The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu (43 page)

“I’m asking you.”

“She thought so. Hell, it was thirty years ago. I told her she
was imagining it. Just ghosts from the past. I don’t believe in
ghosts. And we got the bastards. All of them. No prisoners.” He
pulled his hand across his throat.

“Did you check?”

“Check what? The guy was a salesman from Gaborone. Passport was
clean. Sure, he was born in Zimbabwe. Does that make him a
terrorist?”

“Did you search his tent?”

“Don’t be stupid. What for? Souvenirs from a thirty-year-old
mass murder? I told her she was confusing Tinubu with someone who
might’ve looked a bit like him. Told her to pull herself together.
She accepted that, kept to herself for the rest of the day. But she
was okay.”

Kubu stared at Dupie. “Here’s what I think,” he said. “I think
she did recognize Tinubu, and what’s more she was right. I think
she got someone here to help her kill him. She couldn’t do it
alone. Maybe that was you, maybe Enoch, maybe Moremi, maybe someone
from the mainland. I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.” He got
up and headed to his tent without another word.

♦

Dupie looked shocked. “He’s gone bananas! What’s he on about?
Salome murdering people? It’s ridiculous! We all know Zondo did it.
You’re looking for a scapegoat since you let him get away
scot-free! You better talk some sense into him.” His large hand
grabbed Tatwa’s arm across the table.

Tatwa extricated himself. “If she’s innocent, there’s nothing to
worry about. The assistant superintendent must have evidence for
his suspicions. If you know anything, you should tell us. It may
help her.”

For once Dupie was at a loss for words. Then he said, “You’ve
seen her. She couldn’t murder anyone. She’s gentle.”

“What about someone who raped her and – it seems – got away with
it. Vengeance is powerful motivation.”

Dupie shook his head. “Stupid ghosts. Her and her ghosts. Think
it’s the first time? She’s always seeing ghosts. Always seeing
ghosts.” He pushed back his chair and stood up. “Bloody ghosts.”
Then he walked off in search of Salome. Tatwa got up too. He wanted
to find Enoch.

♦

Tatwa found him at the makeshift dock. He was working on the
boat’s outboard motor. He had the casing off and was tinkering with
the innards.

“Problem with the motor?”

Enoch nodded. “Not starting well. Dupie said we must be sure it
would be ready in case we have to chase those bastards.”

Tatwa nodded, without comment.

“Think the fuel filter’s dirty. I’m just flushing it.” He
returned to his work. Tatwa seemed to hold no interest for him.

Tatwa squatted on his haunches next to the boat. “You seem
pretty good at this sort of stuff. What caused the breakdown that
time you got stuck on the way to Kasane?”

“Wheel bearing went on the trailer. I didn’t have tools, but
Dupie brought them.”

“Why didn’t you just leave it and head on to Kasane?”

Enoch splashed petrol over the filter. “Dupie freaked. Said I
must wait for him. That the trailer would get stolen.”

“Who would steal it in the middle of the bush? With a jammed
wheel?”

Enoch shrugged. “Didn’t matter. I just waited for him. We got it
rolling, and he took it back.”

“And you slept in the bush?”

“It was too late to go through to Kasane.”

“Why was that? You can drive that road at night.”

“The Chobe National Park gate closes at eight in the evening. It
was too late to get through. And there’s bloody elephants
everywhere. Not safe to drive at night.”

“Why not come back with Dupie? Head out the next day?”

“Hell, I was halfway there. They didn’t need me here. I don’t
mind being on my own in the bush.”

“Done that a lot, have you? Guess you could tell some
stories.”

Enoch nodded, but he did not smile.

“You and Dupie go back a long way?”

“Yes, a long way.”

“Here in Botswana?”

Enoch nodded.

“Before? In Rhodesia?”

“Yes. What of it?”

“You were together there? In the Selous Scouts?”

“Who told you that?”

“Dupie,” said Tatwa, taking a flyer. “He thinks very highly of
you.”

“We were together. You watch each other’s back. Nothing ever
came at you from the front.” He started reassembling the casing for
the motor.

“How did you get to Botswana?”

“Dupie organized it.”

“You’d do anything for him?”

“He owes me a lot. He’d do a lot for me, too. Not anything. What
do you mean?”

Tatwa shrugged. “Just talking. Were you with him when they got
to the farmhouse? Where they were attacking Salome and her
family?”

Enoch nodded.

“Must have been bad.”

Enoch shrugged. “I saw a lot of bad stuff in those days.”

“That night, Enoch, the night of the murders here. Can you tell
me anything about it?”

Enoch shrugged. “Nothing to tell. I was asleep. I saw nothing. I
heard nothing. I didn’t talk to anyone.”

“You know Mma Salome did it, Enoch. Tinubu was one of the
terrorists at the farmhouse. She recognized him. That’s how it all
started.”

Enoch looked stunned. “But it was Zondo!” he exclaimed.

Tatwa shook his head. “Zondo was just caught in the middle,
wasn’t he, Enoch?”

“You’re talking shit! You’re crazy! Mma Salome wouldn’t kill
anyone!”

“Maybe she had someone to help her.”

Enoch turned away, meticulously sorting his tools into the
toolbox. When he turned back, he was calm again. “It’s silly,” he
said. “It’s nonsense. You should be looking for Zondo.” He picked
up the toolbox and started toward the camp. Tatwa watched him
go.

Fifty yards into the river was a sandbar. As Tatwa watched, a
ten-foot crocodile clambered onto it, settled, and opened its jaws
exposing vicious teeth. Tatwa shuddered, thinking of his brother,
and followed Enoch back to the camp.

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

K
ubu strolled to a
point where he knew he could get a decent signal for his cell
phone. He wanted to check on Joy, and he needed to report back to
Mabaku. There was a chance that Beardy had finally spilled some
beans. He called Joy first.

“Hello, Kubu.” There was noise in the background and for a
moment Kubu was disoriented. “Where are you, my dear?”

“I’m at work, Kubu. At the daycare center. Where should I be on
a Thursday morning?”

“Oh, yes, of course.” The noise was the children playing. He had
forgotten that she had insisted on going back to work today. “How
are you feeling?” he asked, covering his slip.

“Fine. How are you?”

“Not bad. We’re making progress here. Still confusing, but we’ll
get there.”

“Good. I’d like you to come home.”

Kubu felt guilty. The conversation was not going well, it felt
stilted. “Karate session this afternoon?” he asked, hoping he had
the day right. For once he was glad of her sport. A karate dojo
should be safe enough.

“No, I canceled. Didn’t feel like it, really. I said I had a
cold. I want to get home. Remember Pleasant’s staying while you’re
away.”

Kubu hesitated. Joy loved the karate. She always felt like
it.

“You’re still not well, are you?”

“Kubu, don’t fuss. Just a bit uncomfortable. The funny food in
Francistown.” She made it sound like a foreign country.

Kubu squared his well-padded shoulders and put down his
substantial foot. “Darling, this is enough. You must see a doctor.
I insist. I’m worried about you.”

“Kubu, don’t nag. I’m busy. If I don’t feel better…”

Kubu had a flash of inspiration and interrupted, “What about Dr.
Diklekeng? You’re always saying how good he is. That he doesn’t
patronize the kids and really listens to them. I’m sure he’d be
good. And you know him and like him.” Joy always spoke highly of
Dr. Diklekeng – the doctor for the daycare center. He struck
gold.

“Yes, that’s not a bad idea. I’ll think about it.”

“Do you promise you’ll go to see him?”

Joy hesitated. “Yes,” she said at last. “It’s a good idea.”

Kubu pressed his advantage. “This afternoon?”

Joy dug in her heels. “I’ve got shopping to do, and I don’t want
Pleasant to be on her own. I’ll go tomorrow. Or the next day. I’m a
bit busy at the moment.”

Kubu realized he would have to be satisfied with that. There was
an outburst of childish noise, and Joy shouted that she had to go.
Kubu put down the cell phone and thought about his wife. Suppose
she was really sick? What would he do? He felt lost already. He
wanted to get home, fetch her, take her to Dr. Diklekeng. Do what
was necessary. Make everything as before. Instead, he was stuck on
a paradise island in the Linyanti, surrounded by people he did not
trust. And by crocodiles, he thought sourly.

He pulled himself together and dialed Mabaku’s cell phone
number, but got a recorded message. Mabaku must be in a meeting. He
tried Edison at the CID.

“Kubu! How’s it going?”

“Okay, Edison. I can’t reach the director. Is he around?”

“Mabaku? Didn’t you hear?”

Kubu sighed. How was he supposed to follow the director’s
movements from the Namibian border? “Hear what? Break in a
case?”

“Break in his stomach, more like. He’s in hospital. Perforated
ulcer. Couldn’t take all the black coffee and stress, I
suppose.”

“He’s what? In hospital? That’s impossible, I mean…”

“He had awful pain yesterday afternoon, so his wife took him to
casualty at the Princess Marina. They admitted him right away, and
they’re operating this morning.”

Kubu had the awful lost feeling again. “But we need him!”

“Kubu, he’ll be okay.”

“Yes, of course,” said Kubu, embarrassed. “Who’s running the
show?”

“I suppose I am at the moment.”

“Good,” said Kubu, not meaning it. Now he really would have to
get back. “Is there anything we need to handle while he’s in
hospital?”

“He’s worried about the African Union meeting. But it’s all
under control. No problem. We’re not really involved. It’s Special
Service Group stuff.”

Kubu tried to regroup. “What about Beardy? Get anything out of
him?”

“Well, he says he’s willing to cooperate. But so far he always
has an excuse. Some reason to delay. First he wanted a lawyer, so
we got him one. Then he wanted a deal. Now he isn’t satisfied with
the lawyer and wants one who speaks the Ndebele language. That’s
not so easy. I think he’s stalling, but I’ve no idea why.”

“Is it possible he expects Madrid to rescue him?”

“From Central Prison? He can’t be that stupid. Besides, he
doesn’t look like a kingpin. If they get to him, it will be to shut
him up. There are easier and more permanent ways of doing that than
trying a jailbreak. I’m trying to convince him that he’ll be safest
if he tells us everything he knows. Then they’ll have no reason to
stop him talking. He agrees, but then has another excuse.”

Kubu ground his teeth. The calls were not going well.

“There is some good news, though,” Edison added. “The sting the
South African police set up for your Ms. Levine’s contacts. It
worked! They put a tracer on her car, and followed it to a house in
Bryanston – that’s a fancy Johannesburg suburb. Anyway, they found
a cozy distribution center in the middle of the city. They arrested
the lot.”

“How high up in the food chain did it go?”

Edison sighed. “Hard to say. Depends what they can get people to
cough up. But there are cut-off points. Hell, it was a big hit. You
win one step at a time.”

Yes, thought Kubu. But the real drug moguls always seem one step
ahead of that. And don’t have to play by the rules. Still, it was a
triumph as far as it went. And Van der Walle would owe Mabaku one.
That would make the director happy. He would need something to
cheer him up in that hospital. Kubu shuddered, remembering his own
sojourn there. The food had been awful.

“Okay, Edison, I have to get back to work here. Give the
director my best wishes. Tell him…never mind. Ask him to phone me
when he’s up to talking. And let me know how it all goes.”

After the call, Kubu thought about Mabaku. He is the CID, he
thought. What would we do without him? He shook his head as if to
erase these thoughts. He forced himself to think about Beardy. Why
was he stalling? Just putting off the inevitable? Or was he waiting
for something, and if so what? Could it be that the convenient
fiction he had created of Madrid attacking Jackalberry a second
time actually was part of the plan?

Kubu felt a wave of urgency. He needed to solve this case
before…something. And he needed to get back to Gaborone
before…something. He’d had enough. It was time to stop teasing. It
was time to put three aces on the table and to firmly bluff another
in his hand. One more day, he thought. Then I’m going back to
Gaborone. With everyone at the camp, if that’s what it takes. He
heaved himself to his feet and went to look for Tatwa. They would
need to plan a strategy. And there was something he wanted Tatwa to
find in Dupie’s office tent. He intended to make the communal lunch
an interesting occasion.

∨
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu
∧

K
ubu pushed his chair
back from the table. “I can’t eat another thing,” he said. “Nothing
more. Perhaps a cup of coffee later. But not now.” He waved Moremi
back. His interest shifted to Dupie’s rifle leaning against the
back of his chair. “What vintage is that Lee-Enfield of yours,
Dupie? Nineteen thirties? Can I take a look?” Dupie passed the
rifle to Kubu who examined it with professional interest. “Still in
good condition. And loaded, I see. I presume you have a license?”
Dupie nodded, and Kubu seemed to lose interest in the weapon, but
did not return it.