A Carrion Death & The 2nd Death of Goodluck Tinubu

by Michael Stanley

  Kubu unloaded his luggage and, after a brief check, the pilot was ready to return to Maun. Kubu moved his bags off the runway and turned his back as the plane taxied for its departure. For a minute it was a dot heading south, then it was gone.

  The camp had been informed that Kubu was coming, but he expected a wait. Very little happened quickly in this part of the world. Fortunately, someone had erected a shelter for a small plane—wooden poles topped by a corrugated iron roof. He found a log, dragged it into the shade, and sat, a pole supporting his back. Sandwiches and a cold drink would have helped pass the time, he thought, while inhaling deeply through his nose. This part of Botswana smelled different from Gaborone with its large population and developing pollution. He could smell vegetation—the lush forests along the Linyanti River. A dust devil swirled close, forcing Kubu to shut his eyes and hold his nose. A few seconds later it had passed, and he was covered in sand. Suddenly he heard a distant trumpet. Elephant! He looked around anxiously, knowing that the six-ton animals could move silently and quickly through the bush. As luck would have it, not one was to be seen.

  To Kubu’s relief and surprise, it was a short wait. A Toyota Double Cab pickup truck arrived in a cloud of dust, showing signs of multiple altercations with trees and bushes. The driver was solidly built, wearing the khaki uniform affected by guides at the tourist camps. Sweat darkened his back and armpits. He introduced himself as Enoch Kokorwe, the camp manager. Kubu said he thought the manager was Morné du Pisanie. Enoch shrugged, tossing Kubu’s bag onto the vehicle. He was polite but not friendly, and Kubu gave up hope of getting a preview of what to expect at the camp.

  Twenty minutes later they came to the channel. Several mokoros lay on the bank. For a horrible moment, Kubu feared he’d have to fit his bulk into one of them. If it tipped, the crocodiles would have afield day! But a little farther upstream bobbed a rowing boat with an outboard motor. He breathed a sigh of relief.

  A short way downstream clustered a small group of rudimentary dwellings, a fishing village typical of the area. An older Land Rover and a newish-model Nissan Pathfinder 4x4 with a Venter trailer were parked under a shady mangosteen tree. Another trailer stood by itself under a nearby wild fig tree. These certainly weren’t vehicles the villagers would own. Kubu supposed they belonged to the camp. To the right was a shed, not big enough to garage a vehicle, but perhaps used for storage.

  Enoch took the luggage to the boat, which he had pulled up to a rough jetty made from three tree trunks lashed together. He held the boat while Kubu boarded and settled himself, but it was early in the flood season, and the boat grounded with the weight. As hard as he tried, Enoch couldn’t shift it, so Kubu had to clamber out, take off his shoes and socks, roll up his khaki pants, and repeat the process with the boat farther off the sand.

  “Sit right at the front,” Enoch said. “That may get the prop out of the sand.”

  Kubu moved cautiously to the front, causing it to dip precariously close to the water. Again Enoch tried to push the boat into the river, to no avail. He sighed, took off his shoes and socks, and waded into the water. After several moments of Enoch’s lifting and pushing, the boat slid off the sand. Enoch climbed in, maintaining balance, and started the motor. A few minutes later, Kubu made his way back to the middle of the boat, and soon they were noisily heading across the channel, scattering cormorants and darter birds.

  The camp boasted a better jetty, and Kubu climbed onto dry land with relative aplomb. He was met by a hefty white man and a white woman, tanned despite her fair coloring. Kubu noted that the man’s belly rivaled his own. On the other hand, I have the better overall cover, he thought smugly.

  The woman held out her hand. “Inspector Bengu? I’m Salome McGlashan. I have the concession for this camp. This is my associate, Morné du Pisanie. I hope you can clear this up quickly. Everyone is very upset, and we’ve other guests waiting to come to the camp. It’s all very disturbing.” Kubu shook her hand and commented that murder often had that effect. Then his large hand disappeared into Du Pisanie’s.

  “Call me Dupie.” Checking his watch, he continued, “We can talk after lunch.” Kubu liked Dupie’s down-to-earth approach.

  Dupie tactfully seated Kubu and Tatwa at the edge of the dining area where they could talk in private if they spoke softly. Still, they felt like the floor show with all the other diners watching them for any hint of developments. Speaking Setswana, they greeted each other warmly and spent a few minutes reminiscing about Tatwa’s spell in Gaborone. Kubu said that he thought Tatwa had grown even taller. Tatwa denied this, but claimed that Kubu had increased his girth. Kubu laughed.

  Kubu asked for a steelworks, but was disappointed to have to explain how to make his favorite drink. It came with ginger ale instead of ginger beer, too much bitters, and too little ice. So he was not optimistic about the food, but was pleasantly surprised. The cook produced a dish of lightly deviled eggs garnished with anchovies and capers. Kubu ordered a second helping. He promised himself that he would cut back on the main course of cold meats to compensate. There was always dessert if he was still hungry.

  The conversation turned to the case. “What do you make of this, Tatwa? Tell me what you’ve found.”

  “Well, now that an assistant superintendent is running the show, we should have it all sorted out in no time.” Tatwa sounded slightly peeved. Kubu leaned forward and gave him a friendly shove that nearly knocked him out of his chair. “Team effort, Tatwa. No one’s trying to steal your thunder. First big case. We’ll make it your first big success.”

  “Of course, Kubu. Sorry. Du Pisanie thinks it’s cut and dried. Tinubu was here for a few days. Zondo was a hit man from Zimbabwe. Came in with a fake passport, bumped Tinubu off neatly, and then disappeared. Zondo’s our culprit. End of story.”

  “Motive?”

  Tatwa shrugged. “Perhaps some grudge from the past. Tinubu was from Zimbabwe too.”

  “And Langa? Why kill him?”

  “Perhaps he came across Zondo after the murder.”

  “But you don’t believe it,” Kubu observed shrewdly.

  Tatwa shook his head. “For one thing Langa was found at the opposite end of the camp from Tinubu. According to Salome McGlashan, Zondo made his reservation before Tinubu. And Langa didn’t have a reservation at all. He just pitched up. And then when I spoke to Enoch, he said…” But Kubu held up his hand. “Let’s interview them all again from scratch. Then you can watch for any discrepancies. In the meanwhile don’t tell me what they said so I won’t be biased.” Kubu was eyeing the cold meat platter.

  “Won’t going over it all again upset them?”

  “Exactly! Would you pass that meat? I think there’s some cold tongue. Are you sure you won’t have some?” Tatwa shook his head firmly. The eggs were fine but he ate little meat, and certainly not something that had once been in a cow’s mouth. Assured that he was not depriving his colleague, Kubu took all the tongue and asked the waiter for mustard. Tatwa could see that the case was on hold until Kubu had satisfied the inner man.

  Chapter 5

  Giving thanks for gas fridges, Kubu had a double helping of ice cream, flavored with the fruit of a local tree. He was intrigued by the combination of the marula with frozen goat-milk cream and found it rather good. Even the unadventurous Tatwa liked it. But their enjoyment was interrupted by a tinny version of the Grand March from Aïda emanating from Kubu’s trouser pocket. With obvious reluctance, Kubu hoisted himself out of his chair.

  “What’s going on, Kubu? What’ve you discovered so far?” The director’s lunch did not seem to be sitting well.

  “I’ve only been here about an hour, Director. I’ve been catching up with Tatwa.”

  “Over lunch, I expect! Kubu, I told you this is urgent. Not at all the moment to be sampling bush cuisine. Phone me back as soon as you have something. I’ll be here late. I’ll be waiting. You should also phone MacGregor. He told me he’d have a preliminary report on the autopsies this afternoon.” Then
he hung up.

  Kubu noted with approval that Tatwa had ordered coffee. But the mood was spoiled. Kubu sighed. “What have we done about finding Zondo?”

  “Well, the Zimbabwe police confirmed that all the details he gave here were false, including his name and passport.”

  “The director told me,” Kubu said.

  “But we have a good description,” Tatwa continued, “and, even better, some photographs taken by one of the guests—I’ve got them here. Had them printed in Kasane last night.” He brandished an envelope. “We’ve circulated Zondo’s photo to all the police stations, border posts, and the surrounding countries, as well as what we think are his fingerprints. Then, we’ve tried to track the plane he left in.”

  “And?”

  “We’ve drawn a blank on all counts. No one has seen him. He hasn’t crossed the border—at least not using the name Zondo—and there’s no recorded flight plan with a stopover here. Probably the pilot flew under the radar and went wherever he wanted to go.”

  “Let’s take a look at the pictures.”

  Tatwa spread them on the table. Kubu glanced at a close-up of the two Munro sisters, looking at each other, laughing, glasses of wine in hand. Then he looked at the ones of the black guests. The first was a striking picture of a handsome middle-aged man with his arms folded against the world. Broad cheeks, closely shaven, pensive. The man seemed to be looking beyond the camp fire into the darkness.

  “That’s Goodluck Tinubu,” said Tatwa quietly.

  Kubu put it down, sorry he would never meet this man. He picked up the next print. The man’s face seemed a bit blurred; perhaps he had moved as the picture was taken. He was older, harder looking. Kubu could imagine him as a soldier. The man was clutching a tumbler in his right hand as though he might have to fight to keep it. He wore glasses that had reflected the flash, rather spoiling the picture. And he was wearing a felt hat with a spray of feathers. Unusual and incongruous.

  “That’s our prime suspect, Ishmael Zondo,” said Tatwa. “However, that isn’t his real name, according to the Zimbabwe police. Looks tough. Except for the hat with the guineafowl feathers. Odd.”

  The next picture was of Boy Gomwe. A falsely happy face, thought Kubu. He glanced across the dining area. Gomwe was chatting to the Munros, animated, using his hands in the conversation. Good with people, but Kubu found something he disliked about the man. The last picture was of a man concentrating on something not in the picture. He was also holding a tumbler. This must be the second victim, Sipho Langa, Kubu thought. He pushed the pictures back toward Tatwa.

  “Okay. Fill me in on Jackalberry Island.”

  “Well, in the first place it isn’t really an island. It’s a peninsula jutting into the river, but it’s marshy and has small waterways between here and the solid land.”

  “Is it possible that someone came across from the mainland that way? Without using a boat?”

  “No, impossible in the dark. It would be a miserable trip, and you’d be wading among crocs and hippos. It’s about a fifteen-minute trip by mokoro. That would be the way to do it. Silent and low on the water. But even that would be dangerous at night because of the hippos.”

  “And the layout of the camp?”

  “We’re about in the middle of it. The kitchen and staff quarters are behind us. There are three tents behind those two trees.” He pointed to two massive wild figs whose trunks broke into fingers probing the water. Suckers hung from the branches, and clusters of fruit were providing a banquet for a troop of vervet monkeys.

  “The two larger ones are where Du Pisanie and McGlashan live; the small one is for their visitors. Since the camp was full when Sipho Langa came, they put him up there. The odd thing is that Tinubu and Langa arrived together.” Tatwa paused, obviously feeling this was significant. “Dupie told me that Tinubu’s car had broken down on the road to Kasane. Langa apparently stopped to help and waited until Tinubu’s car had been towed to a garage. Langa was looking for a place to stay, so he decided to join Tinubu here. They drove together to Ngoma, where they were met by Enoch. It takes over three hours from Ngoma to get here. The roads are terrible.”

  “They met by chance on a road in the middle of nowhere, and now they are both dead? Hard to believe! What’s happened to Langa’s car?”

  “We drove it to Kasane,” Tatwa replied. “Forensics will be going over it today.”

  “Good. And Tinubu’s?”

  “We’re trying to get its registration. Should have that today, too. Then we’ll search for it in Kasane.”

  Satisfied about the vehicles, Kubu changed his focus. “Where are the guest tents?”

  “There are three on the east side of this area and two on the west. They’re far enough apart to be private and have their own view of a quiet waterway. Nice, if you like water full of crocodiles. On the east side, Tinubu had the farthest tent. Two sisters, Trish and Judith Munro from England, were next to him, then Amanda and William Boardman from Cape Town. On the west side, Boy Gomwe is closest to us, and Zondo was at the end. I’m in Zondo’s tent. You can use Langa’s tent. Tinubu’s is still closed off.”

  “Have the forensics people been through everything in Zondo’s tent and Langa’s?”

  Tatwa nodded.

  “I’ll use Langa’s tent then. How do guests access the tents?”

  “There’s a path that runs at the back of this communal area, and each tent is approached from behind.”

  “So it would be possible to get to a tent without being seen by the occupant, or indeed by the occupants of any of the tents?”

  Tatwa nodded again.

  Kubu pushed away his cup and rose. “Let’s meet the inhabitants. I have to have something to tell Mabaku before close of business tonight.”

  Chapter 6

  Kubu decided to get the lie of the land first. He asked Salome and Dupie to show him around, and Tatwa accompanied them.

  “Well, this is the reception tent,” Dupie started, unsure of what the detective wanted. “We keep all our business records here—in those files at the back. When guests arrive we bring them here to fill out the registration forms, and we take an impression of their credit cards. We do all of that manually because we don’t have phone lines.” He stopped and looked inquiringly at Kubu.

  “Do you close the tent at night?” Kubu asked.

  “Well, we zip it up to keep the dust out, but it’s not secure.”

  “Have you noticed anything missing since the murder? Any credit card receipts? Registration forms?”

  Both Dupie and Salome shook their heads. “We checked,” Salome said. “As far as we can see, everything is here. Dupie gave everyone’s registrations to Detective Mooka. We’ve got the slips they signed at the bar. Dupie doesn’t think any are missing. I don’t know….”

  “Anything signed by Zondo?”

  Salome shook her head. “He paid cash in U.S. dollars. We don’t take Zimbabwe dollars.”

  “Okay,” Kubu said. “Let’s move on.” The group walked the few meters to the tent left of reception.

  “This is my office,” Dupie said. Kubu and Tatwa nodded.

  “We’ll come back to it. I’ll use it for my interviews, if you don’t mind,” Kubu remarked, not caring if Dupie minded or not.

  Next was the entertainment area comprising the bar and lounge, opening onto an outdoor area where meals were served. The bar area held a bookcase with light reading, reference books on birds and trees, and various games. The walls displayed a variety of bushman artifacts: a full hunting set with a well-worn leather bag, a spear, a bow, arrows and poison containers, a variety of necklaces made from ostrich-egg shell yellowing with age, bangles of seed pods, and several carefully hollowed out gourds for carrying water in the desert. An impressive collection, Kubu thought. It must be nearly impossible to find sets these days that were actually used for hunting. He glanced at the gas and storm lanterns.

  “No electricity?”

  “No,” Dupie replied. “We’ve got a diesel g
enerator to recharge the batteries for the radio and cell phones whenever necessary, but it’s noisy and expensive to run. We use gas for cooking and mainly storm lanterns for lighting. We think it gives the camp a more authentic feel. More like the way Africa used to be.”

  Kubu grunted. “How do you get to the sleeping tents from here?”

  “Follow me,” Dupie replied.

  The group headed to the line of tents to the right. As they walked the hundred yards or so, Kubu asked Salome, “How did you get to be the owner of Jackalberry Camp, Ms. McGlashan?”

  “I’m not really the owner,” Salome replied. “I inherited the remainder of a twenty-year concession. There is only about a year left. I worked for the previous owner—Andre Cloete was his name—and he left it to me. I was completely surprised. I thought he would leave it to someone in his family. Perhaps they didn’t want it.”

  “I didn’t think concessions could be inherited,” Kubu commented.

  “The concession is in the name of a company,” Salome said. “Andre left me the company. Also it’s not a government lease, but a sub-lease from the hunters who own the concessions in this area.”

  “And before that?” Kubu inquired. “Were you born in Botswana?”

  “I was born in what was called Southern Rhodesia. Now Zimbabwe. On a farm near Bulawayo. I loved it there, but when the war came it was bad. Horrible, actually. Anyway, after the war I didn’t want to live there anymore and went to South Africa. I worked at hotels in Johannesburg for a number of years. But I hated the noise and the traffic and the crowding. When I met Andre and he offered me a job here, I couldn’t wait. I’ve been here ever since.”

  “When was that?”

  “March ’94.”

  Kubu wondered whether it was coincidence that this was just before South Africa was to have its first black majority government.