The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu (13 page)

“I agree,” Kubu said. “It’s the only rational explanation. I’m
not as surprised about Zondo. If he’s a hit man, he’d cover his
tracks pretty well. A false passport and name are easy pickings
these days.”

“You mean I could get a passport in someone else’s name with my
photo in it?” Pleasant asked.

“I could have you one in twenty-four hours. Fake passports are
as plentiful as quelea these days.” Pleasant visualized a flock of
false documents settling from the sky like the greedy seed-eating
birds.

“What I don’t understand is why anyone would want to kill
Tinubu,” Kubu continued. “I could understand it if he was killed
because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. But the
markings on the body suggest he was the target, although the Langa
guy may have been killed because he saw something. He was just
bonked on the head and thrown into a gully. The mutilation of
Tinubu’s body was meant to send a message. To who and about what, I
haven’t a clue.”

The three sat in silence.

“Do you think you’ll find that Zondo guy?” Pleasant eventually
asked. “Will the Zimbabwe police catch him?”

“Unfortunately, the Zimbabwe police know Zondo under a different
name. They tell us he’s a dissident. That means he’s against the
president, and if they catch him, he’s in for a hard time. He
wasn’t supposed to be outside Zimbabwe.”

Kubu paused, ugly images flooding his mind.

“If they get him first, I don’t think we’ll see him alive.”

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

T
he next morning,
Kubu set off for Mochudi at about eight. Better to be early than
late. He negotiated the traffic chaos and emerged in a better mood
than anticipated.

As the traffic thinned, his mind returned to the murders. He
knew persistence would pay off, even if the case made little sense
at the moment. Somewhere, sometime, a clue would emerge or a
mistake would be discovered. He had to be alert for that
moment.

Mabaku’s right, he thought. There has to be a connection between
Tinubu and Langa. It’s too much of a coincidence that they meet on
the road for the first time, and a few hours later they’re both
dead. Why did Langa write down Tinubu’s license plate number at the
top of a scrawled list? And why are the South Africans stalling on
the other license plate that was jotted on Langa’s petrol receipt?
And what on earth does the jumble of letters mean? Kubu had them
memorized:

LC*

WB1

1L

KGH-A19

§

“1L,” he said out loud. “That’s how I write directions to
someone’s home. First left. But it could mean almost anything.” A
cow lumbered into the road, and he had to take evasive action.
Stupid animals, he thought. They’re better off as rare steaks with
garlic and pepper! Preferably washed down with shiraz.

“LC*.” Kubu resumed talking to himself. “LC*?” Kubu frowned. “L!
C! Asterisk!” He broke the group into its parts, pausing between
each. It still made no sense. “Maybe it’s LC star? Does that make
any more sense?” He did not think so. So he switched to the next
group.

“WB1? Way back at the first street?” Kubu sighed. “I don’t think
so. But what else could WB stand for? Some place before turning
first left? Willie B’s? Women of Botswana?” He tried various other
combinations, but none made sense.

Kubu tackled KGH-A19 with the same result. He could speculate as
much as he liked, but nothing gelled.

He followed the road to the school and prepared to meet the
teachers.

♦

Seven teachers had gathered in the staff room that morning, as
well as deputy headmaster Madi and a few administrative staff. The
reaction was unanimous. It was inconceivable that Goodluck had any
bitter enemies. In fact, nobody could believe he had any enemies at
all.

When he asked for their opinions of Tinubu, Kubu was overwhelmed
by a barrage of comments.

“We loved him,” said a large woman in a colorful dress. “He
would do anything for the children, and he always supported the
staff.”

An elderly man chimed in, “He had been here for many, many
years, but he was always working here at the school. I’m not sure
he ever slept.”

A younger man stood up. “I can’t believe this has happened,” he
said. “He was quiet and gentle and everyone thought the world of
him. What are you doing to catch these men? There is more and more
violence these days, and people get away with it! We want some
action!”

There was a murmur of agreement and for a moment the group
turned hostile. Kubu held up his hand. “We will catch these men,
and they will pay for their crimes. I can tell you the director of
the CID has made this our top priority. It is only a matter of time
before we solve the case. All we need is your help.”

The young man looked at him for a few moments and then sat down.
The mood changed.

“Did Rra Tinubu have any good friends he saw regularly? Someone
who knew his plans and could tell us? A girlfriend, perhaps?”

It was a middle-aged woman who responded with a touch of regret,
“Where would he find the time?”

Kubu was touched by the emotions Tinubu’s death had generated.
Tinubu must have been a remarkable man. He let the meeting continue
for over half an hour, giving everyone a chance to air their
anguish. When he decided he would learn nothing more, he thanked
the group for their help and promised to keep them informed about
the progress of the investigation.

“May I see Rra Tinubu’s house now?” he asked Madi. The deputy
headmaster led him across the grounds past the school classrooms to
a small side street.

“That’s it. First house. Here are the keys.” Madi seemed
reluctant to go into the house. Kubu stepped into a small garden
that was ill-tended, with few flowers. Obviously gardening had not
been one of Tinubu’s hobbies. The house was small and rectangular.
Every expense had been spared in its building. As he glanced up at
the roof, Kubu caught his breath. He blinked and looked again at
the house number. KGH-A19. He looked at the next house.
KGH-A20.

KGH-A19 was the last item of the list on Langa’s receipt. Could
he work backward and solve the riddle of the other codes? Kubu
wanted to jump into his car immediately, but decided to complete
his search of Tinubu’s house. It did not take long even though his
mind kept wandering back to the puzzle. The house was as Edison had
described. Austere to a fault. Few personal items. No signs of a
partner. Tinubu had a small alcove with a desk and office chair,
but the desk was clean, no clutter of papers. Well, his school
office is just across the road, Kubu thought. Why bring work
home?

He glanced at the photos on the wall. One of a young Tinubu with
two friends caught his attention. He concentrated on Tinubu’s
companions. One sparked no recognition, but the other looked
somehow familiar. Could it be a younger version of the mysterious
Ishmail Zondo? Or was he imagining things? He shook his head and
moved on.

With little expectation, he went through the drawers. Bills and
financial stuff. Probably where Edison found the bank statements.
The bottom drawer contained some pamphlets on a charity
organization supporting Zimbabweans trying to make a new life in
Botswana. There was also a schedule of its meetings in Gaborone.
Three had large crosses against them. Kubu pocketed the list and a
few of the pamphlets, took a last look around, and locked up. Then
he went back to the office to thank Madi, who walked him to his
car. As he was about to get in, Kubu handed the deputy headmaster
his card, asking that he contact him if he thought of anything that
had the smallest chance of being significant. Madi looked at the
card for a moment.

“There was one thing,” he said. “Your card reminded me of it. I
suppose it means nothing, but it was strange. Two white ladies came
all the way from Gaborone in a proper taxi.” Madi shook his head at
such extravagance. “They wanted to see Rra Tinubu, but he’d already
left on his holiday. They said they wrote stories for a newspaper
and wanted to write about our school. I offered to show them
around, but they said they would come back in a few weeks. They
were also going on holiday in the bush. Then they drove away in
their taxi.”

“Did they tell you their names?”

“They gave me a card. To prove who they were, I suppose. I’ve
got it here somewhere.” He rummaged in his wallet, which seemed to
contain everything except money, and produced a dog-eared card.

It introduced Judith and Trish Munro, writers for the London
Sunday Telegraph
.

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

K
ubu sat in his car
pondering what he had just learned. The Munro sisters had told him
that they were just on holiday in Botswana. However, their story
about knowing a journalist who had been to Jackalberry was probably
a lie. Now it turned out that they had tried to visit Tinubu a few
days before his death and possibly followed him to the camp where
he was murdered. He was fascinated. He would interview them again
and crank up the pressure until they explained what they were
really doing at Jackalberry Camp.

But of more immediate interest was the puzzle.

“If KGH-A19 is indeed Tinubu’s house, it’s reasonable to think
of the other groups of letters and numbers as a set of directions.”
Once again Kubu spoke out loud. “If I drive down Rasesa Street the
way I came, I have to turn left to get to Tinubu’s house. If 1L
means first left, then it is first left after whatever WB1 is.
Let’s find out.”

Kubu drove to Tinubu’s house at the end of the little street and
turned around. At Rasesa Street he turned right, and crept down the
road looking to both sides. It was only a few hundred yards before
he came to an intersection. He looked around carefully. Then he had
it. Across the street was the Welcome Bar Part 1. WB1! Of course.
Edison had mentioned it.

He continued down Rasesa Street, wondering about LC*. He reached
the main road to Mochudi and stopped. No commercial buildings were
nearby.

“LC*. Turn left at C asterisk? Turn left at C star?” Kubu
mumbled to himself. Then a small sign across the road caught his
eye. It was a sign to a mosque. Next to the words Islamic Centre
and Mosque was a quarter moon and star. Kubu laughed aloud. “That’s
the C*! He had to use another sign because the street sign was
missing. That’s just the sort of direction I would write down if I
was driving alone. Abbreviate easy-to-see buildings or signs. Make
it easy to retrace your steps.”

So Langa hadn’t chanced on Tinubu for the first time on the road
to Kasane. He had followed him to his house – probably from Zeerust
– making brief notes of the directions on the only paper he had
available – the Zeerust petrol receipt. But why? Perhaps Mabaku
would have the information from the South Africans about the owner
of the other registration number on the receipt.

Kubu’s flesh tingled. At last the chase was on! A few hours ago
he had nothing. Now he knew there were connections between Tinubu
and Langa, and between Tinubu and the Munro sisters. Maybe even
between Tinubu and Zondo! Next he had to find out what the
connections were.

Heading back to CID headquarters, he was actually looking
forward to his meeting with Mabaku.

♦

As he encountered the crowded streets of northern Gaborone,
Kubu’s phone rang its rousing tune. He pulled over and parked on
the sandy verge, scattering chickens and receiving dirty looks from
scrawny dogs.

“Bengu,” he said.

“Kubu, it’s Edison. I’ve got Tinubu’s phone records. He doesn’t
make too many calls. A few to the deputy headmaster’s home, as well
as to some of the teachers. He phoned a travel agent a couple of
weeks ago. I checked with them, and they confirmed he made a
reservation for Jackalberry Camp for three nights. His request, not
their suggestion. Paid for it by check. And that’s it. No other
calls.”

“What about calls from his office? Can you get those checked
too?”

“I’ve got the records,” Edison said. “We’re checking them now.
That’s going to take sometime.”

“I asked his assistant if he’d received any calls out of the
ordinary,” Kubu said. “She said that nothing caught her attention.
Give her a call and see if she remembers anything last Thursday.
Maybe Tinubu said something about going into Gaborone.”

“One last thing. Forensics called to say that Tinubu’s briefcase
had no traces of drugs.”

“Okay, thanks. I’ll check with you when I’ve finished with the
director. I’ve got to report to him as soon as I get back. He’s
really revved up about this case.”

When the conversation was over, Kubu took a couple of deep
breaths, signaled he was pulling back onto the road, accelerated,
and prayed that it was in no one’s interest to run into him.

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

H
ad Kubu known what
was happening in Director Mabaku’s office, he would not have looked
forward to his upcoming meeting. Mabaku had a visitor. The two men
had known each other for many years and had great respect for each
other’s skills. There were no titles between them, nor did they use
first names. Their relationship was professional and had always
been cordial. Until now.

Mabaku shouted as he towered over his visitor. “You’re telling
me that Langa was a South African
policeman
? A South African
policeman following a Botswana citizen into Botswana! And you
didn’t let me know! Did you let anybody in Botswana know?”

“We didn’t expect…” the visitor started to say.

“I don’t care what you expected! No policeman – from South
Africa, from Namibia, not even from the United Kingdom – no
policeman comes into Botswana without notice, unless he’s a tourist
with his own money and no professional agenda!” Mabaku shook his
finger in the visitor’s face. “If it ever happens again, you’ll
find it impossible to get any cooperation from us!” Mabaku crashed
his fist on his desk. Everything jumped, including Director Van der
Walle of the South African Criminal Investigation Department.