THE WRONG ARREST
It seemed he had descended on the Lodge with the entire Nigerian Police Force. I looked through the door of the lounge to see fully armed and combat-ready policemen spilling out of several police vans with blaring sirens. They also came with some Armoured Personnel Carriers, while a couple of helicopters hovered above. They surrounded the Lodge and took vantage positions. They swarmed all over the place, like bees in black body armour.
“Has the Third World War started?” I asked the DPO, as he led the charge into the lounge.
“Ha! Ha! Ha!” he laughed with deep satisfaction.“Very funny, Mr. Simpson, very funny! But I believe that it was a human being who once said that anything worth doing is worth doing well?” And he laughed again, showing me his tobacco and kolanut-stained teeth.
Then, he turned to his men, his laughter ending abruptly. “You, you and you! Go to Room 11 upstairs and escort the occupant down here. If he escapes, believe me, your careers in the Nigerian Police Force are over!”
Three of the policemen who had come in with him, detached themselves from the others and marched upstairs with their guns cocked. I felt sorry for Nagoth.
“I hope none of them went out?”the DPO asked Mean Face.
“None,” confirmed Mean Face.
“Good. The lab test results are here with me and I have discovered the murderer. It was so simple. He has a very rare blood type and it matched that found underneath the fingernails of the deceased.”
“There is no chance of a mistake?” I asked.
“Mistake? No chance at all!” thundered the DPO angrily. “I don’t make mistakes!” He turned to the bar where Amina still stood, just as the three policemen he had sent upstairs, returned with Nagoth.
“Ring the bell; I want everyone to gather here, right now!”
Amina rang the bell used for calling guests whenever it was mealtime.
“Sit down, sit down,” said the DPO, grinning in self-satisfaction as the other guests began trooping into the lounge. He waved a folded piece of paper in front of our faces. “This is the result we have been waiting for. I told you I was going to unravel this case and I have done it! The lab test has revealed that the murderer is Nagoth Ali, the renowned artist. He had been an intimate friend of the deceased and for reasons best known to him for now, which of course, he will reveal to me under interrogation, he killed her.”
Nobody said anything; the guests were too busy staring at Nagoth in shock. He looked indifferent.
“I’m now placing him under arrest!” announced the DPO.
“I’ve a right to make a phone call,” said Nagoth.
“You don’t have any right, Mr. Ali, except I say so. Fortunately, I’m feeling very generous today, so you can make your call,” the smiling DPO said.
Nagoth went over to the phone placed on the bar top. He dialled a number and spoke for some minutes. I presumed he was calling a lawyer. He needed a good one.
“Is there anything else you want, Mr. Ali?” asked the DPO, who seemed to be enjoying himself. “Perhaps, a Cuban cigar? Or a chilled bottle of beer? Some exotic vintage wine? Ah, a beautiful woman with an hour-glass figure?”
And he laughed heartily. At a signal from him, handcuffs were placed on Nagoth, who turned to look at me. He hardly spared a glance for the other guests, whose eyes already bore silent condemnation.
“Please, Mr. Simpson,” he said as he was led away.
“I’ll do my best,” I replied. I turned to look at the person who I now suspected to be the murderer. He was looking at Nagoth, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He suddenly turned his head and looked at me … like he knew I had been watching him.
“That’s a surprise,” he said. “I never suspected that Nagoth was capable of killing a fellow human being.”
“We are all capable of it,” said John. “Given the motive and opportunity. You may later call it murder, manslaughter or self-defence, but we are all potential killers … if gravely provoked or prompted by survival instinct.”
Surprisingly, Mrs. Marshall did not say anything. She was the first to get up and go to her room. She never said a word to anybody, even as everyone else discussed Nagoth’s arrest.
The Lodge was now free of armed policemen. Only three of them still hung around. But they were not disturbing anyone or restricting movement any longer. Philip had decided to go ahead and get tested.
I decided to travel out of Cross River State, to pay a quick visit to a church in a nearby State. Armed with Fati Madu’s photograph, I went to the Holy Love Chapel. I had actually not been heeding the biblical injunction not to forsake the gathering of the saints lately, but I needed to visit the church now to aid my own investigation.
It was a Saturday, so I was surprised to see that the place was a beehive of activities. The church was an architectural masterpiece. It was a beautiful imposing structure, painted with yellow. In the front of the building were life-size pictures of scenes of the Crucifixion, and the Last Supper. Beautiful patterns were made with some exotic flowers at the entrance, where some flashy cars were parked.
Choir practice was in progress in one section of the church, and the rehearsal of a play was taking place in another. It seemed like the church was preparing for an event.
“Hello!” I called to a young man, as he dashed out through the main door.
“Hello,” he said, looking like he was in one hell of a hurry.
“Slow down, man,” I said holding him by his shoulder. “I’m looking for somebody.”
“Who?” he asked, looking up into my eyes. He was a sturdy fellow of about 19. He had a very aggressive and an impatient manner. I showed him the picture of Fati Madu.
“You know her?” he asked me looking excited.
I thought I was supposed to be doing the questioning.
“Yes, I know her,” I replied. “Do you know her?”
“Of course I know her,” he replied, as if he thought I was silly for asking such a question.
“Where is she now?” he asked me.
“A long way from here,” I replied. “Tell me about her.”
“Well, she came to the church during one revival meeting and gave her life to Christ, that evening. She said she had no parents and close relations, and asked for any form of assistance from the church. People helped her in ways they could. About 10 months ago, she left for her hometown, saying that she would be back. But that was the last that anybody has saw or heard of her.”
“Nobody made any attempt to look for her?” I asked.
“But where will they start from? She didn’t give the name of her hometown.”
“Wasn’t she close to any member of the church?” I asked.
“Oh, yes,” replied the young man. “She was close to Sister Rachel and Brother Akuma, the Assistant Pastor. He felt her disappearance the most. He had taken Sister Danladi very close and did his best to help her. He was really pained, when he came back from his journey and heard that she had vanished like that.”
“Who is Sister Danladi?” I asked in surprise.
“Binta Danladi, of course,” he said, “I thought you said you knew her?”
“Oh, I knew her by another name,” I said.
“And you say she has gone far away?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“Well, you had better tell the Head Pastor,” he suggested. “People still worry about her.”
“Who is the Head Pastor?” I asked.
“He is Rev. Dr. Evangelist Prophet Godspower.”
“Okay, I’ll have to see him some other time, I have to run somewhere now. You can give the message to him for me,” I said and thanked him.
“What’s your own name?” I asked.
“Nweke,” he replied “I’m the son of the Head Pastor.”
“I’m Simpson,” I said. “Tell your dad to keep the gospel, alive and kicking.”
With that, I made the return trip to Obudu.
Back in my room at the Lodge, I paced the floor, pondering everything, with my hands deep in my trouser pockets.
I now believed I knew the killer's identity, as well as his motives for the murder. But I still had to prove it with hard evidence. That the handwriting in the letters belonged to the killer, did not actually prove anything. But I also suspected that he must have left some sign that I had to find. But where was it? What was it?
I sat down and brought the killer into sharp focus, in my mind’s eye. I thought about his personality and where he was likely to make a mistake. His little oddities, his habits, his traces, signs. Then, I remembered something.
“One cannot always tell age by stature,” Mrs. Marshall had said.
“Some people are young in stature but old in iniquity,” Tonye had responded and some of us had laughed at his choice of words.
“I must put that down in my diary,” Willie had said. “It sounds profound.”
“I’m glad I look my age,” had been Philip's comment. “You wouldn’t ask me to carry your bags would you now, Mr. Simpson?” he had laughed. And I had agreed that I would not.
It was in that morning's conversation that I saw a glimmer of hope to pin the killer. I left my room and went downstairs. There was no-one in the lounge, but Ayuba was standing behind the bar polishing the glasses without his usual vigour. He seemed to be miles away. I took one of the stools.
“How is Wahimda doing?” I asked him.
“She’s doing much better from what I heard. The hospital is still carrying out toxicology tests.”
“Where are the others?” I asked, nodding towards the empty lounge.
“Willie and Tonye went out separately, some time ago. I think Philip went to the gym. Mrs. Marshall is sitting under the shade of those trees behind. John is the only one, who is in his room,” replied Ayuba, without even pausing his polishing. He raised one of the glasses and inspected it. He seemed satisfied with the shine and put it back.
“Do you have any painkiller, Ayuba?” I asked, placing my palm on my forehead. “I’m having a terrible headache”.
“No problem, now,” said Ayuba. “I’ll get you some tablets.” And he left the bar through the back door.
I immediately vaulted over the bar top and landed on the other side. I went to his desk and pulled open the top drawer. Inside, I found what I wanted. I hastily sorted through the spare keys and found the one fixed with the number tag I required. I shut the drawer and put the key in my pocket, then I jumped over the bar top again and sat on my stool.
When Ayuba came back with the tablets, he found me with my head in my hands and my face contorted in false agony. He handed me some white tablets in a sachet.
“Thanks,” I said, getting off the stool. “I’ll just go to my room and take it. Then, I’ll have a rest.”
“That’s just what you need,” said Ayuba, looking at me with concern. I noticed that he had removed the plaster from his cheek. Some coincidence!
I went back upstairs, but I did not go to my room. Instead, I used the key I had obtained, to open the door to the room of the suspect. I entered quietly.
Picture frames and posters with brilliant colours, mostly of a religious nature, adorned the walls. I did not know how much time I had, so I quickly went to work. I pulled at the drawers of his desk, but they refused to budge. I tried not to swear out loud. I went over to the wardrobe, which was built into the wall. I searched through his clothes for keys, but I found none. Yet, as I searched through the pockets, I heard keys jangling.
I shook the clothes and the keys jangled again. I parted the clothes and I saw a nail hanging on the wall behind them. On the nail was the set of keys. I took it and tried it on the lock of the drawers. They opened.
I searched through the first two drawers with care, but without any luck. It was in the third one that I found what I was looking for. A diary bound with a red hard cover for the year 2012. I locked the drawers and returned the key to where I had found it. With one hand on the doorknob, I looked back at the room and satisfied myself that I had not left any sign of my visit.
I opened the door a crack and peeped into the corridor. I saw no-one. I had just stepped into the corridor and was turning the lock, when Tonye turned the corner of the staircase.
“Hello,” he said coming down the corridor towards me. I began whistling in a carefree manner.
“Is he in?” he asked.
“Do you want to see him?” I asked walking away towards my own door.
“Not really,” he replied, staring at the diary in my hands.
“How long are you still staying?” I asked him.
“A couple of days,” he replied. “And you?”
“A couple more days, too,” I said, as I opened my door.
“It's really unfortunate what happened,” he said. He had followed me and was now standing before my door.
“Indeed!” I said.
“I was surprised that Nagoth could do such a thing,” he said.
“Yeah! Me, too,” I said and I shut the door in his face.
“What’s that book you are holding?” he asked from the other side of the door.
I pretended not to hear him; I turned on my radio and raised the volume.
I sat down and thumbed through the pages of the diary. There was no personal entry in the diary. Willie had only compiled quotes and inspirational lines. The only consolation for my efforts was a lengthy love note from Binta to him dated January 10, 2012 and sandwiched between the pages. She had written enough to show that they were lovers, and that they had come to Obudu together. She thanked him for the beautiful time they had spent together. But I was disappointed. I still had no proof of the murder even if the circumstantial evidence was sufficient to convince me that Willie was the killer.
Willie and Binta had been lovers and he murdered her, when she refused to terminate a pregnancy. Maria attended the same church and had discovered their secret affair, when she found the items in her chest of drawers. He had killed her to shut her up. But had Maria also been his lover? She had mentioned in her hypothetical story that she was unwilling to pass on information about the individual to the police because she was in ‘in love’ with the person and would not want him to feel betrayed.