That Night in Lagos (4 page)

“That’s precisely why we are needed here,”
he continued, not yet weary of his lecturing monologue. “To train these savages in the ways of common sense at the very least, if not in building civilization. What sort of halfwit jumps into the ocean with his hands tied and unable to swim?”

“The sort who had more to fear from his master than from us,”
I interjected, vexed with the self-righteous arrogance.

“What?”
he demanded, as if startled by the reminder that I was still present.

“Whoever is behind the smuggling ring must be a fearsome bloke,”
I continued. “Even more intimidating than the British police, as difficult as that might be to imagine.”
I glanced at the rubber bludgeon tucked into the Inspector’s belt.

“Indeed,”
the Inspector said, frowning at me as if unsure if I was seriously suggesting there was a force greater and more terrifying than the one he represented. He opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a small metal box of what I could only presume was snuff or some similar narcotic. “Could it be that…
what did you call that fellow who attacked us?”

“An Obayifo,”
I said, not expecting him to be able to pronounce the word, never mind remember it. “And no, I don’t believe so. From what I’ve heard, the Obayifo don’t play well with others, and tend to be hired for one-off jobs, such as influencing minds and assassinating bodies, that sort of thing.”

The Inspector scratched at his head, clearly struggling to grasp the world I was presenting to him. He extracted a pinch of powder from his box and delicately sniffed at it, as if to fortify himself for the ensuing conversation. He then produced from his desk a pad of paper and attempted to summarize what I’d just explained.

“Well, that’s going to have to be reported. We can’t allow assassins to roam the streets of Her Majesty’s colonies.”
He paused while tapping his mustache with his fountain pen. “So why would he attack me now?”

I set my empty teacup onto its saucer as gently as my growing agitation would allow. “Inspector Jones, please do try to engage a little imagination, would you? It wasn’t you they were after. Whoever heads this gang is fully aware of the organization I am employed by and therefore has some inclination as to my position and abilities.”

I studied the Inspector as he digested the news that I might be more interesting to his adversaries than he was. I couldn’t comprehend his disgruntlement, for it wasn’t a position to be envious about. If anything, it was unnerving that the news of my mission had travelled faster than I had, and I was now in danger of further attacks.

Inspector Jones muttered something that sounded like ‘preposterous’, and then sat on his desk, his fingers tapping the edge.

“Perhaps we should question the driver,”
I suggested.

“Of course we should question the driver,”
he snapped. “I’m fully cognizant of procedure, Miss Bee, as I have more than a decade of experience in such matters. The same however cannot be said of you. I’d be dumbfounded if you have more than a couple months under your proverbial belt. You must be all of seventeen years old.”

“Nineteen, actually,”
I corrected him. “And I’ve been investigating for over a year now.”

He snorted at that. “Nineteen, and your family allows you to gallivant about the world like this?”
He waved at me, as if to emphasis what ‘this’
referred to. “You should be married and looking after your husband’s interests, not playing at being a detective.”

I smiled stiffly at the notion even as the grip on my stick tightened further. “How quaint,”
I murmured. “Now shall we discuss how to proceed with the interrogation?”

“The interrogation procedure is hardly a suitable occupation for a…”
He hesitated. “A lady,”
he spat. “Which is why I took the liberty of requesting two officers to do just that while we indulged in a break.”

“Drinking tea is hardly an indulgence, no more than breathing is,”
I retorted, my ire getting the best of me. “As for your two officers, with no offense to Her Majesty’s uniformed representatives, they will fail in their efforts to extract anything more useful than the driver’s name and residence, and possibly his shoe size. And you can include that in your report.”

Inspector Jones peered down at me, his mustache almost disappearing into the tightness of his thin lips. “Miss Bee,”
he finally spoke once he’d sufficiently calmed himself and sniffed at the powder pinched within his fingers again, “while your presence is somewhat entertaining, it is a distraction that I can no longer afford.”

I stood up and clutched the walking stick to my side. “I’m delighted to have provided a modicum of entertainment, Inspector, but I have my orders and, as distracting as I might be, I will carry them out, with or without your assistance.”

I paused and tapped the metal end of my stick against the planks underfoot, wondering how anyone could’ve thought that a wooden floor was a good idea in an area of the world where termites outnumbered people 40,000 to one. It was yet another example of the thick-headed nature of British colonialists who refused to accept the reality around them but rather desired to impose an English version onto everything they came into contact with.

“Of course,” I said, and I lowered my gaze as contritely as a woman with my temper could manage, “I would very much prefer your assistance, for I’m certain your knowledge of the terrain would be of great assistance to me. And my Director did specifically mention you by name.”

I didn’t elaborate on how the Director had mentioned him, for in fact Prof Runal had described the Inspector with an unflattering term that was best left unrepeated. I allowed the Inspector to presume the best case, which he did. Somewhat mollified, he cleared his throat and stood up. With a sharp tug of his jacket — how he could wear it in such an inhospitable climate was beyond me — he nodded his head, gratified that his services were still very much in demand.

“So what should we do next?”
I asked softly, leaving it to him to decide on the obvious course of action. It was clear that this was a man who was easily perturbed by the evidence of a woman of intelligence and capacity, and thus should be allowed to believe that he was in charge.

Inspector Jones cleared his throat again. “I believe a visit to the interrogation room is in order,”
he declared.

I beamed a smile at him. “An excellent suggestion, Inspector. Please, do lead the way.”

A few moments later, I found myself in a dank, airless cellar lined with chiseled blocks of stone that reeked of salt, sweat and fear. There was a holding cell that amounted to a large cage for the few miserable looking humans who squatted within it. A bored officer who had been slouched behind a small desk leaped up at the sight of us and remained in a stiff stance as we passed the cell and entered a narrow corridor with two small rooms on either side. The doors were both firmly closed.

Inspector Jones knocked at one and entered without waiting for a response. The sharp tang of unbathed bodies overwhelmed me, and I limited my breathing to the absolute minimum. The confined quarters were dimly lit by a lantern that cast distorted shadows. The former driver was slumped onto a chair and two officers stood on either side; they both had matching expressions of exasperation.

“Well?”
the Inspector barked at them, even though it was clear my prediction had been correct.

“Nothing useful, sir,”
one replied while the other frowned at the top of the driver’s head, as if willing answers to float up from it.

Not glancing at me at all, the Inspector stalked into the room and loomed over the hapless prisoner. “Boy, look here,”
he ordered.

The driver rolled his head back and peered up, his eyes blank, a bruise swelling up from one side of his nose. There was no hostility, defiance or violence in his countenance, only resignation to whatever fate held in store for him.

“I’ll only ask this once, boy, and if you don’t give me a straight answer, I’ll be tossing you into the ocean,”
the Inspector threatened. “Who ordered you to change course today?”

The driver swallowed hard and glanced briefly at me, the whites of his eyes glowing against his black skin slick with moisture.

“Abasinjo,”
he whispered.

“Who? Who is this Abasi?”

“That’s the name of your assistant,”
one of the officers offered. “Former assistant, rather.”

The Inspector snorted. “How convenient. Blame the dead man. So who told him to give you that order?”

The driver’s throat convulsed and he shook his head rapidly, unable to speak past the obstruction. I squinted my eyes to study his energy field. Layers of different colored light emerged around every living creature in the room, including a pale gecko clinging to the wall behind the Inspector. I focused in on the driver’s energy, which pulsed with a violent swirl of purple and orange caused by his trepidation. I could detect the compulsion the Obayifo had installed, but that alone wasn’t the source of the man’s silence. There was some other force that sealed his lips: sheer terror.

“Inspector,”
I said as I observed a froth begin to form within the energy. The reaction was in direct response to the pressure the man was under to both obey an unknown master and to provide the officers a name, else be drowned or worse.

“Not now, Miss Bee,”
the man said with no hint of cordiality as he turned to the officer who had spoken previously. “I want a name out of this heathen, by whatever means…”

The heathen in question began to shudder.

“Inspector,”
I interjected as I rushed to the driver’s side, but I was too late.

The hapless man’s entire body convulsed with such force as to knock the chair backward, pitching it to the stone floor with a clatter. Saliva frothed around the driver’s gaping mouth, his eyes rolled into his head, leaving only the whites to show, and his back snapped to and fro with such a force that it was a wonder he didn’t break in half.

And then he went still. His limbs relaxed, his eyes stared out at a scene that none of us were privy to and his voice was permanently silenced. The energy field faded away, as if reluctant to separate itself so prematurely from its host, but within a few heartbeats it was gone. I checked for a pulse, already knowing there was none, and then closed the man’s eyelids. I did a quick check under his shirt sleeve and observed a stick-like tattoo that was strikingly similar to the one the assistant had.

“Is he…?”
the Inspector asked tentatively, unwilling (I presumed) to sully his hands by checking for himself.

I stood up, gave him a cool stare and walked out of the room.

Two witnesses, both inconveniently dead, and a sketch of a stick figure tattoo: that was all I had to show for my first day in Lagos. While not a complete disaster (although the deceased men might disagree on that point), I’d have preferred to have at least one live prisoner to chat with, and without the presence of officers who had not a clue what they were contending with.

After the botched interrogation incident, I’d requested an escort to my lodgings, a request the Inspector Jones was a little too delighted to accede to. There weren’t many options for an Englishwoman, so room and board had been arranged with the Governor’s accountant Mr. Pritchard. I was greeted by the wife, a cheery and slightly rotund lady with a permanent sheen of perspiration on her brow. She attempted to engage me in conversation and quickly surmised that I was in no mood for chitchat, so left me to my own devices once supper was consumed.

Despite Mrs. Pritchard’s warning with regard to mosquitos, I flung open the one window in my small room, for the humidity was unbearable despite the lateness of the day. The sun was close to setting and the early evening breeze that drifted in from the nearby jungle only slightly eased my discomfort. How I yearned for the cool climes of England!

“Enough,”
I said aloud with a stern tone, for I abhor self-pity more than I loathe dead witnesses and arrogant men. I had a mission to accomplish and the sticky heat had nothing to do with it. Then again, being English, I had to make at least one passing reference to the weather.

As there was no chair, I reclined on my bed and studied the sketch I’d hastily made once leaving the interrogation room. The tattoo sported by both men was a stylized figure with a head resembling an inverted triangle, a crescent indicating the body, and three legs, the front one of which was tucked up close to the pointy chin of the figure.