The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu (54 page)

“They solved the second problem by actually making Goodluck look
murdered. Dupie got clever and mutilated the body to make it look
like a revenge killing of some kind. He knew we’d see through that,
but his idea was that his hypothetical murderer would want to apply
some misdirection to point away from the money.

“As to who had the money, they assumed it would be one of the
black guests. The choice was between Zondo, Gomwe, and Langa. Langa
seemed unlikely. He had come with Goodluck. Why give him the money
at the camp when they could do it in comfort in the car? Gomwe was
a possibility, but he came from South Africa. Why travel across the
whole of Botswana to do the exchange? What was wrong with Mochudi
itself? That left Zondo. Flown in from Zimbabwe by charter. It made
the most sense. So they went after him, and they were right.”

“So it was Zondo who ended in the river?”

“That’s right. And the story of the family emergency was
transferred to him. They even dressed up Enoch in Zondo’s hat and
jacket in case anyone was up and watching when the two of them
left, supposedly Dupie and Zondo going to the airstrip. On the
mainland, Enoch borrowed a
mokoro
– it turned out to be
Solomon’s – to get back to the camp and take William Boardman bird
watching, while Dupie drove toward the airstrip and got rid of
Zondo’s hat and coat. Our lucky break was when those were
found.”

“What about Langa and Boardman?”

“Langa was following Goodluck. He must have realized the money
had been passed on to Zondo, so he transferred his attention to
him. Maybe he heard something and went to check. Anyway he came
upon Dupie and Enoch coming back from the river with bloody hands.
He challenged them. That was a fatal mistake.

“As for Boardman, he was up even earlier than usual, going about
his bird watching, and saw the two men crossing the river in a
mokoro
. Of course he had his binoculars with him and took a
look. He spotted that it was Enoch and Dupie, and probably wouldn’t
have thought any more about it, but he was surprised by Enoch’s
hat. Exactly like Zondo’s. Dupie had been too clever again. But it
wasn’t spotting the hole in Dupie’s story that was is fatal
mistake, it was trying to use it for blackmail.”

Mabaku shook his head at the wiles of people. “And they pulled
that murder off by setting up a meeting between Dupie and Boardman
in Maun, and pretending that Enoch had broken down along the road
to Kasane when, in fact, he made his way along the firebreak road
to Maun, killed Boardman, and headed back to Kasane on the main
road, even making a cell phone call to try to confuse the time of
death.”

Kubu nodded. “Yes, that’s exactly what they did. I wonder if
Notu is still trying to find his robbers!”

“Has Du Pisanie admitted all this yet?”

Kubu shook his head. “No, he’s sticking to his story: it was all
Enoch acting on his own. He only admits providing Enoch with an
alibi for the trip to Maun. But no judge will buy that in the face
of Enoch’s coherent confession and the disappearance of Ishmael
Zondo. Dupie claims Zondo vanished because he still had the goods
he was going to swap for the money. But that’s nonsense. In fact, I
no longer think it was a swap. It was payment for services about to
be rendered. To the new interim military government of Zimbabwe.”
Kubu snorted.

“What about the McGlashan woman? What was her role?”

Kubu looked pensive. “First I thought she was the brains behind
the whole thing, but now I’m not sure. She claims she knew nothing
about what was going on, and she’s been pretty convincing. She may
have known about them, but she certainly wasn’t actively involved
in any of the murders. Enoch is adamant that she knew nothing at
all, and he has nothing to gain by saying that. Frankly, whether
she knew about the crimes or not, I don’t think we have a case
against her unless Enoch and Dupie change their stories. We’ll
sweat them a bit longer, but then we’ll have to let her go.”

Mabaku nodded slowly. “Good work. How did you eventually get
four when you put two and two together?”

Kubu shrugged, a little amazed that the director was so
complimentary this morning. “It was a lot of small things. Goodluck
had his throat cut after he was dead, and Boardman was tortured
after he was dead. It seemed an odd coincidence. The two glasses in
Goodluck’s tent with Zondo’s prints on one. Why would Zondo leave a
glass there after murdering Goodluck? In fact, Dupie brought the
glass there from Zondo’s tent after the murders. Then there was
Zondo’s disappearance. Even if he’d planned the whole thing
carefully, it was hard to imagine he would vanish so perfectly. We
thought maybe the Zimbabwe police had him, but my visit there
convinced me otherwise. And if he had gone to – say – South
America, then Boardman’s murder was unconnected. That seemed
unlikely.”

Kubu had more to tell. “Finally there was the issue of Zondo’s
hat. Why would he discard it? He always wore it at the camp. First
I thought that he’d deliberately used it as an inverse disguise –
attracting attention to the hat rather than to himself – but Moremi
said he had an attachment to the hat, and I believed him. That
meant the hat was discarded because Zondo wasn’t around anymore.
Once I had that insight, the rest came easily.”

Mabaku came around from behind his desk and gave Kubu a thump on
the shoulder. “Well done! It seems the hippo outfoxed the
crocodiles!”

Kubu thought of Zondo’s consumed body, and Tatwa struggling in
the river. “Maybe,” he said somberly. “But it was a close thing.”
He rose to leave, but another thought occurred to him.

“You know, Director, you and I don’t believe in coincidences.
Yet in this case there was a huge one. It nearly derailed
everything by sending me off in the wrong direction.”

“The Gomwe murder?” Mabaku suggested.

“Yes.” Kubu shook his head. “The timing seemed perfect – Gomwe
coming back to Botswana just as Boardman was killed and then being
murdered himself. But actually he was trying to muscle in on the
trans-frontier drug trade. Perhaps the money people in South Africa
tipped him off about Jackalberry, and that’s why he was snooping
around when Goodluck was there. But actually his death wasn’t
directly connected to the money destined for Zimbabwe. I was so
desperate to catch the people who were threatening Joy and
Pleasant, I convinced myself that Gomwe’s murder was the key. That
was almost a huge mistake.”

Mabaku nodded slowly, digesting this. “How’s Tatwa doing on that
case?”

“It’s going to test his skills even more than the Jackalberry
one. We’ve got the woman and the ranger on various drug charges –
that’s open and closed. But as for the murder charges, I don’t
know. They both claim that the other’s accusations are lies. I’m
not sure we have enough hard evidence to convict them. Anyway,
we’ll see. Tatwa’s developing into a very good interrogator. Maybe
he’ll get a breakthrough.”

“And Van der Walle owes me one for his bust in Johannesburg.
That’s always useful.” Suddenly Mabaku was serious again. “Things
are still pretty confused in Zimbabwe, Kubu, but we’ve asked the
government for help to track down Madrid and his thugs. The
commissioner has made it clear that if they want cooperation from
the Botswana Police Force in the future, they need to deliver on
this one.”

“But they’ll never give us Madrid if they catch him!”

“Yes, we know that. We just want to be sure he doesn’t get away.
Once they’ve got him, he’s no longer a threat. To anyone.”

Kubu realized that this was the best resolution he could hope
for. He was grateful the commissioner had moved so quickly and was
beginning to feel a little ashamed of his earlier outburst.

“Thank you, Jacob. And thank you for your support when things
were going badly for me. You won’t regret it.”

Mabaku smiled. Suddenly he stuck out his hand and warmly shook
Kubu’s surprised one. “Oh, and congratulations!” Realizing that
Kubu was lost, he added, “On becoming a father, of course.” Kubu’s
mouth worked. How on earth does Mabaku know these things? It seemed
Mabaku could read this thought too. He laughed. “Oh, I phoned for
you yesterday when you were out, and Joy told me. She didn’t
mention it to you?”

Kubu shook his head, but he had a broad smile. Just the reminder
was enough to restore his good humor.

Mabaku gave him another playful thump. “Your life’s going to
change, Kubu. But you’ll never be sorry, not for a moment. My kids
are grown up now, but they still give us a lot of pleasure. The
first twenty-five years are the hardest, though!”

Kubu grinned. “We better get back to work,” he said.

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

ALL ALIKE

He walked by himself, and all places were alike to
him.

—
RUDYARD KIPLING,
Just So
Stories

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

S
alome walked around
the camp thinking of what had been lost and what had been gained.
It was not for the last time. She would need at least two trips to
Kasane to move the items not part of the sale of Jackalberry Camp.
She had been lucky to find a buyer who was willing to negotiate the
extension of the concession and pay her a fair price. For the first
time in many months she looked around at the river and the view of
the hills, hurting from the beauty. Scattered clouds were gathering
on the horizon. She would go to the lookout for the sunset. It
should be spectacular.

One more commitment remained. She was tempted to shrug it off,
just as she was trying to shrug off the life and the events that
had led her to this point. Why, when things were changing for them,
had Dupie thrown it all away on a quest for revenge and riches? She
shrugged. She needed to move on while there was still time for her
to build a life. If there is still time, she thought wryly.
Wherever I go, I take myself with me. But she had made a promise,
and she did not want any open doors left behind her.

She needed a spade. Take a spade, Dupie had said from behind the
heavy prison glass. She had seen him just that once after her
release. Will you come to see me again? he had asked. With sadness
in her heart, she had said she would not. He had nodded, almost
relieved. That is when he had told her where to go and to take a
spade. He had asked her to promise that she would, and after
hesitating, she had given her word. They owe it to you, he had
said. So now she needed to close this one remaining door.

The spade, used to trim the camp paths, lived behind the
kitchen, so she went to fetch it. There she found Moremi. As always
Kweh was on his shoulder, clucking and eating a marula.

“Will you stay, Moremi?” she asked. “You’re a wonderful cook;
the new owner will be lucky to have you. He’ll probably pay you
much more than I could afford to. I’ll write a reference, if you
like.”

Moremi smiled but shook his head. “We’re going to see the world,
Kweh and me. Kasane, Francistown, maybe even Gaborone!” He did a
little pirouette, disturbing the bird. “Don’t worry. We’ll be fine.
You, too. We’ll all be fine. It is time.” He started to hum the
farewell song.

She picked up the spade. Moremi watched her as she walked
off.

Where the camp path ended, she had to push through bushes to get
down to the river. There was a small inlet with a quiet bay
surfaced with fine mud. Salome had no idea what she was looking
for, or what was there to find, but she took off her sandals,
checked for crocodiles, and waded into the water in her shorts.
There was a large log jammed between rocks, red and shiny from
water wear. Where Dupie had told her, she started to dig in the
silt behind the log. More accurately she scooped the mud away. Very
soon, the spade hit metal, and she stepped back, waiting for the
now cloudy water to clear. Then she could see a mud-stained muslin
bag. Leaning on the spade, she reached down with her right hand and
tried to lift it out, but it seemed stuck in the river. After a few
tugs, she tossed the spade onto the shore and used both hands to
dislodge the bag. It didn’t seem large but it was very heavy. She
supposed it was waterlogged and weighed down with mud. There was
another bag below the one she had moved.

Salome dragged the bag to the shore and unwound the wire tie.
Then she saw the golden gleam. She lifted out the top bar, shiny,
unsullied by the mud or water. On the top was stamped 1 kg, with a
mark indicating the source and the purity. Over two pounds of
Zimbabwean 20 carat gold, with a value of over thirty thousand U.S.
dollars. And the bag was full. And there was at least one more bag
in the river. There could be a million dollars worth of gold here,
she thought, amazed.

“They owe it to you,” Dupie had said. Who? The terrorists who
killed her family and distorted her life? The people of Zimbabwe?
The politicians who had maimed the country as badly as she had been
maimed? She stood and thought about this gold and the money for
which, she supposed, it was to have been exchanged. Money and gold
that had taken four lives, as well as the freedom of Dupie and
Enoch. Should she turn in the gold to the police? Be free of it
once and for all? But they would give it back to the greedy
politicians. Or should she keep it as repayment of a debt everyone
else had forgotten?

Eventually she retied the wire, dragged the bag back into the
river, and covered it again with the sandy mud. Perhaps there would
be a time for it, but that was not now. She washed her hands and
feet in the river and put on the sandals, slippery on her wet feet.
She pushed through the brush back toward the camp. Perhaps Moremi
had made coffee.

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧