Treachery in the Yard (5 page)

Femi was a quiet and reserved individual. He generally took things very seriously, but he also had an offbeat sense of humor. We got along fine, except when he sounded like Akpan; sometimes he became overly obsessed with procedure, insisting on doing everything “by the book.” Me? By the book, my ass.

I read through his report. Not much there, he did not have much to work with, but the implication was clear that the bomber must have had help from the security guard at the gate: Without a friend on the inside, how else did he get past the front gate? I finished
the report but it did not answer the most important questions, so I interrupted him. He would tell me what he would not put in writing. “What do you make of Okon Abasi?”

He looked up. “Who?” He looked drained from the long hours of concentration. He started earlier, I stayed later. Pity we had no laptops like police do in the “civilized” countries, where a detective's work is made easier by technology. In Nigeria, we work largely by experience, common sense, instinct, judgment—detective work. No software program to break the information into bitesize pieces, no fancy electronic gadgets to show you patterns—there is only paper, what you remember, and your intelligence to help see you through.

“The security guard at Okpara's. You interviewed him. What did you think of him?” I asked. “Does he strike you as the square and straight?”

Instead of being square and straight with me, Femi decided to wax philosophical: “How straight can one be in the face of poverty and the greed bred out of poverty?”

“Okpara probably pays him well, if only to keep him loyal.”

“You'd think. But he doesn't seem to hold any leads for us.”

“I'm thinking the bomber must have had help from the guard. How else did the bomber get into the compound?”

“That would be one way.”

“What was it you said: How straight can one be in the face of poverty?”

“What if the bomb plot did not work—which it didn't. Okpara is still alive, he'd figure out what had happened, and the guard would not see the next sunrise.”

“Maybe the guard did not think of that,” I said, nodding. “Come to think of it, how much would you accept to help someone murder me?”

“It would have to be more than two weeks' pay,” Femi said to me. “For enough money they could blow up the Chief, for all I'd care. I'd be long gone.”

“That isn't a nice thing to say about your chief of police.”

“He isn't chummy with
me.
”

“Maybe whoever paid the bomber already took care of the guard. We should interview him again. In depth.”

“Bring him in?”

“Yes. Meanwhile, I want to pay the Karibis a visit.”

“What are you up to?”

“I want to speak to Mrs. Karibi a second time. Maybe we missed something the first time around. Maybe I'll speak first to the guard's wife. Your report has her address.”

“What good would that do?”

“I want to see if the guard has suddenly come into money since his master was nearly blown to bits. Maybe we'll get lucky and find out he's bought a new TV he can't afford.” I got out of my chair. “Bring in the security guard and keep him until I'm back.”

Femi nodded and picked up the phone as I left. I walked outside and regretted leaving even my office; the intensity of the sun created a vapor steaming up from the nylon tar covering the courtyard floor. Nylon tar was a poor choice compared with interlocking tiles or even concrete. However, contracts are awarded not for quality of work but for who you know.

Before I saw Mrs. Karibi, or the guard's wife, I knew I first had to go up to Chief's office.

As usual, Stella was busy at her desk. She waved me in. Neither of us had the time for a frivolous chat.

“Good day, Chief,” I told him as I walked in.

He looked up from his endless paperwork. “Good day to you, detective. I expected you. Sit.”

“Thank you, Chief.” He was not surprised. I should not have been. I sat.

“Where is the Okpara report? I'm under pressure.”

“That's why I came.”

“Is it? Fine. What do you have?”

“For now, only suspicions.”

“Such as?”

“The security guard and how the bomber gained access.”

“Are you thinking Dr. Puene?”

“Sure.”

“Dr. Puene knows that he would be seen as a suspect. He's not stupid. Why would he go ahead? It doesn't make sense.” He frowned, looking at me with those hard eyes.

“Maybe it isn't a question of sense. Maybe it's winning at any cost.”

“Maybe he thinks he's untouchable. He has money, he's very well connected. There are lots of people who think they can get away with anything in this country so long as they know someone high up and have the money to pay.” He leaned back. “Do you really think the guard was part of the plot to kill Okpara? If it failed, the guard would be the first person Okpara would look at.”

“Obviously, no one thought Okpara would be alive to look at anyone.”

He reclined in his chair, eyeing me as if trying to decide what to do next—and perhaps he was. I felt uncomfortable. Why was he being so sharp? What was wrong? He was silent for a few more moments, and when he did speak, he sounded resigned. “I'd appreciate it if you don't stir the hornet's nest. You're always taking chances. Your fall could well mean others will fall. Remember that.”

Others.
I respected Chief, but compared to me he was always
the politician, always. That was why he was Chief and I was a detective. He cared about politics, I cared about solving the crime. “I'll be careful,” I replied slowly.

He picked up his pen and said, deliberately, “Okay, then,” not meaning it.

“A lead, that's all it is.”

“If you must you must. You have my approval. Go and check out your lead. But I want the report on the bombing.”

“Femi is finishing it. I'll have him send it over. Thanks, Chief.” I stood to leave.

“Tomorrow morning, detective.”

“More likely this afternoon.”

He waved me away and returned to making notes in a file folder. It made sense he was worried. We were dealing with powerful people, powerful people perhaps trying to kill each other.

Half an hour later I was driving to the security guard's house at Marine Base. When I saw it, I knew I had not driven to a palace. Concrete, bare with no fence, the building seemed more like a small school with rows of rooms on either side of a U-shaped pattern, typical of public housing in this part of town. Judging from where they lived, Security Guard Okon Abasi and his family were not living the Nigerian dream.

A young naked girl of about six ran from behind the building, nearly bumping into me. An older girl, perhaps eleven, wearing only panties, followed her, shouting for her to return to the kitchen and to finish washing the plates.

I was embarrassed. I was not used to seeing naked or nearly naked girls. Where I grew up, in the townships, such sights were unknown. Usually, township people were rich, but my parents were simply comfortable. I was lucky. Everyone in Nigeria lived in extremes. The security guard and his family lived here, in the slums
of Port Harcourt, while his employer lived in paradise, or as close as modern Nigeria came.

I called to the older girl.

“Good afternoon, sir,” she said, apparently unaware her half nakedness made me uncomfortable.

“How are you?” I nodded at her.

“Fine, thank you.”

“I'm looking for the Abasis. Do you know where they are?”

“That's us.”

“Where is your father?”

“He's gone to work.”

“Is your mother at home?”

She hesitated—a smart kid, wondering who I was and what I wanted. Before she could ask another question, I told her that I was a friend of her father's. I said I had a message for her mother. She stared at me suspiciously. I looked like a cop. My guess was Mom and Dad did not have many friends with the police.

“She's sleeping inside. Let me call her for you.” She disappeared into the building, the second room on the left row, calling Mommy as she ran in, looking once over her shoulder at me.

I waited outside. Moments later, a young woman came out with the girl in tow. Both of them looked at me suspiciously. Mother and daughter for sure. “Yes? What can I do for you?” The mother was of average height and heavily built, with a dark complexion.

“Mrs. Abasi?”

“Who are you?” She revealed nothing more than she had to. Maybe her daughter told her I was police; maybe, like her daughter, she saw the law in me.

“Can I come in?”

“What do you want?”

“Police.”

That was all I had to say—to some people. She did not bother to ask for my badge, stepping slightly to the left, allowing me just enough space to squeeze past her into the building. I found myself in a small room, a combined sitting room and bedroom. Through an open door, I saw another room with a smaller bed. Kitchenware was set up in the corner of the room. No TV, just a six-battery radio on top of the wooden room divider, along with books and some prized possessions (earrings).

The chairs were all rickety. I sat in one. Carefully.

She probably guessed why I was there. There was no point being coy. “I'm investigating the bomb blast at Okpara's. Where your husband works.” Her facial expression did not change—a mix of suspicion and feigned lack of interest. “Has Okon told you about the blast?”

“Yes, the news's all over.”

“Who wanted your husband's employer dead?”

“Papa Iniobong don't tell me much. Okon was lucky to be at the gate when it happened or . . .”—she gestured to the sky with her open palms—“I would have been a widow. Just like that. I told him to leave that place. All those big men and their big troubles, just leave it. But he won't hear.”

“He didn't tell you anything else? Did anyone threaten his boss before the explosion?”

“I don't understand, sir.” Now the suspicion was obvious—and the fear.

“The question is simple enough. Has anyone threatened to kill his employer?”

“How can I know about such things? Am I a big man?”

“So your husband never told you of any plot to kill Okpara?”

“God forbid!”

“Did you see him bring any strange objects home in the past few days?”

“No.” The walls were completely up now; they were thick, tall, and had broken glass on top.

“Has he been behaving unusually lately?”

“No. Papa Iniobong is very, very normal.”

“Are you positive?”

“I answered your question.”

“He wasn't under pressure lately?”

“No.”

She was giving me less and less. There was not much point continuing. “Okay. And he didn't bring home any large sums of money lately?”

She grinned, exposing perfect teeth.

“No?”

The grin stayed. I was the one expected to leave. She either was stupid or smart, maybe both. Certainly, I saw nothing to indicate she had come into a lot of money recently. But I could have her watched, have her bank records checked. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Abasi.”

“It's Matilda. And you're welcome, as long as you leave and don't come back.” Same smile.

“Matilda, then. Thank you. Have a nice day.”

She followed me to my car, perhaps to make sure I was leaving, and watched as I drove off. I saw her in the rearview mirror, arms folded over her chest, waiting until I was completely gone.

When I returned to our office Femi told me that Okon had been brought in and was waiting in the interrogation room.

“Excellent,” I said. “I'll tell him hello from his wife.”

“How did it go with her?”

“She knows something but I have no idea what. Maybe she just knows enough to tell me nothing.”

“But she won't speak, eh?”

“Nothing worthwhile.” I shook my head. “I doubt we'll get anything from Abasi, either.”

“Well then, go ahead and waste your time interviewing him. I'll stay here to get some useful work done.”

I gave him a sarcastic grin as I left our office. Femi liked paperwork, while I have always been the sort of guy who wants to shred the papers and go out into the field. This time instead of going out into a field, I walked across the Yard.

At the main building, Corporal Ogbonnaya Ubani was at the counter. I told him I wanted to see Abasi. He brought up a constable who took me to the interrogation room. Abasi was already there, and looked up as I walked in. I took a spare chair and dropped the bombing report on the table in front of him. It made a loud thump. I also pulled out a pocket tape recorder and pressed Record.

“You understand your rights?”

“No.”

“You have the right to have a lawyer present.”

“Am I being arrested? For what?”

“Are you willing to waive your rights?” Sometimes I found it helpful to ignore rights, something of course I'd never want done to myself.

“No. But that won't matter, will it?”

“Sometimes. Not today. Too much is at stake.” He seemed confident enough. Perhaps he had nothing to hide after all. He was not insisting on lawyering up. “Do you know the man that ran from the bomb scene personally?”

“Who?”

I read from the report: “About six feet tall. Big man. He drives a white 305 Peugeot.”

“That guy? He said he was the plumber, that Okpara called him over. It was suspicious, my master asking for a plumber himself.”

“So you did not believe him?”

He nodded. I rather liked him. “I knew he was lying. I knew the workers who came to the house. I'd never set eyes on him before. And he was too well dressed for a plumber. But I checked inside. Stephen Wike told me to let him in.”

“Wike?”