Juba Good

by Vicki Delany

  Sunday evening, the fourth night of my surveillance, Nigel went to a rugby game. Africa versus everyone else. He drank a lot of beer, chatted to women, didn’t pay much attention to the game.

  I lurked in the crowd. Feeling like a fool.

  He never seemed to sense my presence. He didn’t act like a man with anything to hide. There had been no further killings.

  Everyone knew I was going back to Canada in a few days. Maybe he was waiting until I’d gone.

  Or perhaps I was a fool, and Nigel had nothing to hide.

  It was a slow, boring game. The score was tied. Only one player had been carried off the field on a stretcher. Nigel threw his beer bottle into a rubbish container. He slapped his buddies on the back and headed for the exit. I followed.

  He hadn’t driven himself. He’d been picked up. I wondered how he was planning to get home.

  He exchanged greetings with the security guard at the entrance to the stadium. He crossed the parking lot, heading for the back where the lights were dim.

  It was neatly done. If I hadn’t been watching, I wouldn’t have seen it.

  A sharp jab to the driver’s window. Probably with a rock he kept in his pocket. Then the door was open and Nigel was inside. A quick duck under the dashboard and the engine started up. It was an older car. A battered Toyota Rav 4.

  Nigel drove away.

  I made it back to my own car in record time. I tore out of the parking lot after him. It was dark, not much traffic on the streets. I followed his rear lights at a distance.

  He was driving fast, and I matched the pace. I bumped over rocks and into ruts. I careened around parked cars. Pop cans and water bottles crunched beneath my tires.

  The car ahead turned onto a side road. I spun the wheel and followed. The road was unpaved, pitted with deep ruts alongside mounds of earth. Boda bodas swerved among the cars. I honked, telling them to stay out of my way. I kept my eyes fixed on the rear lights of the Rav 4. Easy to make out among the scooters and Land Cruisers.

  This car needed new shocks. My back teeth rattled and I bounced up and down in the seat. It was like riding the moguls at Whistler.

  Finally, the Rav 4 returned to a paved road.

  Nigel stepped on the gas. I followed.

  Then, out of nowhere, a pickup truck loaded with goats pulled out of a side street. I slammed on the brakes. I was driving too fast for road conditions. My car skidded, and I struggled to keep it under control. I jerked to a stop inches from the front of the truck. It had stopped square in the middle of the road. On either side, the ditch was deep. I’d never get around.

  I rolled down my window. I shouted and waved my arms.

  The truck driver waved back. Not in a friendly way.

  The goats set up a chorus of baah.

  The driver yelled insults that no doubt mentioned my parents. At last he shifted into gear and lumbered away.

  I passed him, kicking up dust.

  The Rav 4 had disappeared.

  First I swore. Then I pulled out my phone. I called Deng.

  “What’s up?” he said. I heard a woman’s low voice in the background.

  “I’ve got him. Meet me at the Blue Nile. And make it fast.” I snapped my phone shut and tore around the next corner. What Deng would make of that summons I didn’t know. Would he come? If he was in bed with a woman?

  I’d never been to Deng’s house. I didn’t know where he lived. I didn’t know if he lived with anyone. I’d told him about my wife and daughters. I’d shown him pictures of them. He’d been polite and said they were beautiful.

  We’d never sat down to have a meal together. We’d never socialized over a beer after work. He’d never been inside my container. He never so much as set foot out of the truck when he came to pick me up.

  I knew almost nothing about him. But I trusted him. As a good man and as a good cop.

  I couldn’t search the entire city for Nigel. The Blue Nile was the only lead I had.

  At least one of the dead women had worked there. They did not want me poking around. If the place had the reputation of hiring out its employees as prostitutes, Nigel would have no trouble getting a woman to leave with him.

  But did it go further than that? Slip money to the owner. He wouldn’t report that the woman never came back.

  The country was in flux after twenty years of war. Refugees were returning. Foreign workers poured across the borders in pursuit of jobs. Villagers came to the city in search of better lives. Many would soon turn around and go home. They had no ties here. No reason to tell anyone they were leaving.

  If a prostitute didn’t turn up at her regular spot again, no one would care.

  Until one dumb Canadian cop started asking questions.

  Traffic was less chaotic after dark than during the day. Most of the children and animals were off the streets. I shifted gears as I rounded a corner and sped up.

  The parking lot of the Blue Nile was almost full. I drove slowly, trying to look as if I was searching for a spot.

  Then I saw it. Parked close to the guard hut. A battered blue Toyota Rav 4.

  I circled around and drove away. No point in trying to go in. If the guards were the same ones who’d thrown me out on my previous visits, they’d recognize me. I couldn’t sit there watching Nigel’s car either.

  Chances were the guards were paid not to notice men leaving with women. They wouldn’t want me interfering.

  My phone rang.

  Deng. “I’m almost there. Where are you?”

  The restaurant was at the end of a long dirt road cut through the bush. A scattering of tukuls were shrouded in darkness. I pulled to the side of the road. A single headlight came my way. I flashed my lights.

  Deng pulled up. He was on a boda boda.

  I explained the situation. Nigel had stolen a car and he’d driven straight here. I was willing to bet good money that he was even now negotiating for a woman’s favors.

  I couldn’t go into the restaurant. They’d throw me out in a heartbeat.

  But Deng could.

  Nigel knew Deng. But if Deng kept his head down and stuck to the shadows, Nigel wouldn’t notice him.

  Deng gave me one of his looks. Then he drove away in a spray of exhaust fumes and dust.

  I turned the engine off. The thick hot air filled the car.

  I listened to the night. Small yellow eyes glowed from the bush. Foliage rustled. Something screamed. The shriek was cut off in mid-note.

  The occasional car went past, heading back to town. Laughter from the river. In one of the huts, a baby cried.

  I waited a long time. Then I heard men shouting farewells and the roar of a motorbike. Deng stopped beside me.

  I smelled beer on his breath. Not much I could say about that. I had sent him undercover into a bar.

  “He’s there. Drinking with a woman. A South Sudanese woman. Young, pretty. Her smile is very false. You think this is it, Ray?”

  “Yes, I do. I’m sure of it.”

  My gut churned. I was sure, all right.

  “What do we do now?”

  “That, my friend, is the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.”

  “The what?”

  “Never mind.”

  “This is the only road out,” Deng said. “We wait. We follow.”

  “Suppose we lose them?”

  “We know where he is going.”

  “Suppose, this once, he changes the routine?”

  Deng shrugged. “You in the car. Me on the boda boda.”

  “I don’t want to split up. He’s going to be dangerous if cornered.”

  I thought for a long time. The bushes rustled. No matter what was out there, it was not the most dangerous animal in Africa.

  “I won’t use the woman as bait,” I said at last. “Get in.”

  Deng pushed the bike off the road and into a clump of ragged bushes. It might be there when he got back. It might not.

  I turned the vehicle around and headed to the Blue Nile.


  I parked the car by the gate. Blocking the exit.

  Deng and I climbed out. Lights were strong overhead. The guard swaggered over. “You are not allowed here. You must move your car.”

  “Tough,” I replied. “This is police business.”

  He opened his mouth as if to argue. Deng growled. The guard changed his mind.

  “We’ll wait.” I gestured to the guard hut. Just a shack to keep the rain off their heads. “You’ll wait with us.” I didn’t want him sneaking away to tell his boss. I could see only the one guard. The others must be patrolling the grounds. It was late. The car park was almost empty now.

  The three of us went into the hut. There were two blue plastic chairs. I took one. I gestured to the guard to have a seat. Deng leaned on the wall by the door. He crossed his arms over his chest.

  We didn’t have long to wait.

  A burst of female laugher had Deng and me glancing at each other. I got to my feet.

  Nigel and a woman came down the path. Her secondhand dress was too tight for her lush figure. She tottered on her high heels. Nigel’s hand gripped her arm. “Steady there, Ella,” he said, and she giggled.

  I held up my own hand. Telling the guard to shut up. Telling Deng to wait.

  Wait and watch.

  Nigel and the woman crossed the parking area. They reached the Rav 4. Ella staggered. Nigel opened the passenger door for her.

  I signaled to Deng, and we stepped out of the hut.

  “Nigel Farnsworth,” Deng said. “I am arresting you for car theft.”

  “What the hell!” Nigel spun around. “Christ, not you again, Robertson. What, you’re a vice cop now?”

  “I was at the rugby game,” I said. “I saw you hotwire this car. Of course, I immediately reported it to the police.”

  The woman’s eyes blinked rapidly.

  “Get lost,” Deng said to her.

  Ella didn’t have to be told twice. She kicked off her shoes and darted into the bushes.

  “You bastard,” Nigel said. “You always have had it in for me. This car belongs to a friend of mine.”

  “We can sort it out at the station,” I said.

  People were gathering. The kitchen staff. Some of the waitresses. A few stragglers from the bar.

  “This is an outrage,” Nigel shouted. The restaurant manager broke through the circle of onlookers.

  “What’s the problem here?”

  He looked at me. He looked at Deng. He reached into his pocket. “I’m sure we can find some way to settle this.”

  Deng growled.

  Nigel moved. He didn’t try to get away. No point in that. Nowhere to go except into the bush. He wouldn’t last long there. He pulled a knife out of his belt. It was a goodsized camping knife. The blade, sharp and clean, flashed in the light. It came at me, slicing air, heading for my belly. Startled, I jumped back. I tripped on a rock. My sore ankle gave way. I went down. Guards, cooks, waitresses and drinkers scattered. The restaurant manager squealed. My head hit the ground hard. My vision blurred. I shook my head to try to clear it.

  Nigel bellowed and brought the knife down. A straight thrust. This time it was heading for my throat. Gravel cut into my hands as I scrambled backward.

  Then the knife was rolling across the ground.

  Deng’s big hand was wrapped around Nigel’s right wrist. With a sharp twist, the Englishman’s arm was jerked up behind his back. He grunted in pain and dropped to his knees. He lifted his head. His eyes blazed at me. Spittle formed in the corners of his mouth. “Race traitor,” he spat.

  I felt hands on me, and one of the security guards lifted me to my feet. Now they were being helpful. The other guard bent to pick up the knife. I shouted at him to leave it where it was.

  Once all danger had passed, the manager hurried over.

  “What seems to be the problem, officer?” He rubbed his hands together. His smile was strained.

  “Don’t think I won’t be back,” I said. “I know what’s been going on here. I know you’re involved.”

  “You’ve completely misunderstood. I’ve never seen that man before.” He shouted at the waitress who’d been beaten for talking to me. “He was with Ella. Find her. Make sure she’s okay.”

  The waitress looked at me for a long time. She gave me a small nod. And then she slipped away.

  “We’ll be back,” I said. “Regularly.”

  A clap of thunder sounded overhead. A drop of rain fell onto my hand.

  Deng held Nigel on the ground. The Englishman’s face was pressed into the dirt. “Get him up,” I said. “And into the truck.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  We took Nigel to the police station and charged him with car theft. He made phone calls to the head of the UN mission and the British embassy.

  He didn’t spend any time in jail.

  Once the smirking Nigel had gone, I took Deng back to get his motorbike. We found it where he’d left it. He started up the engine and roared off into the night. Bolts of lightning lit up the dark sky, and the rain poured down.

  I had not asked about the woman he’d been with when I phoned.

  I’ll never know if what I did that night was right.

  Deng said nothing, but I knew I’d disappointed him.

  He’d wanted to let Nigel drive the woman to the river. Wait until he was about to kill her. Then make the arrest. It wouldn’t be so easy to get off a charge of attempted murder. With Nigel in jail, we could have started making the case for the other killings. Same place. Same mo. It should have been easy to prove, even in Juba.

  I couldn’t take that chance. If we’d lost him, Ella would have died.

  I didn’t see Nigel again. He was sent back to England right quick. A slap on the wrist for being so foolish as to be caught swiping a car.

  His story was that he wanted to meet up with a woman and couldn’t get a ride. So he stole a car. He would have returned it the next day. No harm done, eh, mate?

  Nigel denied stealing Sven’s Land Cruiser. I had no proof. It was never found. After using it, Nigel would have abandoned it on the backstreets and walked away. It would be in some remote town by now, being used as a taxi.

  I searched Nigel’s room. Unfortunately, he’d been allowed to pack one suitcase first.

  I found a note among the remains of his things.

  It didn’t have my name on it. But I knew it was for me.

  He’d drawn a smiley face in red ink.

  A scrap of white ribbon lay beside it.

  Serial killers don’t spring up out of nowhere. There would have been incidents involving black women in Nigel’s past. Unlikely, though, that they ended in murder. He took that big step knowing the risk of being caught was far less here.

  A country without the resources to investigate human predators.

  A country with only a few people to stand against the tide.

  People like John Deng. Good people. People who needed help.

  I’d done a lot of thinking while I waited outside the Blue Nile for Deng.

  I thought about all that I miss here. My daughters. But they’re adults and have lives of their own to live. Jenny, my wife, who I still love after all our years together. Lush green grass and towering old trees. Snowtopped mountains and clean air. Foggy mornings and soft rain. Flowers. How I miss flowers!

  This was the heart of Africa. But so dry and dusty. Built up and polluted. There wasn’t much color. A few foreign women planted pots of herbs and flowering shrubs. Some of the better restaurants stuck a couple of bougainvillea bushes outside. The flowers were soon covered in dust. The colors faded.

  I missed working with men and women like me. With the same life experiences. Same dreams and disappointments.

  Domestic disputes and runaway kids. Drunk drivers and car accidents. Bar brawls. Elderly people slipping on the ice.

  Same stuff here. Except for slipping on the ice. But somehow, here, in this troubled land, I felt that I might be able to accomplish something. I wasn’t just going thro
ugh the motions anymore.

  I sat down at my desk. I opened my email program.

  I stared at the screen and thought for a long time.

  I’d never told Nigel that I’d been to England a couple of years ago on antiterrorist training. I’d met some officers from Scotland Yard. We’d spent a lot of time drinking in pubs and becoming friends. I’d kept in touch with a couple of them. One was a woman who’d gone into Professional Standards.

  Police investigating police.

  I might just drop her a line.

  But first I had a more important email to send. A much more difficult one.

  I had to tell my wife I was going to put in for another year in South Sudan.

  VICKI DELANY writes everything from stand-alone novels of psychological suspense to a traditional police procedural series to a lighthearted series set in the raucous heyday of the Klondike Gold Rush. Juba Good is her second contribution to the Rapid Reads series, following A Winter Kill (2012), which was nominated for an Arthur Ellis Award. Vicki lives in Prince Edward County, Ontario. For more information, visit www.vickidelany.com.

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