‘The highlighted paragraphs show where your stories differ. You couldn’t even agree on the events of Wednesday evening, Mr Songoli. You described prayers, followed by a formal family dinner and bedtime at eight o’clock. Mrs Songoli said Olubayo and Abiola ate supper in front of the television before going upstairs when their father came home. Which is true?’
Yetunde answered. ‘My husband confused Wednesday with Tuesday. The explanation I gave is the correct one.’
Inspector Jordan selected another paper from her case. ‘My team is studying footage from every CCTV camera in the roads around this house, your sons’ school and Mr Songoli’s office. This is a photograph of Abiola crossing the High Street at three thirteen on Wednesday afternoon. Shortly afterwards one of your neighbours claims to have seen him turn into your gate. She says it was around three thirty which supports the time stamp on this still.’
Yetunde bridled. ‘Isn’t that what I told the interviewer?’ she demanded. ‘Did you think I was lying?’
‘I’m simply demonstrating how easy it is for us to prove or disprove what people tell us, Mrs Songoli. For example, you said your sons went to their bedrooms when their father came home … but that isn’t true. We have Mr Songoli’s car on camera, passing the traffic lights two streets down at six thirty-seven that Wednesday evening, and Olubayo’s computer showing unbroken usage from five until just before midnight. I can even tell you what he was looking at.’
Olubayo was sitting next to Muna on the sofa, and she felt a shiver of alarm run through his body. It pleased her to have the police know he was a dirty boy as well as a liar. Muna had seen what he was watching when Yetunde ordered her to take a tray of food to his room – naked white ladies in strange positions – and, though she’d averted her gaze from Olubayo as she put the tray on the bed, she’d heard his animal grunts as he worked on himself. It had made her afraid that it wouldn’t be long before he tried to leak his filth into her the way his father did.
‘Abiola’s computer wasn’t used at all that day,’ the white continued, ‘yet his normal practice was to switch on at around four o’clock. Both boys’ hard drives show a habit of doing a half to one hour’s homework each night but neither followed that pattern on Wednesday. Do you have an explanation for that? Perhaps Olubayo can tell me.’
Ebuka spoke to his son in Hausa. Say nothing, boy. I will do the speaking for all of us. ‘Why do you take no account of our distress at the loss of our son?’ he demanded. ‘If my wife and I are confused about that evening, it’s because we haven’t slept since Abiola was taken from us. How can we remember details from a week ago when our hearts and minds are broken with grief?’
‘Most parents do, Mr Songoli. They agonise over everything said and done in the hours before a son or daughter goes missing. Even when they know the fault’s not theirs, they still feel guilt for what’s happened.’
‘I’ve already admitted my mistake in cancelling the car.’
The Inspector nodded before holding up two more photographs. ‘This is yours passing through the Crendell Avenue junction at six thirty-seven on Wednesday evening, and this’ – she held up the second – ‘is the same car driving through it in the opposite direction four and a half hours later. The time stamp says eleven seventeen. I believe you’re the only driver in the house, sir. Do you want to tell me where you were going so late on the night before you say Abiola vanished?’
From beneath lowered lids, Muna saw fear in Ebuka’s face and shock in Yetunde’s. Neither answered.
‘Mrs Songoli said she went to bed early and was asleep by ten thirty. You agreed with her – it’s one of the few details that isn’t in dispute – but you claimed you followed shortly afterwards and were in bed by eleven. And that’s not true, is it, sir? Where did you go? We’ll examine the footage from every camera within a ten-mile radius if we have to.’
It was Yetunde who spoke. You mustn’t answer, she whispered in Hausa. This white has set a trap for you but she can’t do anything if you refuse to speak. Phone your employer and ask him to send a solicitor.
Ebuka, paler than Muna had ever seen him, nodded. He left the room to make some calls and an hour later a man came to the house. He gave his name as Jeremy Broadstone and showed no fear of the Inspector when he accused her of trampling on his clients’ rights. He ordered her and her colleagues from the room, and Muna was frightened by the power he had to make them leave when she heard the sound of tyres on the gravel outside. She feared the police had gone for good, and it caused her to dislike Jeremy Broadstone.
He was white and thin and beaky-nosed, and she thought him untrustworthy. He lowered himself into a chair without invitation and tapped his watch. ‘We have limited time. I’m here because your employer, John Ndiko, asked me to come but I can’t help you unless you’re honest with me, Mr Songoli. Why do the police think you’re involved in your son’s disappearance? What cause have you given them for suspicion?’
Ebuka turned to his wife. ‘This is not for their ears,’ he said, nodding to Muna and Olubayo. ‘Take them to their rooms while I speak to Mr Broadstone.’
But Yetunde refused. I will not, she answered in Hausa. If you’ve been visiting whores again, I want to know about it. You’ll not keep secrets from me.
Will you shame me in front of this white?
You’ve brought shame on yourself through your own actions, she snapped. Don’t blame me for how this man perceives you. She turned to Muna. Look up, girl, and smile as a daughter should. You and Olubayo are to go to your rooms. If there are any policemen in the hall, Olubayo will tell them the solicitor has asked to speak with us privately. Show your parents affection by giving each of us a kiss before you leave.
Muna watched Olubayo touch his mouth to Yetunde’s cheek before rising to perform the task herself. It wasn’t something she understood or had ever done. There was no pleasure in the sensation – the smell of Yetunde’s skin repulsed her – but kissing Ebuka was worse. Perhaps he remembered how often he’d placed his hand across Muna’s mouth in the darkness of the cellar because he wouldn’t look at her when she lowered her face to his. The feel and smell of his rough beard was as unpleasant to her as always.
She felt a small relief as she closed the door behind her for it seemed the Songolis’ honesty didn’t stretch to admitting she wasn’t their daughter, and her relief grew when she heard the sound of voices in the kitchen. The words were inaudible but she could tell from the lightness of tone that one belonged to Inspector Jordan and the other to the liaison officer. She raised her eyes to Olubayo, who was watching her from the foot of the stairs.
They won’t be here for ever, Olubayo told her triumphantly. And then you’ll be back where you belong. He tapped the panels of the cellar door. A filthy bitch in a filthy kennel.
Muna eyed him warily.
It makes me sick having to say I’m your brother. You’re too stupid to be a Songoli. You don’t understand anything.
The Devil whispered rebellion in Muna’s ear. She took a step forward. ‘My name is Muna,’ she said in English. ‘Mr and Mrs Songoli stole me when I was eight years old. I would like to go home.’ She watched in satisfaction as Olubayo’s eyes widened. The words had sounded right. She tried some others she’d practised. ‘Mr Songoli beat Abiola with a rod. He fell to the floor and did not get up. I have not seen him since.’
Olubayo stared at her in shock, and Muna was thrilled at how easy it was to frighten him. She continued in Hausa.
If I say those words to the police, the Master will be taken away … and that will please me as much as it pleases me that Abiola is gone. He was a nasty boy and my life is better without him.
She watched tears ooze on to Olubayo’s cheeks and despised him for it. Each day he had kicked his fat brother’s legs and told him how much he hated him, and each evening he stamped his feet when Ebuka told him to do his homework. Another few steps brought her to the cellar door. Curiosity made her open it and touch the light switch. Once again she thought how
benign it looked in the soft glow of the bulb. It had the appearance of a storage room. Boxes, trunks and cases were piled against the walls, and a table, covered in files from Ebuka’s office, stood where her mattress had been.
She wondered what Ebuka had done with her bedding. From watching the police search the house the second time, Muna had seen how carefully they examined everything, and she knew they would have found it if it had been in the house. She guessed he’d used his car to take it away while Yetunde was dressing her in the spare room, and the idea gave her a warm feeling. The Inspector would show him another photograph soon.
She switched off the light and listened to the darkness. But if it was whispering to her she couldn’t hear it above the murmur of voices coming from the kitchen. The Master will never send me back to the cellar, she told Olubayo, closing the door. He’s afraid the white will find out about the bad things he’s done. I see fear in his eyes each time he looks at her.
She turned with the same impassive face she always had, and watched the boy back away from her up the stairs. She enjoyed the power she felt when she saw how his hand trembled on the banister.
Some time later, Yetunde came to Muna’s room and pleaded with her to help Ebuka. You must persuade the white that Abiola was alive on Thursday morning, she said. Mr Broadstone thinks she’s more likely to believe you than Mr Songoli or myself.
How can I do that, Princess?
Describe what he was wearing and what he did … how he came to my room for sugared almonds … how he cried about having to walk to school.
But I didn’t see him, Princess. I’m not allowed to look at any of you without permission. I waited in the kitchen until it was safe to go upstairs and take the sheets from Abiola’s bed. It’s what I do every day.
Then pretend you saw him, Yetunde snapped. You know he was here. His tantrum was loud enough for everyone to hear.
Is that what you want me to say, Princess?
Yetunde gripped Muna’s wrist with fat fingers. Of course not, you foolish creature! The white is looking for a reason why the Master might have lost his temper with Abiola. You must convince her you waved your brother goodbye as he left the house.
I’ve already tried, Princess. She asked me the question while you and the Master were away, but she believes me too damaged to know what is true and what isn’t.
Yetunde frowned in annoyance. How can you know what the white believes?
The Hausa speaker said I wasn’t to worry if I couldn’t remember everything, Princess. The white told her to say it wasn’t my fault if I didn’t know which day the gardener came and Abiola went missing.
Yetunde’s rings bit into her flesh. There’s no ‘and’ about it. The gardener comes on Wednesdays. Abiola went missing on Thursday.
I didn’t know that, Princess. I’ve never seen the gardener. You don’t allow me near the windows when he’s working outside. You said you didn’t want him to know I was here.
Yetunde took several deep breaths to calm herself. Did you tell the white the two things happened on Wednesday?
No, Princess. I said I didn’t know which day they happened.
Yetunde thrust her away. You’ve made it worse, she said angrily. It’s no wonder the white suspects the Master. He should have called a lawyer sooner. Mr Broadstone says she had no business talking to you without an adult present.
I wouldn’t have answered any of her questions if the Hausa speaker hadn’t said I had to, Princess. Some were very strange.
Such as?
Were you and the Master kind to me, Princess? Did you love me? Did I love you? I told her yes and made no mention of the cellar or the rod because I didn’t want you to think me ungrateful.
Yetunde moved impatiently to the window. Were you asked why the Master took so long to summon the police on Thursday evening?
Yes, Princess.
What answer did you give?
None, Princess. I sat in silence, staring at my hands. The Hausa speaker said I didn’t have to be afraid if I told the truth … but I was sure you wouldn’t like it if I did. It might have seemed strange to them if I’d said you thought it more important to find me a dress than look for Abiola.
She watched the play of expressions on Yetunde’s bloated, ugly face. Yetunde showed her emotions so openly, and Muna had lived with her so long, it wasn’t hard to guess the thoughts that were running through her head. She wanted to doubt Muna’s honesty but she couldn’t. Her contempt for the girl’s abilities was too ingrained to believe her capable of invention. It certainly didn’t occur to her that Muna understood English, or that the knowledge she’d gained from listening to everything the white said allowed her to twist the truth.
Yetunde clenched her fists at her sides, releasing her frustration in a resentful sigh. We’re being accused of things we haven’t done, she said, and all because there are no CCTV images of Abiola on the day he went missing. The lawyer says we must find a way to prove he was alive. He told me to ask you which crisps and sweets you put in his lunch box that morning?
Muna wriggled her shoulders in pretended discomfort. I didn’t put in any, Princess. Abiola stole all that were left when he came home from school the day before. He took them outside and ate them in the little house in the garden.
Yetunde glared at her. Why didn’t you tell me?
You’d have beaten me, Princess. It made you angry when Abiola stole food.
Yetunde rattled her bracelets in annoyance. You’re not to tell the white that. Say you put the crisps in his lunch box on Thursday. Better still, say you saw me doing it. What colour packets were they? How many? The police know the answer so be sure to remember accurately.
There were three red ones, Princess. Abiola kicked me because he only likes green and blue.
Why were the stores so low? I bought enough to last a month.
Abiola stole crisps every afternoon, Princess. If I tried to stop him, he hurt me. He wasn’t a nice boy. I think the white knows you and the Master didn’t like him either. She asked me twice why you don’t weep for him more.
Yetunde’s glare hardened. Can’t she see our anguish?
I don’t believe so, Princess. The Hausa speaker said the Master keeps trying to blame others for Abiola being missing … and men who do that want to hide their own guilt. She pressed me over and over again about whether he went out in his car between coming home and calling the police. I didn’t know how to answer so I said nothing.
Wretched girl! You should have said he didn’t.
Muna raised her head. But the white would have known I was lying, Princess. My mattress is not in the cellar any more, and only the Master could have taken it away. Will she not have pictures of the journey he made in his car? Will she not ask him if he took Abiola as well?
Five
Inspector Jordan informed the Songolis the next day that she was removing her team from the house. Ebuka and Yetunde greeted the news with relief, but not Muna whose naïve wish had been that the police stay for ever. Her sense of power had been very brief. Olubayo had been right, and she wrong, and despair overwhelmed her as she thought of being returned to the cellar.
It was Mr Broadstone’s fault. He had refused the Inspector any further contact with his clients unless she produced evidence implicating them, and he guarded the Songolis closely to ensure that happened. It meant the Inspector never found out that Ebuka liked visiting whores, and her suspicion remained that he was responsible for his son’s disappearance. Only the liaison officer said goodbye, giving a small wave as she left through the front door, and Muna knew her last chance of help had gone when it closed behind her.
Mr Broadstone tapped his watch, saying he had an appointment elsewhere, and then advised the Songolis in an undertone to be careful what they said and did. The police might have left but it didn’t mean the investigation was over. There were ways and means of monitoring conversations and the Inspector had had plenty of time to apply for permission to install listening devices in the house.
> Ebuka took offence at the remark but he kept his voice low when he spoke. There was nothing they could say, he muttered, accusing the lawyer of not believing him and his wife when they said they were ignorant of what had happened to their son.
Mr Broadstone was unmoved. ‘It’s not my job to believe or disbelieve,’ he answered drily. ‘I merely take instructions. You asked me to get rid of the police and that’s what I’ve done. It won’t change anything. Your car, your computers and mobiles will still be examined and if anything untoward is found, you’ll be arrested and asked for an explanation.’
‘There is nothing.’
‘I hope you’re right. They’ll be looking doubly hard at your car if they already know you went out again on Thursday evening between arriving home and giving them a call. They won’t accept you were driving around the streets looking for Abiola if they find his DNA in the boot.’
‘It’s what most fathers would do,’ Ebuka protested nervously. ‘You said so yourself.’
Mr Broadstone lowered his voice even further. ‘Indeed, but they don’t forget to tell the police about it afterwards. You’d better pray the car wasn’t captured on camera that time. You’ll have a hard job persuading Inspector Jordan that such a reasonable excuse for a two-hour delay slipped the minds of both you and your wife.’
After he departed, the Songolis argued with each other in whispered Hausa. Each blamed the other for their problems. Yetunde said Ebuka should have known about street cameras. Ebuka said Yetunde should never have brought Muna into their house. But for her, they could have called the police immediately.
Neither said aloud that Muna had set her demons upon them, but their hate-filled glances in her direction told her that’s what they believed. Nothing else could account for the chaos that had entered their lives. It was Yetunde’s favourite sport to beat the Devil out of the girl, and Muna had come to welcome the punishment. If the Devil was so hard to expel, it meant He must be real.
The Cellar Page 3
