The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu (15 page)

Most of the members of the group sucked their drinks, not
knowing whether to believe Dupie. Salome tried to keep a straight
face.

Conversation soon picked up again, but Dupie noticed that the
women constantly checked whether the spider was near them. When it
did reappear, it was running past the Spaniard. With a lightning
movement, he stamped it into the ground and kicked the corpse
toward the fire.

“Hey, you react fast,” said Dupie, impressed. “But it wasn’t
doing any harm.” The man said nothing and continued to sip his
beer.

About a quarter of an hour later, the honeymoon couple left for
their tent. The English and French couples, now firm friends
despite understanding very little each other had said, followed
soon. The Englishman was still demonstrating to his French
counterpart how the spiders climbed ladders by using one hand to
climb his other arm. Salome took advantage of the exodus and said
goodnight as well.

“What can I get for you, gentlemen?” Dupie said. The Spaniard,
who had the unlikely name of Madrid, and his friend Johannes had
nursed an after-dinner drink for all of an hour. “How about an
Amarula on the rocks? Or an Amarula Dom Pedro?”

Both declined with shakes of the head.

“You had problems here this week?” Madrid asked. He spoke good
English with a strong Spanish accent.

“We read about it,” said Johannes.

Dupie warmed to the story. He embroidered the gruesome murders
and had dozens of police scouring the island for days. “Of course,
I knew who the murderer actually was!”

His two guests looked at him impassively and waited.

“He called himself Zondo,” Dupie said, “and he came from
Zimbabwe. Actually I think he was a drug dealer. He killed his
customers and took off with the drugs and the money too.”

“Why do you think it was him?” Madrid asked.

“Zondo?” Dupie paused. “The murders were on Sunday night. He was
going to leave on Tuesday lunchtime. He suddenly changed his mind
and left early on Monday. I took him to his plane just after dawn.
After I got back, we found the bodies.”

“Who was killed?”

“The one called himself Goodluck Tinubu. A salesman from
Gaborone, I think. The other was from South Africa, Sipho Langa.
Not sure what he did. I think they were buying drugs from Zondo and
got bumped off for the money. Zondo leaves with the drugs and the
money. Nice deal.”

“I didn’t know there was much drug stuff in Botswana.”

“Oh, yes,” Dupie responded. “It’s one of the supply routes into
South Africa, though the police deny that.”

They watched the cracking logs and grasping flames in
silence.

“Were you able to get the registration of the plane?” Madrid
asked. He sounded casual, but Dupie looked at him sharply. His skin
tingled as it always did when he sensed danger. Who were these two?
Why on earth would they want to know about the plane’s
registration?

“I never saw the plane. When I dropped him off, it hadn’t
arrived yet. I left right away because I had to pick up some of the
staff from the village. Apparently the police haven’t been able to
trace it either. Flew below the radar, as they say. Mark my words,
it’s back in Zimbabwe right now, and Zondo is living it up.”

“Nobody heard anything? The camp isn’t that big.”

Dupie shook his head. “Both were hit on the head. No noise.
Langa’s body was on the far side of the island, down a bank near
the water. The blow killed him straight away. We found Tinubu in
his tent, throat cut. They were killed in the middle of the night.
Nobody heard a thing.”

“Where do the staff sleep? Isn’t someone on duty all night?”
Johannes’s curiosity was insatiable.

Dupie shook his head. “I sleep at the far end of the tents.
Enoch – he picked you up at the airstrip – he and the cook sleep
back behind us, out of sight. If I didn’t hear anything, they
certainly wouldn’t have.”

“How did the police get here? It’s a long way from Maun.”

“They flew in from Kasane, not Maun. It’s closer. The Defense
Force brought them up in some sort of twin-engine plane. After that
they used a helicopter.” Dupie’s skin tingled again. Usually people
wanted all the gruesome details of events like these – what the
bodies looked like, how much blood, how the bodies had been
discovered. These questions where different, more like an
interrogation. “Normally they’d drive, but the camp’s far away from
anything. Even the landing strip is quite far. A chopper’s much
easier. By the time they’d finished, I think the chopper had made
six or seven trips, what with detectives and pathologists. Must’ve
cost a fortune. The animals around here didn’t know what was going
on.”

Johannes digested that. “How’d you call the police anyway?” he
asked casually.

“Cell phone.” Dupie was getting increasingly suspicious. He
glanced at Madrid, who had said nothing for a while.

“What happens if you lose reception for the phone? How do you
contact the outside world?” he asked.

“We have a radio,” Dupie replied. “We don’t use it a lot because
it’s not private, but it works fine.”

“Did the police agree with your theory about the other guest?
Zondo, wasn’t it?” Johannes was not about to let up.

“They didn’t say anything. Just did their investigation,
gathered up the evidence, and took off.”

“How was Zondo when you took him to his plane?”

Dupie had had enough. “He was quiet, that’s all. He was quiet
when he arrived too. Hardly said a word.” He stood up with some
difficulty. He had been sitting in a particularly low chair and had
enjoyed several brandies and Coke. “Well, I’m off to bed. Have to
get up early in the morning. Get either of you a nightcap?”

Johannes said no, and Madrid shook his head. With a wave, Dupie
walked toward his tent, leaving them to watch the dying fire.
Perhaps I’m wrong, he thought. Perhaps the murders have made me
oversensitive. Perhaps they are just curious about a gruesome
event.

♦

Salome lay in bed unable to sleep, her mind racing. She tried
lying on her side, on her back, on her front. Nothing worked.

She heard Dupie’s tent zipper open and close. That triggered
more thoughts. What was he going to do if she closed the camp? He’d
been good to her, helping with everything at the camp, as well as
providing humor and support. The camp could not have survived this
long without him.

She had known him almost all her life. He’d grown up on the
neighboring farm, and the two families were as one. Doing
everything together, they helped each other in times of need, and
often holidayed together on South Africa’s glorious Natal
coast.

Salome rolled over onto her back and thought about the Dupie of
today. He was reliable, handy. And they were friends. What other
friend did she have? None, she thought. He was the only one.

Salome heard Dupie’s tent zip again. Must’ve had too much
liquid! She thought she heard someone speaking, but decided it was
her imagination. Suddenly, the zip on her own tent opened.
Startled, Salome sat up. How should she react if it were Dupie? A
bright light momentarily blinded her. A second later, a rough hand
clamped over her mouth.

“Don’t make a sound! If you do, I’ll kill you.” Salome did not
recognize the voice. She clawed frantically at the hand, trying to
pull it from her face. She felt she was suffocating.

“Stand up!”

The man grabbed her by an arm and jerked her to her feet. She
clutched her nightdress at the neck and folded her other arm
tightly across her breasts.

“Do what I say, and you won’t get hurt. I’m going to gag you and
tie you up, but no one will touch you. Understand?” Salome stood,
frozen. Suddenly the man grasped her throat and started choking
her. He let go her mouth and, as she gasped for air, shoved a rag
in her mouth. Then he released his hold on her throat. She started
screaming, but the gag dampened the sound almost completely.
Finally he wound heavy tape around her head and over her mouth.

Terrified, Salome flailed at the man with her fists. With ease
he caught her by the wrist and twisted her arm behind her back. He
pushed her onto the bed.

“Put your hand behind you.” Salome did nothing, so gripping the
flashlight in his teeth, the invisible intruder jerked her other
arm behind her and taped her wrists tightly. Then he pulled her
roughly to her feet.

“Move!” He pushed her out of the tent toward Dupie’s.

♦

In the adjacent tent, much the same scenario had taken place.
Caught completely unawares, Dupie was now trussed, but not gagged.
However, unlike Salome, he knew who his assailant was – Madrid, the
man of few words. Madrid held a knife to his throat.

“You cause me trouble, I’ll cut your throat like a fat pig,”
Madrid said.

“What do you want? You think we’ve got money? You’re joking!”
Dupie wondered how this was going to end.

Moments later, Salome was pushed into the tent followed by
Johannes, pistol in hand.

“Down,” he said to her. She didn’t move, so he shoved her down,
and she landed heavily on the ground. Then he tied her legs with a
heavy plastic tie around her ankles. Johannes turned to Dupie.

“Answer the questions. No one gets hurt. You lie, or you try
anything clever, I kill her first. You understand?” Johannes jabbed
Dupie in the ribs. Dupie nodded. Madrid stepped back so that he
could watch Dupie’s face.

“Did you take Zondo to the plane? Left him there like you said?
Didn’t see the plane?”

“Yes! I already told you.”

“Tell me again. Her life depends on it.”

Another jab in the ribs from Johannes. Dupie winced, then
nodded.

“Say it!”

“Yes! I took him to the airstrip and left him there.”

“You’re lying,” said Madrid. “He never contacted the pilot.”

“Well, that’s what he told me.”

“The pilot came to fetch him the next day, but he wasn’t
there.”

“The pilot works for you?”

“I’ll ask the questions!”

Dupie searched desperately for some way out. “If the pilot works
for you, Zondo would’ve needed a different plane to get away.
Stands to reason!”

“Did he take his bags with him?”

Dupie nodded again.

“What bags did he have?” Madrid hissed.

“He had a suitcase and a tote bag,” Dupie said.

“What color was the tote?” Another jab from Johannes. Harder
this time.

“I think it was green. Maybe blue.”

“Where’s Tinubu’s luggage?”

Dupie grunted as Johannes jabbed his ribs again. “The police
took all his stuff. I think there was a suitcase. A brown
suitcase.”

“Why do you think the murders were about drugs?” This time it
was Johannes who asked, jamming the pistol barrel into Dupie’s
solar plexus.

“I’m just guessing.” Dupie gasped. He had been in many
life-threatening situations in the war, but this felt different.
Johannes was a typical thug, but Madrid’s coldness frightened him.
He had to find a way of getting out of this alive. “What else could
it be?”

“You’d better tell me what I want to know!” Madrid said.
Johannes emphasized the point by pulling Dupie off the bed and
kicking him in the belly.

“Where’s Tinubu’s briefcase?” Madrid asked.

Dupie shrugged. “I suppose Zondo took it.”

Madrid raised his hand and Dupie braced for the blow, but it was
Salome he hit across the face, and the slap left an angry red mark,
visible even in the dim light.

“You’re lying to me! You said nothing about Zondo taking a
briefcase.”

Dupie struggled. “Leave her alone! It’s got nothing to do with
her!”

Madrid stuck the point of the knife into Salome’s throat.

“I count to five. You don’t tell me the truth, I’ll cut her
throat!” Madrid’s voice was harsh. “One. Two. Three. Four…” Salome
was whimpering through the gag.

“Wait!” Desperately Dupie grasped for a plan, anything that
would keep them alive. “The police have it! It was in Tinubu’s
tent. Seemed very heavy.” Johannes glanced at Madrid.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” Madrid asked.

“The police told me to say nothing. Said it was top secret. Said
I’d be in big trouble if I let on.”

“Did you see who took the briefcase?” Johannes kicked Dupie
again.

“The fat detective,” Dupie responded quickly. “Bengu. He’s from
Gaborone.”

“If you are lying, I’ll cut her into pieces in front of you!
Then I’ll throw you to the crocodiles.” This time Johannes’s kick
caught Dupie on the mouth and nose. He felt a tooth break and blood
pour down his cheek.”

“It’s the truth. I swear!”

Johannes looked as though he was going to kick Dupie again, but
Madrid stopped him.

“Maybe it’s true. We’re not going to get anything more out of
them. Shut his mouth.”

Johannes pulled a rag from his pocket. “Open your mouth!” he
ordered.

But Dupie had had enough. “Fuck you!” he said and clamped his
mouth shut.

“Open!” Johannes hit Dupie on the side of his face. Dupie kept
his mouth closed.

Johannes took the pistol by the barrel and clubbed Dupie on the
side of the head. He went limp. Johannes stuffed the rag into
Dupie’s mouth and taped it tightly.

Madrid glowered. “Maybe it’s true,” he said again. “Otherwise
so-called Zondo is living it up in South America by now.
Bastard!”

Johannes looked down at Salome, at the outline of her body,
helpless, the terror in her eyes. He liked that. Then he saw the
dismal coldness of Madrid, watching him. He shrugged.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said.

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

D
upie regained
consciousness and immediately wanted to throw up. A foul-tasting
rag was halfway down his throat. He tried to shift it by working
his tongue. Eventually he moved it enough to relieve the pressure.
He took stock of his situation. The side of his head ached, and
some sort of tape was wrapped around his head, across his mouth.
The gag was there to stay, and he could free neither his hands nor
legs. And the tent was pitch black. He couldn’t see a thing.