The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu (5 page)

“Okay,” Kubu said. “Let’s move on.” The group walked the few
meters to the tent left of reception.

“This is my office,” Dupie said. Kubu and Tatwa nodded.

“We’ll come back to it. I’ll use it for my interviews, if you
don’t mind,” Kubu remarked, not caring if Dupie minded or not.

Next was the entertainment area comprising the bar and lounge,
opening onto an outdoor area where meals were served. The bar area
held a bookcase with light reading, reference books on birds and
trees, and various games. The walls displayed a variety of bush-man
artifacts: a full hunting set with a well-worn leather bag, a
spear, a bow, arrows and poison containers, a variety of necklaces
made from ostrich-egg shell yellowing with age, bangles of seed
pods, and several carefully hollowed out gourds for carrying water
in the desert. An impressive collection, Kubu thought. It must be
nearly impossible to find sets these days that were actually used
for hunting. He glanced at the gas and storm lanterns.

“No electricity?”

“No,” Dupie replied. “We’ve got a diesel generator to recharge
the batteries for the radio and cell phones whenever necessary, but
it’s noisy and expensive to run. We use gas for cooking and mainly
storm lanterns for lighting. We think it gives the camp a more
authentic feel. More like the way Africa used to be.”

Kubu grunted. “How do you get to the sleeping tents from
here?”

“Follow me,” Dupie replied.

The group headed to the line of tents to the right. As they
walked the hundred yards or so, Kubu asked Salome, “How did you get
to be the owner of Jackalberry Camp, Ms. McGlashan?”

“I’m not really the owner,” Salome replied. “I inherited the
remainder of a twenty-year concession. There is only about a year
left. I worked for the previous owner – Andre Cloete was his name –
and he left it to me. I was completely surprised. I thought he
would leave it to someone in his family. Perhaps they didn’t want
it.”

“I didn’t think concessions could be inherited,” Kubu
commented.

“The concession is in the name of a company,” Salome said.
“Andre left me the company. Also it’s not a government lease, but a
sub-lease from the hunters who own the concessions in this
area.”

“And before that?” Kubu inquired. “Were you born in
Botswana?”

“I was born in what was called Southern Rhodesia. Now Zimbabwe.
On a farm near Bulawayo. I loved it there, but when the war came it
was bad. Horrible, actually. Anyway, after the war I didn’t want to
live there anymore and went to South Africa. I worked at hotels in
Johannesburg for a number of years. But I hated the noise and the
traffic and the crowding. When I met Andre and he offered me a job
here, I couldn’t wait. I’ve been here ever since.”

“When was that?”

“March ‘94.”

Kubu wondered whether it was coincidence that this was just
before South Africa was to have its first black majority
government.

“Have you ever been married?”

“No. What’s that got to do with anything?” she asked
sharply.

Dupie interrupted, “This is the tent that Tinubu stayed in. And
was murdered in.”

The tent had a police tape tied around the lower section, making
it look weirdly gift-wrapped. Kubu pushed the tape aside, unzipped
the flap, and went in. There was still a bad smell and a few flies,
although Forensics had cleaned the place up. This is a typical
tourist bush setup, Kubu thought. Comfortable, but nothing fancy.
He looked around at the unpretentious interior, noting its layout
and walked out, closing the fly screen and flaps. He didn’t bother
with the tape. He doubted if anyone would want to go inside that
tent at the moment.

He looked back the way they had come. A sandy path ran from the
tent back toward the others. He retraced his steps, checking if
someone could be seen. By the time he reached the second tent, he
was sure that someone could walk unnoticed along this path from one
end of the line of the tents to the other. Especially at night.

“This is where the Munro sisters are staying. They’re writers
from England, here by themselves.” Dupie once again provided the
information. “The next tent is the Boardmans’. They’re from Cape
Town. They’re curio dealers. African art, they call it. And crazy
about birds. And the two tents on the other side of the communal
area are the same as these. The first is Boy Gomwe’s. The other is
where Zondo stayed.”

Kubu pointed to a path that forked off the one they were on.

“Where does that path go?”

“To a lookout over the lagoon.”

“Let’s take a look,” Kubu said, striding off. After a few steps
he slowed to Dupie’s pace. “Where are you from, Mr. Du Pisanie?
What’s your role here at Jackalberry Camp?”

“I’ve already told Detective Mooka all that stuff,” Dupie said
impatiently.

“I know, Mr. Du Pisanie,” Kubu said quietly. “But I need to get
the full story for myself. I realize this whole affair is an
imposition, but I ask you to be patient.”

But actually Dupie seemed happy to talk about himself. “I’ve
known Salome for years,” he said. “We grew up on neighboring farms
near Bulawayo in Southern Rhodesia. After independence, she went to
South Africa. I stayed on for a few years, but didn’t like the way
things were going. So I left and came to Botswana. I know the bush
well, and I’m an experienced hunter, so I hooked up with an
outfitter in Maun. They hired me to lead trips, mainly into the
Central Kalahari. Most of our clients were Germans or Americans
wanting to bag some big game. They thought they were in the wilds
of Africa, but it was pretty tame, really. We set it up so they
couldn’t miss. Made them feel good, and they paid a lot of money
for the privilege. They tipped well, too. Good thing, because the
outfitter certainly didn’t pay well.” He paused for a moment, then
continued.

“Salome and I had kept in touch after she left Rhodesia. When
she inherited this place, she contacted me and asked if I wanted to
help run it. I was sick and tired of what I was doing, and came
here about twelve years ago. We’ve made ends meet, but only
just.”

“And what do you do here?”

“Well, I don’t have a specific role.” Dupie shrugged. “Lots of
paper work, and I fix the mechanical stuff. And I try to keep the
guests happy. Man the bar in the evenings and tell stories about
Botswana and big game hunting, and how the area used to be before
all the tourists. I know a lot about the history of the area and
generally keep people amused. The longer they stay at the bar, the
more booze we sell, and that’s where we make a bit of money. We’ve
really struggled since the fancy camps have appeared. Camps only in
name. Actually they’re five-star hotels. We don’t want to be like
that, just a comfortable and affordable place for people to enjoy
Botswana. Trouble is, most of the overseas tourists expect the
high-end stuff, which we don’t have. And we don’t have enough
accommodation to attract large groups – our concession only allows
ten guests at a time. We stretch that occasionally by using the
tent set aside for our personal friends. Nobody knows about that,
and nobody really cares.”

At the top of the rise, Kubu stopped to catch his breath. Under
a tree stood a picnic table and benches. He looked around. The view
was spectacular. Water and islands stretched to the hazy horizon.
Wild date palms poked into the sky, hosts to circling palm swifts,
moving almost too fast for the eye to track. To the right, the
mainland was covered with thick vegetation. Jackalberry,
mangosteen, and birdplum trees dominated the scene, with an
occasional mahogany spreading its heavy branches. And to the left,
behind the trees, Kubu knew, were the little jetty and
motorboat.

“This is really beautiful,” he said. “I can see why people come
here.” As though in disagreement, a small flock of Meyer’s parrots
screeched overhead, flying toward the mainland. Kubu saw
immediately why Tatwa had dismissed the possibility of the murderer
arriving or leaving on foot. Between the camp and the mainland was
a swamp, riddled with pools and covered with papyrus and other
reeds. He could see several hippo runs cutting through the area,
and a few crocodiles sunning themselves on isolated sand banks. So
the murderer had either arrived and left by boat or was already on
the island the night of the murder.

Reluctantly Kubu headed back to the main path, but just before
they reached it, he stopped suddenly. Here there were elegant
mangosteen trees but the brush between them was varied riverine
bush, thick, thorny, and unwelcoming.

“What’s that, Tatwa?” Kubu pointed to some reddish threads
caught on a hooked thorn.

“Looks like a snag from a shirt,” Tatwa replied without
interest.

“Yes, but why there? In the middle of a bush? Why would anyone
be there? It’s all thorny and dense.”

Tatwa shrugged. He wanted to get on with the interviews. “Maybe
a child. Could be from anyone.”

“Some branches have been bent here, too. Someone deliberately
pushed into the brush between the trees, and then came out again.
He didn’t force on through or you’d see broken twigs and other
signs. I want Forensics to have those threads. If there’s a match
with one of the victims, it may tell us something.”

“That’s a one in a hundred chance!” protested Tatwa.

“Yes,” Kubu agreed. “Good odds.” He stepped back so that Tatwa
could have a clear field to obtain the strands of material. He did
so with a poor grace, a pair of tweezers, an envelope, and several
scratches as the thorns fought to protect their property.

“Let’s go,” Kubu said abruptly. “I’ve seen enough.” He turned
and headed back to camp.

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

I
an MacGregor pushed
back his desk chair and stretched his legs. He was tired but alert,
sucking on an impressive briar that might have appealed to Sherlock
Holmes. He could taste the moist richness of the tobacco carefully
packed into the bowl. The pipe wasn’t alight, of course. He had
stopped smoking it after a stand-up argument with his doctor
following a brush with pneumonia.

“I’m pathetic,” he thought contentedly. “In my fifties, living
in a foreign country far from the lochs of home, no family, more
acquaintances and colleagues than real friends. Can’t even smoke a
real pipe. And I’m as happy as a pig in swill.”

There were two great joys in his life, albeit two sides of the
same coin. One was the African bush, especially the arid drama of
the Kalahari. The other was trying to capture that drama in
watercolor paints. He gazed at a desert scene on the wall, a large
watercolor showing the remains of a giraffe carcass with hooded
vultures circling. The carcass and the dry grass tufts around it
were impressionist, slightly out of focus, with the vultures, sharp
and true to a feather, seeming to move against the azure African
sky. For once, his hand had captured the vision in his mind. Some
people did not feel it was entirely appropriate in Ian’s office,
which adjoined the hospital morgue. But Ian did not care. He
thought it the best thing he’d ever painted.

There was a perfunctory knock, and Mabaku strode in. At once,
the office was too small. “Director Mabaku,” said Ian, surprised.
“What brings you here?” Mabaku expected people to come to him, not
the other way around.

“What do you think I’m doing here, MacGregor? I can’t resist
seeing you relaxing among your cadavers,” he growled. “I’m waiting
for the reports on Tinubu and Langa, of course. Kubu’s waiting too.
Probably with a sandwich, a glass of wine, and his feet up. Why am
I the only one who thinks this case is urgent?”

Ian chuckled. “I was just thinking about how to put my report
together when you walked in,” he lied, his Scottish brogue stronger
than usual. “Here are the notes.” He indicated a writing pad. The
cover had an unpleasant rust-colored stain. Mabaku grimaced.

“Never mind the formalities. What will the report say?”

Ian decided on a little fun. “Come on, I’ll show you,” he
said.

He led Mabaku to his laboratory next door, put on surgical
gloves and a face mask, and slid open a cold storage drawer. The
smell of formaldehyde pervaded, but Ian did not seem to notice. He
lifted the shroud to expose the mutilated body of a black man.

“I finished not long ago,” he said to Mabaku. He pushed some
escaping material back into the stomach between his rough stitches.
“Messy lad, aren’t you?” he said to the corpse. He lifted up the
head and folded the scalp back for Mabaku to see.

“Look here, but don’t come too close. Someone hit our friend
verra hard. Didn’t kill him though. No fracture. But it would’ve
knocked him cold.” He pointed to a discoloration on the head. “See
the mark where he was hit? The shape and pattern makes me think it
was a metal object like a wrench.” Then, as though the idea had
just occurred to him, he added, “Put on gloves and a mask. Then you
can feel the indentations for yourself.” But Mabaku declined with a
frown. He wasn’t enjoying his tour of the late Goodluck Tinubu.

“Now here’s the really interesting bit,” Ian continued,
indicating the chest cavity, which had been opened with an electric
saw. “I had to take the heart out to check the damage. I have it
here somewhere.” He looked around vaguely, pretending it was lost.
“I found a wee hole. Your murderer stuck something long and sharp
into it. Something like a sharpened bicycle spoke. Very neat. Right
through the right auricle. The heart would have stopped pretty well
at once. That’s why there wasn’t much blood when the throat was cut
afterward.”

“Why cut his throat at all if they stabbed him through the
heart? What sense does that make?”

Ian looked at him. “I tell you what happened. It’s your job to
make sense of it. The murderer hit him hard across the left temple
knocking him cold. Then he stabbed him through the heart, killing
him. After that he cut his throat, probably a few minutes after
death, and what blood was around seeped out. Not much. Then, or
just before – I can’t tell – he used a sharp knife to cut this
cross on the forehead.” MacGregor traced it with his finger. “Then
he cut off the ears and stuffed them in the poor man’s mouth. From
the wounds, I’d say the murderer was right-handed.”