The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu (42 page)

“Well, anyone could’ve come over from the mainland, committed
the murders, stolen the money and the drugs, and been gone by
morning.”

“How did they get off the island?”

“By taking one of the other
mokoros
.”

“Did Solomon notice if there was an extra
mokoro
at the
landing when he got to the camp?”

Tatwa shook his head. “He couldn’t remember.”

“What about Zondo? He had the money by then. He and Goodluck
must have done the swap that night, because he’d arranged to leave
early the next morning.”

Tatwa shrugged. “Maybe not. Maybe he discovered Goodluck’s body,
realized it was too late, and sat it out till morning.”

Kubu shook his head. “Why leave the swap to the early hours? No
one was watching them. Right after dinner would be fine.”

“Well, maybe they did do the swap. Maybe the murderers hit
Tinubu, realized that the money was gone, and settled for the
drugs.”

“If they went to the trouble of coming out here, risking a
mokoro
ride through the hippos and crocs, and murdering two
people, they knew exactly what was going on. They wouldn’t have
left Zondo sleeping peacefully with a briefcase full of U.S.
dollars.”

“Maybe they stole the money and left Zondo alive?” Tatwa was
grasping at straws.

Kubu pouted. “Then Zondo would have run straight to Madrid who
wouldn’t have wasted his time on Dupie and Salome and me. He’d be
after the murderers. Anyway, it makes no sense. Why stop at one
more murder? Why not just kill Zondo too?”

They resumed walking. Tatwa was silent as he scanned Kubu’s
argument for leaks, but he couldn’t find any damp cracks. It was
Kubu who spotted another scenario. Again he stopped in the path,
grabbing Tatwa’s arm.

“Here’s a thought. Suppose they were Zondo’s accomplices? He
didn’t know how things would work out. He didn’t know if Tinubu
would come alone. Perhaps he mistook Langa for Tinubu’s bodyguard.
If you were going to pull off a million-dollar heist, wouldn’t it
make sense to have backup? They could have set it all up. The
others drive from Ngoma, park in the bush. In the middle of the
night, they steal a
mokoro
, pole over to the island, join
Zondo, and hit Tinubu and Langa. They make Tinubu’s murder look
like a revenge killing. Probably that’s Zondo’s idea, knowing that
at least Dupie would fall for it. Then the accomplices take the
money and the drugs and head back to their vehicle on the mainland.
Zondo has a good night’s sleep, wakes early, packs, and Dupie takes
him to the airstrip. He insists on being left there, no point in
Dupie waiting for the plane. Especially since there isn’t one. The
accomplices pick him up in their vehicle. He discards his signature
hat and coat, selects another passport, and they all head for the
nearest appropriate border post – probably at Ngoma. By the time
we’re in the picture, they’re far away. Zondo looks different, his
passport is different, and he’s driving in a vehicle he isn’t
supposed to have. Tatwa, that could be it!”

Tatwa stood in the path. The tree frogs were getting excited;
the end of summer was offering them their last mating chance. No
leaks appeared to Tatwa in Kubu’s current thesis either. “Then we
were wrong to come here,” he said. “The answers aren’t here after
all.”

Kubu started walking again. “Perhaps. It’s just an idea to
explain the missing
mokoro
. I’m not convinced. There must be
other possible explanations.”

When they reached the tents close to the central area, they
could see Dupie at the water’s edge, sinking into the river sand on
a camp chair and cuddling his Lee-Enfield .303.

“Did you check with Moremi about the hat?” Kubu asked
softly.

Tatwa nodded. “I spoke to him before dinner. It’s what we
thought. That hat was Zondo’s trademark. Like my cap. He wouldn’t
have discarded it for a disguise.”

“No, he wouldn’t,” said Kubu. Suddenly he stopped again and
turned to Tatwa. “I’m not sure if someone came over from the
mainland or not, Tatwa. But the
mokoro
is important. We just
have to work out exactly why.”

There was a sudden thrashing in the water and Tatwa jumped back.
“Was that a hippo?”

Kubu shook his head. He knew something about hippos.
“Crocodile,” he said, and walked on to their tent.

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

K
ubu slept lightly
and was an early riser. His subconscious continued to process, and
he was alert for any sound of a tent opening. At 4:30 a.m. it was
still dark, but he was wide awake. He decided to relieve Tatwa; he
felt guilty about his unfair allocation of watching duties in any
case.

He found Tatwa at the lookout, wrapped in a heavy coat,
binoculars around his neck, and a police-issue pistol next to him
on the bench. He was awake and alert, and scanning with a
flashlight. He had heard Kubu lumbering up the path.

“Hello, Kubu. You’re early. My watch only ends in an hour.”

Kubu shrugged. “I’m awake. Go and get a few hours sleep before
the day starts. Could be an interesting one.”

Tatwa hesitated, though he was tired. “Shall I keep you
company?”

“No, get some rest. I want to think, anyway.”

Tatwa handed over the gun and the binoculars and headed toward
the tent.

Kubu settled himself and looked around. It was no longer really
dark. There was a mauve line of clouds in the east, a false dawn
heralding the true one. He could already just make out the river.
And the birds were active; the bush was alive with a variety of
calls: piping robins, burbling bush-shrikes, raucous go-away-birds.
He tried to compete with bars of the ‘Bird Catcher’s Aria’ from
Mozart’s
The Magic Flute
, but gave up, chuckling. By then
the true dawn was turning the clouds into a palette of reds,
magentas, and oranges. A disc of fire started to rise from the
river, spreading color over the water. God does this every day,
Kubu thought. Even if there is no one here to see. He sat for some
time watching the sky, river, and bush change around him, listening
to the birdcalls, hearing the harsh and quarrelsome but somehow
appropriate barks of the baboons. Hippos grunted on their way back
to the water after a night’s feeding.

He found himself humming Moremi’s melody – the one whose name he
couldn’t remember. When it was finished, he thought about the
mokoro
. Who had brought it over to the camp? How had he, or
they, got back to the mainland? The theory that had brought him and
Tatwa to the camp with three armed constables did not allow for a
mysterious accomplice from the mainland. Or did it?

Kubu’s subconscious demanded attention. The piece of the jigsaw
puzzle, Kubu, it seemed to say. It doesn’t fit because you’re
holding it the wrong way up. Try turning it around. Kubu did, and
the piece fit perfectly. Not only was the
mokoro
right to be
at the camp, it had to be at the camp! Kubu jumped up. That was why
William Boardman had been murdered! Now he thought he knew how that
had been organized, too. I need a map, he thought. Perhaps Tatwa
knows? He almost set off to wake the tall detective, but sighed and
settled himself on the bench again. There were loose ends to be
thought through and tied off. He needed to work through all the
events of the last few weeks. How would he prove his theory? And,
if he was right, where were the money and the drugs? He was
distracted by the grumbling of his stomach. It did not approve of
the idea of an early morning without breakfast.

Then he heard someone coming along the path from the camp, and
he picked up the gun. But it was Tatwa who emerged from the bush,
carrying two mugs of tea. A most welcome sight. Even more so when,
having settled the tea, he fished a handful of shortbread biscuits
from his pocket and gave them to Kubu.

“Tatwa,” Kubu exclaimed. “What an excellent thought! Couldn’t
you sleep?”

Tatwa shook his head. “I want to get this resolved, Kubu. My
first big case. We’re no further than we were the last time we were
here. We just have two more murders, that’s all.”

Kubu shook his head. “I think you’re wrong about that. I think
we’re much further along. How far is it from here to Maun? Do you
know? In hours?”

Tatwa extracted a biscuit from his other pocket and started to
gnaw. “It’s a long way. Through the Savuti Game Reserve. Really
rough tracks. The best idea would be to take the cut-line road down
the firebreak border of the national park. But you’d need a
four-wheel drive to get through the sand. Tough going. Why do you
want to know?”

“How long do you think it would take?”

Tatwa shrugged. “Maybe Dupie’s done it and could tell us. I’d
say six to eight hours depending on the conditions.”

“And Maun to Kasane? On the main roads?”

“Oh, that’s just over six hundred kilometers of paved road.
Straight as an arrow. You can do that in six hours, less if you
push.”

“He must’ve been dog tired after all that,” Kubu commented.

“Who?” asked Tatwa, puzzled.

Kubu told him.

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

A
fter breakfast, Kubu
found an opportunity to talk to Salome alone. Dupie was patrolling
the island; he clearly thought the police were taking the impending
arrival of Madrid too casually. At Kubu’s suggestion, Tatwa had
accompanied him.

Kubu decided a direct approach was best. “Ms. McGlashan, you
recognized Goodluck Tinubu when he arrived, didn’t you?”

Salome looked up sharply. “I’ve already told you that I did
not.”

“But, you see, the literary ladies – as my boss calls them – the
Munro sisters – linked the two of you. To a farmhouse. Near
Bula-wayo.”

Salome looked down at her cup of after-breakfast coffee. “What
do you know about that?”

“Only what Dupie mentioned yesterday.”

“It’s got nothing to do with what happened here.”

“Please, Ms. McGlashan, I have to have all the pieces of the
puzzle. I’m sure you’re right. It has nothing to do with the
murders. But let me decide for myself.”

She looked up from her coffee. “All right, Superintendent. I was
fourteen. Rhodesia was trying to defend itself from the world’s
ostracism and Britain’s anger. It was a nasty, dirty, civil war.
Dupie talks about the noble Scouts. They butchered terrorists and
anyone they thought was a terrorist. The noble president of
Zimbabwe talks about the
freedom fighters
. They butchered
anyone they could get their hands on. He dishes out land to
‘veterans’ who weren’t even born at the time of the war. The war
was vicious, bitter. No holds barred. None.” Kubu nodded agreement,
and waited.

“My family had a farm about thirty miles outside Bulawayo. My
father was a really good man. Good to his workers, good with the
land. He loved me and my brother. And he loved my mother. You know,
we felt safe! Hard to believe. We heard the stories, but it
couldn’t happen to us, could it? My father was a sympathizer. He
voted against Smith.” She paused, looking at the detective. “You
don’t know what I’m talking about, do you? It didn’t matter what
side you were on, you see. My father was in town when they attacked
the farm. They took us by surprise. They murdered and mutilated my
brother, maybe the other way around, God help him. In front of me
and my mother. He was twelve. Twelve! Then they raped and killed my
mother in front of me, and then they started on me. Do you think
the details are important to your case, Superintendent?”

“Only one. Why didn’t they kill you?” Kubu felt the bitterness
of his question and of her response.

“Yes, why indeed? They thought the soldiers were coming. One of
them sounded the alarm. And they left. I lay alone, naked,
bleeding, for what seemed like hours. That’s how they found me.
That was almost the worst part, but not really.”

“Was one of them Tinubu?”

She looked past him, unwilling to meet his eyes. Unwilling to
meet anyone’s eyes. There was a long silence between them.

“Was one of them Tinubu?”

“Yes, I think so, perhaps. It was thirty years ago.”

“He was the one who called them off, wasn’t he?”

“I don’t know what you mean. The leader was raping me. He had
first go, you see, since I was a virgin. I understood what they
were saying because I spoke the language. There was a line of them,
waiting their turns. Like at a bus stop, you know? Laughing and
jeering.” She hunched as though protecting herself. “One guy was
telling them to let me be. I was a child. I remember what he said.
‘The children are our future.’ Can you beat that? While they’re
raping me? The leader told him to get out and keep watch if he
didn’t want his turn. A few minutes later he rushed in. Said he’d
seen lights. The soldiers were coming. The leader didn’t believe
him, but he couldn’t take the risk. He said if it were a lie, this
man would die. They left me there.”

“So this man saved your life?”

“If you like. In the sense that someone who shoots at you and
misses saves your life.”

“Was this man Goodluck Tinubu?”

Salome started to cry. Silent tears traced her cheeks. Kubu
offered her a napkin, but she pushed it away, and got to her feet
and walked off. Earlier, Kubu thought, she seemed to be a
self-controlled adult. But inside she was still not much older than
fourteen.

♦

Dupie and Tatwa found him sitting alone at the table ten minutes
later. They pulled up chairs.

“All clear,” said Dupie, satisfied. “Not a trace of the
bastards. You’ve heard from the guys on the mainland?”

Kubu ignored that. “Salome told you, didn’t she? That Tinubu was
one of the terrorists who attacked her family’s farmhouse?”

Dupie folded his arms, resting them comfortably on his ample
belly. “Is that what she said?”