The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu (37 page)

“Why am I here?” she snapped. “I wasn’t speeding. And I’ve got
to be in Johannesburg tomorrow by lunchtime.”

Kubu looked at her and shook his head. “Ms. Levine, you and I
both know why you are here. And it’s not for speeding. All we have
to do is agree. And I promise you, we will agree – even if it takes
a long time. So, what were twenty pounds of heroin doing in your
car?”

Allison did not flinch, but stared into Kubu’s eyes. “I’ve no
idea. I didn’t put it there.”

“We found it in a secret compartment next to the fuel tank. It
was covered with mud, but you didn’t check very well. Your prints
were on the mud. Nobody’s going to believe you if you say that the
drugs were put there by someone else.”

“I don’t know about any compartment.” Her voice was taut, her
eyes still meeting Kubu’s.

“That’s nonsense! Tell me who your contacts are – at Elephant
Valley Lodge and in South Africa.”

“Contacts for what?”

“Come on, Miss Levine. Don’t waste my time. You’re a courier for
someone in South Africa. You meet a contact from Zimbabwe or Zambia
near Elephant Valley Lodge and make the exchange. Your good looks
and gender help, I’m sure. You might say they let you get away with
murder.”

Allison did not respond, but sat still staring at Kubu.

“We know your lover-boy Gomwe is involved as well. Did you get
your heroin from him?”

Allison sat silent.

“Did you?” Kubu shouted at her, startling her.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Really? Gomwe had traces of heroin in his luggage. You had
twenty pounds in your car. And you’re telling me these things are
not connected. Not likely!”

“I’d never seen him before Elephant Valley Lodge. We were
attracted. We had a good time. That’s it.”

“Ms. Levine, you’re going to spend the night here. The first of
many, I think. Unfortunately our accommodation isn’t as comfortable
as Elephant Valley Lodge. But you should start getting used to it.”
Kubu paused, staring at her. “We’ve got you cold, but what I really
want to know is who the others are. Who are your principals in
Johannesburg? Who do you buy from? Who are the thugs who’ve been
threatening me and my family? Everyone! I know you are a small fry.
But sleep on this. Why should you do life, when the rest are still
free? You help me get the others; I’ll help you at this end.”

“I want a lawyer. I won’t take any more of this crap.”

“A lawyer is your right, Ms. Levine. Make sure he’s here at
eight tomorrow morning, because that’s when we meet again.”

♦

“Find out who she calls,” Kubu said to Constable Morake when he
returned from ensuring Allison was in the cells for the night. “I
doubt if she knows anyone here in Francistown. Maybe she can lead
us to her principals.” In reality, Kubu thought this was a long
shot. Allison was a bright woman, and he would be very surprised if
she made an elementary mistake.

Kubu found an empty office and called Director Mabaku.

“Yes?” Mabaku grunted.

He’s got such a welcoming telephone manner, Kubu thought. “Bengu
here, Director. I’m in Francistown.”

“Have you spoken to the woman yet?”

“Yes, but now she wants a lawyer. She denies knowing about the
drugs. She’s lying, of course. I decided not to mention Gomwe’s
murder at the moment. I want to keep that for later.”

“Good idea.”

“I think she’s a small fry, but I’ve an idea she could help us
find the big fish.”

“Go ahead,” said Mabaku.

“My guess is that she isn’t going to give us any useful
information tomorrow. Same as today, especially if she has a lawyer
present. However, she may have a different view of the world if we
add a murder charge, or at least accessory to murder. I think she’s
in over her head, so if we offer her a reduced sentence or a
reduced charge, she may give us her contacts.” Kubu hesitated, “Do
I have your okay to go ahead?”

Mabaku answered slowly. “Yes. I think it might work. I’ll speak
to the Director of Public Prosecutions, but I’m sure he’ll agree.
If you’re sure she isn’t a big fish, make her an offer.”

“Thank you, Director,” Kubu said. “Tatwa’s doing a great job at
Kasane. I think we’ll be able to lay both drug and murder charges
tomorrow. It shouldn’t take long to add the kidnapping charges as
well. All in all, very satisfactory.”

After a few more comments, Kubu hung up and set out for his
brother-in-law’s house where, he hoped, good food and wine were
awaiting.

♦

Indeed, Joy and Pleasant had cooked, much to both Sampson’s and
Kubu’s delight. Kubu had brought a couple of bottles of acceptable
wine – not too expensive because it would have been wasted on
Sampson – but good enough to enjoy. It was a convivial evening, but
for Kubu it had been a long day, and he and Joy went to bed early,
leaving Sampson and Pleasant to argue politics. Also, Joy was keen
to hear more about Kubu’s visit to Zimbabwe.

Kubu described to her the strange state of the country, and how
he had found Paulus Mbedi. He told her Mbedi’s story, and put it in
the context of Endima Shlongwane’s letter. She listened intently,
and then asked Kubu the question he had asked himself. “Who killed
him then? I mean the first time. Who shot him? If it was the
Rhode-sians, where were the other bodies when he was found by the
road? And why would anyone else shoot him in the back?”

Kubu shrugged. “Maybe he managed to drag himself away from the
scene of the attack. Or maybe there were other bodies in the
bushes, but Msimang didn’t see them in the dark.”

Digging in his overnight bag for sleeping shorts, Kubu found the
jar Paulus had given to him. “These are the bullets they dug out of
him.” He passed it to Joy. She looked at the horridly distorted
metal lumps. “Can’t you tell what gun they came from? Solve it that
way?”

Kubu shook his head. “If I had a gun that I thought was used to
shoot those, we could do a ballistics test. But this all happened
thirty years ago.”

“But what about the type of gun?” Joy persisted. Kubu thought
about it. “Well, we could do that. The type of gun used would
indicate one group or another. Not evidence, of course, but better
than nothing. It’s a good idea, my darling.”

Joy preened, then went to the bathroom to shower and get ready
for bed. Kubu had finished unpacking, so he scanned the two files
Superintendent Pede had given him. As he expected, there was little
new information. George Tinubu had been arrested for refusing to
follow instructions from a police officer, inciting a disturbance,
and resisting arrest. He had never been tried for anything and had
been released eventually. Eighteen months later he was supposedly
killed in a skirmish with the security forces. There was no doubt
about the fingerprints’ match, and there was a copy of the identity
card taken from the wallet. The Rhodesian soldier who reported the
matter claimed that the wallet was taken from the dead body of a
terrorist shot after the farm raid. There was a description of the
raid on the McGlashan farm too. Kubu skimmed it and frowned. Could
Goodluck really have been involved in something as brutal as that?
Whatever the cause?

He turned to the Zondo file. It was a summary. Zondo had
certainly been heavily involved right through the war, but nothing
in the file directly linked him to Goodluck. Had they trained
together? Been in the same commando unit? Their friendship at the
teachers college suggested it was likely.

At this point Joy returned from the bathroom in her dressing
gown. As soon as the door was closed, she let the gown drop to the
floor. A burgundy-colored satin bra just held her full breasts;
matching panties set off her silky-smooth chocolate thighs.
Burgundy and dark chocolate. Kubu lost interest in the reports
immediately.

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

“G
ood morning, Ms.
Levine,” Kubu said as he and Constable Mor-ake entered the
interviewing room the next day. “I trust you had a very
uncomfortable night.”

“It’s disgusting! Smells like piss!”

“Welcome to prison, my dear. If you think this is bad, wait
until you’re in a high-security facility.” Kubu looked around.
“Where’s your attorney?”

“I’ve been trying to find one here in Francistown, but haven’t
got hold of one yet.”

“Well, you have the right to remain silent unless you have a
lawyer present. But the longer it takes, the longer you will enjoy
the hospitality of our prison system.” Kubu stared at Allison. “I
have to go back to Gaborone tomorrow, so the earliest I’ll be able
to get back here is next Wednesday,” he improvised.

“But that’s four days away!”

“And four nights,” Kubu said quietly. He turned to leave.

“Wait,” Allison said. “I don’t need a lawyer, because there’s
nothing more to tell.”

Kubu looked at her, noticing her sunken eyes. She may need
something to pick her up, he thought. The longer I drag this out,
the more desperate she’s going to be.

“In which case,” he said, “I am formally arresting you for
possession and trafficking of drugs. In addition, I am going to
charge you with being an accessory to the murder of Boy Gomwe. We
have evidence now that you lured Gomwe to his death. He didn’t jog
into the bush and get killed by a rogue elephant. You led him to
some of your colleagues, who drove a truck over him to make it look
as though he’d been killed by an elephant.” Kubu looked at the
shocked woman. “We may up that charge to murder at a later stage.”
Kubu turned to Constable Morake. “Constable, please take Ms. Levine
back to the cells.”

“Wait! Wait! Maybe I do know something. Can we make a deal?”

“What sort of deal, Ms. Levine? You’ve got nothing to offer. You
just told me so.”

“If I tell you what I know, will you help me?”

“If you admit to the drug charges and give me the names of
people involved in this drug ring, I’ll do what I can to help you
on the murder charges.”

Kubu sat down, reached over to the tape recorder, and switched
it on.

“It is eight fifteen on the morning of Saturday, the nineteenth
of April. I’m Assistant Superintendent David Bengu. With me is
Constable Morake. We are interviewing Allison Levine, a South
African citizen.”

“Ms. Levine, do you agree to be interviewed without the presence
of a lawyer representing you?”

“Yes,” she answered quietly.

“Ms. Levine, do you admit to knowingly transporting about twenty
pounds of heroin from Elephant Valley Lodge near Kasane to an
unknown destination, most likely South Africa?”

There was a long pause. She’s wondering whether she’s doing the
right thing, Kubu thought. He waited patiently, letting the silence
work on her mind. Eventually she said, “Yes.”

“We know you’ve been in and out of Botswana eight times in the
last thirteen months, each time to Elephant Valley Lodge. Did you
transport drugs each time?” Another pause.

“Yes.”

Kubu could barely hear the response. “Louder please, for the
recorder.”

“Yes,” she said more firmly.

“Do you bring money from South Africa to pay for the drugs?”

“Yes.” Allison’s head drooped as she realized there was no way
back now.

“How much money?” Silence. “How much money, Ms. Levine?” Kubu
asked sharply.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Kubu was incredulous. “You don’t know?”

“I never open the briefcase,” Allison mumbled. “I can’t. It’s
always locked. I just hand it over and take the packet.”

“Twenty pounds of heroin can be worth millions on the street.
That means the briefcase must have had at least several million
pula. Actually it probably had dollars – American dollars. Could
have been several hundred thousand dollars or more. And you tell me
you didn’t know how much?”

“I told you, the briefcase is locked. The pick–up has a key. Not
me. They don’t trust anybody.”

“Who is the pick–up at Elephant Valley Lodge?”

Allison stared at Kubu, gathering her thoughts. “I give the
briefcase to the ranger, Douglas. He comes to my room, takes the
money, and gives me the heroin in return. He always has a small
backpack with him. No one suspects anything.”

Kubu stood up and paced. “And then what happens? Where does the
money go?”

“The ranger gives it to someone, who takes it across the border
into Zimbabwe.”

“Who is this someone?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never heard a name or seen anyone. It’s easy
for the ranger. He’s expected to be out in the bush.”

“And on the other side? In South Africa?”

“When I get back to Johannesburg, I call a number. A few minutes
later, I get a text message with an address. When I get there, I
get another text message with another address. I’m sure they’re
watching me to see I’m not being followed.”

“What’s that phone number?”

“They’ll kill me if they find out I gave it to you.”

“They won’t find out. What’s the number?”

“It’s on my cell phone under the name ‘Baby’.”

“Then what happens?”

“The last drop-off is always at a busy shopping mall, like
Sand-ton or Fourways. I leave the car and go into the mall. I
return to the car after an hour and drive home. I suppose they take
the car while I’m in the mall and remove the drugs.”

“And how do you get paid for all these risks?”

“A few days later I find an envelope with cash in it pushed
through the slot in the front door of my apartment. It’s a lot of
money.”

“How much money?”

“About thirty thousand rand.”

“And where do you live?”

“There are some new apartments on Kent Avenue in Randburg, just
north of Johannesburg.”

“Please write down the full address, as well as your landline
phone number and your cell number. Sign it at the bottom.”