The voice that stopped my escape belonged to a tall officer in a uniform that looked like it had been freshly ironed. He was by the gutter, walkie-talkie in one hand, the other tucked into his pocket. The end of a pistol peeped through the bottom of a black leather holster attached to his belt. He appeared calm even though he was standing inches away from a freshly butchered corpse.
‘Good evening’ he said.
‘Good evening,’ I replied. We were about the same height and build, but I suspected from his exposed forearms that he worked out more.
‘What is your name and what is your business here?’
‘Guy, Guy Collins. I was at Ronnie’s.’ I pointed at the club.
‘Guy Collins. You sound British.’
I wasn’t sure if it was a question. He spoke in a casual, easy manner that was unsettling. I suspected that through this calm composure – his hand casually tucked into his pocket and his gentle voice – he was taking me very seriously, and how I responded was going to be important for me. I tried to appear as calm as him.
‘I am. I’m a reporter with the BBC,’ I lied, knowing the broadcaster was meant to be known and respected all over the world and could be my get-out free card. It seemed better than telling him I worked for a start-up internet TV news channel that had managed to find more venture capital than talent. Or that I was one of a paltry team of twelve operating out of a tiny office in Old Street where most of the staff spent their working days sending out job applications. Even I hadn’t heard of it until I decided to give up on law and pursue my passion and it became obvious I wasn’t going to get into any of the major media houses with nothing but my winning smile and an embellished CV. Then I remembered something else the Nigerian minicab driver had said about the police in here: ‘They hate foreign journalists.’
‘A journalist,’ he said, and carried on as if we just had to get through some routine questions. Had he been brash and unruly like the rest of his men, communicating with shoves and blows, I would have known how to react: with grovelling and begging. But he was civil – too civil, and I sensed it was only a prelude to nastiness to come. ‘So, what are you doing out here?’
‘I was at the bar.’
‘Yes, you told me. But now you are here and we have this dead body. So, what are you doing out here?’
‘I came out for a smoke.’ I thought it was a clever lie until I remembered that Lagos, unlike London, had not banished its smokers outdoors.
‘You couldn’t smoke inside?’
‘I wanted fresh air.’
‘Were you drunk?’
‘What?’
‘Were you drunk?’ He pointed his walkie-talkie at the vomit on the road.
‘But you saw the dead body?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you wish to report this on the BBC?’
‘No. I only came out to have a smoke.’ I dug into my pocket for the pack of Benson & Hedges.
‘Do you have any identification on you, Mr Collins?’
I didn’t. I’d been advised not to carry any documents or valuable stuff on me when out and about in Lagos. The pickpockets, I was assured, were as crafty as the ones in London, and more brazen, often confusing their vocation for mugging. All I had on me was the money I’d planned on getting drunk with, my phone, and the key card to my room at the hotel. I wished I were there right then, tucked under the light duvet, enduring deathly boredom and the constant hum of the air con. Or better still, back home in my flat in Fulham, doing nothing more exciting than waiting for a Chinese takeaway to arrive and trying not to be bothered by the large stained patch on the cream rug – the result of a red wine spillage that was sure to eat up my rental deposit. Suddenly, the boredom that led me out on what was meant to be a little adventure now seemed like a conspiracy of all the unpleasant forces of the universe.
‘I don’t have any ID with me – its back in the hotel,’ I explained.
‘That’s a pity, Mr Collins. I need to verify your identity before I can let you go. We need to talk to all the witnesses and take their statements. A nameless statement isn’t worth much, you understand?’
I understood that I’d gotten myself into a mess and I was at his mercy.
‘You will come with me to the station and we’ll take your statement there. Is that OK?’
I wanted to protest but I remembered the guy who had received a beating and I decided it was wise to keep schtum.
‘OK.’
‘Do you have a phone?’
Perhaps he wanted me to call someone who could tell him I was Guy Collins, reporter with eCity TV, and not the BBC.
‘Yes.’
‘Can I have it, please?’
I handed it to him. He took one look at the Samsung phone and slipped it into his breast pocket. Shit.
I watched the vans filling up with people picked off the road.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘you’ll ride with me in my car.’
I didn’t know if I should be grateful for this privilege or even more worried. Somehow, in the space of a few minutes I’d gone from watching young African girls dancing, to seeing my first brutally murdered corpse, to being questioned by the Nigerian police, to having my phone stolen or seized – I didn’t know which – and finally to being arrested.