by Stav Sherez
‘We were trying to get to Murchison Falls,’ Jack explained, the moment contracting and pulsing, a strange feeling, like slipping out of time, his head rattling with possible outcomes, every click and cough magnified.
The lieutenant smiled revealing a mouth totally barren of teeth, pink as a baby’s fist. ‘This is restricted territory,’ he replied curtly, his eyes scanning the interior of the car like a pair of searchlights.
‘But the guide book said the park was open.’
The lieutenant looked at Jack. ‘How can a book know the truth of the world?’ He seemed genuinely perplexed. Jack was about to reply when one of the soldiers handed the lieutenant something he’d found in the car. He took it, nodded and looked it over. Jack felt his heart skip as he recognised his own notebook.
‘What’s this?’ The lieutenant waved it around as if it were too hot to hold.
‘It’s my notebook, I write songs in it.’ Jack’s voice quivered and he felt Ben’s hand light reassuringly on the back of his arm.
The lieutenant flicked through the pages of melodies and themes, bass clefs and crotchets. He shook his head then looked back up at them. ‘If that is so then why is it written in code?’
The truck crashed against the dirt road, sending dust and small stones into their faces and hair. They were handcuffed to a pole at the back of the truck’s open bed. They were facing away from each other, keeping their eyes closed against the wind and grit.
The truck lurched and span and Jack couldn’t hold it in any longer, puking over his own clothes, the fear and nausea drowning his lungs. He hung his head and concentrated on the rusty flaked bed of the truck but all he could hear was a strange breathless burble of words and then he realised it was David, his voice cracked and faltering, the Lord’s Prayer coming out of his mouth and just as quickly disappearing in the wind and jungle screams.
‘Stop fucking praying,’ Jack snapped. ‘You’re freaking me out.’
‘What’s going to happen?’ The panic in David’s voice made Jack wish he hadn’t interrupted. ‘What are they going to do to us?’
‘Nothing,’ Ben said firmly. ‘It’s just a stupid misunderstanding.’ He had to raise his voice to be heard above the truck’s motor. ‘They’ll take us to their commander who’s bound to be slightly more intelligent and they’ll realise they made a mistake.’
‘What if they don’t? What if—’
‘Shut up, Jack,’ Ben screamed. ‘Now’s not the time.’
Jack turned his head and faced the road, seeing the jungle fly by in their wake, the smear of colours, green and black and blue, like something painted by a lunatic.
*
The room was small and hot and stank of sweat and shit. A one-eyed soldier was sitting behind an old wooden desk going through their papers, passports, toiletries, tickets. He stroked a thin goatee which hung like moss from his chin as he consulted the documents with all the seriousness of a small-town bureaucrat. His eye-patch was made of red leather, scuffed and faded like an old cricket ball. He held out the notebook. ‘Whose is this?’ His voice was flat and grainy as if he were wrestling the very words in his mouth.
‘It’s mine,’ Ben replied before Jack had a chance to answer.
‘He’s lying.’ Jack stepped towards the desk. ‘It’s mine. It’s got my name on it.’ He turned and glared at Ben – he wasn’t David, didn’t need Ben to protect and shield him from the vagaries of the world.
The soldier flicked through the book then put it to one side. ‘You are a spy.’
Jack didn’t know what to say – for a moment he didn’t even understand and then he did. ‘We’re tourists,’ he protested.
Eye-patch shook his head and wiped sweat from his brow. He held the notebook up, pointing at one of the scrawled pages. ‘This is not English. This is code. Only spies use code.’
Jack understood how quickly things had changed. ‘It’s musical notation,’ he replied and tried to explain what the symbols stood for then grasped that the soldier had probably never even seen a piano before let alone written music. It was infuriating, trying to explain something so obvious and realising that what you took for granted was not really so.
Eye-patch considered this, looking back down at the notebook, flicking through its damp pages, then putting the notebook up against one ear, his face clenched in mock concentration. ‘Music? This is not music.’
Jack watched as Ben and David were quickly surrounded. He could feel the air literally stop in his throat, something he’d always thought only a metaphor, and he had to will himself to take another breath. The soldiers took Ben and David, leading them through the door into a corridor shrouded in darkness. David looked back at the last moment and Jack saw tears running down his face.
‘Where are you taking them?’ Jack screamed, finally letting the rage, frustration and weariness explode through him. Being reasonable hadn’t helped, maybe outrage would.
‘This is a war,’ the soldier stated flatly. ‘In war spies must be killed.’
‘It’s my notebook.’ He felt a thin red thread of panic uncoil in his stomach like some long-sleeping sea monster finally woken. ‘Let them go, it’s nothing to do with them. You can keep me till we get this sorted out but please let them go. I told you we’re not spies, it’s . . . it’s just fucking ridiculous.’
Eye-patch shook his head sadly as if admonishing a favourite nephew. ‘And if you were spies . . . would you not likewise say that you were not?’ He paused looking down at Jack. ‘You are an intelligent man, yes?’
Jack nodded.
‘Then you must see my problem. How can I tell the true man from the false?’
21
At least this time she wasn’t made to wait. Branch opened the door and ushered her into his office. The room smelled hot and close, cigar smoke and stale male sweat as if a group of rugby players had only just vacated it. Geneva took shallow breaths through her mouth and sat down.
She’d been dreading this ever since her first meeting with Branch, a week ago. It seemed like much longer but that was the thing about murder investigations – they existed on their own timeframe and it was all too easy to lose track of the world.
Branch was going through a bunch of papers, nodding and shaking his head, aligning them and straightening the edges. She could see her own typed report fluttering in his thick fingers, his eyes going back and forth across the sentences she’d had so much difficulty putting together.
‘So, how are you liking your promotion?’ Branch looked up but he seemed preoccupied, his eyes constantly glancing towards his row of phones.
Geneva shuffled on the chair and tried to work out what he wanted from her, what role she should be playing. She knew his innocent question was anything but.
‘It’s good to be back on a major case,’ she replied.
Branch nodded, stared down at the line of mobiles on his table. ‘Of course it is.’ He pressed a button on one of the phones. ‘I’ve read your report,’ he said, his eyes fixed on the blinking light of the handset. ‘A bit thin – I was hoping for something more from you, Miller.’
Geneva stared down at her shoes, rubbed the red patch on her wrist. ‘I didn’t feel the need to repeat anything that was already in the daily incident log.’
Branch eyes flicked up. ‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘I can only report what I’ve observed.’
‘Of course, of course, but you know very well that’s not why I gave you this secondment.’ Branch put the report down, all one page of it, picked up another piece of paper and read it briefly. It was handwritten. She thought she could see her name on it. ‘Tell me about Carrigan.’
It was the question she’d dreaded, the only reason, she knew, that he’d asked her in here for this meeting. She opened her mouth then closed it, looked up at the photos of blood-soaked boxers. ‘You asked me to report what I’d seen and that’s what I’ve done, sir. You didn’t ask me to write a psychological profile.’
Branch stared at her
silently, trying to work out whether she was being sarcastic. She could hear the clock behind him ticking off the seconds. She thought about the briefing she was missing and how the next few minutes could affect the rest of her career. ‘He hasn’t done anything wrong that I’ve observed,’ she added.
‘And you’re certain he’s following all possible lines of investigation?’
The way he glared at her made her think of the handwritten report she’d seen on his desk, the use of that particular phrase a reminder of an earlier conversation she’d had. She wanted to lie to Branch, an unexpected loyalty to Carrigan rising in her, but when she looked up Branch was slowly shaking his head. ‘Just tell me, Miller. Don’t think I don’t know anyway.’
‘I’m . . . I’m not sure that he is . . . pursuing all avenues.’ She felt deflated once the words were out, the sound of them like a shrill cry in her ears. ‘I don’t think he trusts my input. He thinks I’m working for you and that everything I come up with is some ruse to trap him.’
Branch looked up. ‘And why on earth would he think that?’
Geneva let it drop. ‘It’s undermining my attempts to investigate this case properly.’
Branch squeezed a thin smile through his lips, dropped his reports and nodded. ‘Go on, explain what you mean, Sergeant.’ He emphasised the last word, his eyes crinkling behind his glasses.
There was no way back now, she had to tell him. She hoped Carrigan would understand.
She explained about her research into Grace’s thesis, the missing laptop, the way Grace had come back from the Christmas holidays changed and how her thesis manifested this change by narrowing its focus to General Ngomo. She told him how the ripped-out heart was the general’s signature back in Uganda and how certain she was of these connections. ‘There’s too much now for it to be just coincidence.’ She looked at the clock, felt her confidence returning as Branch listened without interruption. ‘I think General Ngomo found out that Grace was investigating him and his past deeds and decided she was better off dead.’
She sat back in the chair and took a deep breath. She didn’t know if what she’d just done could be counted as a betrayal of her DI – Carrigan would definitely see it as such – but she’d always believed that the case was more important than any one person’s feelings.
Branch put a hand up to his head, running his fingers through greying tufts of hair. She could see him digesting the information, his eyes narrowing as facts and theories clicked. He looked up finally, gave her a pleasant smile. ‘Nonsense. Absolute nonsense.’
Geneva wasn’t sure she’d heard him right and leant forward, about to speak, to defend her theory, when Branch cut her off.
‘I know you’re young and inexperienced but believe me you’ll find over time that nearly all murders have simple basic solutions. We’d never even get our clearance rate over ten per cent if murder was this baroque conspiracy you think it to be.’
She’d thought this was what he’d wanted – ammo against Carrigan – but she realised that once again she’d read the situation wrong.
‘This is a sex murder plain and simple and that’s how we’re going to work it. I didn’t put you on this team to conduct your own investigations and if you don’t like it then you can go back to being a constable again any time you want.’
She rubbed her wrist, the itch maddening, like a burning hole in her arm. ‘Carrigan put you up to this, didn’t he?’ she said before she could lose her nerve.
Branch blinked twice, looking genuinely confused. ‘Carrigan? I haven’t spoken to him at all. This is about facts, DS Miller, and how you read them. I believe you need to go back and look at this again, not waste time on far-fetched speculation.’ He sighed, picked something up then put it back down. ‘And besides we now have a photo ID of our suspect and I can tell you that he’s a lot younger than your general.’
She didn’t know what to say to that. She stared at Branch waiting for further disclosure but he was sitting back in his chair, arms crossed, a smile of smug satisfaction on his face. Geneva managed to nod, keeping her face frozen, not wanting him to read her true expression.
‘Sir, just one more thing . . .’ glad she’d saved it for last. ‘Yesterday I got in touch with the morgue to ask if I could view Grace’s body again.’ She watched the change in Branch’s face, the way he’d begun chewing the insides of his cheeks, the drumming of his fingers on the white paper.
‘And why on earth would you want to do that?’
Geneva smiled for the first time that morning. ‘I needed to double-check something about the bite wounds, but the funny thing is . . .’ She let it hang there for a moment, enjoying Branch’s discomfort. ‘. . . Myra Bentley told me that they no longer have the body, that it had been claimed, but when I asked her to check the records she said no one had signed it out.’
Branch leant forward, puffed out his cheeks. He looked down at his desk and crossed his arms. ‘That’s correct, Miller, the body has indeed been claimed.’
‘By whom? Her parents?’
Branch shook his head. ‘I’m sorry but I’m not at liberty to tell you that.’
‘I’m supposed to be working this investigation, why can’t you tell me?’
Branch began kneading his fingers, the flesh white and agitated. He leant forward and continued in a whisper. ‘I really wish I could but this isn’t my decision.’
‘So I should talk to the chief superintendent?’ She watched his reaction carefully, saw him rising to the bait as she’d known he would.
‘I’m afraid that won’t do much good. Believe me, last thing I wanted was for the body to be released so early but this goes way above the chief, above the ACC and commissioner.’
‘But if it was her family we need to get in touch with them.’ If this went higher than the commissioner then it must be governmental, Home Office – the ramifications span through her brain so that she almost didn’t catch Branch’s last words.
‘They’ll bollock me to kingdom come for saying this but,’ he looked down at his row of phones, ‘fuck them. What I can tell you for certain is that it definitely wasn’t her family who claimed the body.’ He took a deep breath and picked up an unlit cigar. ‘To be frank with you, Miller, I’m not sure what’s going on here and it’s all way above my pay grade so the sooner we’re shot of this case the better. We can only come out covered in shit the longer this goes on.’
Branch was about to say something else when the door to his office burst open and Carrigan marched in, hair slicked across his face, red-cheeked and breathing heavily.
22
Branch exploded from the table, the huge mass of him rising out of his seat, sending papers and pencils, old reports and a half-filled mug of tea flying onto the carpet. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing barging in here like that?’ he screamed, his face turning beet red.
Carrigan was about to reply, then felt a shift in air currents, a slight shuffle of feet, and turned to see Geneva sitting in the visitor’s chair. He glared at her for a few seconds until she could no longer hold his gaze.
‘What’s she doing here?’ He stared at Branch, trying to work out what had transpired in the room before he’d come in.
Branch sat back down, straightened his shirt and took a long sip of water. His face returned to its normal ruddy complexion. ‘Sit down, Carrigan,’ he said wearily, as if talking to an old and recalcitrant dog. ‘I was just about to page you, as it happens.’
Carrigan took a seat next to Geneva, avoiding her gaze. ‘I can’t believe you set up a press conference without consulting me.’
Branch rubbed his palms together, wiped sweat off his brow with an old folded handkerchief. ‘Last time I looked I was your superior officer. Perhaps you should reacquaint yourself with the chain of command.’
‘I had to learn about this press conference from DS Karlson, for Christ’s sake. How do you think that makes me look in front of my team?’
The super smiled and gathered up some loose papers. �
��Since, thanks to your persistence and hard work, we now have a photo of our suspect, I believe it’s time to take this public.’
Carrigan stared at the empty space behind Branch, the towers of glass gleaming in the distance. ‘We don’t need a press conference,’ he said, keeping his voice steady. ‘It’ll only make things worse.’
‘I don’t see how things could get any worse,’ Branch replied.
‘It’s a waste of our time,’ Carrigan said. ‘We’ll be swamped for days with pointless phone calls. Jilted lovers or angry business partners wanting to get revenge, everyone who thinks black people all look the same.’ He looked back to see Geneva staring blankly at the wall, her muscles taut and her lips white as candles. ‘But forget that for a moment. We have a press conference and if we flash this suspect’s photo we lose our one advantage. He doesn’t know we know who he is yet – what do you think will happen once he sees his own face on TV?’
‘He’ll panic, he’ll make mistakes, he’ll show up on our radar,’ Branch replied bluntly while taking out a stack of clean white paper from his drawer.
‘Not this one,’ Carrigan said. ‘He’s not some amateur that fucked up and is slowly unravelling. Everything we know about him says he’ll go further under – he’s illegal, he knows bolt holes and hiding places we wouldn’t have the first clue about. You put that picture on TV and I guarantee we’ll never find him.’ Carrigan leant back in the chair, out of breath and exhausted, just wanting to leave.
Branch began writing something down on a sheet of paper. ‘Are you telling me, Inspector Carrigan, that you’re not willing to pursue all lines of investigation?’ Jack looked at the super then back at Geneva, who was still silently sitting in her chair. What had she told him?
‘I’m pursuing the most credible leads,’ he finally replied, ‘the same as I’ve always done.’
‘We’ve got to look like we’re doing something, for God’s sake,’ Branch said.
