The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu (4 page)

Twenty minutes later they came to the channel. Several
mokoros
lay on the bank. For a horrible moment, Kubu feared
he’d have to fit his bulk into one of them. If it tipped, the
crocodiles would have a field day! But a little farther upstream
bobbed a rowing boat with an outboard motor. He breathed a sigh of
relief.

A short way downstream clustered a small group of rudimentary
dwellings, a fishing village typical of the area. An older Land
Rover and a newish-model Nissan Pathfinder 4x4 with a Venter
trailer were parked under a shady mangosteen tree. Another trailer
stood by itself under a nearby wild fig tree. These certainly
weren’t vehicles the villagers would own. Kubu supposed they
belonged to the camp. To the right was a shed, not big enough to
garage a vehicle, but perhaps used for storage.

Enoch took the luggage to the boat, which he had pulled up to a
rough jetty made from three tree trunks lashed together. He held
the boat while Kubu boarded and settled himself, but it was early
in the flood season, and the boat grounded with the weight. As hard
as he tried, Enoch couldn’t shift it, so Kubu had to clamber out,
take off his shoes and socks, roll up his khaki pants, and repeat
the process with the boat farther off the sand.

“Sit right at the front,” Enoch said. “That may get the prop out
of the sand.”

Kubu moved cautiously to the front, causing it to dip
precariously close to the water. Again Enoch tried to push the boat
into the river, to no avail. He sighed, took off his shoes and
socks, and waded into the water. After several moments of Enoch’s
lifting and pushing, the boat slid off the sand. Enoch climbed in,
maintaining balance, and started the motor. A few minutes later,
Kubu made his way back to the middle of the boat, and soon they
were noisily heading across the channel, scattering cormorants and
darter birds.

The camp boasted a better jetty, and Kubu climbed onto dry land
with relative aplomb. He was met by a hefty white man and a white
woman, tanned despite her fair coloring. Kubu noted that the man’s
belly rivaled his own. On the other hand, I have the better overall
cover, he thought smugly.

The woman held out her hand. “Inspector Bengu? I’m Salome
McGlashan. I have the concession for this camp. This is my
associate, Morne du Pisanie. I hope you can clear this up quickly.
Everyone is very upset, and we’ve other guests waiting to come to
the camp. It’s all very disturbing.” Kubu shook her hand and
commented that murder often had that effect. Then his large hand
disappeared into Du Pisanie’s.

“Call me Dupie.” Checking his watch, he continued, “We can talk
after lunch.” Kubu liked Dupie’s down-to-earth approach.

♦

Dupie tactfully seated Kubu and Tatwa at the edge of the dining
area where they could talk in private if they spoke softly. Still,
they felt like the floor show with all the other diners watching
them for any hint of developments. Speaking Setswana, they greeted
each other warmly and spent a few minutes reminiscing about Tatwa’s
spell in Gaborone. Kubu said that he thought Tatwa had grown even
taller. Tatwa denied this, but claimed that Kubu had increased his
girth. Kubu laughed.

Kubu asked for a steelworks, but was disappointed to have to
explain how to make his favorite drink. It came with ginger ale
instead of ginger beer, too much bitters, and too little ice. So he
was not optimistic about the food, but was pleasantly surprised.
The cook produced a dish of lightly deviled eggs garnished with
anchovies and capers. Kubu ordered a second helping. He promised
himself that he would cut back on the main course of cold meats to
compensate. There was always dessert if he was still hungry.

The conversation turned to the case. “What do you make of this,
Tatwa? Tell me what you’ve found.”

“Well, now that an assistant superintendent is running the show,
we should have it all sorted out in no time.” Tatwa sounded
slightly peeved. Kubu leaned forward and gave him a friendly shove
that nearly knocked him out of his chair. “Team effort, Tatwa. No
one’s trying to steal your thunder. First big case. We’ll make it
your first big success.”

“Of course, Kubu. Sorry. Du Pisanie thinks it’s cut and dried.
Tinubu was here for a few days. Zondo was a hit man from Zimbabwe.
Came in with a fake passport, bumped Tinubu off neatly, and then
disappeared. Zondo’s our culprit. End of story.”

“Motive?”

Tatwa shrugged. “Perhaps some grudge from the past. Tinubu was
from Zimbabwe too.”

“And Langa? Why kill him?”

“Perhaps he came across Zondo after the murder.”

“But you don’t believe it,” Kubu observed shrewdly.

Tatwa shook his head. “For one thing Langa was found at the
opposite end of the camp from Tinubu. According to Salome
McGlashan, Zondo made his reservation
before
Tinubu. And
Langa didn’t have a reservation at all. He just pitched up. And
then when I spoke to Enoch, he said…” But Kubu held up his hand.
“Let’s interview them all again from scratch. Then you can watch
for any discrepancies. In the meanwhile don’t tell me what they
said so I won’t be biased.” Kubu was eyeing the cold meat
platter.

“Won’t going over it all again upset them?”

“Exactly! Would you pass that meat? I think there’s some cold
tongue. Are you sure you won’t have some?” Tatwa shook his head
firmly. The eggs were fine but he ate little meat, and certainly
not something that had once been in a cow’s mouth. Assured that he
was not depriving his colleague, Kubu took all the tongue and asked
the waiter for mustard. Tatwa could see that the case was on hold
until Kubu had satisfied the inner man.

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

G
iving thanks for gas
fridges, Kubu had a double helping of ice cream, flavored with the
fruit of a local tree. He was intrigued by the combination of the
marula with frozen goat-milk cream and found it rather good. Even
the unadventurous Tatwa liked it. But their enjoyment was
interrupted by a tinny version of the Grand March from
Aïda
emanating from Kubu’s trouser pocket. With obvious reluctance, Kubu
hoisted himself out of his chair.

“What’s going on, Kubu? What’ve you discovered so far?” The
director’s lunch did not seem to be sitting well.

“I’ve only been here about an hour, Director. I’ve been catching
up with Tatwa.”

“Over lunch, I expect! Kubu, I told you this is urgent. Not at
all the moment to be sampling bush cuisine. Phone me back as soon
as you have something. I’ll be here late. I’ll be waiting. You
should also phone MacGregor. He told me he’d have a preliminary
report on the autopsies this afternoon.” Then he hung up.

Kubu noted with approval that Tatwa had ordered coffee. But the
mood was spoiled. Kubu sighed. “What have we done about finding
Zondo?”

“Well, the Zimbabwe police confirmed that all the details he
gave here were false, including his name and passport.”

“The director told me,” Kubu said.

“But we have a good description,” Tatwa continued, “and, even
better, some photographs taken by one of the guests – I’ve got them
here. Had them printed in Kasane last night.” He brandished an
envelope. “We’ve circulated Zondo’s photo to all the police
stations, border posts, and the surrounding countries, as well as
what we think are his fingerprints. Then, we’ve tried to track the
plane he left in.”

“And?”

“We’ve drawn a blank on all counts. No one has seen him. He
hasn’t crossed the border – at least not using the name Zondo – and
there’s no recorded flight plan with a stopover here. Probably the
pilot flew under the radar and went wherever he wanted to go.”

“Let’s take a look at the pictures.”

Tatwa spread them on the table. Kubu glanced at a close-up of
the two Munro sisters, looking at each other, laughing, glasses of
wine in hand. Then he looked at the ones of the black guests. The
first was a striking picture of a handsome middle-aged man with his
arms folded against the world. Broad cheeks, closely shaven,
pensive. The man seemed to be looking beyond the camp fire into the
darkness.

“That’s Goodluck Tinubu,” said Tatwa quietly.

Kubu put it down, sorry he would never meet this man. He picked
up the next print. The man’s face seemed a bit blurred; perhaps he
had moved as the picture was taken. He was older, harder looking.
Kubu could imagine him as a soldier. The man was clutching a
tumbler in his right hand as though he might have to fight to keep
it. He wore glasses that had reflected the flash, rather spoiling
the picture. And he was wearing a felt hat with a spray of
feathers. Unusual and incongruous.

“That’s our prime suspect, Ishmael Zondo,” said Tatwa. “However,
that isn’t his real name, according to the Zimbabwe police. Looks
tough. Except for the hat with the guineafowl feathers. Odd.”

The next picture was of Boy Gomwe. A falsely happy face, thought
Kubu. He glanced across the dining area. Gomwe was chatting to the
Munros, animated, using his hands in the conversation. Good with
people, but Kubu found something he disliked about the man. The
last picture was of a man concentrating on something not in the
picture. He was also holding a tumbler. This must be the second
victim, Sipho Langa, Kubu thought. He pushed the pictures back
toward Tatwa.

“Okay. Fill me in on Jackalberry Island.”

“Well, in the first place it isn’t really an island. It’s a
peninsula jutting into the river, but it’s marshy and has small
waterways between here and the solid land.”

“Is it possible that someone came across from the mainland that
way? Without using a boat?”

“No, impossible in the dark. It would be a miserable trip, and
you’d be wading among crocs and hippos. It’s about a fifteen-minute
trip by
mokoro
. That would be the way to do it. Silent and
low on the water. But even that would be dangerous at night because
of the hippos.”

“And the layout of the camp?”

“We’re about in the middle of it. The kitchen and staff quarters
are behind us. There are three tents behind those two trees.” He
pointed to two massive wild figs whose trunks broke into fingers
probing the water. Suckers hung from the branches, and clusters of
fruit were providing a banquet for a troop of vervet monkeys.

“The two larger ones are where Du Pisanie and McGlashan live;
the small one is for their visitors. Since the camp was full when
Sipho Langa came, they put him up there. The odd thing is that
Tinubu and Langa arrived together.” Tatwa paused, obviously feeling
this was significant. “Dupie told me that Tinubu’s car had broken
down on the road to Kasane. Langa apparently stopped to help and
waited until Tinubu’s car had been towed to a garage. Langa was
looking for a place to stay, so he decided to join Tinubu here.
They drove together to Ngoma, where they were met by Enoch. It
takes over three hours from Ngoma to get here. The roads are
terrible.”

“They met by chance on a road in the middle of nowhere, and now
they are both dead? Hard to believe! What’s happened to Langa’s
car?”

“We drove it to Kasane,” Tatwa replied. “Forensics will be going
over it today.”

“Good. And Tinubu’s?”

“We’re trying to get its registration. Should have that today,
too. Then we’ll search for it in Kasane.”

Satisfied about the vehicles, Kubu changed his focus. “Where are
the guest tents?”

“There are three on the east side of this area and two on the
west. They’re far enough apart to be private and have their own
view of a quiet waterway. Nice, if you like water full of
crocodiles. On the east side, Tinubu had the farthest tent. Two
sisters, Trish and Judith Munro from England, were next to him,
then Amanda and William Boardman from Cape Town. On the west side,
Boy Gomwe is closest to us, and Zondo was at the end. I’m in
Zondo’s tent. You can use Langa’s tent. Tinubu’s is still closed
off.”

“Have the forensics people been through everything in Zondo’s
tent and Langa’s?”

Tatwa nodded.

“I’ll use Langa’s tent then. How do guests access the
tents?”

“There’s a path that runs at the back of this communal area, and
each tent is approached from behind.”

“So it would be possible to get to a tent without being seen by
the occupant, or indeed by the occupants of any of the tents?”

Tatwa nodded again.

Kubu pushed away his cup and rose. “Let’s meet the inhabitants.
I have to have something to tell Mabaku before close of business
tonight.”

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

K
ubu decided to get
the lie of the land first. He asked Salome and Dupie to show him
around, and Tatwa accompanied them.

“Well, this is the reception tent,” Dupie started, unsure of
what the detective wanted. “We keep all our business records here –
in those files at the back. When guests arrive we bring them here
to fill out the registration forms, and we take an impression of
their credit cards. We do all of that manually because we don’t
have phone lines.” He stopped and looked inquiringly at Kubu.

“Do you close the tent at night?” Kubu asked.

“Well, we zip it up to keep the dust out, but it’s not
secure.”

“Have you noticed anything missing since the murder? Any credit
card receipts? Registration forms?”

Both Dupie and Salome shook their heads. “We checked,” Salome
said. “As far as we can see, everything is here. Dupie gave
everyone’s registrations to Detective Mooka. We’ve got the slips
they signed at the bar. Dupie doesn’t think any are missing. I
don’t know…”

“Anything signed by Zondo?”

Salome shook her head. “He paid cash in U.S. dollars. We don’t
take Zimbabwe dollars.”