A Carrion Death & The 2nd Death of Goodluck Tinubu

by Michael Stanley

  “Tell me about the curry you made. Is it a new recipe or an old favorite? I want to hear the details.” Joy laughed in spite of herself and started talking about meats and spices. Ilia barked as though this discussion was much more interesting.

  Early the next morning Kubu headed to the office. He expected to have an exciting day, but he was disappointed. Up to now, he had been active, exploring aspects of the case in Gaborone, Bulawayo, and Jackalberry. Here he found himself at the eye of the storm, in the center with everything happening around him, but just out of reach. It was Tatwa who was trying to get Dupie and Salome to break and tell the true story of that fateful Sunday night. So far without success. It was the Namibian police and the Botswana Defense Force that were scouring the border area for Enoch, who had so far eluded them. Now that Mabaku was trying to keep one step ahead of his wife and doctors, it was Edison who paid daily, unprofitable visits to Beardy. Even Joy wished to go her own way, finally agreeing to visit Dr. Diklekeng but on her own.

  What was Kubu supposed to do? He picked up the jar containing the bullets Paulus Mbedi had given him and headed to Ballistics. By making a nuisance of himself, he persuaded them to take a look immediately, and they became intrigued by the story. After analysis, they confirmed what Kubu had already guessed. He thanked them and went back to his office.

  AK47 bullets. Used by the Russian-armed fighters in Africa. Goodluck had been shot in the back by one of his comrades. Perhaps one who had a score to settle after the raid on the farm.

  But he was no further with the case. Those comrades had died in a fire fight with the Selous Scouts, including Dupie and Enoch. They couldn’t be involved in a chain of murders in Botswana, thirty years on. Something else had driven Goodluck to Jackalberry. But what? Kubu thumped his fist on the desk and watched the effect on his pencils with satisfaction.

  At last he could stand his own company no longer and phoned Ian MacGregor.

  “Ian, it’s Kubu. I’m back.”

  “Kubu! And successful, I hear. Money found, villains arrested. Time for a celebration.”

  “At eleven in the morning?”

  “I meant after work.”

  Kubu was tempted. “Ian, I can’t. Joy’s seeing Dr. Diklekeng. She’s still not right. And I don’t want to leave her alone. We haven’t caught the kidnappers, and they’re the ones I’m really worried about. In the meanwhile I’m sitting here counting my buttonholes.” He tried to keep any hint of self-pity out of his voice, but was not entirely successful.

  “Ah, Kubu, always the man of action,” said Ian with a hint of un-charitable irony. “Did you find the drugs they were smuggling?”

  Kubu shook his head, forgetting Ian couldn’t see it. “No. Actually I don’t believe there are any drugs. It doesn’t fit Goodluck’s personality.” Kubu described his visit to Zimbabwe and what he’d learned there and at Ballistics a short while before.

  “It’s a sad story,” said Ian. “Hang on, let me get my pipe.” Obviously he was not in a hurry and intended to concentrate on the issue. Kubu was glad of that. A minute later Ian was back.

  “Right. I’m settled. Now where were we? Ah, the drugs. You say he was a good guy. Is it possible he was selling drugs to help Zimbabweans?”

  “It doesn’t add up. He was involved with a small support operation for Zimbabwean refugees in Gaborone, but he gave his time, not money. At least not a significant amount. They confirmed that to Edison early on.”

  Ian digested this, but did not want to abandon his theory so easily. “Maybe it was money collected for people in Zimbabwe, and he was just a courier. Could that be it?”

  “Too much money. It was more than half a million U.S. dollars.”

  Ian took his pipe out of his mouth and whistled. “That’s a lot of money! Enough to start a small war. Pity you don’t get a percentage.”

  “I wouldn’t want any of that money. The notes should be printed in blood red, not green.”

  “And you found nothing else? Just the money?”

  Kubu confirmed that.

  “Could it have been a payment then? For services rendered, or to be rendered in the future?”

  This was a new twist. Kubu had always visualized an exchange. Zondo and Goodluck swap money and…something. But suppose there was no swap? Suppose the money was simply to be delivered to Zondo. Perhaps, then, Goodluck’s involvement made sense. He was just the courier. Of enough money to start a small war. Kubu bunched his fists as his subconscious kaleidoscoped ideas.

  “Ian, you’ve been very helpful as always. I have an idea. Let me check up on it and see if it makes any sense before I waste any more of your time.”

  Ian sighed. He was used to this. Occasionally Kubu needed someone to help with his lateral thinking, but once a sideways thought came along, he would be off on his own again. Telling Kubu he was welcome, and that they must get together soon, he hung up.

  Kubu scrabbled through his file until he found the report from Forensics in Kasane. He scanned it until he came to the list of Goodluck’s personal effects found in his tent and in his tote. He was looking for some hint of what Goodluck had been doing, something that Dupie and Enoch would have ignored when they went after the money. Something that would lead him to Madrid and the thugs who had dared to threaten his family. He wanted them very badly indeed.

  There was nothing. Inexpensive clothes of the type found in any clothing chain. Two pairs of sneakers. A hand-knitted jersey—something made by his mother, a girlfriend, grandmother? He had been wearing it the night he was killed; threads from it had been caught on thorns at the lookout. Sun hat, glasses (reading and sun), but no binoculars, camera, or anything for the wildlife enthusiast, such as an animal or bird book. A copy of the Botswana Gazette. Some note paper but no notes. A copy of Mandela’s autobiography Long Walk to Freedom, with a bookmark on page 120. A digital watch (with no alarms set). Forensics had been meticulous, Kubu thought with approval. A Maglite flashlight. A road map of Botswana. A packet of liquorice all-sorts, which ants had discovered. Goodluck liked candy, so what? The holdall was a cheap plastic carrier, no special marks or compartments. Goodluck’s briefcase, which had caused all the grief for Joy and Pleasant, was with Forensics in Gaborone.

  It looked like a meaningless collection of items that anyone might take on holiday. But he wasn’t on holiday, thought Kubu. Hence no nature stuff. What about the map? Why didn’t he leave that in the car? Perhaps he thought he might need his bearings if something went wrong. What about the newspaper? He probably bought it in Mochudi before he left for Kasane.

  But he couldn’t let it drop. He phoned Tatwa.

  “Oh, hello Kubu, still no joy from Dupie or Salome. They just stick to their stories. Dupie insists it must’ve been Enoch who hid the money in the tire of the spare wheel. Salome is adamant that she knows nothing about the money or the murders. I haven’t been able to trip either of them up. You know, even with the money, we need Enoch to get them convicted.” He sounded discouraged.

  “Cheer up. They’ll get Enoch,” Kubu told him confidently. “I phoned about something else, actually. Goodluck’s stuff. Was it all fingerprinted, checked for notes, that sort of thing?”

  Tatwa dug out his file. “Yes. Nothing unexpected about any of it.”

  “Even the map and the newspaper?”

  Tatwa scanned the report. “So it says. The map was the standard Veronica Roodt one and had fingerprints from Goodluck and Langa. What you’d expect since they drove together. The newspaper was the Gazette. Anyway, it was an old paper; they thought Goodluck probably used it for padding.”

  Suddenly Kubu was interested. “What do you mean old?”

  “Well, it just says it was old.”

  “What did he have that was breakable?” There was something here. There had to be.

  Tatwa looked through the list of effects again and admitted that nothing seemed to need padding.

  “Tatwa, can you lay your hands on that newspaper? While I hang on? I’ve got a feeling it mig
ht be important.”

  Tatwa pointed out that it was nearly lunchtime, which he thought would close the discussion, but Kubu said he would wait. Tatwa promised to phone back as soon as he located Goodluck’s newspaper.

  It took fifteen minutes. “It’s a copy of the Gazette, Kubu. Dated the week before Goodluck’s Jackalberry visit. It’s not scrunched up or anything, but it’s a bit creased. Maybe he had it in the hold-all.”

  “So he packed it. What’s in it?” asked Kubu. He wished he had the newspaper in his hands to tell him its story directly.

  “In it? Speech from the president, announcement of the plan for the African Union meeting, schedule of all the leaders’ visits and so on, something about the police getting an Air Wing. That’s the front page.”

  For a full minute there was no response, and Tatwa checked that Kubu was still on the line. When the response finally came, Kubu’s voice was tense, although the words were bland enough. “Read what it says about the Zimbabwe visit,” he said. Puzzled, Tatwa did so.

  “‘The Zimbabwe delegation will include the president himself and several senior members of his government. Clearly the high-level delegation is intended to emphasize the legitimacy of the government after the recent contested elections and broad criticism by the government of Botswana. The delegation will stay a week in Gaborone. Meetings with the Botswana government are also planned.’ Then there’s a list of the delegates attending and some comments by the president. Do you want me to read that too?”

  “No, that’s okay,” said Kubu. “It’s like the road map. He had it with him just in case they needed those details. Thanks, Tatwa.”

  “Needed for what? What do you mean, Kubu?” But to Tatwa’s annoyance, the only response was the dial tone.

  Kubu looked for Edison and found him at the tea urn. “We’re going to interview your Mr. Beardy,” he said, by way of greeting.

  “Now, wait a minute,” said Edison. “Firstly, he’s not my Mr. Beardy. But more importantly, you know the director’s rule. You don’t go near Beardy. Too much personal involvement. You can’t come.”

  “Edison, this could be really very important. I promise I’ll just ask a couple of questions, make a few suggestions. Never raise my voice. Not once.”

  This did not encourage Edison much. He was still getting black looks from Mabaku over the blown trap for the kidnappers. “We have to get Mabaku’s approval first,” he said firmly.

  “Edison, the director’s otherwise occupied. He’ll agree once he has the facts. But we do have to get some lunch first. I’ll buy you lunch at the Delta Café on the way.” He was already striding off to his meal, and Edison knew it was hopeless to argue. He sighed, and then hurried to catch up. He liked the Delta Café.

  “Who’s the fat guy?” Beardy asked Edison, rudely pointing at Kubu.

  “I’m the man whose sister-in-law you kidnapped and whose wife you tried to abduct and, no doubt, rape.” Kubu said it calmly, as he had promised, but it clearly affected Beardy. He shrank back into his seat.

  To Edison’s relief, Kubu continued, “Don’t worry. I know you were just doing a job. I’m here to tell you it’s all over. The Zimbabwe secret police have got Madrid and all the other ring leaders. They’ll be having a very uncomfortable time from now on, I expect. But not for all that long, I imagine. You’re very lucky to be in custody here. There, you’d probably be sleeping on a concrete floor. No toenails left, either. And I doubt you’d have much interest in prostitutes again.”

  Beardy and Edison both had faces awash with surprise. Edison had no idea what Kubu was talking about and was scared the situation might get out of hand. But Beardy was shocked. He opened his mouth, started to say something, and then shook his head. “I’ve nothing to say. I want to be treated as a prisoner of war, not as a common criminal.”

  “Oh, nothing common about you. Kidnapping, attacking a policewoman, accessory to the assassination of the leader of a neighboring state. Not common at all. I think we’re going to find lots of other charges for you, too.” Suddenly Beardy’s demeanor changed. Kubu had overplayed his hand. Beardy clammed up. After that he said nothing except that he wanted his lawyer. Even a threat to extradite him to Zimbabwe produced no reaction.

  But Kubu felt he had enough. “Come on, Edison. We know what’s going on now. Let’s get it to the director.” Edison, who had absolutely no idea what was going on, agreed readily, and they left.

  Mabaku listened carefully, interrupting only when he needed clarification or an extra detail. When Kubu had finished, he turned to Edison. “I thought I had made myself quite clear about the professional conflict of Kubu being involved with interviewing Beardy?”

  Edison looked from side to side, wondering how a promising lunch had led him into so much trouble. Kubu came to his rescue. “I insisted, Director. You were involved with the meeting about security for the African Union meeting, and I felt there wasn’t a moment to lose. I gave Edison no choice.” Edison nodded, relieved.

  Mabaku decided to let the matter drop. “Let me see if I have this fantastic story straight. Tinubu was a courier taking money to overthrow the government of Zimbabwe. And it’s certainly a government most people would like to see changed. This Madrid character is the fix-it man, and the money’s destined for him and his men. Dupie steals it, Kubu sticks his neck out, and both of them are on the receiving end of Madrid’s anger. Beardy—one of the mercenaries—gets caught, but the others get away.

  “Let’s summarize the evidence for this hypothetical plot to assassinate the president of Zimbabwe.” He counted on his fingers. “One, Kubu doesn’t see Tinubu as a smuggler—or at least not a drug smuggler—because he’s a nice person, likes kids. Two, Tinubu took a newspaper outlining the itinerary for the various visiting presidents’ trips with him to Jackalberry. Three, he had deep ties to the country from the war days, and he was involved with a support group for Zimbabwean refugees in Gaborone. That could’ve been the hippo’s ears of his political involvement, with a lot of undercover stuff below the surface of the water. Four, Beardy was shocked by the lie that all his comrades are being held by the Zimbabwe police—and particularly Madrid who he’s never admitted knowing. Five, he asked for treatment as a prisoner of war.” He had to start on the fingers of his other hand. “And six, Madrid has the resources and the balls to pull off the kidnapping of a policeman’s family. Not the sort of thing you’d expect from a drug ring. Is that about it?”

  Kubu nodded. Mabaku had summed it up very well. Mabaku turned back to Edison.

  “What’s your take on this?” Edison squirmed in his chair. He had nothing to go on but his gut feeling. But Kubu was right, usually.

  “I think Kubu may be right,” he said at last.

  Mabaku walked to the window and gazed out at Kgale Hill. “We’re talking about two days from now. We can’t afford to be wrong about this. Frankly, I think the evidence is very tenuous. The only thing that jolts me is Beardy claiming status as a prisoner of war.” He waited, but no one commented. He ground his teeth, ignored a twinge from his stomach, and headed for the telephone.

  “I can’t afford to ignore this, no matter how remote the chance of its being true. I need to talk to the commissioner right now. In private.” Kubu and Edison got up and left Mabaku holding the time bomb they had passed to him.

  Mabaku knew how to get the commissioner’s attention quickly, and fifteen minutes later he had outlined the whole story.

  The commissioner was silent for what seemed like an age. “This man who calls himself Madrid. Is that his real name?”

  “I have no idea, Commissioner. It’s the only name we have heard used.”

  “Ah. And it was used in the context of the attack on the tourist camp you mentioned? Nowhere else?” Mabaku admitted this was so. “Ah. And apart from what we might charitably call an informed hunch from your assistant superintendent, the only evidence we have to connect the man you have in custody with this hypothetical plot is the remark that he wants to be treated as a pr
isoner of war? Completely ridiculous! The Republic of Botswana is not at war, and, in its entire history has not been at war, with any country.”

  “He misused the term, but it was clear what he meant, I should think.”

  “Ah. And what is that?”

  “That he is fighting in an army. Against a country.”

  “But not this country. Don’t you think he might rather ask for political asylum? No, I think we are setting too much store by the ravings of a dangerous criminal who’s in custody for kidnapping a policeman’s sister-in-law. The same policeman who has now come up with the idea of this extraordinary plot.”

  “Nevertheless, Commissioner, we have a situation here.”

  “Ah, yes. A situation. Mabaku, I recognize your commitment. I have repeatedly emphasized the importance of the African Union meeting going smoothly, without embarrassment or hitches. You have taken that to heart most commendably. What I’m going to tell you now is absolutely confidential. Keep it strictly to yourself. We have been assured by all parties that the president of Zimbabwe will not be in danger while he is in Botswana. Do you understand me? By all parties.”

  Mabaku thought he understood.

  “However, I will deploy additional men and demand additional vigilance. We can’t afford to be complacent.”

  This sounded more promising. “Should we see what we can shake out of the bearded Khumalo then?”

  “Why not? He’s the only connection with the kidnappers. We need to tie that up as quickly as possible. But you do it yourself, Mabaku. Keep Bengu out of it. He’s too personally involved. I would’ve thought that was obvious to you anyway.”

  Mabaku agreed, accepting the implied rebuke, and promised to handle the matter himself.

  The commissioner continued, “Report anything you learn directly to me. And for God’s sake, keep any hint of this out of the newspapers. Is that absolutely clear, Director Mabaku?”