting for him wore a paramedic uniform, stained, faded, and smeared with blood.

  Kubu introduced himself. The man said he was Mandla. Humbly he said, “I’m tired, Rra. I’ve been on duty since my shift started at six.” Kubu checked his watch. It was nearly 5:00 a.m. At least I’ve had four hours sleep, he thought. This poor devil must be dead on his feet.

  “I’m sorry you had to wait for me, Mandla. It’s important that we speak while everything is fresh in your mind. I won’t keep you long.”

  Mandla nodded. His look said that if anything was fresh, it would have to be his mind, since no physical part of his body would qualify.

  “Can you tell me about picking up the lady who had been hit by a car?”

  “We got an emergency call and rushed straight there. She was lying in the road, and a motorist had stopped, blocking it so that no one else could hit her. He’d called on his mobile phone. His car was clean; no dents or blood, so it wasn’t him who’d hit her. We always check. She was in a hell of a way and unconscious. But she came round when we tried to move her. The pain, I guess. We gave her drugs to knock her out, but it took a while. Once we got her into the ambulance, we tried to stabilize her. But she was a hell of a mess.”

  “Did she say anything?”

  “She was raving. Like she was having a conversation with herself. I couldn’t hear the words most of the time. But there was one thing. She said it very clearly, a few times. ‘It was Daniel. It wasn’t me.’ I remembered that because I thought maybe this Daniel had been driving the car. But it was probably some drunk bastard. It usually is.”

  “Did she mention any other names?”

  “I think she said something about Angus. Would that make sense?”

  Kubu nodded. “Anything about a man with a red beard? Or called Red Beard? Or Angola?”

  Mandla shook his head. “Nothing I heard. I wasn’t really listening, you know. A lot was going on once we had her in the ambulance. Finally the drugs knocked her out. The pain must have been really bad. She said, ‘It was Daniel’ again, and then lost consciousness. I don’t know what happened after we got her here.”

  Kubu sighed. “She never regained consciousness. They tried to operate. She never came out of the anesthetic.”

  Mandla looked down at the floor. “I hope you get the bastard. You know, he didn’t just knock her down, he actually drove over her, the pig. She was a beautiful lady, too. Young.” He shook his head. “I don’t know why I do this fucking job. Who was she, anyway?”

  Kubu looked at the defeated young man and put a bulky hand on his shoulder. “Her name was Dianna Hofmeyr. But I’m not sure I know who she was.”

  He gave Mandla his card, asked him to phone if he remembered anything else, and told him to go home.

  Then he drove to the CID. He was going to start a manhunt for a Portuguese man with a red beard. A man whose first name might be Daniel.

  Chapter 70

  When he reached his office, Kubu dragged himself to his desk, struggling to keep his eyes open. He found enough energy to put out a highest-priority alert for Red Beard. Then he turned his chair away from the door and stared out of the window for several minutes, watching the other policemen and policewomen coming in to start their day. He hadn’t had breakfast, but he didn’t notice. Was this what depression was like? You stare into space with your mind in neutral.

  What went wrong with that family, with the Hofmeyrs? Was it Roland? Did he care too much about money and not enough about the things that really matter? Or was it the money itself that spoiled everything? Roland’s death? Cecil’s ambition? Probably no one would ever know.

  Edison bounced in. “Hey, Kubu, you don’t look so good. Did you get any sleep?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Can I get you something? Coffee?”

  “Coffee would be good.”

  “Have you had breakfast?”

  “I’m fine. I’m not hungry.”

  Edison was dumbfounded. “You must take care of yourself, Kubu,” he said seriously.

  That’s what Bongani had said, Kubu thought. His mind went back to the witch doctor.

  “He knew all along,” he said to Edison. “The witch doctor knew. How the hell did he know?” He swung his chair round to face his colleague.

  “There were three episodes,” he continued. “All with Bongani. There must be some connection. The first time was right after the body had been found. The witch doctor told him the murderers had stolen the victim’s name. Bongani thought he meant that it was the soul that had been taken. But they had just stolen the name. Just his name.”

  Edison had no idea what Kubu was talking about. Coffee would be the best option. He beat a retreat. Kubu went on talking, not noticing he was now alone.

  “Then the second time was about the hands. The one warm from the desert. The other cold. Cold as ice. No, colder than that, I’d bet!

  “And then last night. The little bird and the vulture. The vulture with its face stained with red. Killing the little bird. Last night…” I’m not thinking clearly, Kubu thought. I should go home. Thank God I have a home and a wife who loves me.

  Edison returned with the coffee, and they drank together in silence. Edison had found a pastry somewhere, and Kubu was grateful for it. They chatted.

  “I’m going to the gym,” Kubu said. He laughed when he saw Edison’s astonished face. “Just for a shower. I got up at three this morning to go to Bongani’s house. I need to clean up.”

  Chapter 71

  Mabaku accepted the responsibility of telling Cecil. It was Saturday, so he drove to Cecil’s house. There was a guard on the gate. That’s a new development, thought Mabaku.

  When he heard the news, Cecil put his head in his hands. Mabaku was surprised. He hadn’t thought Cecil’s relationship with his niece was particularly close. Still, he thought, it comes on top of Angus’s death. A few moments of silence passed before Cecil lifted his head. At last he asked, “Was it an accident? It wasn’t, was it?”

  Mabaku raised his eyebrows. “Hit-and-run. Superintendent Bengu is investigating it. He is suspicious. We’ll have to wait for the pathologist’s report.”

  “Does Pamela know?”

  “We thought that you should tell her. It’s going to be a terrible blow for her, so soon after the death of her son.”

  Cecil stood up behind his desk, balancing himself by leaning forward, his hands pressed on the leather top. “I need a drink. Calm myself. Will you join me? Please?”

  Mabaku shook his head. “I’m on duty, Cecil.” Then he relented. “I’ll have a mineral water. You’ve had a nasty shock. Pour yourself something stronger.”

  Cecil handed Mabaku a Perrier in a crystal tumbler. He walked to the window with his drink and stared out at the garden. “I can’t believe it. I thought he was a madman. It never occurred to me that he might be anything but a cheap extortionist.”

  “Who are you talking about, Cecil?”

  Cecil turned to face the CID director, swallowing his drink. “The man who hijacked my car. My God, Mabaku, if I’d taken it seriously, Dianna might still be alive.” He walked to the drinks cupboard and refilled his glass before he collapsed again behind the protection of his desk.

  “Cecil, you’ve lost me completely.”
<
br />   Cecil sighed. “I’d better tell you the whole story. I’ve been a fool. Yet again.”

  Mabaku waited. The meeting had taken an unexpected turn, and he was anything but happy about that.

  “On Monday evening when I left work, a man was waiting out of sight next to my car. As soon as I unlocked it, he jumped in. He had a gun. I thought he was after money, and I had a few hundred pula with me. I was terrified.” Mabaku was grinding his teeth. He wanted to ask questions, but decided to let Cecil get through the whole story first.

  “But that wasn’t it at all. He thought I was somebody called Daniel. Or rather, he knew who I really was, but thought Daniel was an alias. He claimed that Daniel was behind a plot to murder Angus and that he had come to collect his share of the money. I thought it all nonsense, that the man was insane. Angus had been killed by a shark. There was no plot. There was no Daniel. I told him he had the wrong man, that I wasn’t involved in any of this, and that I didn’t know what he was talking about. He became angry and hit me in the face. He demanded two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. For God’s sake! As if I have that sort of money to dish out! He threatened to kill me. I told him that there was nothing I could do about that. Then he said he’d kill Dianna unless I came up with the money. I told him I would, if he’d let me go and not harm Dianna. He took all the money I had, and he made me drop him at a minibus taxi rank near the central bus station.”

  “What happened after that?” Mabaku asked, deceptively calm.

  “I never heard from him again.”

  “And you didn’t report this to the police?”

  “I was sure the man was mad! He just wanted to shake me down for what cash I had. Why take this lunatic seriously?”

  Mabaku fought to control his own temper and swallowed his mineral water before he spoke again. Cecil refilled his Scotch and walked back to the window. He always does that when he’s lying to me, Mabaku thought. He thinks I’ll read it in his face.

  “Cecil, an armed man gets into your car and threatens your life and your niece’s life. He takes your money. That’s a very serious crime. It doesn’t matter a damn whether his story was true or not. Didn’t you think he might try the same trick again? How did he get into your parking lot? We should have been after him ten minutes after you dropped him at the taxi stand!”

  Cecil hesitated. Then he said to the window, “He threatened to kill me if I went to the police. He said he had already proved how easy it was to get to me. I’m not proud of it, but I suppose I was a coward. And dragging all his nonsense up would hurt Pamela. I didn’t think it was worth it. I thought he was after a few hundred pula.” He turned to face Mabaku. “Look, I may have been right. I don’t know. But now I am worried. What if he ran Dianna over? Murdered her? He might be a homicidal maniac. I might be next.”

  “Cecil, you lied to me about the letter. For no reason as far as we can see. Now you expect me to believe that an armed man hijacks you at work, and you shrug it off? It didn’t occur to you that the man might come after you again if you gave in to him? What are you not telling me? You always hold something back. I’m warning you, this time you could find yourself an accessory to a murder. Maybe two murders. Maybe more than two.”

  Strangely, Cecil’s taut shoulders relaxed, and his voice regained some of its normal authority. “I’ve told you the whole story, Mabaku. There was some other stuff. I just agreed to everything the man said. I wanted to stay alive. Now I feel I may be in serious danger. I expect you to do something to protect me and to catch this maniac.”

  Mabaku sighed. “We’ll arrange a twenty-four-hour guard until we catch him. Can you describe him?”

  “He was wearing a hat and had a scarf wrapped around his face. But he was a white man, heavyset, with a tanned face. About five-foot-nine, I’d guess.”

  “Did he have a beard?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. Quite a bushy ginger beard. And he had an accent. Could have been Spanish or Portuguese.”

  Mabaku finally lost his temper. “Cecil,” he shouted, “the man who was in your car is wanted for at least three murders! He almost certainly was involved in the murders of your friend Kobedi and your geologist Aron. It sounds as though he murdered Angus too. Very likely Dianna as well! But you didn’t think it important enough to inform the police that he was in your car holding you at gunpoint! Do you detect a common thread in all this, Cecil? Your enemies and family rivals end up dead. But Red Beard tamely lets you go for bus fare! Forget the twenty-four-hour protection. I think you’ll be safest in a police cell.”

  “Mabaku,” Cecil stammered, “as God is my witness, I never saw or spoke to this man before last Monday. I swear it. If he wasn’t behind Angus’s murder himself—and he seemed to think that it was this Daniel character—then I don’t know who was. I had absolutely nothing to do with it. Nothing. I swear that too. Yes, I was wrong not to go to the police, but I was scared and shocked. I intended to contact you if I ever heard from him again. I just wanted it all to go away. If you want to arrest me, I’ll come with you now. May I tell my solicitor what charge I’ll be facing?”

  “We could start with concealing evidence to defeat the ends of justice, and accessory to the murder of Dianna Hofmeyr. More will come to mind as we go along.” But then Mabaku sighed and slumped in his chair. “I’m not arresting you, Cecil. I want you to go to Pamela Hofmeyr right now and break the news to her. Then I want you to come down to the station and make a full and complete statement of what happened, with nothing left out or glossed over. Do you understand?” Cecil nodded. “I’ll leave that job to Superintendent Bengu. I’m sure he will be happy to do it. And we’ll need to fingerprint your car.” He stopped at Cecil’s headshake.

  “He wore latex gloves, like a dentist.”

  “Well prepared, your petty hoodlum, wasn’t he?” Mabaku said sarcastically. “We’ll also want the name of the guard who was on the gate that day. I want to find out how Red Beard got into the parking lot.” He didn’t add that he wanted to check that when Cecil left, there actually had been a man with him in the car. “I’ll wait for you outside. We’ll drive to the Grand Palm together. For the moment, I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

  Part Ten

  A VILLAIN’S MIND

  I like not fair terms and a villain’s mind.

  —SHAKESPEARE, MERCHANT OF VENICE, ACT 1, SCENE 3

  April

  Chapter 72

  The bus sputtered and coughed and then roared unevenly into diesel life. That it still ran at all was testimony to the skill of the bush mechanics who did their work cut off from replacement parts by Zimbabwe’s financial crisis. The bus looked tired. It was tired. It was battered and bruised by bad roads, altercations with other vehicles, overloading and overage. Its roof rack was piled high with tatty suitcases and boxes stuffed with goods unavailable across the border six miles away.

  The bus kicked up gravel as it pulled out of the dirt parking lot at Kasane, Botswana’s most northerly town. A passenger, who had been chatting to friends, scrambled on at the last minute to much laughter from his comrades. The bus was nearly full on this homeward trip, but it was always packed on the trip into Botswana, a differential that had not escaped the attention of the Botswana authorities.

  The passengers talked loudly, happy to be under way, not more than half an hour behind schedule. Surrounded by packages and carrier bags, some were digging something to eat out of these, sharing with their neighbors. Four American backpackers were enjoying the local color and chatting with the friendly group around them.

  Toward the back of the bus a white man sat alone, his folded denim jacket firmly occupying the seat next to him. He wore a rumpled brown T-shirt, which could have been cleaner, and dusty jeans. His arms were heavy and darkly tanned, his face closed and unwelcoming. His stained canvas holdall was stuffed into the roof rack above his head.

  Halfway to the border, they came to an army roadblock. No one took much notice. Such checkpoints were common around cities and n
ear national borders. The bus slowed, but a soldier, casually carrying a submachine gun over his shoulder, waved them through. The bus driver called out something cheerful in Setswana. The soldier just scowled and waved them on in a more peremptory fashion. There was little love lost between the Batswana of northern Botswana and the Ndebele of western Zimbabwe. The driver shrugged and concentrated on getting the bus back to its top speed. He started singing cheerfully to himself. His shift would be over once he got the bus to Victoria Falls.

  A little over a mile farther, they pulled up at the border post of Kazungula. It was midday and hot. Animals and people crowded into whatever shade could be found. The driver dug out the wad of papers he would need and waited for his passengers to disembark. They all knew the drill. No difficulty on the Botswana side, but customs on the Zimbabwe side could be a problem. He hoped that in lieu of time-consuming searches and customs levies, they would accept a share of the substantial and informal cash fee that he charged passengers for bulky merchandise. The white man at the back of the bus was one of the last to get off. He carefully jammed his bag more tightly into the rack and put on his jacket. Then he followed the others, adding himself to the group of American backpackers.

  John Pule was the immigration officer who dealt with the American group. They told him they loved Botswana. They had been to Chobe National Park, to the Okavango Delta, and into the Kalahari. They would love to come back and would tell all their friends. He nodded and smiled, checked each face against the photograph in the passport, banged the stamp on a blank page, and wished the youngsters a good time in Zimbabwe. He checked his watch. It was nearly time for his lunch. Fortunately, they had dealt with most of the bus passengers.

  He looked up at the next person in the line, another white man, but darkly tanned. Something about his face struck Pule as odd. The man offered his passport and exit form. It was a travel-worn Angolan passport in the name of Antonio de Vasconcelos. Pule glanced at the picture and then flipped through the pages. There were stamps from Namibia and Zambia as well as Botswana and Zimbabwe. The man’s home address was given in Luanda.