The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu (7 page)

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

B
efore Boy Gomwe
arrived, Kubu’s cell phone started playing the Grand March from
Aïda
again. He groaned, fearing it was Mabaku checking up on
him. To his relief, it was a detective from Kasane.

“Superintendent Bengu, I’ve got information from Forensics for
you. First of all, Immigration has confirmed that nobody by the
name of Zondo left the country in the past forty-eight hours. Of
course, if he had one fake passport, it’s likely he had others.” He
paused for Kubu to comment, but the detective did not. “We’ve found
some interesting things. In Tinubu’s tent we found fingerprints
from the deceased, the maid, and a partial of Enoch Kokorwe’s on
the suitcase handle. But this is the interesting part. There were
two water glasses in Tinubu’s tent – one with Tinubu’s prints, and
guess whose prints were on the other?”

“Tell me. The director doesn’t like to pay for long calls.” Kubu
did not like guessing games.

“Well, we’re not sure actually, but the prints matched some on
Zondo’s registration form and several partials we found in his
tent. So it looks like Tinubu and Zondo had a chat before Tinubu
died.” Kubu grunted.

“We’re trying to get positive IDs on all the prints. Nothing in
our computers, but we’ve sent them to South Africa, Zimbabwe, and
the UK. Nothing back yet.”

“What was in the glasses?”

“We’ve sent them for analysis, but it seems to be plain
water.”

“What about the luggage?”

“There was a black briefcase. The odd thing is that it was
empty. Nothing in it at all.”

“Send it to Forensics in Gaborone for testing. See if they can
find out what was in it. What else?”

“Then there was an old, brown suitcase. All of Tinubu’s clothes
were off the shelf, probably bought in Gaborone. His wallet was in
his slacks. Hadn’t been tampered with and only his prints on it.
There was his identity document – he lived in Mochudi, just north
of Gaborone. Doesn’t seem he was married. One hundred and twenty
South African rands and two hundred and seventy pula in notes, and
a few coins.”

“I know Mochudi well,” Kubu interjected. “I grew up there, and
my parents still live there. I’ve never heard of him, though.” He
wondered why Tinubu was carrying South African currency.

The detective continued. “Oh yes. He was born in Zimbabwe
according to his identity document. I’ve sent his information and
prints to the Zimbabwe police, and I’m trying to find out when he
first came to Botswana.”

“He arrived at the camp by car?” Kubu asked.

“Yes,” the detective replied. “Rra Du Pisanie told us Tinubu and
Langa arrived together. Apparently Tinubu drove from Gaborone, but
his car broke down. Langa stopped to help. Langa had been to
Botswana only once before, a couple of years ago. What’s
interesting though, is that Tinubu was in and out of South Africa
the day before. Went through the border at Ramotswa at eleven and
returned the same way around three in the afternoon.”

“How often has he been to South Africa in the past few years?”
Kubu asked.

“This is the sixth time in fifteen months. Same thing each time.
In and out the same day. In and out a few days later. Maybe he had
a woman over the border.”

“Six times in fifteen months? Can’t be a very serious
relationship,” Kubu responded. “Sounds more like he picked
something up and then dropped something off. Have you found
Tinubu’s car yet?”

“All we’ve had time to do is get the make and registration
number. An old Peugot 404. We’ll send some people out to all the
repair shops to see where he left it to get fixed. I’ll let you
know if we find it.”

“And Langa’s car? Have Forensics been through it yet?” Kubu
asked.

“Yes. It’s a 2003 Focus with a Gauteng registration. We’re
waiting to hear back from South Africa with the details. They must
be overloaded at the moment. Haven’t heard back from them about
Langa either.”

“Anything of interest in the car?”

“Not really. He got fuel in Zeerust and then again in Gaborone
later that night. He also bought some fast food at the garage in
Gaborone. The next day he drove up here and refueled in Francistown
and Kasane. We’ve found all the receipts.” The detective hesitated,
then continued. “One other thing, there were some notes written on
the Zeerust petrol receipt. One looks like a Gauteng car license
number – BJW 191 GP. We’ve sent a query to South Africa. The second
is a Botswana license – B 332 CAX. We’re checking on that too. And
I’ve no idea what the rest is all about. First on the list is LC*.
Under that WB1. Under that is 1L. And finally under that
KGH-A19.”

Kubu wrote it down and puzzled over it. “Nothing obvious to me
right now. I’ll think about it later. What about next of kin for
Tinubu and Langa? Have they been notified?”

“We couldn’t trace anyone for Tinubu. I’ve asked the SA police
to check on Langa.”

“Let me know if you learn anything useful. Did you find anything
interesting in Zondo’s tent or in any of the others?”

“Nothing in Zondo’s. In Langa’s, there was his luggage and some
clothes strewn around. The only prints we found were his and the
maid’s. Everyone else’s tents were clean too. The Boardmans had an
old Bushman hunting kit, with a bow, some arrows, a pair of
sandals, a miniature bow and arrows, and a few empty containers
that may have been used for poison.”

“And the camp staff?” Kubu asked, not expecting much.

“Same thing. Nothing of interest.”

“Thanks,” Kubu said. “There’s one other thing you could check.
Try to track down where the plane could have gone after it picked
up Zondo. What airstrips and airports are in range. Let me know
immediately if anything turns up. Good work!”

Before the detective could respond, Kubu hung up and said to
Tatwa, “Seems Zondo had a drink with Tinubu – his prints were on a
glass in Tinubu’s tent. So they did know each other and possibly
had something in common. That may lead us to a motive.”

Tatwa shrugged. “I wonder why they didn’t have dinner together.
Isn’t it odd that they went for a quiet nightcap in the tent
without talking beforehand?”

“Water? Hardly my idea of a nightcap.” Kubu shook his head with
disapproval. “It seems they went to some trouble to look as though
they didn’t know each other. But there seems to be nothing
connecting Langa and Zondo.”

“It certainly looks like Zondo is the one we need to find,” said
Tatwa.

Kubu wasn’t listening. “There was nothing in Tinubu’s black
briefcase. I bet it wasn’t empty when he arrived.”

♦

Boy Gomwe sat down opposite Kubu and folded his arms. He looked
casual, but to Kubu he appeared ill at ease. He glanced at Gomwe’s
registration form.

“Mr. Gomwe, I see you’re scheduled to leave tomorrow. I’m hoping
that will be possible.”

“Yes, well, I’m busy, you know. This was just a short break.
Sort of squeezed in.” He hesitated and shrugged. “Still, doesn’t
bother me if I stay an extra day. As long as you’re paying.”

“Did you know Mr. Tinubu or Mr. Langa?”

Gomwe shook his head. “No. The first time I met them was here at
the camp.”

“Did either of them seem nervous then or later?”

“They seemed fine.” Gomwe hesitated. “There was just the issue
of the keys.”

This was news to Kubu. “What issue was that?”

“Tinubu lost his keys. He was very upset, suggested they’d been
stolen. Enoch found them at the salad buffet. Must have dropped out
of his pocket. But he was beside himself! It was silly. They
couldn’t be far away.”

“What keys? The tents don’t lock.”

“I don’t know. He had a small bunch of keys with him. Maybe his
house keys.”

“Perhaps. What do you do for a living, Mr. Gomwe?”

Gomwe played with his neck chain and checked his watch. Does he
have another appointment? Kubu wondered.

“I’m a rep for one of the big music companies – EMI. Good at it,
too. I’ve accounts throughout South Africa. And Gaborone. I’m on
the road a lot. Last year I got a trip to Cape Town as a bonus for
my high sales.”

“Why did you come to Jackalberry Camp?” Kubu looked up from his
notebook.

“I needed a break. Someone in Gaborone told me about this place.
I decided to give it a spin.”

“It’s very quiet here. I would’ve thought you’d prefer one of
the more sociable camps in Kasane.”

Gomwe shrugged. “I like the quiet. Birds and stuff.” He looked
over his shoulder at Tatwa as if seeking confirmation.

“Any family?”

Gomwe laughed. “Over my dead body.”

“Did you talk to Zondo?”

“Yes. He was really intense. Seemed to think everyone in the
Zimbabwe government was corrupt. And he always wore that silly hat
with the feathers.”

“The hat with the three guineafowl feathers?”

“That’s the one.”

“Did he tell you what he did for a living?”

Gomwe shook his head. “I didn’t ask.”

“Did you hear or see anything out of the ordinary the night
Tinubu was murdered?”

Gomwe shook his head again. “No, nothing at all. The first time
I realized there was a problem was at breakfast when the maid
started screaming.”

Kubu heaved himself out of his chair.

“Thank you, Mr. Gomwe. We’ll let you know when you can
leave.”

“Yes. Well, the sooner I can get back to work, the better.”
Gomwe got up and left.

“Not much to go on there,” Tatwa commented. “Everything seems
right. Dates and places in his passport match what he said. His
ticket shows a return tomorrow. And Salome confirmed that he made a
late booking. The bit about the keys is new though.”

“It’s time for a cup of tea and perhaps a biscuit,” Kubu said,
stretching. “Then we can interview the Munros, the Boardmans, and
the rest of the staff. Please ask Du Pisanie to make sure Beauty
and her husband are available in an hour. We’ll speak to Enoch
Kokorwe and the cook after that.”

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

S
everal hundred miles
to the northwest, a group of men – four black and one white – were
sweltering on a dusty veranda, a lean-to against a corrugated iron
building. The inside of the house, now an oven because of its metal
walls, was unbearable in the heat of the late afternoon Zimbabwe
sun. About a hundred yards away was a dirt airstrip. It looked
unused; vegetation was starting to encroach. Only the summer
drought had kept it serviceable at all. The men had been expecting
the plane for some hours. As the wait lengthened, tension increased
and tempers frayed. Only the white man sat quietly, calm, coldly
looking at the group around him. He called himself Madrid, but one
wag had suggested that a colder city would be more appropriate.

Johannes Mankoni, Madrid’s man, finally lost patience. “Where
are the bastards?” he yelled. “They should’ve been here hours ago.
Don’t tell me you don’t know. Find out! Get the pilot on the
radio.”

Others started talking, but the man seated at the head of the
table held up his hand, and immediately there was silence. Tall
with graying hair, the man had a military bearing that commanded
respect. Even Johannes stopped what he was saying. Only Madrid
appeared unimpressed.

“The man we are talking about,” said General Joseph Chikosi, “is
one of my most trusted people. Perhaps there has been a problem, a
delay. It’s mad to start panicking and talking about stupid courses
of action. We wait. If the plane is there, and the pilot is there,
there’s no need to call. They will get back here as soon as they
can. If the pilot is not there, it’s the police who will be
monitoring the radio.” He pointed to his cell phone lying on the
table. “Why not just phone the police from here and save them the
trouble of tracing us?”

Madrid’s eyes turned to Chikosi, and he cocked his head. “It’s
coming,” he said.

Johannes started to object, but then he heard it too, the
distant drone of a light plane engine. Chikosi’s face broke into a
smile, and the fractious mood lifted. Only Madrid remained
impassive. “But it’s three hours late,” he said flatly.

By the time the plane landed hard and bumped to a stop trailing
a cloud of dust, they were all gathered at the end of the strip.
But the man who climbed out of the Cessna 172 was alone.

“Where is he?” asked Chikosi. The pilot looked at the faces, now
closed, unwelcoming.

“He wasn’t there. I waited for three hours. Nothing. Then I took
off and did a pass over the area, I thought perhaps their vehicle
had broken down. Nothing. From the air I had a cell phone signal so
I tried to call him. Nothing. It went through to voice mail at
once. After that I got out in a hurry.”

Chikosi’s men said nothing while they digested this. It was
Madrid’s voice that cut through the screaming of cicadas. “We don’t
know what’s happened, but it’s nothing good. We have to take
precautions. We don’t risk our security. The police may have him.
Maybe they were caught, maybe they made a private deal. We move out
of here right away. The farm will be safe. For the moment.”

“We may be overreacting,” said Chikosi. “What about Peter? What
do we do about him? We should give this some thought.”

Madrid shrugged as though the matter was of little concern to
him. “If he wants to contact us and if he can, he will. If I were
you, I’d take the plane out right away. Suit yourself. But we’re
leaving now.” He walked off followed by Johannes, who gave the
group an angry frown over his shoulder as he left.

Madrid did not look back. He knew the others would follow him.
They always did.

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

O
ne of Kubu’s
delights, rarely enjoyed when on duty, was a leisurely cup of tea,
with the milk poured first of course, two teaspoons of sugar, and a
plate of mixed biscuits from which to choose. His wife Joy would
comment, out of earshot, that it was not a matter of choice, but of
order, because it was rare that any biscuits were left.