The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu (49 page)

“How is the karate going?” he asked, once more on bedrock.

“Oh, I’m not sure I want to go on with it. I’ve got so much on
my mind, so much to do. I’ll think about it. You’re here to look
after me now.” Kubu felt the rock turning to sand. She loved her
karate.

“As a matter of fact, I need a checkup too,” he said. “That
strain in my shoulder has been worrying me a bit again. I’ll make
an appointment with Dr. Diklekeng, and we can go together.”
Catching Joy’s developing scowl, he used her technique of changing
subjects and scrambled back to solid ground.

“Tell me about the curry you made. Is it a new recipe or an old
favorite? I want to hear the details.” Joy laughed in spite of
herself and started talking about meats and spices. Ilia barked as
though this discussion was much more interesting.

♦

Early the next morning Kubu headed to the office. He expected to
have an exciting day, but he was disappointed. Up to now, he had
been active, exploring aspects of the case in Gaborone, Bulawayo,
and Jackalberry. Here he found himself at the eye of the storm, in
the center with everything happening around him, but just out of
reach. It was Tatwa who was trying to get Dupie and Salome to break
and tell the true story of that fateful Sunday night. So far
without success. It was the Namibian police and the Botswana
Defense Force that were scouring the border area for Enoch, who had
so far eluded them. Now that Mabaku was trying to keep one step
ahead of his wife and doctors, it was Edison who paid daily,
unprofitable visits to Beardy. Even Joy wished to go her own way,
finally agreeing to visit Dr. Diklekeng but on her own.

What was Kubu supposed to do? He picked up the jar containing
the bullets Paulus Mbedi had given him and headed to Ballistics. By
making a nuisance of himself, he persuaded them to take a look
immediately, and they became intrigued by the story. After
analysis, they confirmed what Kubu had already guessed. He thanked
them and went back to his office.

AK47 bullets. Used by the Russian-armed fighters in Africa.
Goodluck had been shot in the back by one of his comrades. Perhaps
one who had a score to settle after the raid on the farm.

But he was no further with the case. Those comrades had died in
a fire fight with the Selous Scouts, including Dupie and Enoch.
They couldn’t be involved in a chain of murders in Botswana, thirty
years on. Something else had driven Goodluck to Jackalberry. But
what? Kubu thumped his fist on the desk and watched the effect on
his pencils with satisfaction.

At last he could stand his own company no longer and phoned Ian
MacGregor.

“Ian, it’s Kubu. I’m back.”

“Kubu! And successful, I hear. Money found, villains arrested.
Time for a celebration.”

“At eleven in the morning?”

“I meant after work.”

Kubu was tempted. “Ian, I can’t. Joy’s seeing Dr. Diklekeng.
She’s still not right. And I don’t want to leave her alone. We
haven’t caught the kidnappers, and they’re the ones I’m really
worried about. In the meanwhile I’m sitting here counting my
buttonholes.” He tried to keep any hint of self-pity out of his
voice, but was not entirely successful.

“Ah, Kubu, always the man of action,” said Ian with a hint of
uncharitable irony. “Did you find the drugs they were
smuggling?”

Kubu shook his head, forgetting Ian couldn’t see it. “No.
Actually I don’t believe there are any drugs. It doesn’t fit
Goodluck’s personality.” Kubu described his visit to Zimbabwe and
what he’d learned there and at Ballistics a short while before.

“It’s a sad story,” said Ian. “Hang on, let me get my pipe.”
Obviously he was not in a hurry and intended to concentrate on the
issue. Kubu was glad of that. A minute later Ian was back.

“Right. I’m settled. Now where were we? Ah, the drugs. You say
he was a good guy. Is it possible he was selling drugs to help
Zimbabweans?”

“It doesn’t add up. He was involved with a small support
operation for Zimbabwean refugees in Gaborone, but he gave his
time, not money. At least not a significant amount. They confirmed
that to Edison early on.”

Ian digested this, but did not want to abandon his theory so
easily. “Maybe it was money collected for people in Zimbabwe, and
he was just a courier. Could that be it?”

“Too much money. It was more than half a million U.S.
dollars.”

Ian took his pipe out of his mouth and whistled. “That’s a lot
of money! Enough to start a small war. Pity you don’t get a
percentage.”

“I wouldn’t want any of that money. The notes should be printed
in blood red, not green.”

“And you found nothing else? Just the money?”

Kubu confirmed that.

“Could it have been a payment then? For services rendered, or to
be rendered in the future?”

This was a new twist. Kubu had always visualized an exchange.
Zondo and Goodluck swap money and…something. But suppose there was
no swap? Suppose the money was simply to be delivered to Zondo.
Perhaps, then, Goodluck’s involvement made sense. He was just the
courier. Of enough money to start a small war. Kubu bunched his
fists as his subconscious kaleidoscoped ideas.

“Ian, you’ve been very helpful as always. I have an idea. Let me
check up on it and see if it makes any sense before I waste any
more of your time.”

Ian sighed. He was used to this. Occasionally Kubu needed
someone to help with his lateral thinking, but once a sideways
thought came along, he would be off on his own again. Telling Kubu
he was welcome, and that they must get together soon, he hung
up.

Kubu scrabbled through his file until he found the report from
Forensics in Kasane. He scanned it until he came to the list of
Goodluck’s personal effects found in his tent and in his tote. He
was looking for some hint of what Goodluck had been doing,
something that Dupie and Enoch would have ignored when they went
after the money. Something that would lead him to Madrid and the
thugs who had dared to threaten his family. He wanted them very
badly indeed.

There was nothing. Inexpensive clothes of the type found in any
clothing chain. Two pairs of sneakers. A hand-knitted jersey –
something made by his mother, a girlfriend, grandmother? He had
been wearing it the night he was killed; threads from it had been
caught on thorns at the lookout. Sun hat, glasses (reading and
sun), but no binoculars, camera, or anything for the wildlife
enthusiast, such as an animal or bird book. A copy of the
Botswana Gazette
. Some note paper but no notes. A copy of
Mandela’s autobiography
Long Walk to Freedom
, with a
bookmark on page 120. A digital watch (with no alarms set).
Forensics had been meticulous, Kubu thought with approval. A
Maglite flashlight. A road map of Botswana. A packet of liquorice
all-sorts, which ants had discovered. Goodluck liked candy, so
what? The holdall was a cheap plastic carrier, no special marks or
compartments. Goodluck’s briefcase, which had caused all the grief
for Joy and Pleasant, was with Forensics in Gaborone.

It looked like a meaningless collection of items that anyone
might take on holiday. But he wasn’t on holiday, thought Kubu.
Hence no nature stuff. What about the map? Why didn’t he leave that
in the car? Perhaps he thought he might need his bearings if
something went wrong. What about the newspaper? He probably bought
it in Mochudi before he left for Kasane.

But he couldn’t let it drop. He phoned Tatwa.

“Oh, hello Kubu, still no joy from Dupie or Salome. They just
stick to their stories. Dupie insists it must’ve been Enoch who hid
the money in the tire of the spare wheel. Salome is adamant that
she knows nothing about the money or the murders. I haven’t been
able to trip either of them up. You know, even with the money, we
need Enoch to get them convicted.” He sounded discouraged.

“Cheer up. They’ll get Enoch,” Kubu told him confidently. “I
phoned about something else, actually. Goodluck’s stuff. Was it all
fingerprinted, checked for notes, that sort of thing?”

Tatwa dug out his file. “Yes. Nothing unexpected about any of
it.”

“Even the map and the newspaper?”

Tatwa scanned the report. “So it says. The map was the standard
Veronica Roodt one and had fingerprints from Goodluck and Langa.
What you’d expect since they drove together. The newspaper was the
Gazette
. Anyway, it was an old paper; they thought Goodluck
probably used it for padding.”

Suddenly Kubu was interested. “What do you mean old?”

“Well, it just says it was old.”

“What did he have that was breakable?” There was something here.
There had to be.

Tatwa looked through the list of effects again and admitted that
nothing seemed to need padding.

“Tatwa, can you lay your hands on that newspaper? While I hang
on? I’ve got a feeling it might be important.”

Tatwa pointed out that it was nearly lunchtime, which he thought
would close the discussion, but Kubu said he would wait. Tatwa
promised to phone back as soon as he located Goodluck’s
newspaper.

It took fifteen minutes. “It’s a copy of the
Gazette
,
Kubu. Dated the week before Goodluck’s Jackalberry visit. It’s not
scrunched up or anything, but it’s a bit creased. Maybe he had it
in the hold-all.”

“So he packed it. What’s in it?” asked Kubu. He wished he had
the newspaper in his hands to tell him its story directly.

“In it? Speech from the president, announcement of the plan for
the African Union meeting, schedule of all the leaders’ visits and
so on, something about the police getting an Air Wing. That’s the
front page.”

For a full minute there was no response, and Tatwa checked that
Kubu was still on the line. When the response finally came, Kubu’s
voice was tense, although the words were bland enough. “Read what
it says about the Zimbabwe visit,” he said. Puzzled, Tatwa did
so.

“The Zimbabwe delegation will include the president
himself and several senior members of his government. Clearly the
high-level delegation is intended to emphasize the legitimacy of
the government after the recent contested elections and broad
criticism by the government of Botswana. The delegation will stay a
week in Gaborone. Meetings with the Botswana government are also
planned.”

Then there’s a list of the delegates attending and some comments
by the president. Do you want me to read that too?”

“No, that’s okay,” said Kubu. “It’s like the road map. He had it
with him just in case they needed those details. Thanks,
Tatwa.”

“Needed for what? What do you mean, Kubu?” But to Tatwa’s
annoyance, the only response was the dial tone.

♦

Kubu looked for Edison and found him at the tea urn. “We’re
going to interview your Mr. Beardy,” he said, by way of
greeting.

“Now, wait a minute,” said Edison. “Firstly, he’s not my Mr.
Beardy. But more importantly, you know the director’s rule. You
don’t go near Beardy. Too much personal involvement. You can’t
come.”

“Edison, this could be really very important. I promise I’ll
just ask a couple of questions, make a few suggestions. Never raise
my voice. Not once.”

This did not encourage Edison much. He was still getting black
looks from Mabaku over the blown trap for the kidnappers. “We have
to get Mabaku’s approval first,” he said firmly.

“Edison, the director’s otherwise occupied. He’ll agree once he
has the facts. But we do have to get some lunch first. I’ll buy you
lunch at the Delta Café on the way.” He was already striding off to
his meal, and Edison knew it was hopeless to argue. He sighed, and
then hurried to catch up. He liked the Delta Café.

♦

“Who’s the fat guy?” Beardy asked Edison, rudely pointing at
Kubu.

“I’m the man whose sister-in-law you kidnapped and whose wife
you tried to abduct and, no doubt, rape.” Kubu said it calmly, as
he had promised, but it clearly affected Beardy. He shrank back
into his seat.

To Edison’s relief, Kubu continued, “Don’t worry. I know you
were just doing a job. I’m here to tell you it’s all over. The
Zimbabwe secret police have got Madrid and all the other ring
leaders. They’ll be having a very uncomfortable time from now on, I
expect. But not for all that long, I imagine. You’re very lucky to
be in custody here. There, you’d probably be sleeping on a concrete
floor. No toenails left, either. And I doubt you’d have much
interest in prostitutes again.”

Beardy and Edison both had faces awash with surprise. Edison had
no idea what Kubu was talking about and was scared the situation
might get out of hand. But Beardy was shocked. He opened his mouth,
started to say something, and then shook his head. “I’ve nothing to
say. I want to be treated as a prisoner of war, not as a common
criminal.”

“Oh, nothing common about you. Kidnapping, attacking a
policewoman, accessory to the assassination of the leader of a
neighboring state. Not common at all. I think we’re going to find
lots of other charges for you, too.” Suddenly Beardy’s demeanor
changed. Kubu had overplayed his hand. Beardy clammed up. After
that he said nothing except that he wanted his lawyer. Even a
threat to extradite him to Zimbabwe produced no reaction.

But Kubu felt he had enough. “Come on, Edison. We know what’s
going on now. Let’s get it to the director.” Edison, who had
absolutely no idea what was going on, agreed readily, and they
left.

♦

Mabaku listened carefully, interrupting only when he needed
clarification or an extra detail. When Kubu had finished, he turned
to Edison. “I thought I had made myself quite clear about the
professional conflict of Kubu being involved with interviewing
Beardy?”

Edison looked from side to side, wondering how a promising lunch
had led him into so much trouble. Kubu came to his rescue. “I
insisted, Director. You were involved with the meeting about
security for the African Union meeting, and I felt there wasn’t a
moment to lose. I gave Edison no choice.” Edison nodded,
relieved.