The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu (8 page)

Jackalberry Camp offered Kubu and Tatwa tea and mixed biscuits.
Kubu was delighted; Tatwa merely thankful.

Kubu had just delicately removed one side of a lemon cream and
was about to nibble around the filling, when his phone rang. It was
Ian MacGregor. There was no mistaking the Scottish brogue.

Ian told Kubu about Mabaku’s visit and his exploration of the
corpse. Kubu snorted with delight at the image of Ian handing
innards to Mabaku. Serves him right for being so pushy, he thought,
Ian gave a quick summary of what he’d found, including his guess
that the same weapon, something like a large wrench, had been used
to kill Langa and knock out Tinubu. However, he emphasized that
Tinubu’s death was caused by a stab wound to the heart made by a
thin, sharp instrument.

“Could it have been an arrow?” Kubu interrupted.

“No, that would have been too thick.”

“What about a miniature arrow? Say one from a Bushman child’s
toy kit? They’re sharpened like the adult ones.”

“I don’t think so. The entry wound would have been different,
and Bushman arrowheads are designed to come off the shaft of the
arrow. The head would have been left in the body.”

“Oh.” Kubu was disappointed. “When did the murders take
place?”

“By the time I got to Jackalberry, rigor mortis had set in. I
estimate Tinubu died between two and five in the morning. It’s
impossible to be entirely accurate, but I am sure it was after
midnight. The same for Langa.”

“Any idea who was the first victim?”

“Can’t say, I’m afraid. Does it matter?”

Kubu sighed. Why was it that whenever he asked a question, the
response was always to ask his reason for it? As yet, he had no
idea what mattered. He changed the subject.

“Do you have any theory about the ears being cut off and stuffed
in his mouth or the cross on the forehead?”

“In my experience, sometimes mutilations like this are used as a
warning. Sometimes as a statement by the killer.”

Kubu pondered this. He thought Ian might be right.

After a few more questions, Kubu said, “Thanks for the update,
Ian. I should be back in Gaborone tomorrow. I’ll give you a call.
Perhaps we can have a drink together, but not a bottle of whisky
like last time. My head has yet to forgive me.”

♦

After tea, Kubu looked for the Munro sisters. Dupie said they
had returned to their tent and offered to call them.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Du Pisanie. Tatwa and I need some exercise.”
The two policemen set off at a leisurely pace.

Trish and Judith Munro were waiting in their tent. They looked
in their early fifties, and were slim and attractive even in
stereotypical khaki bush clothes. They were obviously sisters, but
Judith looked reserved while Trish had a ready twinkle. They sat on
the beds, and Kubu and Tatwa made themselves as comfortable as
possible on the two folding canvas chairs. Kubu’s chair bulged
disapprovingly, while Tatwa had to sit at a slight angle so that
his head did not touch the tent. Trish was having difficulty
suppressing a smile. She covered her amusement by offering each of
the detectives a glass of water.

“In England it would be tea, of course. Thomas Twining was our
medicine man,” she said. “But all we have in the tent is bottled
water.” Kubu and Tatwa thanked her but declined.

“This shouldn’t take long, Miss Munro. I know you’ve already
spoken to Detective Mooka here. I just want to go over a few
points. When did you realize something was wrong?”

He looked at Judith, but it was Trish who replied. “We heard
Beauty scream. It sounded dreadful. We thought it might be a hippo
or an elephant or even a lion. But we didn’t see what we could do,
and we were scared. So we just stayed in the tent. Isn’t that
awful?”

“Probably the sensible thing to do. What happened after
that?”

Trish seemed about to speak again, but Judith cut in. “A few
minutes later, we heard Dupie at the next tent, so we went to ask
what had happened. He said that Goodluck had been murdered – in the
tent only yards from us! It was a horrible shock.” Trish nodded
agreement.

“Did you hear or see anything during the night? Anything at all
unusual or suspicious?”

“We heard his tent zipper about eleven. We were reading. I
commented that Goodluck must have found some company at the bar,”
Trish said.

“Are you sure it was eleven?” The sisters nodded.

“I checked my watch. I was surprised how late it was,” said
Judith.

“Nothing else?” They both shook their heads, but then Trish
said, “Something woke me during the night. But I thought it was an
animal. There are lots of hippos. They ask us not to wander around
after dark.”

“What exactly woke you?” Tatwa asked, but Trish just
shrugged.

“It must have been a noise, but I don’t recall any particular
sound.”

Kubu changed tack. “Mr. Du Pisanie tells me you are writers. Is
that correct?”

Judith nodded. “We write biographical articles for magazines and
Sunday supplements. Stories about interesting, but not necessarily
famous, people. It’s great fun doing the research together. Our pen
name is Trudy Munro by the way.”

“Extremely interesting!” said Tatwa unexpectedly. “Are you
working on something now?”

There was a moment’s silence before Judith said, “No, we’re
simply on holiday. Even writers stop thinking about writing and go
on holiday sometimes, you know.”

Kubu wondered if that could be true. How do writers switch off?
“Do you have any of your work with you?” Trish dug in a carry-on
bag and wordlessly handed him a cutting from the London
Sunday
Telegraph
of a few months earlier. “May I borrow it? I’d like
to read it later. I’ll return it tomorrow.”

Trish laughed. “Of course. The only thing writers like as much
as being paid is being read! It’s about…”

But Judith interrupted firmly. “Let the superintendent find out
for himself, Trish.”

“How did you find this camp?” Again there was an odd pause, and
again it was Judith who broke the silence.

“We have a friend who’s a travel writer for a London newspaper.
She stayed here and wrote a positive piece about it. We were
intrigued and thought Botswana would be wonderful to visit.” She
smiled.

Kubu nodded. “Well, I’m sorry your trip has been spoiled by this
experience. Perhaps you can write an article about it and recoup
your expenses? Or at least make it tax deductible?” Neither sister
knew what to make of these remarks. They started to respond, but
Kubu was already on his way.

“Thanks very much, ladies. That will be all for the moment. I’m
sure we’ll see you at dinner.” Tatwa followed him through the
flaps, shoulders stooped, head bowed.

♦

After the policemen had left, the two sisters sat in silence for
a few moments. Then Judith asked, “Why did you give him the
article?”

“Why not?” Trish replied doubtfully, but then she regrouped.
“Don’t you think we should’ve told him why we came here? And what
we thought about Goodluck? It might be important.”

Judith turned away. “We made a promise. And we were mistaken
about Goodluck. We must’ve been. It would be a crazy
coincidence.”

“We’ll have to check when we get back to Gaborone.”

“Trish, I have to admit, I was always afraid our research might
hurt somebody. Now someone is dead. I think it’s time to drop
it.”

Trish twisted the ring on her index finger. She did not
reply.

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

K
ubu was bored with
the interviews, but knew he had to complete them. The Boardmans had
wandered up to the lookout searching for birds, so he and Tatwa
turned their attention to the staff.

“Four to go,” Kubu remarked to Tatwa as they were waiting for
Beauty and Solomon. “Then we can have a drink.”

Before Beauty and Solomon arrived, Kubu’s phone rang again.
Mabaku, he thought, answering formally. But he was delighted to
hear Joy’s voice instead.

“How are things going, darling?” she asked. “I miss you already.
When will you be home?” Kubu smiled. He was so lucky to have a wife
like Joy. Best friend, superb cook, and lover all in one.

“I’m in the middle of interviewing everyone at the camp,” he
replied. “So far, there seems to be only one person who could have
committed the murders, and it seems he’s in Zimbabwe already.”

“Will you be able to extradite him?”

“If they find him and want to let him go. They may want to keep
him. You know the reputation of the Zimbabwe authorities. What’ve
you been up to?”

“Oh, I’ve had an exciting afternoon. I won my first karate
match! I went to the dojo after work, and we had proper matches. I
beat a woman in her twenties!”

“That’s wonderful, dear. You’re becoming quite a star.” Kubu
didn’t feel as enthusiastic as he sounded. Joy’s obsession with
karate had started when he was in the hospital after being
assaulted while investigating a case. Joy had announced that if he
was in danger in his job, she might well be too. So she was going
to take self-defense lessons and learn to shoot. Kubu had protested
that looking after her was his responsibility. She refused to budge
and got Mabaku’s support for shooting lessons, under police
supervision. Then she joined a karate club.

Kubu had wrestled with feelings he did not really understand.
He’d never put any limits on her activities, yet he felt hurt, and
a little angry that she wouldn’t listen to him. But he was wise
enough not to interfere. He remembered how he had smugly thought
that the phase would last a few weeks and that would be that. How
wrong he had been! She completed the shooting lessons, but showed
no further interest in firearms. However, she took to the karate
and its focus on both body and mind like a gemsbok to the desert.
Now here she was a year later winning matches!

Kubu snorted and had to admit, only to himself of course, that
he was proud of her accomplishments, particularly since she had
never taken part in sport before.

“I’ve got to get on with my interviews, dear,” he continued.
“I’ll phone you this evening, if I can get a signal. With luck I’ll
be home tomorrow. I love you!”

♦

A few minutes later, Beauty and Solomon pushed back the flap of
Dupie’s office tent. This posed a problem because there was space
only for three chairs, so Tatwa had to stand. They rearranged two
of the chairs so that he could stand directly in the middle of the
tent and not have to stoop.

“
Dumela
,” Kubu said politely.

“
Dumela
,” they replied.

“Beauty, Solomon,” Kubu said quietly, continuing in Setswana. “I
have to ask you a few questions. I’ll try to keep this as short as
possible. Beauty, tell me how you found the body.”

Beauty took a deep breath. “I went to Rra Tinubu’s tent to
clean. The flap was closed, so I called. No answer, so I thought he
was eating breakfast. I opened the tent and went in. He was on the
floor. Blood everywhere. Throat cut. He was dead.”

“How did you know he was dead?” Kubu asked.

“A man on the floor with his throat cut is dead,” Beauty replied
looking at Kubu challengingly. Everyone knew that you killed goats
and cows by cutting their throats. They always died.

“Don’t be rude to Rra Bengu,” Solomon admonished. Beauty
shrugged.

“Did you touch anything when you were in there?”

Beauty shook her head. “I was very scared. I ran to Rra
Dupie.”

Kubu turned toward Solomon. “You don’t stay at Jackalberry Camp,
do you?” Kubu asked. Solomon shook his head.

“No,” he said. “We stay at the village across the water. Enoch
picks us up most days.”

“But not yesterday?”

“No, Rra Dupie did. He took Rra Zondo to catch a plane.”

“How do you know he took Rra Zondo to the airstrip?”

“Rra Dupie told us when he picked us up.”

“Did you see him take Rra Zondo? Did you hear a plane?”

Beauty and Solomon shook their heads in unison. “The airstrip is
far away,” Beauty contributed. “I did hear the motorboat come
across early in the morning.”

“What time did he pick you up?”

“About half past seven,” Solomon replied.

Kubu looked down at his notebook. “Did you notice anything about
Rra Zondo? Did he say anything to you?”

Beauty shook her head. “I didn’t see him.”

“I spoke to him,” Solomon said. “Two times. At lunch and dinner
two days ago. He was quiet, but very polite. Thanked me for good
service.”

“Did he give you a tip?”

Solomon shook his head regretfully. “No. Usually only at the end
of a visit. And he left too early to see me the next morning.”

“Just a few more questions. When you cleaned Rra Zondo’s tent
the day before he left, did you notice what luggage he had?”

Beauty hesitated. “A big suitcase and bag. Blue, I think.”

“And Rra Tinubu?”

“Brown suitcase and briefcase.”

Kubu made a note in his book, then looked up.

“Thank you both. You may go. You can go back to your village,
but don’t leave it except for coming here.”

Beauty and Solomon nodded, again in unison.

♦

Enoch Kokorwe was next. He sat straight up in the plastic chair,
his arms folded across his chest. He just nodded in response to the
greetings from Kubu and Tatwa.

“How long have you worked at Jackalberry Camp?” Kubu asked.

“About twelve years.”

“How did you get the job?”

“I know Dupie from hunting trips in the Kalahari. He asked me to
come.”

“What do you do here?” Kubu asked, glancing up from his
notebook.

“I’m the camp manager. I hire the local staff and keep things
running properly. Me, not Dupie. And I know the birds. I guide
mokoro
trips and walks too.”

“Are you from Botswana or Zimbabwe?”