The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu (3 page)

“None of you are suspects at this point, Mr. Gomwe. We need your
prints so we can distinguish them from any others we may find.”

“I may be able to help,” William exclaimed. “I always have a
small digital camera with me for pictures of artwork and friends.
Happy snaps. I took pictures of everyone at the camp last night. We
were all having such a good time after Dupie’s chair…” He let the
sentence drift off after seeing the look Dupie gave him. Tatwa
thanked him and said the pictures might be very helpful.

As there were no further contributions, Tatwa added with
un-intended irony: “I suggest all of you enjoy a good lunch while I
get some background information from Mr. Du Pisanie.”

♦

Dupie took Tatwa to the tent off the side of the main reception
area, which he described as his office. It contained a table, three
plastic chairs, and a metal filing cabinet whose top drawer had
slipped off its rollers and was jammed half open. The table was
host to a selection of fish hooks and reels, a coffee-stained map
of the Linyanti, and a cup, half full of cold coffee, which might
have participated in the staining. Piles of documents, old
newspapers from both Botswana and Zimbabwe, batches of handwritten
envelopes held together with elastic bands, calendars several years
old, and stacks of receipts and canceled checks covered the table.
Pens and pencils lay scattered among paper clips and crumpled
Post-it Notes. On top of the filing cabinet were two old
black-and-white photographs, apparently family scenes from a time
long past.

Dupie seated himself behind the desk, well back to allow room
for his stomach, and waited for the detective to help himself to a
chair.

Taking off his ever-present charcoal cap that honored St. Louis
(more likely the American city than the Botswana beer), Tatwa
pulled a notebook from his shirt pocket. “You said you had some
useful information, Mr. Du Pisanie?”

“Well, it’s the dog that didn’t bark is the answer,” said Dupie.
“You know your Sherlock Holmes?” Tatwa shook his head. “Well, it’s
who isn’t there, you see. The men who aren’t with the group
outside. One called himself Langa and the other Zondo.”

“Where are they?”

“Ah, that is the question! That’s Hamlet, by the way. Langa has
disappeared. Perhaps he took one of the
mokoros
. I don’t see
how else he could have escaped.”

“Are you missing a
mokoro?
” Tatwa asked.

Dupie shrugged. “Who knows? Most of them belong to the village
on the mainland. Anyone who wants one borrows it and brings it back
later.”

“What about Zondo?”

“He left this morning. He was supposed to be here three nights,
not two, but told me last night after dinner that he had to leave
first thing this morning. Some sort of family emergency.”

“How did he hear about it?”

“We actually have mobile phone reception here – as unlikely as
it may seem. There’s a tower in Linyanti town across the river in
Namibia. If you have roaming, you’ll pick it up.”

“When did he leave?”

“I took him to the airstrip early – before breakfast.”

“When did you last see Langa?”

“At dinner last night. He went to bed shortly after Zondo and
Tinubu. Tired, they all said, although they hadn’t done much during
the day.”

“Do you have an address for Mr. Zondo?”

“Oh yes. In Zimbabwe. One of the fat cats. No doubt about that.
I know the type. Fat from the gravy train while everyone else
starves.”

“Please give me the details. We’ll get the Zimbabwe police to
help us trace him.”

“Best of luck to you.” Dupie sneered and tossed him Zondo’s
registration form. Tatwa glanced at it and was disappointed not to
see a telephone contact number.

“Does Mr. Langa also come from Zimbabwe?”

“No,” Dupie replied. “He has a South African passport. Lives in
Johannesburg, I think.”

“And Mr. Tinubu?”

“Well, he’s more interesting. He showed me a local identity
document so I thought he was a Motswana. But when I checked it, it
said he was born in Zimbabwe. Bulawayo, I think. So there could be
a connection. In fact, I’d bet on it.”

“I’d like the forms for all the other guests too, please.”

“Sure. I’ll get them. Then I’d say it’s time for lunch.”

Tatwa nodded. After lunch he’d have to interview the others, but
first he had to trace Zondo and start the search for Langa. He
needed to report back in any case, and he wondered what had
happened to the pathologist.

“Please make sure no one leaves the camp until I say so. I’ll
need to get more information from all of you later.”

Dupie nodded. Then he followed his impressive stomach out
through the flap of the tent, nearly colliding with a policeman.
The constable, ignoring Dupie, addressed Tatwa in Setswana.

“Sergeant, you must come at once. We’ve found another man.”
Tatwa could tell from the uniformed policeman’s demeanor that he
had another corpse on his hands. “You’d better come with us, Mr. Du
Pisanie,” he said. “I’m sorry to further delay your lunch.”

♦

They had found the body at the western end of the camp. One of
the policemen had walked to the top of a small cliff at the edge of
the water and had looked down. A man lay crumpled at the bottom of
the slope.

It took Dupie and Tatwa several minutes to clamber down to the
body and join the other uniformed policeman. There was no mystery
about this death, no arcane cross on the forehead, no slit throat,
no severed ears. The man had been hit hard enough to dent his
skull. He must have been on the path above, because the body’s
progress down the scree had marked rocks with blood. The body was
that of a large, well-built black man, wearing shorts, T–shirt, and
a light jacket, all in khaki. He wore dirty white sneakers without
socks, and a pair of binoculars hung around his neck. The face
stared sightlessly at the sky.

“My God,” said Dupie. “That’s Sipho Langa! He’s been murdered
too.”

Tatwa clenched his teeth. Suddenly he had two victims and one
suspect instead of one victim and two suspects. The forensics
people would have their work cut out to cover two murder sites
before dark. Just then a light plane flew low overhead, probably
the pathologist. He was glad of that. He needed help. This was his
first big case, and he was beginning to feel out of his depth. If
Zondo were the culprit, he’d be out of the country already. And, if
he had the right connections as Dupie suspected, he would be
impossible to shift from Zimbabwe. Since his boss in Kasane was
ill, Tatwa decided to call the director of the Criminal
Investigation Department in Gaborone directly. He and Dupie walked
back to the main camp in silence.

“May I use your office? I need to contact the CID in
Gaborone.”

“Why in Gaborone?”

“It’s procedure.”

“Go ahead. Call me if you need anything.”

As they walked through the dining area, everyone became silent.
Glancing at the river, Tatwa noticed the large crocodiles sunning
themselves on convenient sand banks. One was huge – a fifteen-foot
monster. Tatwa shuddered. He hated crocodiles; one had cost him a
younger brother. Pulling himself together, he walked to the office
and made his call to Director Mabaku.

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

A
ssistant
Superintendent ‘Kubu’ Bengu had just returned from a daylong
investigation of a robbery at a gas station in Lethlakeng, when he
was summoned to see the director. A meeting with Mabaku was an
unwelcome intrusion because he hoped to finish his report before
going home to his wife and dinner. With a sigh he heaved himself
out of his chair and headed for the director’s office.

Mabaku growled, “Why are you always away when I need you?”

Kubu opened his mouth to respond but was cut short.

“It’s too late now! Sit down.” Mabaku pointed toward a chair. “I
have an urgent matter to discuss. It concerns a double murder
reported this morning.” Kubu had heard nothing of a new murder
case. His eyebrows rose.

“This morning a Motswana male was found with his throat cut at a
lodge in the Linyanti. Probably happened last night. Then his face
was mutilated. Later, another guest – a South African – was found
bludgeoned to death and dumped in a gulley. There are a number of,
shall we say, sensitive aspects to the case, and we have a camp
full of tourists stuck there. Detective Sergeant Mooka is
investigating. But he’s new, and he needs help.”

“Oh, Tatwa!” Kubu chuckled. “Good chap even if he is a bit
tall!” Kubu had met Mooka as a trainee in Gaborone. They could
hardly avoid hitting it off. Mooka had acquired the nickname of
Tatwa, a play on the word
thutlwa
, Setswana for giraffe,
from his very tall, slim build and occasional slightly surprised
look. Because Tatwa was gentle and quiet unless threatened, the
name suited him remarkably well and had stuck. And David Bengu was
nicknamed Kubu, Setswana for hippopotamus, for his impressive
girth, appetite, and, until roused, his deceptively ponderous
approach. Even the usually humorless Mabaku had commented that the
CID was becoming a menagerie instead of a police department. Then
Tatwa had been posted to Kasane, and they had lost contact.

“Why doesn’t Assistant Superintendent Dingalo take charge? He’s
based in Kasane,” Kubu asked.

“He’s got another bout of malaria. Kasane is becoming as bad as
Victoria Falls. Several CID people are down with some nasty,
drug-resistant strain. You’ll have to go up and take over.”

“Isn’t it time Tatwa went solo on a case? Won’t he be
demoralized if I take over?”

“Kubu, you’re not listening. I said there were sensitive
aspects. You know how much the country relies on tourism. The first
victim’s name is Tinubu. He lived in Botswana. But he’s ex-Zimbabwe
according to his identity document, and he gets himself killed not
far from Zimbabwe. The obvious suspect registered under the name of
Ishmael Zondo, but the Zimbabwe police tell me that the Zimbabwean
passport he used is a fake. I think we can take it that his name is
also false. At the moment, there’s no trace of him. A second man,
Sipho Langa, who’s South African and apparently unrelated to the
first victim, is also dead. All this happens in front of a group of
international tourists who want to get on with their holidays.
MacGregor is already up there taking care of the bodies. We need
this tidied up quickly. And there’s the African Union meeting
coming up in Gaborone in about four weeks, remember? We don’t want
to be embarrassed. The manager up at the camp is a chap called Du
Pisanie, another Zimbabwean turned Motswana, believe it or not.” He
grimaced. “Catch the Air Botswana flight to Maun in the morning,
and have Miriam contact the Defense Force about getting from Maun
to the camp. That’ll be the third flight we’ve asked the BDF for
today. I hope they don’t refuse, otherwise you’ll have to
hitchhike.” He turned back to his paperwork. “Give my regards to
Joy.”

Kubu sighed as he left. He wondered if the food at the camp was
any good.

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

K
ubu looked down at
the patchwork landscape of the Linyanti. As they flew over the web
of waterways, the pilot pointed out various geographic features and
several groups of elephant. It was hard to tell where the water
stopped and the land began. Fingers of water moved into channels
and then overflowed, silently with no waves; the flood came like a
thief in the night, gently stealing the land.

What snake has slithered into this Eden? Kubu wondered.

In an unusual change of perspective, they looked down on two
huge lappet-faced vultures gliding in an updraft a thousand feet
above the ground. The pilot pointed out a pod of hippo basking on
the bank of one of the channels. Kubu nodded, enjoying the aerial
views of his namesakes, and was struck by the dramatic contrast of
this water world to the arid dryness of the country’s heart. Then
the Islander banked, following one of the larger channels to the
airstrip near Jackalberry Camp.

The pilot did a low pass over the airstrip. A family of warthogs
rushed off with flagpole tails. Satisfied that the runway was free
of game, the pilot turned, aligned the Islander with the dirt
strip, and brought it down in a cloud of dust and a succession of
bumps.

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 Morne 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.