EBOLOWA 16

16

 

Harry drove back to Castile’s place, pulled up in the shade and took the envelope out of his pocket.  The address, a PO Box in Douala, was typed and the stamps had been torn off leaving behind an airmail sticker and the first letters from the Nigerian postmark.  He tried to shake the contents out but the blood had dried and the opening was stuck.  He prised it open and shook harder and the cuttings suddenly fell into his lap. 

This time he caught sight of one in English: bizarrely, a best-sellers’ list from the New York Times.  He ran his eye down the titles past Love Story to one circled in red that swept him back to Eileen O’Connell’s house on Long Island: LAMIA. His pulse quickened as he recalled the blurb, “a shocking exposé of KGB’s moles in the French Secret Service”. 

Espionage and realpolitik made sense for a shadowy French specialist in the US Foreign Service, but what was a semi-literate thug like Victor Castile in Cameroon doing with it?  It had been mailed in Nigeria rather than Long Island but it was clear that Eileen O’Connell knew a lot more about Victor Castile than she’d let on.  The two of them operated may In different worlds but Harry remembered how she bragged about frequenting some rough dives and how she could look after herself.  What the hell was going on?

He hadn’t got anywhere near an answer when the sound of a vehicle coming down the track interrupted him.  He pushed the cuttings back into the envelope, got out of the car and waited to play the good citizen.  A dark blue box-shaped police jeep came into view and accelerated across the clearing.  It pulled up and a big cop with a shaven head as black as polished ebony got down and fanned his face with a peaked cap. He was wearing a broad grin and neatly pressed khaki shorts that half covered his knees.    

“Inspector Takere of the Kumba Police,” he said with the same clipped vowels from the phone.  He put his cap on and stretched out a big hand, the palm as pale as the back was black.  Harry took it, a surprisingly soft grip for such a big man. 

“Harry Kaplan.  Pleased to meet you, Inspector.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” the Inspector said with a mischievous giggle and looked past him at the lumpy tarpaulin and smoking ruins.  “Hmmm.  So they burned the little pig’s house down as well.”

“Yeah, I pulled him out.”

“Now that was definitely beyond the call of duty.” The Inspector smacked the short baton against his trouser leg and set off across the clearing.  Harry followed in his wake and watched as the two young constables, hardly more than boys, pulled the tarpaulin clear.  They stood over the body with their eyes wide and jaws dropped like characters out of a pantomime.

“It’s Victor all right,” said the Inspector with merry satisfaction, “and it looks as if they got their message across.”

“What message?”

“Keep off our turf.  Lagos oil mafia.” 

“But he was choked on soft porn,” Harry said holding out the picture of the busty brunette.

“Guns actually.”  The Inspector hardly gave the woman a glance.  “That’s a bazooka between her legs.”

“Oh right,” said Harry, nodding.  “I thought he was running girls.  His wallet is stacked out with cards from dives in the docks.”

“The white slave trade?”  The Inspector dismissed the idea with a sweep of his baton.  “No, no, that’s what he spent his money on.  He made it by running arms in the Biafran War.”

“I wondered why he was so popular at the Hi Life.”

The Inspector laughed.  “The redoubtable Mrs Bankole?”

“Yes.”  Redoubtable she was.  “She saw the killer’s car by way, a white Hertz, but she gave me the distinct impression she wasn’t going to help.”

“There’s no flies on that lady I can tell you Mr Kaplan, no flies at all.”  He pointed at the body with his baton.  “This is the Douala Gendarmes’ case now and they won’t get any help from people round here, or from me.  Tomorrow I start as Head of Security for Shell Nigeria.”

“Really.”

“Yes.  So I’ll be keeping an eye on the crooks who did this.” 

“It looks as if they aren’t the only ones with a motive.”  Harry nodded at Castile’s mutilated genitals.  “Somebody certainly wanted to make a point.”

The Inspector shrugged, “who knows?  Or cares - - I don’t.  All that matters is he’s dead.  Let his French friends figure out who did it.”

 “These might help them,” he said handing him Castile’s things.  

The Inspector put the keys in his pocket but passed the wallet and envelope straight on to one of young constables before barking out an order in Pidgin.  They jumped to and rolled the body into the tarp and threw it unceremoniously into the back of the pick up.

“Revenge is sweet,” said the Inspector.  “People round here had good cause long before Biafra.”  He took off his cap and fanned his face.  Beads of sweat shimmered like tiny pearls on his nose. “Can you give me a lift back to Kumba?”

“A ride?  Sure.  I’m spending the night in Buea.  I can drop you off on the way.”

“Buea’s even better.”

The Inspector shouted something more at the young constables who jumped into the cab and drove off across the clearing. 

“Let the famous gendarme sort it out,” he said with caricatured mispronunciation and opened a gap between his finger and thumb.  “I had a file on Castile this thick, but they never let me bring him in.  Bastard had friends in high places.“

“Because he was white?”

“French.“

“They seem to have let him down all of a sudden.”

The affable Inspector was suddenly seething.  “I knew what he was up to.  I even knew where he kept his gun.”  He hit the battered Peugeot with his baton and wrenched the door open.  The passenger seat was littered with pages of half-naked girls selling military hardware and on the floor there were some empty beer bottles and a used rubber.  In the glove box was a handgun.

“Russian,” said the Inspector, tapping the side of his nose, “spoils of another war.”

But Harry knew better: it was Czech, a CZ52, the same model as the one he’d left behind in Chicago.  The one Eva had given him in the cellar in Budapest with the sound of Russian tanks crushing glass on the streets overhead.  She’d taken it out of the box and stood on tiptoes to kiss him, “now you’re really one of us,” she’d said and he remembered the scent of her perfume mingling with the oil from the brand new pistol.

“Which war was that?” he asked, struggling to banish the memories.

“The guerrilla war against the French,” said the Inspector.  “Some of them are still hiding out in the jungle.”

“I heard about it from an Englishman called Uttley. Imported textiles from Manchester.”

“I know who you mean.  Used to operate out of Lagos.”

“He’s retired now.”

“He couldn’t take the climate.”

“More a case of being allergic to Victor Castile I think.  They smuggled cloth into Douala together.”

“I know.”  The Inspector nodded so vigorously that his cap slipped.  “Victor’s little acorns.  I’ll show you how he ended up.”

     He strode off across the clearing and Harry followed.  All Harry could hear was the damp soil giving way under his feet and the same mournful birdsong.  They reached a shed half hidden in the jungle and the Inspector rammed his big shoulder into the big door.  The clasp and padlock creaked but held fast.   The Inspector tried the Frenchman’s keys but none fitted and he stood back and pulled the CZ52 from his belt. 

     “Stand clear,” he shouted and fired three rounds into the rotting timber. 

The shots reverberated round the clearing and a cloud of birds burst into the sky.  As the echoes faded the monkey clan started up again, screeching and howling as if in protest.  Cordite filled the air and Harry’s eardrums sang.  The Inspector blew smoke out of the barrel and pushed the gun back into his belt before leaning in to admire his marksmanship.  The timber was shattered and the clasp hung loose from one screw. 

The Inspector ripped it free and hurled it into the jungle.  He hauled at the door and the hinges groaned as the door opened.  Inside he spread his arms out wide like a welcoming impresario.  It took Harry a second to adjust to the gloom.  They were standing in a shed with two medium-sized oil trucks painted in drab brown and olive.

“Spoils from the Biafran War.”  The Inspector’s voice boomed through the half darkness.  “I knew what the bastard was up to but I wanted to catch him red-handed.  That way his friends in Douala would’ve had to put him away.”  He struck the side of the truck with his baton.  “No matter.  He finally picked on somebody his own size.”

 

*   *   *   *   *   *

 

On the way to Buea Harry told the Inspector he was working for Dr Fayol.  “You’ve probably heard of her sister.”

“Everyone has.”  The Inspector replied shifting around.  His considerable bulk was crushed into the seat.  “I was in GB at Police College at the time and heard about the fuss when I got back.”

“What fuss?”

“Jurisdiction.  She drowned over this side but the body turned up under the bridge in Douala.”

Harry slowed down to go through a village and the kids streamed out of their houses to wave and shout at the side of the road.  The Inspector waved back and then harrumphed.  “We wanted it but the message from upstairs was loud and clear: hands off boys, Douala’s case.  My pals in Victoria reckoned they didn’t ask the right questions.“

“What kind?”

“Oh like why a woman like her was skinny dipping on her own and why they couldn’t find any of the gear stolen from her car.”  He threw his hands up and nearly hit the low ceiling, “they tried all the usual suspects but it’d disappeared into thin air.”

“Did your pals suspect foul play?”

“That’s why they wanted the case.  They suspected she had company and they'd run for cover.  Somebody who shouldn’t have been there.”

“Somebody’s husband?”

“Exactly.”

“But nobody came up with a name?”

“It was Douala’s case.”

“And you think they bungled it.”

“Off the record until tomorrow, yes.  But I’m biased.” 

They were on the edge of Buea and the Citroen’s small engine laboured on the lower reaches of the mountain.  The air was cooler and the vegetation along the road less tangled as if the fight for survival wasn’t so fierce.

“Does the name Didier Nkumbé mean anything to you?” Harry asked.

“Nkumbé - - “ The Inspector frowned and pursed his lips.  “I think there’s some Minister in Yaoundé by that name, but I’m the last person to ask.  They’re all Frogs to me.”

“What about Eileen O’Connell?  She used to be US chargé in Douala.”

He wrinkled his nose.  “Not that I remember.  To tell the truth, I don’t take to Yankees any better than the French.  We got the Peace Corps running all over the place telling us what to do.”

 The road steepened and Harry shifted down.  The buildings looked like government offices with signs in English and French.  A signpost off to the left welcomed them to the Buea Mountain Hotel.  It was a stern solid building, vaguely Alpine, in stone that looked like granite with a slate roof.

“The Germans built it,” said the Inspector squeezing his considerable bulk out of the car.  “With a hut near the top, ten bloody thousand feet up - - in stone can you imagine!  Incredible, but you know what they say, where there’s a will there’s a way.  Especially if you’ve got masses of forced labour.”  He gave the mountain a jaunty wave and set off for the entrance.  “Come on Mr Kaplan, I’ll buy you a drink.  I’ve got time.”

The bar was cool and dim and at the far end there was a big chimney-breast and a deep open fireplace.  The barman poured them two long glasses of Trent Trois.

“Careful,” said Harry, “it’s French.”

“The exception that proves the rule.  Everything else they do is crap.”

“What about wine?”

The Inspector made a face, “never drink the muck.”

“French food?”

“Frogs legs and snails - - yuck.”

“How about French women?”

The Inspector grinned, “I haven’t had the chance to test them out, more’s the pity.”

“You haven’t tested the food or wine either.”

“And I’m not going to.”  He laughed.  “Nigeria here I come!”

Harry raised his glass.  “All the best for your new job with Shell. They’re Dutch aren’t they?”

“Anglo-Dutch.” 

“There were a bunch of them staying at the same hotel as me in Lagos.  High on the oil boom.”

“That’s why I’m leaving, plus I don’t appreciate being spied on in my own station.”

“Who by?”

“Douala.  They planted one of their poodles to get the dirt on me.  I couldn’t move without the little shit making a note, but I beat them to the punch!  Cheers!”  The Inspector sunk half his glass and then raised it, “here’s to you too for closing the Victor Castile case.”

“Douala isn’t going to see it like that.”

“That’s why I’m drinking to you.”  The Inspector beamed.  “They’ll be running around like headless chickens and I’ll be laughing myself silly on the other side of the border.”

“Hardly thanks to me - - “

“Without you I’d never have known, or had the privilege of sending Victor on his way.”

“They’ll want to talk to us.“

“Indeed they will, but I’ll be out of reach.”  The Inspector drained his glass with the air of a job well done and ordered another for Harry.  “Sorry, but I’ve got to make a call, 36-22-36, and that’s not her phone number.”  He winked and got up.

Harry got up and shook his hand.  “OK Inspector.  Nice meeting you.”

“Ditto, but I’m just plain Mr Gideon Takere now.  I’ll send my Shell card over.  There’ll always be a welcome in Port Harcourt for the man who brought in Victor Castile.”  He smiled, “you know Mr Kaplan, that’s got a real ring to it.  It could be a Western with John Wayne. I can see it now.  You’ve made quite a mark already.”