Detective Kubu 02; The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu Read online

  Michael Stanley

  The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu

  Detective Kubu #2

  2009, EN

  Aka A Deadly Trade

  Detective Kubu faces his most disturbing investigation yet when he finds himself caught up in a case of betrayal and mistaken identity on the outskirts of northern Botswana.

  Goodluck Tinubu, an ex-Zimbabwean who has taught in Botswana for many years, is viciously murdered at the Jackalberry bush camp, situated on an isolated peninsula in northern Botswana. Peter Sithole, a guest at the camp, is found bludgeoned to death a few hours later. Detective ‘Kubu’ Bengu is sent from Botswana’s capital, Gaborone, to assist the local CID in this puzzling investigation. Meanwhile, another guest at the camp – Ishmael Zondo – leaves the camp suddenly the next morning and disappears without a trace. The Zimbabwe police are unable to trace him. And, as fingerprints are matched, records reveal that Tinubu was killed in the Rhodesian civil war thirty years earlier…

  Table of contents

  AUTHOR NOTE

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Part One: THINGS TOLD

  1 · 2 · 3 · 4 · 5 · 6 · 7 · 8 · 9 · 10 · 11 · 12 · 13

  Part Two: BORROWED TROUBLE

  14 · 15 · 16 · 17 · 18 · 19 · 20 · 21 · 22 · 23 · 24 · 25

  Part Three: UNFORGIVING MINUTE

  26 · 27 · 28 · 29 · 30 · 31 · 32

  Part Four: A WOMAN’S GUESS

  33 · 34 · 35 · 36 · 37 · 38 · 39 · 40 · 41 · 42

  Part Five: RUNG BY RUNG

  43 · 44 · 45 · 46 · 47 · 48 · 49 · 50 · 51 · 52 · 53 · 54 · 55 · 56

  Part Six: NO ROAD THROUGH

  57 · 58 · 59 · 60 · 61 · 62

  Part Seven: The Thing Which Was Not

  63 · 64 · 65 · 66 · 67 · 68 · 69 · 70 · 71 · 72

  Part Eight: ONE MAY FALL

  73 · 74 · 75 · 76 · 77 · 78 · 79

  Part?: ALL ALIKE

  80

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  GLOSSARY

  ∨ The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu ∧

  AUTHOR NOTE

  On November 11, 1965, the white minority government of Rhodesia under Ian Smith unilaterally declared independence from its colonial parent, the United Kingdom. This triggered a bitter struggle between the forces of the government and the black freedom movements operating from the surrounding black-controlled countries. At first the government soldiers (who were black as well as white) had the upper hand but, as international sanctions started to bite in the land-locked country, it became clear that they would not be able to hold on to power. As in all guerrilla wars, the liberation movements resorted to terrorist tactics that were soon matched by those of the government forces.

  Eventually an internationally supervised election was held leading to the government of Robert Mugabe’s Zimbabwe African National Union. The newly named Zimbabwe seemed to have a promising future fueled by mineral and agricultural wealth, infrastructure, and wonderful tourist attractions. But in recent years draconian laws ruined agriculture, destroyed the economy, and beggared the people. With their currency valueless, many Zimbabwean families survived on small amounts of money sent home by relatives working in the surrounding countries, particularly the economic powerhouse of South Africa.

  To the west, Botswana, too, faced pressure from illegal immigrants. Situated on the Chobe River, Botswana’s northernmost town, Kasane, has grown to a tourist Mecca. Dramatically different from the desert regions in the south of Botswana, it has lush vegetation, perennial water rich in hippos and crocodiles, and elephant herds that occasionally wander into the town from the neighboring Chobe National Park. But it is an outpost: from a point near the town one can see Namibia, Zambia, and Zimbabwe.

  Like all wars, the Rhodesian bush war forged strange relationships, both good and evil. This story, set in present-day Botswana, is about the dissolution of two such bonds.

  ∨ The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu ∧

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Words in square brackets are approximate phonetic pronunciations. Foreign and unfamiliar words are in a glossary at the back of the book.

  Banda, Edison Detective sergeant in the Botswana Criminal Investigation Department (CID) [Edison BUN-dah]

  Beardy See Khumalo, John

  Bengu, Amantle Kubu’s mother [Ah-MUN-tle BEN-goo]

  Bengu, David ‘Kubu’ Assistant superintendent in the Botswana Criminal Investigation Department [David ‘KOO-boo’ BEN-goo]

  Bengu, Joy Kubu’s wife [Joy BEN-goo]

  Bengu, Wilmon Kubu’s father [WILL-mon BEN-goo]

  Boardman, Amanda South African curio collector and dealer, wife of William

  Boardman, William South African curio collector and dealer, husband of Amanda

  Chikosi, Joseph Retired general in the Zimbabwean army [Joseph chi-KOH-zee]

  Du Pisanie, Morne ‘Dupie’ Ex-Zimbabwean. Helps to run Jackalberry Camp [MOR-nay ‘DOO-pee’ doo-piss-AH-nee]

  Gomwe, Boy South African music salesman [Boy GOM-we]

  Jabulani, Peter Zimbabwean guest at Jackalberry Camp. Calls himself Ishmael Zondo [Peter Juh-boo-LAH-nee]

  Khumalo, John Zimbabwean criminal, referred to as Beardy [John Koo-MAH-loh]

  Kokorwe, Enoch Ex-Zimbabwean. Helps to run Jackalberry Camp [E-nock Kok-OR-we]

  Langa, Sipho Goodluck Tinubu’s travel companion at Jackal-berry Camp [SEE-poh LANG-uh]

  Mabaku, Jacob Director of the Botswana Criminal Investigation Department [Jacob Mah-BAH-koo]

  MacGregor, lan Forensic pathologist for the Botswana police

  Madrid Foreigner in Zimbabwe with ulterior motives

  Mankoni, Johannes Zimbabwean tough man [Johannes Man-KOH-nee]

  McGlashan, Salome Ex-Zimbabwean. Owner of Jackalberry Camp concession

  Mooka, Joseph ‘Tatwa’ Detective sergeant in Botswana Criminal Investigation Department [Joseph ‘TUT-wuh’ MOO-kuh]

  Moremi, Suthani Cook at Jackalberry Camp [Soot-AH-nee Mo-RE-mee]

  Munro, Judith English freelance journalist, sister of Trish

  Munro, Irish English freelance journalist, sister of Judith

  Serome, Pleasant Joy Bengu’s sister [Pleasant Se-ROE-me]

  Tinubu, Goodluck Ex-Zimbabwean now living in Botswana, guest at Jackalberry Camp [Goodluck Ti-NOO-boo]

  Zondo, Ishmael See Jabulani, Peter

  ∨ The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu ∧

  Part One

  THINGS TOLD

  There’s more things told than are true,

  And more things true than are told.

  —RUDYARD KIPLING, ‘THE BALLAD OF MINEPIT SHAW’

  ∨ The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu ∧

  1

  The farewells had been said many years ago, so Goodluck hugged his old comrade and left without a word. He zipped the tent door closed and started along the path to his own bush tent. The waning half-moon had risen; he was glad he did not need his flashlight. Goodluck came to a fork. Straight ahead the path led past the center of Jackalberry Camp to the guest tents on the other side. The right branch turned up a small hill to a view of the lagoon. It was a spectacular spot at sunrise, popular with early risers. Now it would be deserted, and on a whim he climbed the short distance. The moon silvered the lagoon, making him think of the great river that downstream defined his homeland. One day he hoped to end his self-imposed exile and return with dignity.

  He heard a noise – rustling leaves? But there was no wind. Despite the many years since the war, his bush-craft took over, and he faded into the thick brush with no hint of shadow or silhouet
te. A moment later a man appeared, walking along the main path almost silently. He seemed to be looking for something. Or for someone. He glanced up the path to the lookout, hesitated, but then continued straight. From Goodluck’s position in the thicket he couldn’t see the man well, but his face was black, and he was heavily built. As he moved the moonlight caught white sneakers. Goodluck sucked in his breath, let the man pass, and then followed soundlessly. Shortly afterward the man turned off toward the main area of the camp. Goodluck was puzzled. Was it coincidence, or had he been followed? If so, for what reason?

  Arriving at his tent, he saw flickering light within. He had left the storm lantern alight on the bedside table. Suspicious now, he peered around the edge of the fly-screen window so that someone inside wouldn’t be able ‘to see him. But the tent was empty. Everything seemed exactly as he had left it. Satisfied, he entered, zipped the flap door closed, and got ready for bed. He was tired and tense, but long ago he had learned to sleep quickly and deeply, even under threat.

  About two hours later he was wakened by the sound of the door zipper. In his war days he would have been instantly alert, but he awoke momentarily confused and blinded by the beam of a strong flashlight, and it took him a few seconds to react.

  That was much too long.

  ♦

  The next morning the camp staff went about their business as usual. The cook lit the wood stove, clattered about with his pans, and chatted to his pet bird. The cleaner, Beauty, helped her husband Solomon set up for breakfast. The wooden tables, clustered under two ancient jackalberry trees, needed to be wiped down, spread with tablecloths, and laid. Then Beauty would clean the central camp area and, after that, would get to the tents of the guests who were up and about. By habit, she would start with the one furthest to the east and work back toward the main camp area.

  The outdoor dining area overlooked Botswana’s Linyanti River to a hazy Namibia on the far side. It was a mesmerizing expanse of water, lilies, papyrus, and reeds. Hundreds of birds hugged the water’s edge, sometimes rising in flocks, other times lunging to catch unwary fish or multicolored tree frogs. Across the water, six majestic fish eagles perched in a tree, occasionally shrieking their haunting cry. Black egrets in abundance, darters and cormorants, jacanas, black crakes, and pied kingfishers hovering above the water. In the trees nearby, cheeky drongos imitated other birds, weaverbirds flew to and fro selecting grass to thread into their intricate nests, and clouds of red-billed quelea occasionally obscured the sun. Across one of the channels, four large crocodiles lazed on the white sand, pretending to be asleep, but cannily watching for prey through nearly closed eyes. Farther downstream, in a deeper pool, the ears of several hippos twitched, their noses barely breaking the water for air. Terrapin swam across the calm water and climbed onto hippo backs to sunbathe.

  A few hundred yards to the right of the dining area, three mokoros, coarsely hewn from the trunks of sausage trees, were pulled up on the grassy bank between acacia bushes. Another glided silently across the shallows toward the bank. A white man with a sunburned face sheltering under a floppy hat, binoculars slung around his neck, perched on a pile of dry reeds in the front of the boat, and scribbled notes in a spiral-bound notebook protected by a waterproof cover. At the back, a man, past middle age but wiry, with a sweat-stained shirt, stood propelling the mokoro with a long pole. When the mokoro reached the water’s edge, William Boardman wobbled to the front and jumped ashore. After thanking Enoch, the poler, he walked over to the outdoor dining area and joined his wife, Amanda, who had already started breakfast.

  “Good morning, dear,” he said brightly, putting his hand affectionately on her shoulder. He was rewarded with a warm smile. “I saw a finfoot and a malachite kingfisher this morning. Enoch saw the finfoot a hundred meters away. He’s a great spotter! We must get him to take us out this afternoon.” He leaned forward and whispered, “I also chatted to him about getting curios. Dupie’s been a bit slack on getting decent stock recently. Maybe Enoch can help us out.”

  A few moments later the cook, Suthani Moremi, wandered from the kitchen tent to ask William for his order. As always, on his shoulder Moremi sported a large, gray, crested bird with a long tail – a common go-away-bird. Each visit, the Boardmans enjoyed a private joke involving the bird. William always insisted that since it was indigenous and not caged, they could add it to their bird list. Amanda pointed out that it was obviously tame – and so, ineligible. Fortunately fate inevitably intervened as wild go-away-birds would descend on nearby fig trees to enjoy the fruit. Over the years, the Boardmans had developed a soft spot for Kweh, who made frequent sorties onto their table at meals, waiting patiently for a treat. His inquisitive eyes and cocked, crested head made him irresistible.

  Kweh was Moremi’s best friend. The cook constantly spoke to him, sharing observations and asking advice. “Do you think we should serve mango with the fish or just lemons?” Or “I think that everyone has had enough dessert. Or should I make some more pancakes?” For his part, Kweh appeared to listen intently, sometimes squawking an answer, sometimes nibbling Moremi’s ear. Occasionally, if disturbed, Kweh would let out a raucous shriek that sounded like a shrill “go away.” The call also sounded like “kweh,” so that became the bird’s name.

  At the table next to the Boardmans, a black man sat alone, working his way through three fried eggs, bacon, sausage, and chips. He wore sunglasses, jeans, and a Hawaiian shirt complete with palm trees at sunset. Sun spots danced across his tablecloth, reflections from a heavy gold chain hanging around his neck. With a nod he acknowledged William as he sat down. William wondered why this man had chosen Jackalberry Camp for his holiday. He did not seem interested in birds, declining yesterday afternoon’s motorboat trip up the river. But after a few drinks he became the life and soul of the party, even outdoing Dupie. William had discreetly asked Dupie about the man. His name was Boy Gomwe, his South African passport well used throughout southern Africa. He had given his profession as salesman.

  Vaguely, William wondered whether the other three black guests had already finished breakfast. But the expectant tables suggested otherwise. Had they gone for a walk together? Up to now they had not seemed particularly friendly.

  Trying to be affable, William asked Gomwe if he had enjoyed the morning so far. The man shrugged. “Slept late.”

  “There were wonderful birdcalls at sunrise,” offered Amanda.

  “I’m really only interested in birds I can eat,” said Gomwe.

  “Let me tell you a story about eating birds.” The voice came from a heavily tanned man with a straggly gray beard and hair to match. He wore an old khaki shirt, patched in several places. His shorts, made from canvas, sagged down to his knees. Brown knee-length socks disappeared into worn leather boots. Everyone knew him as Dupie. Few people even knew his real name was Morne du Pisanie. He was solid and strong and had a stomach that protruded dramatically. It was a sight to behold – the result of thousands of liters of beer. The best view was from the side, which allowed for the proportions of his belly to be properly appreciated.

  He walked from the kitchen tent, glass of mango juice in hand, and sat heavily on a chair at Gomwe’s table. One leg of the chair sank several inches into the ground, causing the onlookers to wonder hopefully if it might tip over as had happened the previous evening after dinner.

  “When I was in the Scouts,” Dupie began, wriggling to find a comfortable position in his chair. “When I was in the Scouts,” he repeated, looking around at Amanda and William. “That’s the Selous Scouts, not the bunch of cute boys who wear uniforms, collect badges, and sleep together.” He winked at Gomwe. “Well, anyway…”

  But Dupie was never to finish his story. He was interrupted by a piercing scream that catapulted dozens of birds skyward. The scream came from behind the kitchen. The three guests leaped up, looking around anxiously. A second scream. Dupie lumbered into the kitchen, returning with a heavy stick. Before he could head toward the sleeping area, Beauty appeared, ru
nning, stumbling, hands to her mouth.

  “He dead,” she whimpered. “Someone kill him. Blood all over his throat. Ears gone! He dead!” She threw herself into Dupie’s arms and burst into tears.

  “Who’s dead, Beauty?” Dupie asked, patting her on the back. “What did you see?”

  “In Kingfisher tent. Dead man. Murdered!” Her body shook.

  “Get her some water,” Dupie said, passing Beauty to Moremi, who had emerged from the kitchen. “No, hot tea would be better. I’ll be right back.” He ran surprisingly quickly into the reception tent, emerging seconds later with a rifle in hand, an old bolt-action Lee-Enfield .303, probably World War I surplus. He headed toward the last in the line of well-separated tents, perhaps three hundred yards from the reception area, rifle at the ready. When he reached Kingfisher tent, panting, he brushed one flap aside with the rifle barrel and glanced in. Immediately he shouted, “Enoch! Quickly! Come here!” As he closed the tent flaps, zipping them from top to bottom, the Munro sisters ran up from their tent.

  “What on earth’s going on, Dupie?” asked Trish.

  “We heard somebody screaming,” said Judith, clutching her sister’s arm.

  Dupie ushered them down the path to the silent group in the dining area.

  “He’s dead. Looks as though someone slit his throat,” Dupie told them.

  “Who’s dead?” William demanded.

  “It’s Goodluck. Goodluck Tinubu.”

  “Maybe he’s not dead. I’ve had first-aid training,” William said. “Let me take a look.”

  “He’s dead all right,” Dupie responded. “No one goes into that tent but the police. I’ll call them now. Enoch, you stay outside and guard the body.” He handed the rifle to Enoch, who nodded and set off toward Goodluck’s tent.

  “Are you sure it’s Goodluck?” Gomwe asked.

  Dupie nodded. “Seems his name wasn’t very appropriate.”