Detective Kubu 02; The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu Page 12

“Put your hand behind you.” Salome did nothing, so gripping the flashlight in his teeth, the invisible intruder jerked her other arm behind her and taped her wrists tightly. Then he pulled her roughly to her feet.

  “Move!” He pushed her out of the tent toward Dupie’s.

  ♦

  In the adjacent tent, much the same scenario had taken place. Caught completely unawares, Dupie was now trussed, but not gagged. However, unlike Salome, he knew who his assailant was – Madrid, the man of few words. Madrid held a knife to his throat.

  “You cause me trouble, I’ll cut your throat like a fat pig,” Madrid said.

  “What do you want? You think we’ve got money? You’re joking!” Dupie wondered how this was going to end.

  Moments later, Salome was pushed into the tent followed by Johannes, pistol in hand.

  “Down,” he said to her. She didn’t move, so he shoved her down, and she landed heavily on the ground. Then he tied her legs with a heavy plastic tie around her ankles. Johannes turned to Dupie.

  “Answer the questions. No one gets hurt. You lie, or you try anything clever, I kill her first. You understand?” Johannes jabbed Dupie in the ribs. Dupie nodded. Madrid stepped back so that he could watch Dupie’s face.

  “Did you take Zondo to the plane? Left him there like you said? Didn’t see the plane?”

  “Yes! I already told you.”

  “Tell me again. Her life depends on it.”

  Another jab in the ribs from Johannes. Dupie winced, then nodded.

  “Say it!”

  “Yes! I took him to the airstrip and left him there.”

  “You’re lying,” said Madrid. “He never contacted the pilot.”

  “Well, that’s what he told me.”

  “The pilot came to fetch him the next day, but he wasn’t there.”

  “The pilot works for you?”

  “I’ll ask the questions!”

  Dupie searched desperately for some way out. “If the pilot works for you, Zondo would’ve needed a different plane to get away. Stands to reason!”

  “Did he take his bags with him?”

  Dupie nodded again.

  “What bags did he have?” Madrid hissed.

  “He had a suitcase and a tote bag,” Dupie said.

  “What color was the tote?” Another jab from Johannes. Harder this time.

  “I think it was green. Maybe blue.”

  “Where’s Tinubu’s luggage?”

  Dupie grunted as Johannes jabbed his ribs again. “The police took all his stuff. I think there was a suitcase. A brown suitcase.”

  “Why do you think the murders were about drugs?” This time it was Johannes who asked, jamming the pistol barrel into Dupie’s solar plexus.

  “I’m just guessing.” Dupie gasped. He had been in many life-threatening situations in the war, but this felt different. Johannes was a typical thug, but Madrid’s coldness frightened him. He had to find a way of getting out of this alive. “What else could it be?”

  “You’d better tell me what I want to know!” Madrid said. Johannes emphasized the point by pulling Dupie off the bed and kicking him in the belly.

  “Where’s Tinubu’s briefcase?” Madrid asked.

  Dupie shrugged. “I suppose Zondo took it.”

  Madrid raised his hand and Dupie braced for the blow, but it was Salome he hit across the face, and the slap left an angry red mark, visible even in the dim light.

  “You’re lying to me! You said nothing about Zondo taking a briefcase.”

  Dupie struggled. “Leave her alone! It’s got nothing to do with her!”

  Madrid stuck the point of the knife into Salome’s throat.

  “I count to five. You don’t tell me the truth, I’ll cut her throat!” Madrid’s voice was harsh. “One. Two. Three. Four…” Salome was whimpering through the gag.

  “Wait!” Desperately Dupie grasped for a plan, anything that would keep them alive. “The police have it! It was in Tinubu’s tent. Seemed very heavy.” Johannes glanced at Madrid.

  “Why didn’t you tell me before?” Madrid asked.

  “The police told me to say nothing. Said it was top secret. Said I’d be in big trouble if I let on.”

  “Did you see who took the briefcase?” Johannes kicked Dupie again.

  “The fat detective,” Dupie responded quickly. “Bengu. He’s from Gaborone.”

  “If you are lying, I’ll cut her into pieces in front of you! Then I’ll throw you to the crocodiles.” This time Johannes’s kick caught Dupie on the mouth and nose. He felt a tooth break and blood pour down his cheek.”

  “It’s the truth. I swear!”

  Johannes looked as though he was going to kick Dupie again, but Madrid stopped him.

  “Maybe it’s true. We’re not going to get anything more out of them. Shut his mouth.”

  Johannes pulled a rag from his pocket. “Open your mouth!” he ordered.

  But Dupie had had enough. “Fuck you!” he said and clamped his mouth shut.

  “Open!” Johannes hit Dupie on the side of his face. Dupie kept his mouth closed.

  Johannes took the pistol by the barrel and clubbed Dupie on the side of the head. He went limp. Johannes stuffed the rag into Dupie’s mouth and taped it tightly.

  Madrid glowered. “Maybe it’s true,” he said again. “Otherwise so-called Zondo is living it up in South America by now. Bastard!”

  Johannes looked down at Salome, at the outline of her body, helpless, the terror in her eyes. He liked that. Then he saw the dismal coldness of Madrid, watching him. He shrugged.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he said.

  ∨ The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu ∧

  22

  Dupie regained consciousness and immediately wanted to throw up. A foul-tasting rag was halfway down his throat. He tried to shift it by working his tongue. Eventually he moved it enough to relieve the pressure. He took stock of his situation. The side of his head ached, and some sort of tape was wrapped around his head, across his mouth. The gag was there to stay, and he could free neither his hands nor legs. And the tent was pitch black. He couldn’t see a thing.

  Not good, he thought. These guys knew what they were doing. Dupie was thankful to be alive and relatively uninjured. He heard a muffled sound and remembered Salome. She’s alive, he thought. Thank heaven. He grunted a response and rolled onto his side and wriggled toward where he thought she was. A few moments later his head touched her, but he could not tell where her head was. He grunted again. She replied in kind.

  He wriggled until he thought he was pointing toward the tent door. He used his legs to push himself forward. On the third or fourth push, his head banged into something solid.

  “Fuck,” he shouted, muffled through the gag.

  He wriggled again, changing direction. Same result. This time his head hit the side of the tent. He turned himself a little to the right and pushed again. More tent. Again he turned to the right. Again, the tent.

  I must find the opening, he thought.

  But the next advance resulted in another sharp blow to the head.

  Fucking hell, he thought. I may never get out.

  After what seemed an eternity of turning and pushing, Dupie still had not succeeded. He lay exhausted. He had kicked over the table beside his bed, but it hadn’t made enough noise to wake the staff. He lay on the floor, panting, despondent. He might have to wait for morning.

  Then, in the distance, he heard the sound of an outboard motor.

  The bastards, he thought. They’ve taken the boat. He ached all over, and the broken tooth throbbed.

  Suddenly he heard Enoch’s voice.

  “Dupie! Dupie! You awake?”

  Dupie made as much noise as he could through the gag. He saw a light outside the tent. Moments later the flap zipped open, and the beam of Enoch’s flashlight caught Dupie first and then Salome.

  “Shit!” Pulling a pocketknife from his trousers, Enoch dropped to his knees and cut Dupie’s bonds. Dupie pulled
the tape off his mouth and spat the rag out, wincing in agony as the cold air blew across the broken tooth.

  “Fucking shit,” he said. “The bastards!” He grabbed Enoch’s knife and freed Salome.

  “Are you all right?” he asked. “Did they…”

  “I’m fine,” she whispered. “They didn’t touch me.” She felt far away, watching from the distance.

  “Thank God!” He helped her to her feet and wrapped her in his arms. She flung her arms around him and started sobbing.

  “It’s all right,” he murmured. “We’re both alive, and they’ve gone. I heard the motorboat.”

  “Boat woke me,” Enoch said. “Something was wrong. Something’s always wrong!” He cursed in his home language. “Was it the two men?”

  Dupie nodded. “The bastards. They were after Tinubu’s briefcase. I’d better call the police.” He took Salome’s hand, leading her to the dining area.

  “Sit down,” he said gently. “Enoch will get you a Scotch. Enoch, then go and boil some water. A cup of coffee will go down well. I’ll be back in a minute.” Salome grabbed for him, but he was already on his way. At the office tent he grabbed the Lee-Enfield rifle and slid a cartridge into the breech. Then he rummaged on his desk for his cell phone. When he found it, he dialed the Kasane police station. While waiting, he dug out his old service revolver, hidden at the back of a filing cabinet drawer.

  “Kasane police station? This is Dupie du Pisanie at Jackalberry Camp – that’s where the murders took place last week. We’ve just been attacked by two men connected to the murders. They may still be nearby.” But Dupie was sure they had left with the boat. Why would he be alive if they had wanted to stay? “When can you get here?”

  The policeman explained they would not be able to get to Jackal-berry Camp before morning. It was already nearly midnight, and it would take hours before anyone would be ready to leave. But he promised to contact the station commander.

  “You’ve got to come now!” Dupie yelled. “They may still be here. They could kill us!”

  “I’ll call you back,” the policeman said and hung up.

  Dupie cursed. Then he stuffed the phone into his pocket and returned to the dining area, firearms in hand.

  He shoved the handgun to Enoch. “Look after Salome while I check on the boat.” Dupie walked quietly behind the guests’ tents, over the ridge to the jetty. In the dim moonlight, he could see that the boat was gone.

  Then he went to where the mokoros were usually moored. There was nothing there. He shone Enoch’s flashlight out to the lagoon, and saw the small boats floating, ghost-craft on the glass-still water. He turned back to the dining area.

  “All the boats are gone,” he told Enoch and Salome. He called Kasane police station again, telling the constable they had no boats, that they were stranded.

  The policeman said he would alert all police on the Namibian border, but that the police would only get to the camp in the morning.

  “The police can only get here sometime tomorrow,” Dupie said after hanging up. “There’s nothing we can do but wait. I’m sure they’ve gone, but we can’t take a chance. Enoch, you face that way. Check the revolver’s loaded. Salome, you face the kitchen. If you see anything, shout, and I’ll shoot the bastards.”

  As the three settled down to spend the night peering tensely into the darkness, they heard the drone of a small plane in the distance.

  ♦

  Faint streaks in the easterly sky found the three still huddled together. Exhausted from tension and lack of sleep, they had struggled to stay awake, taking turns to walk around and stretch. Fear and mutual cajoling had spurred them.

  Suddenly Dupie’s phone rang, causing all three to jump.

  “Shit,” cursed Dupie, fumbling for the phone.

  “This is Du Pisanie,” he whispered. The other two strained to hear.

  Dupie related what had happened the night before. Then he listened carefully to the caller.

  After hanging up, he said, “That was Detective Mooka – the tall one. He’ll be here as soon as he can, but he’s not sure he can get a plane. He may have to drive. Anyway it’s too late. That plane we heard last night must’ve been them. No one else would fly a light plane in the middle of the night. It looks as though they’ve got clean away.”

  ∨ The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu ∧

  23

  On Saturday afternoon after lunch, Kubu was sitting on his veranda, cup of tea in hand. Inevitably, his relaxed mood was interrupted by the telephone.

  “Kubu,” Joy called from inside the house. “It’s for you. Tatwa.”

  Kubu pulled himself from his seat and walked to the phone. Tatwa’s found out something about the murders, he thought.

  “Kubu, we’ve got a problem,” said Tatwa, ignoring Kubu’s greeting. “I’m at Jackalberry Camp. It’s been attacked again.”

  “What do you mean, attacked again?” Kubu interjected.

  “Well, last night two guests attacked Salome McGlashan and Dupie du Pisanie. They’re alive but Du Pisanie was quite badly assaulted. Happened about midnight, and they were tied and gagged. Then the intruders stole the camp’s motorboat for their getaway. That woke Enoch Kokorwe, who found them tied up in Du Pisanie’s tent.” He paused for a moment, “Apparently they wanted to know what had happened to Zondo and where Tinubu’s briefcase was.”

  “Good heavens! Does Du Pisanie know who they were?”

  “He’s got their registration papers and so on, but they seem to be false, as you would expect. One was white, said he was from Spain; the other a black from South Africa. Threatened to kill both of them. McGlashan’s very scared, as you can imagine. I’ve arranged to leave a couple of constables here for a few days.”

  “What have you learned so far?” Kubu asked.

  “Not much. No one on the island heard a thing. The police found mokoros from the camp floating on the river. They’ve all been returned to the camp. They also found the camp’s Land Rover at the airstrip. They’d taken the keys from the office. And Dupie and Enoch both say they heard a small plane taking off not long after the attackers left. We’ve got plenty of fingerprints, to be processed as soon as I get back to Kasane. We’ve alerted all the border posts and so on, but we’ll draw a blank, I’m sure. And, of course, Civil Aviation hasn’t any flight plans on file for any plane going to the airstrip.”

  “Who picked them up from the airstrip when they arrived?”

  “Enoch,” Tatwa replied. “But unfortunately he didn’t note the registration. I would have thought after the murders that would be an obvious thing to do.”

  “Well, this seems to support the Zondo theory for the murders, doesn’t it?” Kubu said. “We’ll have to spread our net even further to find him. And now we may have a motive. It sounds like a drug swap, and Zondo got greedy. How’re the guests taking it?”

  “They’re panicked and want to leave immediately. I’ve spoken to them all and can’t see any benefit from keeping them. I’ve told them they’re free to leave. Dupie isn’t happy about it because they were booked in for several more nights.”

  “And the other staff?”

  “The crazy cook says he didn’t hear anything at all. Not surprising with that noisy bird in his tent. Beauty and Solomon weren’t on the island. McGlashan is sleeping now. Du Pisanie is quite badly beaten up, but he refuses to go to Kasane for treatment. Says he’ll take care of his broken tooth when he can. The rest will heal itself.”

  After hanging up, Kubu wandered back to the veranda, collapsing into his favorite chair. Joy offered him a fresh cup of tea, and he nodded distractedly. So some other people – not very nice people – had missed Ishmael Zondo. Or perhaps they only missed the contents of Tinubu’s briefcase. He wondered what their next move would be.

  ♦

  Madrid barely said a word from the time they had taken the motor-boat to the time he landed the old Cessna 172 on the dirt strip on a farm near Hwange in western Zimbabwe. As soon as he touched down, the hu
rricane lamps marking the runway were extinguished, and everything was again dark. Thank God for portable GPS, he thought. It would be impossible to find this place at night without it.

  Madrid was angry, his cold mind sifting through options to recoup his money. He had already invested significant time in this project. Hours spent planning with Joseph Chikosi, the leader of this ragtag crew, and Peter Jabulani – Ishmael Zondo, as he had called himself at the camp; days on scouting missions; weeks on the farm, training the men.

  People, he thought bitterly. They’re all the same. Leave them on their own with a lot of money, and they can’t resist the temptation.

  He walked to the farmhouse. Chikosi was standing at the door, waiting for him.

  “Well? What did you find out?” Chikosi’s voice was tense.

  Madrid shrugged. “Not much.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  “What do I think? I think your loyal lieutenant double-crossed you. I think your perfect Mr. Jabulani took off with my money. Probably the other stuff too. Even the Pope would be tempted! But you sent him alone.”

  “Are you sure it’s all gone?”

  “The manager at the camp said the police found a briefcase – Tinubu’s briefcase. Didn’t know what was in it, but said it looked heavy. I know who has it. Maybe they’d already switched, maybe not.”

  “What are you going to do?” Chikosi asked after a few moments.

  “I’m going to find out if the manager was telling the truth,” Madrid replied.

  “And the mission?”

  “That’s your problem! Right now I couldn’t care less. I want to be paid for what I’ve already done. You better start looking for ways of raising the money. I’ve spent a lot on this already, and lots of people are waiting to be paid. What’re you going to give us instead? More worthless promises? You better pray I find what I’m looking for in Gaborone.”

  Chikosi slumped against the door. “I can’t believe it. I’d have trusted Jabulani with my life.”

  Madrid sneered. “Your life’s not worth half a million dollars. Know what? I don’t think your life’s worth even one dollar right now.” With that he shoved Joseph Chikosi out of his way and stalked into the house.