The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu (35 page)

Mbedi poured the tea and shared the remaining sugar between the
two cups. Then he opened one of the bars of chocolate and shared
that also. Kubu accepted both gravely, with thanks.

“Paulus, in fact Goodluck was asking after himself. He wanted to
know if the police and the army were hunting for him after that
raid. Probably he was scared of what would happen to you and your
wife if he was found here with you. He must have been very relieved
to know they thought him dead. So he could take back his name. I
suppose that he left when he was better? He couldn’t risk meeting
someone here who knew him, who would bring him back to life.”

Paulus drank his tea in silence. When it was finished, he said,
“Yes, he left a few months later. But why do you think he really
was Tinubu?” There was no great surprise in his voice; perhaps he
had wondered before about the friend – the schoolteacher – whose
identity and profession Goodluck had so comfortably assumed.

Kubu explained about the fingerprints. Mbedi nodded his head in
acceptance.

Kubu considered what he had learned. It explained a lot but did
not help explain Goodluck’s murder. A new thought occurred to him.
Goodluck had apparently known Zondo. They had shared drinks
together in Goodluck’s tent at the camp. Zondo and Goodluck were
the same age. Was it possible that some hatred had been intense
enough to stretch across thirty years? What actually happened on
that night? What had Goodluck meant when he said ‘They must have
found the wallet?’ Whose wallet? His own?

“Paulus, you have been a great help to me, and I’m very
grateful. I just have one more question. Please think very
carefully before you answer. Was there anyone you heard about, or,
perhaps who came here after Goodluck had gone, who asked about him?
Someone who might have been trying to find him? Perhaps to finally
settle a score not completed on the night of the shooting?”

Paulus looked at him. “Why do you ask this?”

“I want to know about anyone – no matter from how long ago – who
might have wanted to see Goodluck dead.”

Paulus concentrated. “Yes, there was such a man. Six months
after Goodluck left, he came here with Msimang, in the
bakkie
. Msimang had told him the story, and he said he was
looking for the man. I didn’t know who he was, but I knew he was
one of the fighters, one of the hard men for whom the killing and
the terror had become just a job. Perhaps a job he now liked. I
told him the injured man had died. That we called the hospital to
fetch the body. That they’d handed it over to the police. I knew he
couldn’t check that. He stared at me for what seemed like a long
time. I think he had heard rumors, and I could tell that he didn’t
believe me. I think he was deciding what to do about it. But then
Mary came out and asked what was going on. She told him the same
story I had and asked him to leave. Just like that. And he did,
without another word to either of us. We never saw him, or heard of
him, again.”

“Do you remember his name?”

Paulus shook his head. “It was thirty years ago!”

“Could the man have been called Ndlovu?”

Paulus straightened. “Yes, that’s right. I remember thinking
that he was named for the elephant. This village is named for the
meat of the elephant. Ndlovu. That was his name.” He shook his
head. “The elephant is a noble beast. This man was not noble.”

Kubu thanked Mbedi again for his help and for his hospitality.
Knowing that Zimbabwe money was meaningless, and that Mbedi would
find a black market for hard currency, he gave him a 100 pula note.
“It’s a loan,” he said. “I’ll recover the money from Goodluck’s
will.” Both knew this was untrue, but it enabled Paulus to accept
the money with gratitude and dignity. But he had a gift for Kubu in
return. He went into the bedroom and came back with a small glass
jar containing three distorted metal objects. “The bullets we took
from Goodluck,” he said with a hint of his earlier pride in the
achievement. “I kept them. Now you may have them.” Kubu accepted
the jar gravely, politely touching his right arm with his left
hand.

Kubu shook Paulus’s hand and wished him well. On the trip back
he looked out at the empty shops and closed businesses around
Bulawayo, and thought about Paulus Mbedi and his wife trying to
live in peace. What had happened to Mary and what would become of
Paulus? It was nearly dinnertime when he reached the hotel, but for
once he was not at all hungry.

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

B
y Friday morning
Tatwa felt that the pieces were falling into place. He was
delighted with the progress they had made in only two days. He
wondered if he could reach Kubu in Zimbabwe. Was Kubu’s phone on
international roaming? Cell phones still worked in Zimbabwe.

Through receipts in his wallet, they had traced Gomwe’s
movements prior to his arrival at the Elephant Valley Lodge. He had
stayed in Nata on the Monday night when Boardman was murdered,
which got Tatwa very excited. Nata was where the road from Maun
joined the road from Gaborone. Gomwe could have murdered Boardman
and then driven to Nata from Maun. But his heart sank when he read
the receipt from the Nata Lodge more carefully. It seemed that
Gomwe had dined there. He phoned the Lodge to check, and they
confirmed that Gomwe had spent the whole evening there, and had
left after breakfast early the next morning saying he had an
appointment in Kasane. It was not possible for Gomwe to have eaten
dinner in Nata, driven the three hours to Maun, committed a murder,
and driven back another three hours before breakfast.

In Kasane, he had stayed two nights at the Mowana Safari Lodge.
Tatwa checked at the hotel himself. Gomwe had arrived in his car.
According to the barman, he drank a lot and also had a short
meeting with a black man the evening before he checked out. The two
didn’t look as though they were friends.

So Gomwe was not a murderer, or at least not the murderer of
William Boardman. He had been safely asleep at the Nata hotel on
the night of the murder. But he was not an innocent either; his
false-bottomed briefcase had turned out to contain traces of
heroin. If he was buying, the delivery hadn’t been made, or the
drugs had been stolen; if selling, where was the money?

Tatwa was sure he was at least half right; Gomwe was involved in
a drug operation that spanned Jackalberry Camp and Elephant Valley
Lodge. The key lay in Gomwe’s murder, and was held by his
murderer.

The autopsy had been inconclusive. Indeed, Gomwe’s chest had
been crushed and ribs snapped by heavy pressure. It could be an
elephant, or it could be the wheel of a vehicle as Kubu had
suggested. Indeed, the neck was snapped and cheek crushed by a
vicious blow. It could be a raging trunk, or it could be a blunt
instrument. But the forensic evidence had been more incisive. The
murder scene contained little evidence, but that was to the point.
There was too little blood, which on its own was not compelling;
when related to the lack of the victim’s footprints into the area,
it was convincing. Tatwa wondered why a bush-wise guide, coming on
the death scene undisturbed, had been unable to make these
deductions and had carelessly moved the body and trampled the area
destroying evidence. There might be an obvious answer.

Parrots, he thought. Allison’s parrots. She said she had shown
them to the guide; the guide said she had just described them. One
of them was lying, perhaps both.

There was another interesting item in the forensics report. The
victim’s clothing contained no traces of elephant skin or hair, but
there were particles of a canvas material. Were they from the
tarpaulin Douglas had used to transport the body, or had the body
been wrapped to prevent tire marks on the clothes?

On a whim he phoned Gomwe’s record company in Johannesburg
again.

It was before 9:00 a.m., but the branch manager was already at
his desk.

“Detective Mooka? We’re still all in shock. Gomwe was one of our
best people. Great guy. We’re really going to miss him,
professionally and personally. Do you have more questions?”

“Just some background information. Who knew Mr. Gomwe best at a
personal level? Socialized with him and so on.”

“Well, he didn’t have really close friends at work. But he and I
were quite friendly. Both single, I guess, and interested in
football.”

“Did you ever jog together? Anything like that?”

The manager laughed. “Hardly. Boy said the best exercise took
place in bed. Sex was his idea of heavy breathing.”

“You sure he didn’t jog or go to the gym or do other
exercise?”

“Well, pretty sure. He’d hardly keep it a secret. Most men like
to boast about their fitness. He certainly had no reticence about
his bed workouts!”

“Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”

“I have?”

“Yes, indeed.”

Tatwa said good-bye and hung up. Parrots, he thought. Why did a
man who did not like exercise go for a jog instead of watching
birds with his girlfriend?

Tatwa decided he needed another interview with Allison Levine.
He also wanted to know more about what was in her luggage. But when
he phoned the lodge he was told she had left at first light. She
was driving, on her way home to South Africa. Of course, he
thought, she was always scheduled to leave this morning. He tried
without success to reach Kubu. He had better speak to the
director.

♦

Mabaku had no hesitation. “Pick her up in Francistown. She can’t
be further than that yet. Have them go over every nook and cranny
of her car. I think we’ve got a decent chance she’s carrying some
sort of contraband.”

“What if she objects?”

“Well, she wants to leave Botswana and enter South Africa,
right? If she won’t let us search her car, I’ll get customs to take
it apart rivet by rivet. I’ve got a hunch on this one, Tatwa. We’ve
got them! I want to hear Beardy start singing when we introduce him
to Miss Levine!”

Tatwa wondered if it could be that easy. But armed with
Maba-ku’s instructions, he phoned the police in Francistown and
asked them to set up a roadblock on the main road from the north.
He gave them a description of the girl and, more helpfully, the
details of her four-by-four vehicle, which he had obtained from the
lodge. Unlike most guests, she had driven to the lodge herself.

Well, if she was carrying contraband, she would need her own
vehicle, wouldn’t she? thought Tatwa.

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

T
he Bulawayo central
police station brooded over Leopold Takawira Avenue, an attractive
colonial building spoiled by heavy security mesh. Kubu parked his
car in the parallel parking area in the middle of the wide road and
made his way inside. Strange, he thought. Why do I feel
uncomfortable in a police station? He checked in with the duty
officer and was told that Superintendent Pede was at the CID
offices, down the street at the Central African Building Society
building. Five minutes later Kubu was ushered into the
superintendent’s office. Pede was about the same age as Kubu, and
about the same height, but much slimmer – in fact quite thin. That,
thought Kubu, at least suggests he’s honest.

Pede’s greeting was polite but cool. “How can I help you,
Assistant Superintendent? Did you just arrive this morning?”

Kubu said he had arrived the previous evening and spent the
night at the Holiday Inn. Pede nodded slowly, giving Kubu the
impression that he was doubtful. I’d make a dreadful criminal, Kubu
thought, embarrassed by his white lie. Good thing I’m a
policeman.

“Would you like some tea?”

“That would be very nice.”

They went down the corridor to a tea urn dispensing a
well-stewed brew. After that, the ice began to thaw.

“Director Mabaku will have told you that I’m working on the
murder case at a camp on the Linyanti. Two men were murdered. A
South African policeman by the name of Sipho Langa and an
ex-Zimbabwean – now resident in Botswana – called Goodluck
Tinubu.”

Pede nodded. “And the main suspect is Peter Jabulani, going
under the false name of Ishmael Zondo. It seems pretty cut and
dried. Problem is that you can’t find him. Or so you say.”

Kubu bristled. “And you can’t find him. Or so you say.” Pede
said nothing.

Kubu sighed. “Look, I think we’re on the same side here. Why
don’t you trust us?”

Pede gave him a hard look. “Perhaps if your government would
mind its own business and not always side with the British, you’d
find us more friendly.”

“Superintendent Pede, what our governments think of each other
has little to do with our jobs as policemen. I’m asking for your
help as a colleague to apprehend a vicious group of thugs and
murderers.”

“What do you want to know?” Pede sounded a little less
hostile.

“How come you have Tinubu recorded as deceased?”

“At the time of the war to overthrow the Smith regime, lots of
things happened that weren’t properly investigated or reported.
There was a raid on a farm. The Smith forces responded quickly and
managed to catch up with the raiders. They killed three or four. It
was the middle of the night. Who the hell knew what was going on?
They didn’t bother with the bodies. Had other things to do. But
they brought back trophies, including a wallet belonging to George
Tinubu. Had his fingerprints on it, too. They were on record
because he’d been held by the regime’s police.

“He was a teacher and had led a teacher protest when they closed
several schools to force the villagers into so-called protected
townships. He was held under the security laws for three months. I
guess he wasn’t satisfied with peaceful protest after that.” Pede
rubbed his mustache. “People forget what this country went through.
We had to fight for our freedom. Didn’t get it on a platter with a
new national anthem and a flag-raising ceremony like some
countries. We’ll go on fighting if we have to. Whatever anyone
says.”