The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu (21 page)

Tatwa frowned. “I haven’t quite worked that part out yet.”

The food arrived, accompanied by soda water for Ian and a Coke
for Tatwa. Kubu was pleased to receive an acceptable steelworks. He
worked his way through a fine rump steak, while Ian savored his
tripe. Tatwa had chosen a vegetarian dish, which he pronounced very
good, but he toyed with it, perhaps put off by the smell of the
tripe. Eventually Kubu had to finish it for him in order to avoid
waste.

When the empty plates had been pushed back, and Kubu had
reluctantly passed on dessert due to his current diet, the three
men went back to discussing the case.

“Ian, what can you tell us about Boardman?”

“Well, death occurred at midnight, plus or minus a couple of
hours. But, of course, there was the report of screams some time
after one and silence thereafter. That’s consistent with the
medical evidence. The neck was broken. Very hard blow, like a
karate chop.”

“That would gel with the thugs who attacked the camp,” Tatwa
interjected.

Ian nodded and continued. “There were a lot of blows – or kicks
– to the body as well. But from the bruising, several of them were
post mortem.”

Kubu pricked up his ears. “Post mortem? You mean he was beaten
after he was dead?”

Ian nodded. “Perhaps the attackers didn’t realize they had
killed him.”

“And the cigarette burns?”

“Yes, several to the face and chest.”

“Were they before or after he died?”

Ian reflected. “Hard to say for sure. They might have been after
death, but then it could be no more than a few minutes later.” Ian
started to explain why, but Kubu pressed on.

“Ian, this may be really important. Is it possible that all the
torture was actually just a disguise for the murder? That someone –
Gomwe, say – wanted it to look like the thugs attacked, and were
looking for something, but actually it was a neatly executed
murder? I’m suspicious of a torture angle. How do you torture
someone for information in the middle of a resort complex?”

“But there were the screams,” Tatwa pointed out.

“Yes, reported by cell phone by a witness who conveniently
disappeared.”

Ian looked worried. “Really, I can’t say, Kubu.”

“Is it possible Boardman was killed, then beaten up and burned,
and the room trashed?”

Ian thought carefully. “Yes,” he said at last, firmly. Tatwa
looked unhappy. Kubu nodded, satisfied. Deliberately forgetting his
diet, he took advantage of the pause to order ice cream, with hot
chocolate sauce in a separate jug. “So that it stays warm,” he
explained.

♦

Once the enthusiasm for coffees had been satisfied, Tatwa drove
Kubu back to the Toro Lodge, where they learned little new. The
maid who had found the body described the scene between sobs.
Everything was consistent with what they had been told. The manager
showed them the bungalow, but it had been cleaned and freshened on
Notu’s authorization. There was nothing to indicate the grisly
events of three nights before. And the receptionist confirmed the
late night call.

“It was about half past one. I was asleep. Well, who needs
reception at that time of the morning? I’m sure about the time
because I looked at the clock when the phone woke me.” He indicated
the electric clock on the wall behind him.

“Do you remember what the caller said? What sort of voice was
it? Man?” asked Tatwa.

“Definitely a man. Sort of gruff, but really angry about the
noise. Told me to get them to shut up.”

“As closely as you can remember, what exactly did the man say?”
asked Kubu.

“It was something like: There’s shouting and screaming coming
from the row in front of me. Bastards having a row. No
consideration for other people. It’s after one in the morning! I’ve
been woken up, and I can’t get back to sleep with the noise. You
bloody well get him to shut up.”

“Did the man say ‘him’ not ‘them’?”

The receptionist thought, and then nodded. “Yes, I think
so.”

“And what did you do after that?”

“I asked him where he was, but he hung up. So I went outside and
wandered around a bit. Asked Albert – the security guard – if he
had heard anything. He hadn’t, and everything was quiet. So I went
back to the office. No one else called.”

Kubu and Tatwa went back to Kubu’s bungalow where Kubu collapsed
into the single comfortable chair, leaving Tatwa to perch,
heronlike, against the desk.

“
They’re
making a noise but you must get
him
to
shut up. I don’t think that call came from the hotel at all. I
think it was phoned in, perhaps to confuse the time of death. I’d
bet that the murder took place earlier. Perhaps the murderer wants
to create an alibi. Make sure you trace the call. It’ll be really
interesting to know what phone it came from. You never can tell.”
Kubu pouted. “Maybe Gomwe was involved. Or Zondo. But why kill
Boardman? A curio dealer? How could Boardman have anything the drug
smugglers cared about? How could he have known about whatever was
in Tinubu’s briefcase? I don’t get it.”

“Perhaps he saw something, or found something,” Tatwa suggested.
Suddenly he jumped up, excited. “Kubu, remember the lost keys!”

Kubu looked at him, puzzled. Then he said, “Oh my God, Tatwa.
You may be right!”

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

I
t was early Friday
morning, and Mabaku had skipped breakfast. His stomach complained
of the black coffee it had been offered instead, while he tried to
concentrate on Kubu’s phone report from Maun. What an insufferable
idiot that Notu is, he thought with disgust. Kubu and Tatwa had
achieved more in a day than Notu had in three despite all his
resources.

“Say that again.” Mabaku’s annoyance and heartburn had
distracted him.

“I said we’ve contacted about three quarters of all the guests
who were staying here at Toro Lodge on the night of the murder.
Some of the others are tourists now on bush trips; three were here
for their last couple of nights on holiday and have now left
Botswana. But the important part is that we have spoken to all the
guests who were no further than two rows away from Boardman’s unit.
None of them remembers any unusual disturbance or noise that night.
Obviously no one called reception to complain.”

“And your point is?” Mabaku growled.

“There was no disturbance. The call was made later, probably
from a cell phone. I’ve asked Edison to trace it. I doubt Notu will
be interested.”

“Now, Kubu, keep him informed. No need to cause unnecessary
trouble.” This produced a grunt from Kubu not dissimilar to what
might be expected from his riverine namesake.

“It’s consistent with Ian’s findings too. He thinks the injuries
– other than the fatal blow to the head – may have been post
mortem.”

Mabaku whistled. “Even the cigarette burns? What’s the point of
that?”

“Misdirection. Like the phone call. The object of the attack was
to kill Boardman. All the rest was to make it seem the attackers
were thugs searching for something. A briefcase, for example.”

“Who knows about the attack on Jackalberry Camp last
Friday?”

Kubu paused, following Mabaku’s line of thought. “Ah, you mean
who knew enough about the attack at Jackalberry to make this look
as though it was committed by the same thugs? Good point. All the
people at the camp, of course, including the guests who were there
when the attack occurred. The attackers themselves would know. But
why point suspicion at yourself? And the police in Maun knew. I
think Notu could be corrupt, but he’s so inept he couldn’t organize
a paper clip onto a piece of paper. I don’t think he’s
involved.”

“There was a short piece in the
Gaborone Gazette
about it
too,” interrupted Mabaku sourly. “Unavoidable. We couldn’t get them
to drop it, but they did tone it down. No one would react unless
they knew the camp and the recent history.”

“Like Boy Gomwe,” said Kubu thoughtfully.

“And our literary ladies from England. They’re waiting to see me
now. Apparently they showed up here half an hour ago to see you.
I’m taking your place with great pleasure.” Mabaku didn’t like to
be crossed, and Kubu felt a twinge of sympathy for the Munro
sisters. “I don’t believe they killed anybody,” he said. “And they
have an alibi for the night Boardman was killed.” It was Mabaku’s
turn to grunt. He came to a decision.

“Stay up there for another day, Kubu. Check the forensics –
prints, anything. Keep checking the hotel. See if you can get any
connections through the curio dealers. You better have a word with
Boardman’s widow too if she’s up to it. I’ll ask Edison to get on
to the cell phone issue. And I’ll talk to the Munros.” Mabaku’s
voice rose. “We have to get this tidied up. We’ve the African Union
meeting coming up, remember? It can’t look as though we’re less
secure and law-abiding than Zimbabwe, for God’s sake!”

Kubu sighed. He’d hoped to get back to his home-cooked meals,
his own bed and, most important of all, his wife. She would
understand, but would be disappointed.

♦

Mabaku fixed Trish and Judith Munro with an unforgiving stare.
He couldn’t judge their ages; the smooth complexions of a certain
type of English woman seemed timelessly wrinkle-free. But their
body language showed them to be nervous at being shown into the
office of the Director of the CID.

“We wanted to see Superintendent Kubu,” Trish blurted.

“Assistant Superintendent
Bengu
is busy right now, madam.
So I’m afraid you’ll have to settle for me.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean…” Trish started, but Mabaku interrupted.

“He’s investigating the murder of William Boardman, who was
tortured to death four nights ago at a tourist hotel in Maun.” He
watched closely to judge their reactions.

Both sisters were clearly shocked.

“Oh my God,” said Judith, pale.

“He was such a nice man. So keen and knowledgeable about birds.
Why would anyone want to kill him?” said Trish, fighting back
tears.

But Mabaku was not sympathetic. “I hope you can help us answer
that. If you are willing to tell the truth this time, that is.”

“What do you mean by that?” Judith snapped.

“When Superintendent Bengu asked you how you learned about
Jackalberry Camp, you told him that a colleague had written a
travel piece about the place. Is that correct?”

Trish nodded. Judith met his eyes, but said nothing.

“Mr. Du Pisanie confirmed that no such person had ever visited
the camp.”

“Well,” said Judith. “We must have been mistaken. Someone else
may have mentioned it, or perhaps we just found their website.”

“They don’t have a website,” Mabaku guessed.

“Well, what difference does it make? We were there on holiday.”
This was Trish’s contribution. “There were those awful murders, and
now poor William too!”

“And you said you had no knowledge of Goodluck Tinubu, is that
correct?” The two women did not reply, uncomfortable. “Then I
wonder why you visited his school in Mochudi? The deputy headmaster
showed you around. It’s a good operation, but not exactly a tourist
attraction, I would’ve thought.”

The sisters exchanged glances, but Judith tried to stand her
ground. “You must understand, Mr. Mabaku, that we are journalists.
Our sources are privileged.”

Mabaku was not impressed. “That doesn’t give you the right to
lie to the police! You may have your privileged sources, but I have
three vicious murders. Now are you going to help us or face charges
of obstructing justice?”

The two sisters looked at each other. “We’ll tell you everything
we can,” said Trish.

Judith began. “I suppose we’d better tell you the story from the
beginning.” Mabaku nodded approval. “We write pieces for the
Sunday Telegraph
in London, Director Mabaku. We write about
people, people with interesting stories, but who aren’t necessarily
famous or even well known. We loaned Kubu one about the vet who
looks after the Queen’s corgis.” Mabaku nodded. He wanted to see
where this was going.

Trish smiled. “Kubu said he liked it.”

“Well, we wanted to try something different, something that
might lead to a series of articles or even a book,” Judith
continued. “So we had an idea – actually I had the idea – and we
took it to our usual editor, Chezi Makanya. Perhaps you’ve heard of
him? He left South Africa during the apartheid era and is quite
well known as a writer, in addition to being a senior editor of the
newspaper.”

“We wanted to try for something deeper,” Trish added. “We wanted
to be taken more seriously. You don’t win awards for pieces about
handling snappy royal dogs. Sunday readers enjoy that stuff, but
it’s frothy and doesn’t keep you awake long – like a decaffeinated
cappuccino, I suppose. We wanted to come up with a double
espresso.”

“So you needed a black man for that?” offered Mabaku. He thought
it quite witty, but neither woman smiled.

“Chezi is incredibly sharp. Usually he’ll decide right away
whether a premise has merit or not. But on this occasion he seemed
disturbed and said he needed to think about it.” Judith stopped.
There was silence for a moment.

“And what was this premise?” Mabaku encouraged.

“We wanted to follow the lives of people who’d been in the
Rho-desian war thirty years ago. What had become of the whites and
the blacks who’d been sucked into it. Whether there was
reconciliation, where they had gone, how their lives had been
changed. Some would be in the UK, some in Zimbabwe, some in other
African countries.”

Mabaku could see Chezi Makanya’s problem. “Do you think you have
the background to try something like that?”

It was Trish who replied. “We don’t know much about corgis
either, Director. The question for a writer is how hard you are
willing to work, how much time you are willing to invest, and how
far you are willing to travel. Well, here we are.” She seemed to
think the question was answered.