The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu (10 page)

“Oh, don’t worry, my dear. I think we’ll be able to afford
another trip out here quite soon. And some other things! I’m going
to have a double gin and tonic. What would you like?”

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

K
ubu and Tatwa spent
the next fifteen minutes comparing notes. The only new information
was the story of the lost keys and William Boardman going bird
watching at night without binoculars.

Kubu sighed, turning to Tatwa. “I have to say that Zondo looks
like the only real suspect. I agree with you though. There’s
something else going on here. And I felt that Enoch, Moremi, and
Boardman were all holding back. Not lying necessarily, but not
volunteering. We’re missing something. There must be a connection
between Tinubu and Langa. The two murders can’t be a
coincidence.”

“Unless, of course, Langa was just in the wrong place at the
wrong time.”

“But he was at the opposite end of the camp from Tinubu. It
seems very unlikely he’d be killed just because he saw Zondo near
his own tent late at night.”

“Why did Langa have binoculars around his neck in the middle of
the night?” Tatwa asked. “Several people said he’d no interest in
birds.”

“Hmm. I had forgotten about that,” Kubu said sheepishly. “Maybe
he was spying on someone? But who? And why?” The two men sat in
silence, trying to solve this puzzle.

Tatwa eventually spoke. “Maybe we’ll learn something when Kasane
gets back to us with the background checks. Maybe one of our
charming tourists is a killer.”

“Even so, we’d still have to find a motive.” Kubu paused. “We
don’t have one for Zondo either for that matter.”

“Should we get someone from Kasane to drag the water around
here?” Tatwa asked. “We may be lucky and find whatever was used to
knock Tinubu out and kill Langa.”

“Get Enoch to show you their tools. Send the bigger ones to
Forensics for testing. It’s a long shot, but if we find nothing we
can consider dragging the water around the island. That’ll take a
lot of manpower, and I’d rather do it as a last resort. Mabaku is
always on my case for using too many resources. Speaking of the
devil, I’d better phone him and let him know what we’ve found out.
I’ll see you at the bar in an hour.”

At that, Kubu stood up, took his notebook, and walked up the
path to the lookout point. He needed to gather his thoughts before
phoning his boss.

♦

“Mabaku!”

“It’s Bengu, Mr. Director.”

“Yes?”

Kubu groaned silently. Mabaku had such a way with words!

“Mr. Director, Tatwa and I have interviewed everyone here a
second time. There is no evidence to suggest involvement in the
murders. The only strange thing is that Tinubu and Langa apparently
met for the first time on the road from Gaborone to Kasane.
Tinubu’s car broke down, and Langa stopped to help. I don’t believe
in coincidences. Two men meet for the first time in the middle of
the desert. Then they go to the same bush camp – one of dozens.
Then they are both murdered. There’s something else going on here.”
He waited for a comment from his boss, but none came.

Kubu continued, “I haven’t heard back from Kasane on the
background checks. They all seem reasonable people, highly unlikely
to be murderers.” Kubu paused again, waiting for a reaction from
Mabaku. There was none.

“Anything from the Zimbabwe police about tracing Zondo?” Kubu
asked to force a response.

“Nothing more about Zondo. We’ve sent them the fingerprints we
believe to be Zondo’s, as well as those of Langa and Tinubu. Who
knows if we’ll hear from them either way?”

“You mean they may not tell us even if they find him?”

“They have their own agendas. The rule of law isn’t exactly
alive and well in Zimbabwe.”

Kubu sighed. It was difficult enough trying to keep law and
order in the mishmash of countries of southern Africa, but when the
police themselves could not be counted on to cooperate, it made
things impossible.

“Mr. Director,” Kubu said. “Please call me anytime if you hear
anything about Zondo. It seems he must be the culprit although we
don’t know why he did it. The way things stand, I don’t have any
reason to detain the guests here beyond tomorrow morning.”

Mabaku did not respond right away. “You’re right. I don’t think
we need to detain them,” he said eventually. “But make sure you get
contact information for each of them for the next few days, as well
as their home details.”

After wrapping up a few final points, Kubu hung up.

“I don’t think we’re going to find Zondo or whatever his real
name is,” Kubu thought. “Africa has swallowed him.”

♦

Kubu sat for another twenty minutes gazing out at the beautiful
waterways and islands, listening to the background of evening
birdcalls. He pulled out his notebook and looked at the cryptic
message that had been written on Langa’s Zeerust receipt.

BJW191 GP

B 332 CAX

LC*

WB1

1L

KGH-A19.

§

The first two were obviously car registration numbers, but the
rest made no sense to him. He closed his eyes, hoping to clear his
mind, and encourage insight. After a few minutes, he opened them.
He sighed. There had been no inspiration. Maybe my subconscious
will take care of it when I’m asleep, he thought.

Remembering his earlier promise, he phoned Joy, and they spoke
of private things. Then he sat back, relaxed, with a gentle smile.
He tried a Mozart aria softly under his breath, but it seemed out
of place, and he stopped. In the distance he could see a lechwe doe
edge toward the water to drink, fearful of a crocodile that could
hurtle from the water and pull it to a drowning death, or of a
leopard that might appear from nowhere, cling to its throat, and
suffocate it.

I’ll have to bring Joy here, he thought. She would love to be in
such a beautiful place. He smiled as he thought of her thoroughly
indulging herself. Perhaps Dupie and Salome will offer me a special
rate when this is all over. He found himself humming Moremi’s tune,
but the words still eluded him.

With a sigh, he stood up. “I declare myself officially off
duty,” he said, ambling back to the bar. He ordered a double
steelworks from Dupie to settle the dust, with a glass of South
African sauvignon blanc to follow. Tatwa soon joined him and was
pleased to see his colleague with a drink. He ordered one of
Botswana’s St Louis beers. Kubu thought it had insufficient
alcohol, but Tatwa liked it.

“You know, I’ve been thinking about your problem of attracting
guests,” Kubu said to Dupie. “You need some publicity in the
overseas newspapers. Perhaps you could invite a travel writer to
stay free for a few days. Have you ever tried something like
that?”

Dupie shook his head. “They only write about the luxury camps.
They don’t want to stay at a place like this.”

“You’ve never had any travel writer here?”

Dupie shook his head again. “Not as far as we know. But a
freebie’s not a bad idea. I’ll chat to Salome.”

Kubu frowned. “Salome seems pretty depressed. She was talking
about giving up altogether.”

Dupie shrugged. “Well, it’s a blow, these murders. But she’ll
come around. Maybe things will look up. Another glass of wine? On
the house? You deserve one for the travel writer idea. Another beer
for you?” He looked at Tatwa, realizing he had forgotten his
name.

Just as he was about to pick up his wine, Kubu felt his mobile
phone vibrate. Who’s calling now? He hoped it was Joy. He walked
away from the bar toward the water.

“This is Assistant Superintendent Bengu,” he said.

Kubu listened intently, hardly saying a word. Eventually,
returning to the bar, he slumped on a stool and drained the warming
glass of wine in a single gulp.

“That was the director,” he said to Tatwa. “He’s heard from the
Zimbabwe police. About the fingerprints.”

Tatwa was swatting at mosquitoes with his cap. “Did they
identify Zondo?”

“Indeed. His real name is Peter Jabulani, and he’s regarded as a
dissident, possibly worse. He shouldn’t be traveling anywhere since
they’re holding his passport. They’re very keen to meet him now. I
don’t think we’ll be seeing him if they get to him first.” He
waited for Dupie to refill their glasses.

“And the other fingerprints were definitely those of Goodluck
Tinubu. There’s no doubt because we gave them a full set taken from
the body, and they got a perfect match. There is a problem though.”
He savored a mouthful of wine while Tatwa waited impatiently.

“Goodluck Tinubu died twenty-nine years ago in the Rhodesian
war.”

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

BORROWED TROUBLE

Borrow trouble for yourself if that’s your nature,
but don’t lend it to your neighbors.

—
RUDYARD KIPLING, ‘COLD IRON’

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

A
s he settled into
one of Director Mabaku’s uncomfortable chairs, Kubu realized that
he had to solve this case quickly. Otherwise he would be living in
the director’s office – a fate he did not want to contemplate. He
had driven directly from the airport north of Gaborone to the CID
headquarters in Millennium Park in the vanguard of the western
expansion of the city. The still wild Kgale Hill looked down on the
intrusion of the new office buildings with disapproval, a tiny
psychological barrier to inevitable westward growth. In time, the
city would spread around it in an outflanking movement, leaving it
isolated and eventually tamed.

“So, what progress have you made?” Mabaku growled.

“No further than where we were last night,” Kubu replied. “You
know what the Zimbabwe police told us about Zondo and Tinubu. Zondo
is not Zondo, and Tinubu died years ago. To all intents and
purposes, neither exists. Makes solving a murder a little
difficult.”

“Don’t get me worked up, Kubu,” Mabaku said acidly. “I’m getting
enough pressure from Tourism. They’ve been onto the commissioner,
too! Remember those murders in Kenya about ten years ago? No
foreigners went there for a year. A disaster!” He walked over to
the window. Kgale Hill was sending in guerrillas. A small troop of
baboons was scampering down the slope and over the wall into the
parking area.

“Tinubu died twenty-nine years ago,” Mabaku continued. “The
Zimbabwe police say there’s no doubt about it, although he used the
name George then, not Goodluck. His fingerprints match. That
obviously doesn’t make sense. There’s been a screwup somewhere.
They say he fought against Smith’s forces in the civil war and was
killed in a raid on a farmhouse.” He paused, watching the baboons
wander toward the CID building. “Zondo, whose real name is Peter
Jabulani, also fought against Smith, but is now on Zimbabwe’s hit
list. The security forces there want him badly. Treason, they
claim. If they catch him, we’ll never get a whiff of him.”

Suddenly he flung open the window. “Get off my car,” he yelled.
“Fuck off!” The baboons paid no attention and continued to play
with the mirrors of Mabaku’s old Range Rover. One looked up at him
insolently and, with due deliberation, defecated in the middle of
the metallic silver hood.

“One day I’ll have the trainees come over and use them for
target practice!” Mabaku fumed.

Kubu said nothing. In fact, Mabaku had a soft spot for the
baboons. They did not need to worry.

“Mr. Director,” Kubu said. “We’re doing everything possible to
find Zondo. Civil Aviation is checking all flights around Kasane
and Maun. We’ve got a photo of Zondo taken by one of the guests,
which we’ve circulated to all northern and central police stations
and border posts. We’ve guys in Kasane, Kazungula, and Maun walking
the streets on the lookout. There’s not much more we can do.”

Mabaku returned to his chair. “At least there is some connection
between Tinubu and Zondo,” he continued. “They both fought on the
same side of a war nearly thirty years ago. We now know Tinubu
taught at a school in Mochudi and became the headmaster. He wasn’t
a salesman as he put on his papers at the camp. Your friend Edison
Banda went to the school yesterday. Everyone was shocked when he
told them Tinubu was dead. Very popular, apparently. But this Langa
guy is a mystery. The South Africans confirmed his identity, and
the car’s registered in his name. Never been in trouble. That’s all
I got from them. There’s no obvious connection between him and the
other two.”

Kubu wriggled his ample body in the inadequate chair, trying to
get comfortable. “Maybe he just got in the way,” Kubu suggested.
“Maybe his death wasn’t premeditated.”

“I don’t believe in coincidences,” Mabaku said. “And the South
African police phoned me in response to Tatwa’s inquiry about
Langa. Why did they do that? Why didn’t they get back to Tatwa?
There’s something fishy going on. And I didn’t like the tone of the
guy who called me from Johannesburg. Seemed reluctant to help with
my other questions. I ended up phoning Director Van der Walle in
Johannesburg for help. I explained the situation and asked him to
let me know what Langa did for a living, who he worked for, and to
ask around to see if they could find out why he was in Zeerust. But
Van der Walle wasn’t his usual helpful self either. Listened, but
didn’t say much. Said he would get back to me, but hasn’t yet.”
Mabaku pressed a button on his intercom. “Miriam, two teas,
please.”

Kubu blinked. Mabaku did not usually offer tea.

“Mr. Director,” Kubu said quietly. “We can only go as fast as we
can go. If Zondo’s the culprit, then we need the help of the
Zimbabwe police. If he isn’t, we’ll need a lot of legwork to find
out who is. Nobody at the camp is a likely suspect, but we’re
checking everyone’s background. However, I’d be surprised if we
turn up anything interesting. We should have more information this
afternoon.”