Ibrahim had not slept in over twenty-four hours. He was tired, he was irritable, and now he was getting frustrated.
An officer had called to tell him that going to the homes of the two criminals had yielded no arrests. It was possible that they had been tipped off. The plan had been to detain their family members to draw them out. He wondered just how many of his officers took bribes.
So far, all he had was Chucks, who clearly knew nothing of the girl’s murder, and the two names the crook had given up. He had never heard of them. On another day that wouldn’t have mattered: being in possession of the stolen vehicle involved in the crime would have been enough to charge Chucks with the murder and parade him to the press as an example of the police doing their job of apprehending criminals – ritual killers included. But this was different. This had made it onto CNN and that damned British journalist had witnessed it. He had also witnessed the murder of a detainee. That’s what he would call it when he reported it: Nigerian Police Kill Defenceless Suspect in Cell. It wouldn’t matter that the boy was a member of a notorious gang of armed robbers and possibly a killer himself. Armed robbery carries the death penalty in Nigeria. The boy would have been executed anyway, but that wouldn’t matter to Mr Guy Collins of the BBC.
What was Amaka’s part in all this? She was going to make him regret being so nice to her and giving her so much freedom.
There was also the small matter of the police commissioner who kept calling for updates. Does the man even sleep?
Thank God he had one more lead to follow. He called his station and left instructions for the men of operation Fire-for-Fire to be ready to move when he returned. A convoy of armoured vehicles arrived on Catch-Fire’s street, lights flashing, sirens screaming, and tyres screeching. They blocked off the road by parking zigzag across it. The men took positions behind their vehicles and aimed their guns at the building.
Ibrahim had a bulletproof vest over his shirt. He had armed himself with an Uzi sub-machine gun and the men awaited his command.
A generator was humming in the background. The air smelt of carbide. Spent shells lay scattered on the road, and two dead bodies were sprawled in the doorway of the building. At their feet, two black dogs sat as if guarding the carnage.
The beasts growled at the men, stood, and barked, digging their front paws into the ground and pulling their muscular bodies backwards ready to charge.
Ibrahim pointed to Hot-Temper then to the dogs. The sergeant fired two shots from his Kalashnikov.
Ibrahim held his hand out for a megaphone. ‘This is the Nigeria Police. Come out with your hands on your heads and you will not be hurt. This is your first and final warning.’
One of the dogs whimpered on its back and kicked the air with its hind leg. Ibrahim handed back the megaphone and cocked his Uzi. He fired off a bust of bullets punching holes into the dead bodies on the ground and making them jolt like they still had life in them.
Moments later, the door opened. The men got ready to shoot. A girl walked out with her hands raised above her head. She was young, barefoot, and wearing hot pants and a black bra. Sweat had glued strands of her hair to her forehead and neck. She slowly walked towards the men. Others followed behind her.
‘What is this?’ Ibrahim said. Where were the gunmen? Was this a whorehouse? Had they come to the wrong address?
‘To your knees,’ Hot-Temper said, gesturing with the barrel of his gun. Officers surrounded them.
Ibrahim waved and Hot-Temper led the men into the house.
‘What happened here?’ Ibrahim asked the girls. Nobody answered. He tried to make eye contact but they looked away. One girl had clearly been crying. A cloth, wet with blood, was wrapped around her hand. He pointed to her. ‘You, stand up. Come here.’
The girl shifted her weight from one knee to the other then turned her gaze the other way.
‘Bring her.’
Two officers slung their rifles back and stepped through the throng of girls to fetch her. The rest of the girls stood up and surrounded their friend. They ignored the guns now held with renewed vigour to their faces. On the command to ‘stay down,’ they began to protest in a dialect none of the men understood.
‘Leave them,’ Ibrahim said. Other officers were already handing their guns to colleagues to go join in quelling the riot.
Ibrahim handed his Uzi to an officer beside him. He undid the Velcro straps on his body armour and pulled the heavy suit off his head. The officer took it. With the girls still watching, he removed the pistol in his holster and handed it to the officer, then spread his hands and stepped closer to them. ‘Ladies, the police are your friends. We are only here to help. I am only concerned because she’s wounded. Is anybody else wounded?’
‘We are fine,’ one of the girls said.
‘What is your name?’
‘Cecilia.’
The other girls watched her. They let her speak for them.
‘OK, Cecilia, what happened here tonight? Who did all this?’
‘Armed robbers.’
‘Armed robbers? What did they steal?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Where are you from, Cecilia?’
‘From Lagos.’
‘I don’t think so. I think you are from Togo. Do you have papers to live in Nigeria?’
She eyed him, hissed, and looked away.
‘I can arrange papers for you, and your friends.’
‘We no need papers, we are not illegal. We are from Lagos.’
‘Is that right? Where in Lagos are you from?’
‘Surulere, here.’
‘And who is the President of Nigeria?’
With the corner of her eyes, she scanned him from his toes to his eyes then back to his toes, like a confident wrestler sizing up a mismatched opponent. She let out a long loud hiss, crossed her arms over her breasts and looked away.
‘Cecilia, I just want to talk to that girl. I don’t have any problem with you. I just want to talk to her then I’ll leave with my men.’
‘What do you want to ask her?’
‘I would like to ask her myself.’
She looked at him, taking him all in with a single roll of her eyeballs.
‘Please,’ Ibrahim said.
She turned to the girls. ‘Joy. Come.’
Joy stepped out of the protection of her friends. She stopped by Cecilia and looked at her feet.
‘Joy, are you OK?’ Ibrahim asked.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Joy, we are here to help you. Who did this to you?’
‘I don’t know, sir.’
‘Do you know Catch-Fire?’
She looked at Cecilia who shook her head.
‘Is he dead? Did they kill him?’
Her eyes turned cloudy and she began to sniff.
Ibrahim stepped forward and put his arms around her, careful not to touch her bandaged arm. He held her to his chest and patted her on the back. ‘It is OK,’ he said, ‘it is OK.’
‘It is Chief.’ She began to say. Cecilia stepped forward but the officers quickly grabbed her and dragged her away.
Ibrahim held Joy’s hand and walked with her away from the other girls. Cecilia shouted something in their language. Joy turned to look back but Ibrahim gently encouraged her on with his arm. Two officers followed them holding their guns ready, their eyes darting around.
‘Tell me what happened.’
Tears fell down the girl’s cheeks. He pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed her face. ‘It is OK. I am here. Everything will be OK. Who is Chief?’
‘Chief, he sent his boys to kill our oga. They came with many men and they started to shoot everybody.’
‘Catch-Fire, is that your oga?’
‘Where is he now?’
‘They took him away.’
‘Why did Chief send people to kill him?’
She looked back at the rest of the girls. Cecilia was struggling with two officers trying to force her to her knees. The other girls stayed down under the guns trained on them. ‘Oga said it is because of their business.’
‘What business?’
‘They do human ritual business together.’
Ibrahim paused and took a deep breath. ‘Do you know the Chief’s name?’ he asked.
‘Yes. His name is Chief Amadi. Chief Ebenezer Amadi.’
He stopped walking and stared at her. Her hands flew up to shield her face. He looked back at the officers following them. Perhaps they hadn’t heard her.
‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ he said. He checked on the officers. ‘You and your friends must leave Lagos tonight. If anybody asks you, you don’t know any Catch-Fire or any Chief Amadi. Do you understand? If you don’t want to be arrested and deported, you must leave Lagos tonight. OK?’