“Uh, about a month.”
He laughed and he shook my hand with a firm grip.
He pulled up the two chairs in the room and we sat.
17
I liked Sam. It was not an accident that I had moved in next to him and Ruth. They had been the first tenants. Sam told me about the building and encouraged me to take an apartment there. He was a good man, a good cop. Family was his Achilles Heel.
Except for Ruth and his daughter. Apparently for him family meant brothers and sisters, not wife and daughter. But I could talk cricket and detective work with him for hours.
After she dumped him, he moved into this one-bedroom apartment. He opened an office along Rumukwurushi and started a private detective service. But as far as I could tell he had no clients. Why should he? It was not in the Nigerian culture, any of them, to hire a private eye. We are not like in the “civilized” world where someone always wants a spouse watched, where there is always an undercurrent in the river, of betrayal.
But he still had the office and he still had the apartment. With no clients, where did his money come from? He obviously at least had a little, to afford both the office and even this below modest place. I’d asked him once and a while, and that was when he would start talking about cricket.
You would have thought his “shady” background would have helped, but it didn’t. He was not a crook, so that work was out. But given he had helped Wariboko, the militant in the Niger Delta, those who hated Wariboko and the Pepples automatically had no use for him.
“What’s going on, Tammy? Why are you here?”
“You know why I’m here.”
He nodded. “Yeah. The accident. It’s been all over the news. I gather they’ve finally brought you back? You’re handling the investigation, yes?”
I nodded. He sure was asking a lot of questions. I had expected him to be wary and quiet. But he was as experienced at getting information from people as I was. My meeting him obviously was going to be a game. I’d written “game” beside his name on the list.
“You think it was an accident,” I asked.
“Wasn’t it?”
“Do you think it was?”
He leaned back in the chair. “No. Paul’s an experienced driver. He knows what he’s doing.”
“You’ve been down to the lot and looked at the car.”
“Not personally.”
“Then you know it wasn’t an accident.”
“The word’s been getting around.”
“And what’s that word?”
“Someone shot out the tires.”
I nodded. “A biker on a big Suzuki. He waited after the car rolled and crashed, to make sure Puene was dead. I want him. Akpan is not happy. It looks as if the NDMSD is involved. That’s why I’m here, Sam.”
The NDMSD, the outlawed Niger Delta Movement for Self Determination, was headed by Sam’s cousin, Wariboko. “Your nephew went to see Puene to warn him.
Next thing, Puene’s dead. Akpan sees a link to Wariboko, and has been shadowing Sodenieye, to see where this goes.” They would have already known the boy was being followed, so why not give him what he already knew.
“I know, he’s a good boy.”
I waited. He waited.
“You took him out o bail after he was arrested.”
“He’s my nephew, a good boy. I was asked to help him out.”
“By who?”
He was no longer looking as sure of himself. He had to say something. “Someone in the Pepples house called. It was a family matter.”
“What did he tell you? Did he say why he’d been detained?”
“Sure, Tammy, he said why. He’d been told to deliver a message to Dr. Vincent Puene. It was a warning. A warning, not a threat.”
I nodded. And said nothing. Silence is very useful.
“You should give the kid a medal for trying to warn Puene. His security was terrible. He was warned, he did nothing, now he and his wife are dead. Sure I took him out on bail. He was only a messenger.” He shrugged. “The poor judgment was on Puene’s part, not my nephew’s.”
“Somebody knew something. I have to start somewhere.”
“Nobody’s going to be picked up, Tammy. You know that. The kid’s done nothing wrong.” He smiled. “How’s Ruth?”
Nice try. He was trying to get the top hand. Either he guessed I was attracted to her—most men were—or was firing a shot to see if it hit anything. “She’s okay.”
“I miss my daughter. But the sight of Ruth, I can’t do it. Can’t go over there. The bitch makes my stomach churn.”
I felt like slugging him, which was what he wanted. “I need to talk to your nephew. I can have him picked up, and I will. You know me. I don’t care.”
18
He stiffened, and the smile that had grown when he started on Ruth now shrank.
“It would be nicer if you arranged a meeting. Or I would have him picked up, Sam.”
“Watch yourself with her, Tammy. She can be charming. She turns on her brights and you can’t see a thing. She’s the devil, she’ll trap you.” He was desperate, firing away. He saw something in me, and knew his pot shot had hit something tender.
“What about what caused the warning? You’re telling me you know nothing about the intel?”
He stood and walked to a small fridge, and took a bottle of water from it. “Want one?”
“Sure.”
He got out a second bottle and gave it to me, walking over to his bed. He casually straightened the cover.
“Going to do anything else before you answer me?” I asked. I opened the bottle and took a long, refreshing drink.
He laughed. “They heard Puene was going to be taking care of. He’d be out of action for a long time, maybe permanently. How, no one knew. When, soon. More than that, I don’t know. If I did I’d tell you.” He uncapped his own bottle and sipped.
“Would you?”
“If it counted.”
I had known him a long time. “Okay then. Arrange the meeting. It doesn’t have to be with your nephew if he’s really just a messenger. I want a meeting with someone who can tell me what’s going on. You know me. I won’t screw them.”
“Like you’re screwing Ruth?”
“She makes her own choices,” I said, and immediately wished I hadn’t handed him that. “The meeting, Sam. Or I bring him in. And everyone connected with him. Until I get some answers.”
“Does that mean me?”
“It has to. You took him on bail after his interrogation. You’re on my list.”
His eyes hardened. Not that they weren’t hard enough already. “I’ll see what I can do.”
I stood.
“What about Ruth?” he asked.
“What about her? Call me, Sam.”
I started out and heard over my shoulder, “So long pal.”
I was in my car about twenty minutes when he phoned.
“You’ll get a call. Tell them you’re Press and doing a documentary on the Delta. Make it look good and you’ll pass.”
“Why the game? Why not just tell him who I am?”
“He won’t talk to the cops. You’d never get near him. When you get close to him, get his confidence, he’ll talk. I’ve said you’re okay, that you can help them get media coverage for their struggle they need so badly.”
“Sounds complicated. I don’t like complicated, Sam.”
“He won’t talk to a cop. The militants won’t talk to a cop. You want the information, you want it fast, this is it.”
“Well then, Sam, I owe you one.”
“Don’t blow it, Tammy. This is dangerous. Not just for you. I’m helping you get in. You want to see the militants, know what’s going on? This will do that. Keep to that, finding out what you need to know. Don’t let on you’re police. Don’t mess up. It would be bad not just for you, pal. You’ve put me into this too.”
“I appreciate it.”
“Don’t get killed.”
What was Sam up t
o, really? I could not imagine him being involved in violence. I certainly trusted him that far. But his association with the militants was not good. Wariboko had a reputation for violence, although nothing had been proven. Was he more than a family loyalist? Was he on the side of Wariboko and the militants, and if so how far on their side? How far would he go? Would he say he’s doing his little bit to help the fight for the emancipation of his people?
I tried to ask him but he was gone. Not just on the phone, but probably as a friend.
Well he hadn’t been much of a friend. I did not seem to have friends. But this was about him, not me. Yes, it was about Sam. He certainly had not been much of a husband to Ruth.
Ruth.
Freda.
Freda was flying in tonight. I didn’t remember until now. I tried to feel guilty about Freda. I couldn’t.
19
I drove home, went into my apartment and avoided the one next door. I cooked, then ate dinner while sitting at the kitchen table adding items to the list.
This was complicated. Or not complicated at all.
Actually my personal life was probably more complicated.
I seemed able to solve all sorts of mysteries but my own.
After double-checking some statements in the files, it was about 7.30 pm. I had been putting off thinking about it. But Freda was landing in a little over an hour.
The airport was twenty minutes away. I knew I was not looking forward to seeing her. I knew what that meant. I left the papers on the table and went down to my Peugeot. I planned a long, thoughtful drive to the airport, taking as much time as I could.
I got in my car, turned on the radio and started off as slowly as I could. What would I tell Freda?
There was a fair bit of congestion at the traffic stand at Rumuokwuta junction. Good! There were no road traffic wardens in the evening to control the traffic on the busy road. The road was also a divide between the deluxe homes on private land on one side, with lavish landscaping and exotic gardens, compared to the other side with its commercial buildings and public yards. It was on the edge of the Governmental Residential Area, where the privileged lived. I drove past the Teaching Hospital. The ultra modern hospital was located for easy access to the highly influential inhabitants in the G.R.A.. Lesser citizens used the General hospital, where the doctors had less training, where there were fewer specialists and auxiliary nurses. The privileged would not put up with short supplies.
My meditations about fairness were interrupted when a news talk show came on. It was about the Puenes.
I started to listen.
“Tonight we’re going to talk about the so-called accident which claimed the lives of Dr. Vincent Puene, the Governorship aspirant of the Nigerian Liberal Party, and his wife two days ago. Tonight we have a guest. You know him well, he’s been on our show before. He’s Nigeria’s leading journalist. Everyone, welcome tonight’s guest, Henry Akpọdigha.”
I knew Henry. He was a reporter for one of Nigeria’s main newspapers. He caught his big break three years ago when he wrote an article on the Niger Delta and militancy. Everyone loved the article, including yours truly. And he followed up with more, until he had become a reliable source of muckraking pieces.
Wariboko was his childhood friend. Henry had principles, and the articles did not picture him in a great light. He was a tough ruler, it was not clear where his money came from, and there were ongoing rumors of violence, more than the other gangs.
Reports of violence in the Delta, sabotaging oil operations, kidnapping oil company staff. Reports only, with nothing proven. But the articles were enough to sour their relations.
“Henry, you have some news for us tonight.”
“I think I do, yes.” Henry’s voice was soft. He was a charming fellow until he was on your butt.
“The accident that killed the Puenes. It was no accident, was it?”
“I don’t know for sure.”
“But you have a source. A source who says the accident was no accident.”
“Yes. I was approached, obviously I won’t mention names. But yes I have my sources, I worked them, and this person came forward. He says he has information on the actual cause of the accident.”
“The official story is that the tires blew out. That it was an accident.”
“My source says he’s seen the car. The tires blew out because they were shot out.”
“So it was no accident at all.”
“Not the car wreck, no.”
“And the Puenes?”
“My source says if Dr. Vincent Puene somehow made it of the car alive, there was an assassin waiting. The point was to kill the governorship candidate.”
“They weren’t trying to intimidate him.”
“Yes they were, but permanently. And they succeeded. Anyone looking at the car can see that two tires were shot out. I did not trust my source, so I went down to the police post at RumuOkoro. There was not any security, I just walked over to the car and inspected it. The tires on the driver’s side had been shot out. I saw it myself.”
So much for well guarded police secrets. But I’d always figured the word would get out quickly. Puene was too important, his supporters too passionate.
“And your source? He knows more? Do you know who was behind these terrible murders?”
“I don’t have that information yet.”
“Will he come forward and talk to the police?”
“You and I and everyone listening know that the police can’t guaranty his safety.”
“And what more do you know, Henry?”
“Dr. Vincent Puene was murdered. This is a new low in Nigerian politics. Right now all I have are rumors, and I don’t report rumors.”
I dialed Ade’s number on my cell. “You listening to this?”
“I had a call he’d be on. What’s the surprise? You were at RumuOkoro. Did they have the car inside the garage?”
“I’m on my way to pick up Freda, Ade.”
“Uh oh. Is it uh oh?”
“Probably. Look, help me out and call Henry when he’s off the air. You have his number?”
“I got it before I started listening.”
“See if he can meet me or call me.”
“I’ve already left a message on his cell.”
“Are you being a smart ass?”
“Bet mine is larger than yours.”
“You wish. Call back and leave another message. Tell him I’ll probably be at The Grill tonight.”
“You taking Freda there? For the ‘we have to talk’ talk?”
“Go home to your wife, young man.”
“Are you going home with Freda?”
“I’ll talk with you tomorrow, Ade.”
I flipped the phone closed and pulled over, to listen to the rest.
A caller was on the line. “What does this mean,” the woman asked. “If a candidate for Governor has been killed, where are we now? This was in Rivers State. It was here. This is so bad.”
“Couldn’t agree more!” the announcer chimed in. “Henry?”
“The trend to violence has been disturbing for years.
It’s grown steadily worse. We all helped create this situation. Now it’s here. With us. We don’t have nearly enough police or resources to deal with it. We all suspect that there have been two other murders, in the Local Councils of the State but we look less at those. There have been rumors about who was behind those killings, whether it was the same group. All I can say is, it’s a desperate situation we are in, everyone. Murder now appears to have become a reasonable option in politics. Last year the Mayor of Port Harcourt was in the hospital for several weeks after he was attacked by suspected assassins. This is the next logical step.”
I called Henry Akodigha and finally got him, as he came off air from the interview. He suggested we meet me at The Grill Restaurant in an hour when I told who I was on the phone and why I want to meet him. I also called Ade and told him what I needed him to do and drove on to the airport to pic
k up Freda.
20
Freda acted very happy to see me.
She gave me a big warm kiss as soon as she could.
I gave a good imitation of kissing back. I gave it my best.
And she gave me a big hug. It had a touch of desperation.
As I held her, I realized I was ready to break it off.
The airport was not the place to talk. I helped her get her bags, then we went to my car. I asked her how her mom was, and that helped fill the awkward silence with something close to conversation. Freda was good at filling silences. She was very good at being charming, and I felt myself already soften. And she could see it in my eyes, so she talked more, touching my arm as I drove.
“Hungry?” She asked.
“Starving.”
“Great. I could cook. My place or yours?”
“How about we eat out?” I said instead.
“Oh. Is that what you want?”
“I thought I’d save you the cooking.”
“Okay, honey. Where do you have in mind?”
“How about The Grill?”
“Sure, that sounds terrific.” The touch on my arm grew firmer.
The Grill was a good choice in a couple of ways. The food was very good, and it was out of the way. I knew Freda loved the place, and it would make whatever happened at dinner easier. It was expensive, and Freda liked that even more.
I held open the large glass door for her. Inside the Head Waiter greeted us. He looked approvingly at Freda’s clothing and style. He looked at me.
I asked for a quiet table and he put us in a dark corner. The restaurant was about three-quarters full, mostly people towards the end of their dinners. I pulled out her chair and Freda sat.
Another waiter came over. “Welcome to The Grill, Miss. Sir” He bowed to her, nodded to me. “Good evening.” He was cultured and polished.
Freda was impressed. “Let’s see the Menu. Hmm. What will I have?”
I settled back, having bought myself plenty of time. I pretended to look at the menu. My mind was not on food. If Henry did get my message, there’s no telling if he would come, that he would meet me, here, but I was hoping he does. Of course, I didn’t tell Freda that was the reason I brought her here.
PATRON OF TERROR Page 7
