The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu (14 page)

“You have my apologies,” Van der Walle said contritely. “You
know we’ve been trying to track the hot money on drug routes.”

Mabaku glared at him without a word.

“Mabaku,” Van der Walle continued, “we didn’t expect or
authorize Langa to come into Botswana. He was following a
money-smuggling suspect. He got to Zeerust and saw a briefcase
change hands with your fellow Tinubu. He made a snap decision to
follow Tinubu and got the Zeerust police to follow the original
courier back to Johannesburg.”

“Snap decision?” snarled Mabaku. “Since when do plain-clothed
police travel with passports and car registration papers? And an
overnight suitcase? He expected to come to Gaborone, and you didn’t
let me know.”

“Sit down, Mabaku,” Van der Walle said, exasperated. “We’ve
worked together long enough to trust each other. I promise we
didn’t expect Langa to cross the border. If I thought it a
possibility, I would have let you know – in advance.”

“But he would have let the Zeerust police know where he was
going. Are you saying you weren’t told?”

“The Zeerust police assumed we knew what Langa was up to. They
didn’t realize it needed urgent authorization.”

Van der Walle hesitated. “Look, Mabaku, I take full
responsibility. Langa was working for me. He should’ve known
better. That’s how it was. I’m sorry.” Mabaku glared at him,
unconvinced.

Van der Walle stood up and extended his hand. “Shake on it,
Mabaku. I’m sorry about what happened. Now let’s focus on the
case.”

Mabaku sighed and shook his head. “Okay. Okay. Just don’t let it
happen again.” The two shook hands and sat down. Mabaku ordered tea
and biscuits from an amused Miriam, who had been enjoying the
explosions from beyond the closed door.

“What do you know about Tinubu?” Mabaku asked. “Bring me up to
date on what you think is going on.”

“We know nothing about Tinubu. The first we heard of him was a
call from Langa in Mochudi, saying he was following a guy who had
taken the briefcase from our suspect in Zeerust. He’d spent the
night outside his house and was following him north. He reported in
at Francistown as well – nothing new though.”

“You’re saying he was reporting back to you while he was in
Botswana, and you didn’t let us know?” Mabaku’s voice had flipped
to the other end of the spectrum. Van der Walle could barely hear
what Mabaku was saying.

Van der Walle rolled his eyes. “Come on, Mabaku. Cool it. I’ve
apologized. Everyone simply assumed that Langa’s activities had
been authorized. The detective who took Langa’s call didn’t raise
the issue immediately, but was going to wait until our weekly
meeting to report on what Langa was doing. I don’t know what Langa
was thinking of. Heat of the moment decision, I suppose. We’ll
never know for sure now.”

With obvious reluctance, Mabaku let it go. “And then what
happened?”

“The last call we got was that he’d helped Tinubu fix a puncture
and was going to join him at a camp somewhere. Then we heard from
you guys.” He paused. “Frankly it took us a day or two to decide
what to do.”

“You mean you were deciding whether to tell me or not!”

“No. It took some time for me to get all the information. When I
realized what had happened, I didn’t want to make matters worse by
giving you wrong information. I decided the best thing was to get
down here right away and discuss it face to face. We’ve a vested
interest in this too, you know. One of my men was killed following
someone we suspect was involved with drugs.”

“So tell me about this drug thing.” Mabaku’s voice returned to
its professional volume.

“Okay. As you know, one of the main heroin conduits into South
Africa is now through Zambia and Botswana. The other is through
Mozambique. It’s smuggled from the Far East, first into Tanzania.
We’ve been trying to follow a money trail. We’ve been watching a
number of people who have had unusual financial transactions –
large amounts of money changing hands outside the banking system.
Usually dollars. We’ve been unable to pin anything on them. In
fact, they all seem squeaky clean. It’s very odd. So we decided to
do nothing but watch, in the hope we’d give them enough rope.” Van
der Walle paused as Miriam came in with the tea. She poured it,
offered the biscuits, and left.

“That’s what Langa was doing,” Van der Walle continued. “He
didn’t know where the Johannesburg guy was going. Ended up in
Zeerust. The Johannesburg guy had lunch with someone, who picked up
a briefcase and headed back into Botswana – that’s Tinubu, of
course.”

“Tinubu is a respected headmaster in Mochudi. Left Zimbabwe
after the war and settled here. Has been a great asset to the
community. Never been in any trouble. Not even parking tickets.
Everyone says he spends all his time working at the school. Nothing
significant with his bank account either. He’s a most unlikely
suspect for a drug smuggler.”

“What about the murders? Do you have any suspects?”

“The most likely suspect is a man calling himself Zondo – from
Zimbabwe. False name, fake passport. We sent fingerprints to
Zimbabwe. They tell us that his real name is Peter Jabulani and
that he is a dissident. He shouldn’t be leaving Zimbabwe because
they confiscated his real passport.” Mabaku shook his head. “We’ll
have a tough time getting to him if the Zimbabwe authorities find
him. Apparently he was quite a hero in the war, but turned against
the president when he started making his own rules. I guess he
feels that his war efforts have come to nothing.”

Van der Walle nodded.

“The strange thing is that the Zimbabwe police tell us that
Tinubu died at the end of the war. They have his fingerprints,
death certificate. Everything. There must be a screwup somewhere.
Tinubu was definitely alive before he was killed,” Mabaku said with
unintentional irony.

The two sat in silence, finishing their tea.

“Tell me about the guy Langa was following from Johannesburg.
The one the Zeerust police followed back.” Mabaku drained his
cup.

Van der Walle shifted in his chair, embarrassed. “Unfortunately,
they lost him. He must have noticed them and then shook them off.
We don’t know who he is or where he is. The car registration – the
one Langa wrote on that receipt you found – is false. We blew it!
We’ve got nothing.”

Even Mabaku kept quiet. Van der Walle was suffering enough.

“I’d like to have one of my men work with you on this case. He
can stay in Gaborone for a few weeks or until you close the case.”
Van der Walle looked at Mabaku.

Mabaku took a deep breath. “I’m reluctant to allow that after
what has happened. I’ll let you know each week what’s happening
here.”

“Come on, Mabaku,” Van der Walle said. “Don’t be pig-headed.
Langa was a South African and a policeman. We have to be involved.
Tinubu met someone in South Africa before he was killed. And on top
of that, you’ll need lots of information from us. My man can act as
liaison so that you get what you need right away.”

Mabaku glared at him. “Getting information at all will be an
improvement! But you’re right. We need your help and you need ours.
It’s just that I’m still angry that your Langa came into Botswana
without my permission.” He paused. “I’ll get over it.”

Mabaku then proceeded to lay out exactly how the detective from
South Africa was to operate in Botswana. “And if he steps one inch
out of line, he’ll be across the border so quickly his hair will
char. Is that clear?”

Van der Walle’s smile warmed. This was the Mabaku he knew and
loved.

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

B
oy Gomwe sat in the
manager’s office at the Blast music store in Soweto, a sprawling
southern suburb of Johannesburg. He was selling. It was what he did
best. At that moment he was sipping instant coffee and making small
talk. Part of his sales technique. Chatty.

“You look tired, Joe. You should take a break. Do you good. I
was just on holiday. Great!”

Joe Petersen, the manager nodded, but looked sour. “Guess that’s
why you’re late. Shit! I was worried. Got commitments, you know?
Where’d you go anyway?”

“Botswana. Nice.”

“What were you doing there?”

Gomwe gave him a look. “Holiday, like I said. None of your
business anyway.”

Petersen shrugged. “Sure. Just curious.”

“I don’t like curious,” said Gomwe. He finished the coffee.
“Let’s get to the music. How are the sales?” Petersen started
describing what was, and was not, selling, and Gomwe pretended to
be interested. But he was not listening, and when the manager
stopped talking he pulled out an order book. “Great price on the
new Jo B16 CD. Special – R50. How many you want?”

“I don’t know. He’s not so popular anymore. Some people weren’t
impressed with that Rwanda story, trying to buy that kid and all
that.”

“He didn’t buy him. It was an adoption. He’s loaded. We should
be so lucky!” Gomwe gave Petersen a friendly shove. “I’ll put you
down for fifty.”

The discussion went on in this way for about half an hour.
Petersen heard some snatches from new releases, liking some,
disliking others. Gomwe put him down for all of them. At last he
tore off the top sheet of his order book and gave it to the
manager. Petersen had learned that he could not reject anything,
but he could negotiate on numbers. He pushed up a few and lowered
several. Then he gave the order back to Gomwe, who glanced through
it sourly. He had his reputation as the company’s best traveling
salesman to maintain. Hell, he wanted to win the trip to Mauritius.
But it looked all right. He nodded.

“You got my other order?” asked Petersen, trying not to sound
too eager.

“Of course.” Gomwe opened a case apparently stuffed with music
magazines. Actually, there were only a few. The bottom was false.
He lifted out a bag of white powder, weighing perhaps a couple of
ounces. Petersen opened it carefully, smelled it, and tasted a
touch on his finger. Gomwe looked on, disgusted. Petersen was
pathetic. He probably could not tell the difference between salt
and sugar, let alone judge the quality of heroin.

Petersen was satisfied. The packet vanished, and money changed
hands. A lot of money. No negotiation here either.

“I’ll get your order processed as soon as I’m back in the
office. That new stuff will sell like hot cakes once it hits the
airwaves. You’ll be glad you put in a good order while we had
stock. Thirty days as cash and five percent discount. As usual.
Okay?” Petersen said it was fine. He did not see Gomwe out.

Gomwe had one more call to make in Johannesburg. To settle a
score.

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

D
upie maintained his
happy-go-lucky appearance despite all the disruptions at
Jackalberry Camp. Salome, however, was showing the strain. Police
scouring every nook and cranny; the camp being closed to visitors
for four days; the endless questions. She was not in the mood to
entertain these guests, the first since the camp had reopened. So
after dinner she sat quietly next to Dupie, saying very little.
Dupie, on the other hand, was in fine form, and the guests were
enjoying beers, liqueurs, or Dom Pedros.

At least we’ll make some money, Dupie thought. He was surprised
that the group was hanging together. There were two friends sharing
a tent, who had arrived at the airstrip in a decrepit Cessna 172.
From Maun, they said. The first man was Spanish, short and swarthy.
The second, who said he was a Zulu, was big and black, with a
barrel chest and heavy muscles. An odd couple. Faggots, most
likely, thought Dupie. Then there was an English couple on their
first tour of the wilds of Africa; a young South African couple on
their honeymoon; and an elderly French couple, whose English was
limited. Enoch had met them at Ngoma that morning.

Most of the conversation was carried by the English and French
couples, gesticulating energetically to communicate. They were
obviously enjoying themselves, and Dupie was happy to keep their
glasses filled.

Suddenly one of the women screamed and lifted her legs off the
ground.

“A scorpion,” she cried. “A huge scorpion!”

A large, gray creature, about the width of a whisky glass,
darted from under her chair into the open near the fire.

“That’s not a scorpion,” Dupie said. “It’s a spider. See, it
doesn’t have pincers or a stinging tail.”

“A spider? It looks more like a scorpion to me,” said her
husband.

“No. It’s definitely a spider,” Dupie said emphatically.
“Actually, it’s a spider endemic to this area. It can be a real
pest, especially with people who use rooftop tents. You know, those
tents on the top of their Landy or Land Cruiser.”

The group fell silent, sensing Dupie’s next story.

“It’s called the ladder-climbing spider,” he said earnestly.
“You see those long legs? It jumps from one step on a ladder to the
next. People in rooftop tents are safe from lions. But they never
think of those spiders!”

The woman drew her legs up to her chest, huddling closer to her
husband.

“It is quite scary,” Dupie continued, “to wake up with one of
those spiders sitting on your face.”

Several members of his audience gasped. Salome shook her head
and rolled her eyes, like a wife hearing her husband’s story for
the hundredth time.

“The problem is you can’t just run away. A rooftop’s a long way
to the ground!” He paused for effect. “But you have to remember
they’re completely harmless. They feel dangerous when they’re on
your nose or eyes. But they’re harmless. Just brush them off and
ignore them.”

“Will they come into our tents?” asked the English lady.

“No, you don’t have to worry about them. Your tents don’t have
ladders, so the spiders aren’t interested in you. That’s why our
tents are on the ground.”