The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu (9 page)

“Zimbabwe. Born near Bulawayo.”

“Had you ever met Rra Tinubu, Rra Langa, or Rra Zondo
before?”

Enoch shook his head emphatically. “No.”

“Did you notice anything unusual the night Tinubu and Langa
died?”

Enoch shook his head again. “No. I don’t eat supper with the
guests. Dupie likes to tell his stories and help the guests drink.
I go to sleep. I saw nothing. I heard nothing. I didn’t talk to
anyone.”

Kubu took a deep breath, banishing an image of three monkeys
from his head.

“And how about in the morning? Why did Rra Du Pisanie fetch
Beauty and Solomon?”

“Rra Boardman wanted to find the finfoot and the skimmers. We
took a
mokoro
just after seven. Dupie doesn’t know about
birds.”

“Did you see Rra Zondo that morning?”

“Yes. I saw him in the boat crossing to the mainland with
Dupie.”

“What time was that?”

“About half past six.”

Kubu scanned his notes before asking the next question.

“When you picked up Rra Zondo,” Kubu paused. “What luggage did
he have?”

Enoch frowned. “Mmm. One suitcase and one tote, I think.”

“Did you notice anything unusual about them?”

“The suitcase was very heavy. He carried the tote himself.”

“And Rra Tinubu’s luggage?”

Enoch thought for a moment. “One suitcase and a briefcase.
Nothing special.”

“What about Rra Langa’s luggage. What did he have?”

“Just one tote. A small one. Nothing else.” Enoch shook his
head.

“Tell us about Rra Tinubu’s keys.”

Enoch looked surprised and hesitated. “He lost a small ring of
keys that evening at dinner. He was upset so I helped him look for
them. They were under the salad table. He said he hadn’t dropped
them there. Maybe Moremi’s bird stole them.” He shrugged.

Kubu asked a few more questions but learned nothing new. He
dismissed Enoch, asking him to call the cook. As Enoch was about to
leave, Tatwa casually lifted his cap and placed it jauntily on his
head. The Eye glared up at Enoch, who stared and clenched his
teeth. Turning, he walked out stiffly.

“Did you see that?” Tatwa asked.

Kubu nodded, and Tatwa closed the Eye again, covering it with
his cap.

♦

Suthani Moremi was an enigma. People regarded him as simple, yet
he devised and created wonderful meals that were hearty and quite
sophisticated, despite facilities that were marginal, and supplies
that were anything but exotic. Some people thought him a dolt, yet
he had a first-class high-school pass, and read books. Some
suspected mental problems. He was always talking or singing to
himself or chatting to the gray bird that seemed attached to his
shoulder, yet he was content, reliant only on himself and Kweh for
company and entertainment. It was this collection of paradoxes that
came into the tent humming a melody that Kubu recognized, yet
couldn’t place. Kweh looked around with brown eyes.

“Please sit down, Rra Moremi. This shouldn’t take long. I just
have a few questions.”

Moremi did not reply, but continued humming, distracting Kubu as
he tried to identify the melody.

“Did you have any conversation with Rra Tinubu, Rra Zondo, or
Rra Langa?”

Moremi shook his head in time with his humming. Suddenly he
stopped, and said: “Just the keys. He lost his keys, didn’t he,
Kweh? Enoch found them for him.” He shook his hand and produced an
excellent imitation of keys jingling.

“Whose keys?”

“Tinubu. He lost them. Was very upset. Enoch found them at the
buffet. But they weren’t there when he lost them.” He started to
hum the tune again.

“Does your bird sometimes pick things up?”

Moremi glanced up. “Did you pick them up, Kweh?” There was no
response, but Moremi seemed satisfied. “He says he didn’t.”

“Did you see any of them together?” Kubu said, trying vainly to
keep exasperation out of his voice.

Again Moremi nodded, still humming. But Kubu wanted answers.

“Where were they when you saw them?”

Moremi nodded, causing Kubu to drag himself to his feet.

“Rra Moremi,” Kubu fumed. “This is a murder investigation. I
need answers.”

Moremi’s singing stopped. He stared at Kubu. Then, in a strong
voice, he said, “Tinubu and Zondo were friends.”

Kubu blinked and looked over at Tatwa, who shrugged his
shoulders and rolled his eyes.

“What do you mean they were friends?”

“I can see friends when I see people. Or I can see not friends.
These men were friends.” He pulled a length of wire from his
pocket. Grasping it in the middle and rocking it rapidly, he made
its ends hit his left and right thighs alternately. As each end
hit, he made a clicking sound with his tongue, first a tick, then a
tock. It sounded like a ping-pong game – too fast for a grandfather
clock. Kubu shook his head to help him refocus on the
interview.

“Zondo wouldn’t kill Tinubu,” Moremi added. “They were
friends.”

“What about Tinubu and Langa?”

“Not friends. Not friends. Not friends.”

“Were they enemies?”

“Not enemies, not enemies.”

“Did you hear or see anything unusual on the night of the
murder?”

Moremi consulted the bird. “Did we, Kweh? Anything unusual? I
can’t remember anything. Can you?”

Kubu took a deep breath and plunged on. “Tinubu’s throat was
cut.” As he finished the sentence, Moremi hissed like a cat.

“Did you notice if any of your knives were missing?”

“No knives missing. No knives missing.” He shook his head
vehemently and fell silent. Looking quizzically at Kubu, he waited
for the next question. But Kubu had had enough. He stood up and
said, “Thank you, Rra Moremi. Please stay in the camp until I say
you can go.” Moremi stood up, lifted Tatwa’s cap, winked at the
Eye, and covered it again. Then he gave the bird a stroke, causing
its crest to rise, nodded to Kubu, and backed out of the tent
opening, once more humming the familiar tune Kubu couldn’t
identify.

♦

Kubu sent Tatwa to the lookout to retrieve the Boardmans. They
had their binoculars out still trying to spot elusive birds, but
their hearts were no longer in it. They came down without
reluctance. Kubu asked William to wait in the dining area.

“Can’t you interview us together?” William asked.

“It will only be a few minutes,” Kubu replied.

After the three of them were seated, Kubu got straight to the
point. “Mrs. Boardman, before this trip, did you know either of the
two victims, or Mr. Zondo?”

She shook her head. “No, I’ve never seen them before.”

“Did you speak to them over the past few days?”

Again she shook her head. “Just the usual pleasantries. We
usually sit by ourselves because we always talk about birds. Most
people get bored pretty quickly.” Kubu nodded. He could believe
that.

“Did you see or hear anything after you went to bed? A scream or
shout? A thud? Talking on the path? Anything unusual?”

“No,” she said. “We went to bed early because William wanted to
be up early.”

“Did you leave your tent at all during the night?”

“No. I didn’t even go to the loo. I think William did though. I
woke up in the middle of the night, and he wasn’t there. I thought
he’d gone to look for a Pel’s fishing owl – we’ve heard them call
almost every night – but his binocs were still on the table. I must
have been asleep when he got back.”

“Did you notice what time it was?” Kubu asked hopefully.

She shook her head. “Ask William. He should know. He wears his
watch the whole time.”

Kubu glanced through his notes. “One other thing. Detective
Mooka told me you have a Bushman hunting outfit with you. Are you a
collector?”

“Oh, yes!” Amanda brightened. “The Bushmen are wonderful people.
We bought it from Dupie. We’ve been buying stuff from him for
years.”

“So this isn’t your first time at the camp?” Kubu asked.

“Oh, no. We’ve been here several times over the past few years.
Five or six, I would think.”

“Have you bought stuff each time?”

“I think so,” Amanda said. “We’re lucky to know someone who has
spent time around the Bushmen and can buy their artifacts.”

“Are they genuine?”

“I don’t know what you mean by genuine,” Amanda said. “If you
mean were they made by Bushmen, then they are genuine. If you mean
are they more than fifty years old, then they are likely not. If
you mean were they actually used for hunting, I don’t know. All I
know is that they are authentic hunting outfits from a group of
incredible nomads, who are in danger of extinction.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Boardman. That’ll be all. Tatwa, please ask Mr.
Boardman to join us.” Kubu did not want any exchange of information
between Amanda and her husband.

A few minutes later, William Boardman was seated in front of
Kubu.

“Did you talk to either of the deceased or to Mr. Zondo?”

“No, other than to say good morning or good evening.”

“Had you met them before this trip?”

“No.”

Kubu glanced at his notebook. “Did you hear or see anything on
the night of the murders? Anything unusual? Any shouts or grunts or
thuds?”

“No, I didn’t,” William replied. “We got to bed early.”

“Did you leave the tent at any stage?”

William hesitated momentarily. “Yes. I heard a Pel’s fishing owl
calling and went to look for it.”

“And what time was that?”

“I’m not sure. Just after midnight, I think.”

“Did you find the owl?” Kubu asked, looking up. “Did you see
anyone while you were out?”

William shook his head. “No, I didn’t see anyone.” He sighed.
“Nor did I see the owl. So close. It would be a lifer for me!”

“How well do binoculars work at night?”

“Oh, they work okay, as long as you can find the bird in your
lens. That’s the hard part. Finding the bird. They don’t stick out
as well as they do in daylight.”

“Your wife told me that you left without your binoculars.”

William hesitated, a slight frown on his forehead. “I must have
been so excited hearing the Pel’s that I forgot them.”

“You were up early in the morning to go bird watching. Did you
see Zondo before he left?”

William frowned. “I didn’t talk to him, but I saw him with Dupie
on the motorboat crossing to the mainland. Zondo was wearing his
guineafowl feather hat. He was never without it. That was about six
thirty. Enoch took me out about half an hour later.”

Kubu nodded and made a note. “Just a few more questions, Mr.
Boardman, and you can go and have your gin and tonic.” Kubu smiled.
“Tell me about the Bushman artifacts that you have with you. What
are they? Where did you get them?”

William raised his eyebrows at this unexpected question. Kubu
wondered whether he caught a hint of concern in Boardman’s
eyes.

“Oh, we like Bushman art. Those are just cheap tourist pieces.
Amanda bought them in Kasane, I believe.”

Kubu’s mind went back to his youth and times spent with his
Bushman friend Khumanego. It was on their excursions into the
scorching desert that Khumanego had taught him how to see not just
what was in front of him, but also beyond the obvious. To see
clusters of stonelike succulent plants hidden in clusters of real
stones. To see the trapdoor of the trap-door spider’s lair hidden
in the shifting sands. To see what he wasn’t meant to see. It was
really Khumanego who was responsible for Kubu’s becoming a
detective.

“Have you been to Tsodilo?”

“Oh, yes,” said William enthusiastically. “It’s a must. It’s
brilliant.”

Kubu thought back to the reverence with which Khumanego talked
about Tsodilo. He called it the birthplace of mankind, believing
that was where humanity had begun. Hence the thousands of paintings
on the four rock masses that rose incongruously from the Kalahari
Desert. Kubu remembered Khumanego telling him of a painting of a
whale, even though the hills were hundreds of kilometers from the
Atlantic Ocean. How had those people traversed such great distances
across some of the most inhospitable land in the world? And found
their way back?

“Did you know that there are over three thousand paintings
there?” William’s question brought Kubu out of his reverie.

“And the hunting outfit? Where did you get that?” he asked.

“From Dupie. He’s been supplying us for years. He’s sourced some
wonderful stuff for us. We keep the best pieces for our own
collection. The rest we sell in our shop in Cape Town. Did you see
the pieces Dupie has in the lounge? Fantastic! They’re really old,
impossible to get these days.”

Kubu was curious. “So where did Dupie get them?”

“Must have been gifts from elders. They’re priceless. He’d never
sell them, of course,” William finished regretfully.

Kubu looked at him for several seconds of silence. “Are you sure
you saw no one? Heard nothing while you were out?”

“Absolutely sure,” William said emphatically. “Nothing at all.”
He held Kubu’s gaze. As if he’s afraid I’ll suspect he’s dishonest
if he drops his eyes, Kubu thought.

“Very well. Thank you for your time.” With that Kubu let William
go.

Kubu leaned back and wondered. On a quiet night in the bush, no
one at the camp had heard anything while two men were violently
murdered. Nothing except the sound of a zipper at about eleven.

♦

William and Amanda walked toward the bar.

“I’m sorry I mentioned the binocs,” Amanda said. “It slipped
out. Did you have to explain that to the fat policeman?”

William shrugged and smiled. He seemed in good spirits and
pleased with himself. “No problem. It didn’t bother him. Just going
through the motions, I think. Silly to go looking for owls with no
binocs, though.”

“This business has really spoiled our trip,” Amanda replied.

She winced, thinking of how much more it had spoiled the
victims’ trips.