The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu (36 page)

“I guess so,” Kubu said blandly. “So that was it? They declared
him dead on the basis of a wallet?”

Pede shrugged. “They said they took the wallet off a dead body.
It’s all in here.” He handed Kubu a folder. “I made you copies of
all the documents, prints, and so on.”

Kubu thanked him, realizing that although the two of them did
not see eye to eye, he was getting more help from Pede than he had
from Notu.

“Is it possible that the wallet was just on the ground and the
soldier lied about taking it off a body? Or that someone else was
carrying it for Tinubu or even had stolen it from him?”

Pede shrugged again. “It’s pretty well certain something like
that happened, isn’t it? It was thirty years ago. Who knows? I
suppose you could try to find Smith’s soldier boys. But they were
guys from the Selous Scouts. They killed a lot of people in hot and
cold blood. I don’t think they’d remember, or want to talk about it
if they did.”

“You’re probably right about that.” Kubu hesitated. “What can
you tell me about Zondo? Where does he fit into all this?”

“We’ve got a detailed file on him, too. I can give you some
stuff. Background check, where he was born, fingerprints, that sort
of thing. We’ve got information about his other activities, as
well. But I can’t give you that. He’s a dissident. Probably working
to overthrow the government. As I said, we’re willing to fight
against people who want to take us backwards.”

Kubu did not want to pursue this line, especially after the
earlier tension. “I understand that. It’s an internal matter. But
what was he doing in Botswana? We now think that there may have
been an exchange of drugs and money at the camp. Was he suspected
of involvement in anything like that? Did he have any sort of
record of smuggling or drug running?”

Pede had tensed, clearly interested in this theory. “Did you
find money? Or drugs?”

Kubu shook his head. “It’s more complicated than that. There was
an issue involving a briefcase. Tinubu obtained one at a pickup in
South Africa. Zondo arrived with a tote. After the murders, Zondo
apparently left with his tote, but the briefcase, which was still
in Tinubu’s tent, was completely empty.”

“These people need money to buy support. It’s possible they were
just picking up foreign currency. Present from the British,
probably, who’ll do anything to undermine this country. Maybe it
was a lot of money. Maybe Zondo knew we were after him and decided
it was enough to set himself up somewhere else.”

“But where? He gets picked up by a plane we can’t trace – no
flight plan from Zimbabwe according to your people – and vanishes.
To Zambia? Namibia? Angola? They can’t find him either.”

“Maybe it was really a lot of money,” said Pede
sarcastically.

Kubu nodded, defeated by the negativity. And it was true. With
enough money anyone could buy safety and protection in Africa. In
most parts of Africa, he corrected himself.

“Less than a week later the owners of the camp were attacked by
two men. They also seemed to be looking for Zondo and for the
briefcase. We think they also came in from Zimbabwe.”

“Yes, I read the report. A white man calling himself Madrid and
a black man, using the name Johannes. We have no record of either
of them entering or leaving this country. Why do you think they
came from Zimbabwe?”

Kubu ignored the question. “I see you’ve followed the reports
carefully. Thank you. But there’s more that you don’t know. We also
asked for information on two other men we believe are in the same
gang. We have one of them in custody. He has a thick black beard;
we called him Beardy. But your people identified him from his
fingerprints. His name is John Khumalo.”

This seemed to mean nothing to Pede. “What did this lot do?”

“They tried to kidnap my wife and did kidnap my sister-in-law.
The aim was to blackmail me.” Kubu’s voice rang with the anger he
still felt. At once Kubu sensed that Pede was on his side.
“Bastards! Attack a policeman’s family? That’s outrageous! You make
this Khumalo talk. Then we might get some answers to this mess.
Will you keep me informed? And we’ll help any way we can. I swear
it.”

Kubu nodded. “I really appreciate that.” He rose to go, picking
up the thin file on Zondo and the even thinner one on Tinubu.

“You’ve been very helpful, Superintendent. Thank you.” Pede
nodded, and they shook hands formally. As Kubu turned away, Pede
called after him, “Tell me Superintendent Bengu, where did you
spend yesterday morning?”

Kubu looked back. “In Francistown, with my brother-in-law,” he
said smoothly.

“Of course,” said Pede as though he had known this all
along.

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

A
llison estimated
that she would be in Francistown by midday. It was too far to drive
to Gaborone in one day, but she wanted to be out of Botswana and in
South Africa that night. And she had to make the drop-off the
following evening.

She was upset about Gomwe’s death. She had been told they were
only going to persuade him not to muscle in on the drug trade at
Elephant Valley, to warn him off. A broken arm or some other
relatively minor but painful injuries perhaps, but nothing about
killing him. Now she was worried about the involvement of the
police. They were obviously suspicious, not buying the rogue
elephant story. That meant she could become implicated. The tall
detective had been polite and had never hinted that she might be
involved. Surely he would not have let her leave if he thought
otherwise?

She decided to stop in Francistown for fuel and a snack, and
then take a shortcut into South Africa on a dirt road from
Palapye.

She wanted to be out of Botswana by nightfall. After this,
someone else can play courier to Kasane, she thought. I’ve had
enough.

Just outside Francistown she came to a police roadblock. She
wasn’t worried, such checkpoints were common in Botswana. But when
the policemen insisted that she accompany them to the police
station in Francistown, she became very concerned. Especially when
she saw the roadblock being dismantled behind them.

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

NO ROAD THROUGH

But there was no road through the woods.

—
RUDYARD KIPLING, ‘THE WAY THROUGH THE
WOODS’

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

K
ubu’s emotions were
in turmoil during his drive back to Francis-town from Bulawayo.
Part of him wanted to believe that Goodluck was the gentle man so
many people loved, who was dedicated to preparing the next
generation for a better future. On the other hand, it seemed that
Goodluck had been involved in something illegal. But what? Buying
drugs from Zimbabwe? Kubu couldn’t imagine a person so dedicated to
young children would have anything to do with drugs. Transporting
money? That was a possibility. Kubu could imagine Goodluck, who had
suffered so much for freedom, taking up the reins to restore it.
But who in South Africa had provided the money? Where did it come
from? Was it a donation or an exchange? And if an exchange, for
what? What did Zimbabwe have to offer in return for money? Gold?
Platinum? But surely that was difficult to find and sell without
drawing attention. And what was the money for?

Kubu also reflected on the bravery and quiet dignity of Paulus
Mbedi and on the tribulations of Zimbabweans, many of whom had lost
family members in the struggle for freedom and were now losing
family members to the government they had put in power. People are
no damned good, he thought, his anger bubbling up again.

He was so wrapped up in his musings that he did not even notice
the long lines and delays at the border post; he dealt with them on
autopilot. Nor was he concerned by the unusual search of his car by
the Zimbabwe customs official, who was polite but surly. It only
later dawned on him that it might be that his police colleague in
Bu-lawayo didn’t trust him. And how much could he trust them to
help him find Zondo?

He was stymied by the Jackalberry murders. Now there were
related murders in Maun and near Kasane. Who would be next? Who was
responsible? Surely not Zondo acting alone? And where was damned
Zondo anyway?

By the time he reached Sampson’s home, Kubu was depressed and
morose. He opened the front door longing for Joy’s consolation.

“Hello! I’m back,” he shouted. “Come and get me!”

Silence. No bark from Ilia. Nothing.

A chill gripped Kubu. Was it possible that after all the
kidnappers had not given up? Could they have been followed from
Gaborone? Were Joy and Pleasant all right? He scratched around the
kitchen looking for a note or any sign of a struggle. Nothing. Then
he noticed a piece of paper on the dining room table in Joy’s
handwriting. “Gone for a walk. Don’t worry.” But he did worry. The
kidnappers had not been apprehended.

At that moment, his cell phone played its operatic summons.

“Yes?” Kubu’s abruptness reflected his anxiety.

“Assistant Superintendent Bengu?”

“Yes. Who’s this?” Kubu snapped, not recognizing the voice.

“This is Constable Morake of the Francistown police.”

Kubu’s stomach contracted. “Yes?”

“I’m calling because we have someone in custody here connected
to the murder in Kasane. Picked her up on her way to South Africa.
Tatwa – Detective Mooka – asked me to call you. He said you’d want
to speak to her yourself.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Quickly he phoned Joy’s cell phone number. She answered after a
few rings. “Kubu! Are you back?”

“Yes, my darling, where are you? I hope you’re not alone out
there.”

“Actually we’re just walking up to the house.”

He rushed to the front door and saw the two women and Ilia
walking down the dusty street. A man, probably a plainclothes
officer, followed them a discreet distance behind.

“Joy, Pleasant, I’m so pleased to find you safe. I was very
concerned.” He hugged Joy, giving her an emotional kiss, and put
his arm around Pleasant. Feeling ignored, Ilia jumped up and down,
pawing Kubu’s trousers. “I missed you too, Ilia!” he said, ruffling
her ears.

“They’ve caught someone who may be involved with the murders at
Jackalberry. I’m going to the police station to interview her. I
should be home for dinner. If anything comes up, I’ll call.”

Joy sensed his eagerness to leave and put off asking about his
trip to Zimbabwe. Kubu kissed her again and left.

Pensively, Joy watched him drive off. “Even though we left him
the note, I can tell he was still worried.” Pleasant nodded and
said, “You’re lucky to have someone who cares that much.”

♦

Five minutes later, fears for Joy and Pleasant forgotten, Kubu
arrived at the police station.

“Her name is Allison Levine,” Constable Morake said with a
smile. “Tatwa was right. We found twenty pounds of heroin in a
secret compartment next to the fuel tank. It would’ve been
difficult to find if she hadn’t been careless. It was all covered
in mud, but we noticed some finger marks. Why is someone playing
with mud under the car? we asked. Didn’t take long to find out. We
haven’t told her yet that we’ve found it. And the prints are
hers!”

“Good job. Good job,” Kubu said enthusiastically. “This is the
break we needed to tie up the Jackalberry murders with the bastards
who’ve been threatening my family. Miss Levine is going to be in
Botswana for a long time. But I need to speak to Tatwa before I see
her. Show me a desk I can use, please.”

♦

Kubu kept his conversation with Tatwa as short as possible. He
was raring to meet Allison Levine. Tatwa filled Kubu in on what had
transpired at Elephant Valley Lodge. He was pretty sure that Gomwe
had been murdered. Traces of heroin had been found in a false
bottom to his briefcase. They suspected that Allison had lured
Gomwe to his death, but had no proof.

Tatwa and his men had found the remains of a camp close to where
Gomwe had been killed, but they had no idea who the campers were.
They had a vehicle, and there were tire tracks that headed toward
Zimbabwe. The tracks matched some of those at the clearing where
Gomwe had been killed, as did some footprints. Quite likely the
vehicle had been driven to the clearing, used to run over Gomwe,
and then the tracks were hidden as much as possible. They were
checking on this and the footprints. In addition, between the lodge
and the corpse, they had found two sets of footprints, one of which
was definitely Gomwe’s. The others were prints from a small shoe –
size between six and seven – and those two sets of prints showed
that Gomwe and his companion had been walking, not jogging or
running.

Tatwa asked Kubu to check Levine’s shoe size. He would fax
photographs of the prints, and the Francistown police could check
against the shoes in her luggage. Tatwa was sure that one of
Elephant Valley Lodge’s rangers was involved too, but there was no
evidence at present.

Kubu could feel the adrenaline beginning to course through his
veins. They were closing in on the murderers and kidnappers! It was
now only a matter of time and patience.

♦

Kubu turned on the tape recorder. “It is four fifteen in the
afternoon on Friday, the eighteenth of April. I’m Assistant
Superintendent David Bengu. With me is Constable Morake. We are
interviewing Allison Levine, a South African citizen.” Kubu spoke
in English. He checked that she understood her rights. Then he sat
and stared at her. He waited all of a minute, assessing and
unsettling her. He could see she was scared. Her shoulders were
hunched, and her jaw clenched.