The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu (20 page)

Kubu pouted. Notu was indeed an idiot who held his job because
he had married the niece of someone very influential. Only his
undeniable incompetence had kept him from more senior positions. So
far. Now Kubu was up against some very nasty people whose attention
was focused on the police, thanks to Kubu himself.

“I’ll go up to Maun tomorrow,” he said. “I’d like Tatwa to come
down from Kasane. I think I can use an elevated perspective.”
Mabaku just looked at him and nodded, the joke falling flat. “Leave
early,” he said.

♦

It was a long road and boring. Two hundred miles past Mochudi to
Serowe, where Kubu allowed himself a quick bacon-and-cheese-burger
washed down with a chocolate milkshake and coffee for the caffeine.
Then two hundred and fifty miles on the flat, straight road west to
the edge of the Okavango Delta. At 6:00 p.m., after twelve hours of
driving, he arrived at Maun. Once a sleepy gateway to the miracle
of the delta, it was now a bustling tourist town shunned by the old
timers who still liked to think of Botswana as the old, wild
Africa. Expecting less than enthusiastic cooperation from Notu, he
checked into the Toro Lodge in order to have an excuse to do his
own snooping. Plus, it was inexpensive; Mabaku would approve. A
mediocre supper at the Lodge restaurant completed the exhausting
day.

He was too tired to explore. After a hot bath, he crawled into
bed with the newspaper, and called Joy. She was bubbling with
enthusiasm. Pleasant’s boyfriend, Bongani, had come to dinner with
them, and the evening had gone very well. They had emptied one of
Kubu’s bottles of red wine, perfectly matched with her steak and
mushroom sauce, and greatly enjoyed it. Kubu tried to be
enthusiastic. He was suffering from heartburn from the doughy
chicken pie he’d eaten for supper. After the call, Kubu fell asleep
within minutes, the reading light still on, and the
Daily
News
on his chest heaving in time with his snores.

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

“W
ell, you’ve come a
long way to take an interest in my case.” Assistant Superintendent
Notu’s manner indicated that he considered the interest to be
interference.

Kubu tried to be diplomatic. “I think your case may be directly
relevant to mine. Ours,” he corrected himself looking at Tatwa.

“And how is that?” Notu examined his fingers as if expecting a
more sensible answer from them.

“Well, the murder victim was one of only ten people on an island
in the Linyanti where the double murder we’re investigating took
place.”

“This man, Broadman I think was his name, was the victim of a
violent robbery that went over the top.” Notu shrugged. “There are
such things as coincidences.”

Kubu shook his head. “I keep hearing that. I don’t believe in
them. And his name was
Boardman
.”

Tatwa interrupted. “Assistant Superintendent Notu, do you have
many opportunistic robberies where the victim is forced into his
hotel room, robbed, tortured, beaten to death and his room
ransacked? It’s certainly never happened in Kasane, as far as I
know.”

“Sergeant Mooka, perhaps you haven’t seen as many robberies as I
have. Perhaps
Kasane
is still a bit of a backwater. Here
there are too many rich, careless tourists. Easy prey.” He rubbed
his chin and then resumed the study of his fingers. “It’s
unfortunate,” he finished without apparent regret.

“Sergeant Mooka is right,” Kubu said firmly. “It doesn’t add up.
This wasn’t a street mugging. The perpetrators waited for Board-man
outside his room. Forced him into it. And beat him to death. For a
few hundred pula? In a hotel unit where there was a good chance of
him being heard screaming? I don’t buy it. Let me tell you what
happened on our island in the Linyanti last week.” Kubu described
the attack on Jackalberry Camp. “Do you still think this is a
coincidence?”

Notu stroked his jowls again and checked his watch. “What do you
want to know?”

Kubu sighed. “Please take the time to tell us exactly what
happened.”

“I told you what we think. You’re the one who thinks
differently.” Nevertheless Notu fetched the file. “The body is
still with the pathologist.” He looked up at Kubu. “Your chap,
MacGregor, drove up to examine the body at the scene. You should be
satisfied with that at least.” He pored over the file again. “From
his examination, he thinks the victim was killed between ten that
Monday night and three the next morning. Actually we know he died
around half past one.”

He paused, but Kubu was listening intently and didn’t comment.
Tatwa was taking notes. “I’ll tell you why later,” he said, his
moment spoiled. “The man had been assaulted. Punched in the face,
kicked, or attacked with a bat. He had cigarette burns on his face
and chest. Brutal.” He set aside the preliminary notes from the
pathologist and pulled another note toward him. “His wallet was
gone. But his car keys were still in his pocket. They searched the
rest of his room too. Threw all the stuff out of his suitcase,
ripped up the bed, searched the closet, threw out his
toiletries.”

He looked up at Kubu again, pointedly ignoring Tatwa. “Maybe
they thought he had more money hidden in the room? Perhaps they had
a tip-off from someone? He’d been going around markets buying items
for cash. Plenty of cash. Curio dealer or something.” There was a
note of triumph in the last statement. These interlopers ought to
appreciate his thoroughness.

“And what have you done about catching the murderers?” Kubu
asked, unimpressed.

Notu sighed. “Well, it’s early days yet. We’ve interviewed the
hotel staff and the guests who were around. But no one seems to
have heard anything. Except the person who called in.” This was his
trump card, and he meant to make them beg for it. This time Tatwa
obliged at once. “Who called in? What did he say?”

“One of the guests. He heard shouting and screams. He phoned
reception to complain. He thought it was a domestic row getting out
of hand. The reception guy was half asleep but walked around the
camp and heard nothing. He checked with the security guard, but he
hadn’t heard anything either. So he shrugged it off and went back
to sleep. He forgot all about it until they found the body in the
morning.”

Tatwa was almost out of his seat. “What did the guest hear,
exactly? Did he hear any words? Could he confirm the exact
time?”

Again Notu’s fingers seemed the better company. “Actually we
couldn’t find the guest who phoned. He must have checked out before
the body was discovered. But we got a good report from the
receptionist.”

“And you haven’t tried to trace him?” Kubu was incredulous.

“What more is it going to add? The receptionist noted the time
as shortly after one thirty. The caller complained how late it was.
Don’t you believe Broadman would scream while they tortured him to
death? Do you think the caller made it up?” Amazingly, he seemed to
be vaguely amused by the whole matter.

Kubu swallowed. It was close to lunchtime, and they had achieved
almost nothing the whole morning. “Did the receptionist note the
room number of the caller?”

“He couldn’t tell. It was an outside call, and the caller didn’t
give his name or room number. Shouted about being woken in the
middle of the night.”

Tatwa was puzzled. “An outside call? Why was it an outside
call?”

Notu gave him a pitying look. “This lodge isn’t the Gaborone
Sun, you know. It’s free-standing bungalows over several acres.
They don’t have phones in the rooms.” He stared over their heads,
waiting for the unwelcome visitors to leave.

Kubu had had enough. He was getting hungry. “Do you mind if we
talk to the people at the lodge? Chat to MacGregor when he’s
through?” Notu looked offended. “Help yourself. Director Mabaku
said I was to give you every assistance. Now, if you’ve no more
questions, I want to get back to work.” Kubu and Tatwa left,
dismissed. They realized that without Mabaku paving the way, they
wouldn’t have been granted an audience at all.

Reaching the door, Kubu turned back. Notu was as thick as a
plank, and surly with it, but he certainly didn’t look
undernourished. He likes his food, Kubu thought with grudging
approval. Perhaps he could be of some help.

“Anywhere good to eat lunch around here? I’m quite keen on
Italian.”

Notu didn’t look up from his desk. “The canteen opens at twelve
thirty,” he replied.

Kubu had no intention of subjecting himself to a police staff
canteen and walked out. But Notu’s secretary called after him.
“Excuse me, Assistant Superintendent. There aren’t any nice Italian
restaurants in town, but the Bon Arrive is always decent. It’s
around the corner, opposite the airport. We go there sometimes for
a celebration. Bit pricey, but the food is really good. I’ve been a
few times lately.”

Kubu smiled and thanked her. The young lady was attractive, and
he imagined she would receive many invitations to dine away from
the canteen. Cheerful and bright, she was the complete opposite of
her boss.

Outside, Tatwa exploded. “Idiot! He’s done nothing. These
bastards are miles away by now, and he sits at his desk looking for
ink on his fingers! He hasn’t even thought of tracing that call to
find out who the caller was.” Kubu just nodded, distracted as he
was. He was keen to get to the restaurant.

They found it easily. It had an aviation theme, and model
airplanes, aviation paraphernalia, and copies of newspapers with
aviation headlines adorned the walls and ceilings. The menu was
decent, and peppered with aviation jokes. The place was starting to
fill up, so Kubu directed Tatwa to a table for four. Tables for two
were too cramped for the multiple plates he liked.

When they had ordered, Kubu turned to Tatwa. “All right, Tatwa.
Out with it. You’ve been dying to tell me something ever since we
met at Notu’s office.”

Tatwa looked surprised, then blurted out, “I think I may have a
breakthrough in the case. How did you know?”

Kubu laughed. “I’m a detective. Let’s hear your ideas.”

“Well, we finally got something useful out of that guy the South
Africans have on the case. I hoped to tie the two murders together,
so I checked where all the people who’d been at Jackalberry Camp
were when Boardman was murdered.” He paused for effect, and Kubu
nodded. “Good thinking,” he encouraged.

“All the camp staff were running a
braai
for guests at
the time of Boardman’s murder. Except Enoch, and he was stuck in
the bush.”

“Is it possible that he could actually have been driving to Maun
when he was supposed to be stuck?”

Tatwa shook his head. “He was halfway to Kasane towing a trailer
when it broke a wheel bearing. Dupie had to drive there, meet him,
and tow the trailer back. It would’ve been impossible to get to
Maun in time for the murder after all that. Especially at night.
The roads through the Savuti section of Chobe are awful.” Kubu
nodded, accepting that.

“The Munro sisters are in Gaborone at the Grand Palm, and they
had dinner there that night. I phoned the headwaiter to confirm.
Mrs. Boardman was in Cape Town. That leaves our friend Boy
Gomwe.”

“Or a reappearance of Zondo? Perhaps he came back for another
victim?”

“I suppose that’s possible. But why not bump Boardman off at the
camp along with the others? My money’s on Gomwe. And I’ll tell you
why.”

Before Tatwa could explain, a waiter arrived with a plate of
pates and a basket of bread. Kubu was enjoying his first mouthful,
when to his amazement he looked up and there stood Ian
MacGregor.

“Ian!” Kubu exclaimed. “What good luck to bump into you here!
Just the person we want to talk to.”

“Och, wasn’t luck,” Ian said, shaking hands. “I spoke to Mabaku,
and he said you’d be having lunch here.” Kubu was silent. How on
earth does Mabaku know these things? Did he phone Notu and speak to
the secretary who suggested the restaurant? Has he eaten here on a
previous visit? Kubu shook his head. Mabaku was always one step
ahead. When you stepped out of line, you bumped into him.

Ian settled into a chair and examined the menu. “Good choice of
restaurant. The tripe is delicious.” Even Kubu was glad he’d chosen
something a little less exotic. Tatwa looked as though he might
pass on lunch altogether.

“Tatwa was just about to explain a theory to me,” Kubu said to
Ian. “You’ll be very helpful on the case here. But spare us any
grisly details until after we’ve eaten.” Tatwa looked grateful for
that. “Go on, Tatwa.”

“I’ve just explained that none of the group present when
Goodluck was murdered – other than Zondo, of course – could’ve
killed Boardman, except Boy Gomwe. We’ve discovered that he was in
Botswana when Boardman was killed, but we haven’t been able to
trace him yet. So he had opportunity. I think he had a motive as
well.” He waited while the other two men digested this. “It turns
out that the South African police have been keeping an eye on Rra
Gomwe. They’re pretty convinced that he’s in the drug business,
using his music salesman persona as a front. They don’t have much
evidence, but he’s got an old conviction for possession, and his
name comes up in investigations from time to time. Now guess what
the major smuggling routes for heroin into South Africa are?”

Kubu suddenly saw where Tatwa was heading. “You think Gomwe was
picking up drugs at the border?”

Tatwa nodded. “Probably Goodluck too. The South African police
were trying to track hot money when they followed him there. Money
goes to the border, drugs come over it. Two plus two equals?”

“But why the murders? Sounds all nice and cozy to me.” Ian was
puzzled, but Kubu had jumped ahead. “What if Zondo decided to keep
the money and the drugs? Or Goodluck and Gomwe were rivals? So the
thugs who attacked Jackalberry would have been after the missing
drugs and money. In cahoots with Gomwe? But where does Boardman
come in?”