The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu (29 page)

Mabaku looked pensive, but he could not fault Kubu’s
reasoning.

“Does that mean that it had to be Zondo? Because he was the only
one who knew about the briefcase and so had a motive?”

Tatwa broke in excitedly. “That’s what we thought. But it’s not
right. Tinubu lost his keys at one point and was very upset about
it. They turned up, but could easily have been lifted and used to
search the stuff in his tent in the meantime. One of them could
have been a key to the briefcase. So someone not involved in the
smuggling could’ve known about the contents of the briefcase. Mind
you, there wasn’t a briefcase key on the ring we found in his tent,
but that could be because the murderer needed it to open the
briefcase.”

Kubu joined in. “So anyone who was nosy could’ve discovered a
briefcase full of money, and then would have a motive. The only
thing is, he would have to be suspicious to make him look in the
first place. Someone who had an inkling of what was going on. And
that brings us to Boy Gomwe.” Kubu looked at Joshua Bembo, inviting
him to share what the South African police had discovered. Joshua
obliged by filling in the background and their suspicions of
Gomwe’s drug-running activities, lamenting that Gomwe always seemed
to be one step ahead.

“That makes Gomwe a suspect. What was he doing at the camp? And
he would’ve guessed or suspected what was in the briefcase. Enough
motivation to steal the keys and take a look. And then…” Tatwa
trailed off leaving the rest to their imaginations.

Kubu was no longer concentrating. The fatcake was long gone, and
he was thinking about breakfast. There was a real danger the
meeting would go on all morning. He would have to think of
something; he doubted he could hold out until lunch.

Mabaku picked up the story. “Then on Thursday night two thugs
attack Du Pisanie and McGlashan at Jackalberry Camp. They were
after the briefcase. That means Tinubu’s murder wasn’t a hit or a
personal vendetta, it was for the money and drugs or whatever. And
the thugs knew Zondo. They came to the camp because Zondo wasn’t at
the airstrip when the plane arrived to pick him up. That looks as
though Zondo decided to take off with the lot. To cut his bosses
out. Perhaps he thought the Zimbabwe police were on his trail.
Perhaps he just got greedy. Then, of course, Kubu stuck his neck
out and damned nearly had it chopped off.”

“What we need to do now…” Ian began, but Kubu interrupted.

“What we need to do now is take a break while we order more tea
and send out for muffins. Plenty of muffins.” Without waiting for
Mabaku’s approval, Kubu was on his feet and heading for the door.
“And I need to call home to check on Joy.”

The others were happy enough to stretch their legs. Even Mabaku
felt that a muffin might help his indigestion.

♦

Once the food had been assembled, the meeting resumed. Kubu
would have liked to eat in peace, but Mabaku was impatient to
continue. “Let’s get to the murder of William Boardman,” he said
selecting a banana muffin as his second. Kubu was busy with a
chocolate one and waved to Tatwa.

“Boardman was murdered late on Monday night. Assistant
Superintendent Notu thought it was an opportunistic robbery, but
that makes no sense. Boardman was accosted at his room at the Maun
Toro Lodge. Either he was forced into it, or he let the murderer or
murderers in. Once again, there was a lot of misdirection. Whoever
killed Boardman wants us to think it happened later than it did.
Someone pretending to be one of the guests phoned reception at one
thirty to report a big noise in one of the bungalows, but Kubu and
I established first that no one heard the noise and, second, that
none of the guests phoned in. In fact, the murderer made the phone
call when he was already well on his way. Our trace on the call
showed it came from Boardman’s own cell phone, no doubt taken from
the murder scene. That suggests he wanted to confuse us or
establish a false alibi.”

Ian took his pipe out of his mouth. “Another thing was thrown in
to confuse us. I think that Boardman was attacked and killed and
then tortured. Not much point. Dead men can’t talk, as the saying
goes. I can’t be absolutely sure on the order, but, at the latest,
he died very shortly after the torture started.”

“So if it was the thugs who attacked Jackalberry and then Joy
and Pleasant, why do that?” Tatwa continued. “And the search of
Boardman’s room was exaggerated. Clothes strewn around, toiletries
emptied. The thugs were looking for a briefcase, not something
small. But they left Boardman’s car keys in his pocket and
apparently didn’t bother to look in his trailer with his African
art works and curios.” He shook his head. “Also Mrs. Boardman told
me that her husband was meeting someone that night. Quite excited
about it apparently. But that person never turned up – at least not
to the meeting. According to the restaurant, Boardman ate on his
own – quite late – and then had a couple of drinks, clearly waiting
for someone. Finally he gave up and went to his room.”

Zanele had another thought. “Could Boardman have been involved
in the Jackalberry murders? Did he have curios there?”

Kubu turned his attention from the muffins – he was on his third
– long enough to reply. “As a matter of fact, he admitted to
wandering around that night, and his wife noticed. And they did
have curios. What of it?”

“I was thinking they might’ve been used to smuggle the contents
of the briefcase off the island. Maybe it wasn’t bulky at all.
Something like diamonds that could be hidden in a mask or
drum.”

Kubu didn’t like that idea at all. “If it was that small, anyone
could’ve hidden it anywhere. They’d all have opportunity.”

“Any other prints in the room or other forensic evidence?” asked
Zanele.

“Nothing that idiot Notu could find,” Kubu growled.

Tatwa was trying to regain the floor. “There’s another issue.
I’ve looked into it very carefully. If we accept that the Boardman
murder and the camp murders are related – and I think we do,” he
paused, but no one challenged this, “then we must look at who had
opportunity. Apart from the victims, there were ten people at
Jackalberry Camp that Sunday night of the murders – nine excluding
William himself.” He counted the potential suspects on his fingers.
“Last Monday night Dupie, Salome, and Moremi were all entertaining
guests at the camp. Beauty and Solomon were at the village on the
mainland, as they were on the night of the murders. Enoch wasn’t at
the camp because he’d broken down on the road to Kasane, and Dupie
had to drive out to help him. Enoch slept in the vehicle and went
in to Kasane the next morning. That’s four of them accounted for.
The Munro sisters were having dinner in Gaborone in the dining room
at the Grand Palm Hotel. Two more. Boardman’s wife was in Cape
Town. That’s seven in total, leaving only Gomwe and Zondo.” He
paused and looked around the group. Now he was enjoying being the
center of attention. No one interrupted.

“So there are only three possibilities. Boardman was murdered by
Zondo, who somehow returned to the middle of Botswana with the
whole country looking for him and disappeared again, presumably the
same way. Or the thugs from Zimbabwe did it and maybe hit him too
hard, killing him before they could find out what they wanted to
know. Or he was killed by Gomwe looking for the valuables.” He
looked around. “And Gomwe’s office told me he was expected in
Gaborone. He did meet with the owner of a music store here on
Saturday morning and stayed at the Oasis Hotel on Saturday and
Sunday nights, and left early on Monday morning. After that he
disappeared. No record of his leaving Botswana. No flights under
his name. He had plenty of time to drive to Maun.”

Mabaku decided to sum up. “Okay. Good job, Sergeant Mooka. I
think you’ve put it together very well. Kubu?” Kubu nodded. He had
been through it all with Tatwa before and could not fault it. Yet
it seemed too pat, too straightforward. Kubu’s instinct told him
some piece was missing, some assumption not as solid as it seemed.
He nodded again but with just a hint of uncertainty, which Mabaku
ignored.

“Right,” Mabaku said. “We pressure Beardy. We try to find the
two Zimbabweans and get them into an interrogation room as soon as
possible. We smash this drug ring or whatever it is. Big feather in
our caps. And we use that as a lever to force them to tell us
everything about Zondo. Everything!” He banged his fist on the
table again in time with the last word. “In parallel we go after
Gomwe. Get to the bottom of whatever he’s up to. And if he’s a
murderer hiding behind these Zimbabwe thugs, he’s going to wish
he’d never been born!”

“Right!” said Kubu. “Let’s get to work!”

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

F
irst things first.
Kubu checked if anything new had come up on Zondo and was not
surprised to discover there was still no trace of him. Either Zondo
had a careful plan to disappear with the fruits of his treachery,
or somewhere he had met an unpleasant demise. Kubu was beginning to
lean toward the latter explanation as the case developed. Then he
checked if there was anything new from the border stations on the
Zimbabwean kidnappers. But they, too, seemed to have disappeared
once they crossed into South Africa. Kubu ground his teeth. He
wanted to catch them very badly. As long as they were at large, his
family was not safe. He tried not to blame Edison for the debacle.
Mistakes happen. But he was very concerned. He made another quick
call home.

“Kubu,” said Joy. “This is the third time you’ve called. The
house is swarming with police, Pleasant and I are bored out of our
minds, and you spend the day worrying. This can’t go on.”

“The house is hardly swarming with police. Just Constable Mashu.
How are you feeling now?” The last question was motivated by Joy’s
persistent nausea. Kubu wanted her to see a police counselor; Joy
thought this was nonsense.

Not in the mood to chat, she repeated, “This can’t go on.”

Kubu sighed. He had thought of a plan but had wanted to get
Mabaku aboard before trying it out on Joy. He was not sure how
either would react. Well, here goes, he thought. He put his
proposal to Joy and waited for her to explode. There was silence on
the line for long seconds. “Yes, all right,” said Joy in a
matter-of-fact voice. “Provided we’re left alone there. I’ll talk
to Pleasant. Now, for heaven’s sake get to work and catch those
horrible men. I’ll speak to you later. Bye, darling.” And the line
went dead. Kubu sat holding the receiver for a few moments
listening to the dial tone. I’ll never understand women, he
thought. Even the great male poets don’t understand women. I’m not
convinced that even women understand women!

He replaced the receiver, but lifted it again almost
immediately. He needed to arrange to see two other women, whom he
probably wouldn’t understand either. The Munros seemed keen to see
him, too; they had left two messages with the duty constable during
the morning.

It was Trish who answered Kubu’s call. “Oh, Assistant
Superintendent. So good to hear from you! Director Mabaku told us
to wait here until you contacted us, but we want to leave tomorrow.
We’ve delayed our return twice already, and we really want to get
home now. Of course, Judith’s in no rush!” She laughed as if this
would mean something to Kubu, and then gushed on.

“We’re so keen to talk to you, too. Remember that you suggested
we write a piece about what happened? Will you help us? Perhaps we
could ask you a few things about Botswana and the police and what
you do. Just a few. And then you could ask us anything you want to
know.” She made it sound like taking turns in a game, and Kubu was
not sure how to respond. But then Trish played her trump card.
“Could you join us for lunch? Say in half an hour? The Palm has a
very good restaurant, and I’m sure you’ll find something to your
liking.”

Kubu was tempted, but he wasn’t sure socializing was
appropriate. On the other hand, the Munros were witnesses in a
murder investigation, and there had been a formal interview with
Mabaku, so this was really just a follow-up. He had to have lunch,
and there was much to do this afternoon if Mabaku accepted his
plan. He felt himself weakening.

“The veal with lemon sauce is particularly good,” said Trish.
Kubu’s mouth was watering as he heard himself accepting their
invitation without further ado.

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

M
abaku decided to
join Edison for the interview with Beardy. Kubu had wanted to go,
but Mabaku had forbidden it, promising that he would give a full
report. On the drive to the Princess Marina Hospital, where Beardy
was being held, Mabaku sat silently involved with his thoughts and
his after-lunch indigestion. Edison felt it prudent to keep as low
a profile as possible and drove carefully at the speed limit.

But once at the hospital, Mabaku cheered up. “What do we know
about this villain?”

“Not much. He’s refused to say anything. But we know who he is.
The police in Zimbabwe identified him from his prints. His name is
John Khumalo.”

“If we do this properly, Detective Banda, we may walk away from
here a lot further ahead with this case. I’ll lead, but be ready to
jump in at the right moment.” Edison wondered how he would know
when that would be, but nodded firmly.

“Has he been advised of his rights?” Mabaku asked, and again
Edison nodded.

Beardy was in a private room, with an armed, uniformed constable
slouched in the visitor’s chair. He jumped to attention when Mabaku
entered and saluted smartly.

“Yes, yes, Constable,” the director said. “Go and find another
two chairs for us.” The constable marched off, pleased with this
challenging assignment. Mabaku walked over to Beardy’s bedside.
“How’s the leg?” he asked, giving a bandaged thigh a solid thump.
Beardy winced. “Sore, is it?” Mabaku sounded pleased. “Well, don’t
get too used to these comforts. You’ll be having a much rougher
time once we get you out of here. Not recommended, kidnapping the
wife of a senior police officer.” Seeing the look on Beardy’s face,
he continued, “Oh, they didn’t mention that to you, did they?
You’re in very hot water, Mr. Khumalo. Boiling water, I’d say.”
Beardy turned away.