by Terry Morgan
The driver of Mark Dobson's taxi from Abuja to Kano had left him a business card. "For next time, sah."
Dobson had not expected to see him again, but found him sleeping off the effects of the overnight drive. Within an hour, they were on the road heading south once again. Within ten minutes Colin Asher phoned. "Call Bill Larsen."
"We followed truck tracks for thirty miles," Larsen said after apologising for not being in Kano. "But we lost the bastards in the hills."
Dobson asked where Ben's body was and at first couldn't hear what Larsen said. There were clicks on the line and a sudden break, the sort that worried Dobson.
"Repeat that Bill, I didn't hear."
"Ben's body is here at the camp. But fuck's sake, Mark. No amount of army training prepares you for something like that. Cruelty means nothing to those uncivilised bastards. And I've got no facilities here for holding a body for long."
"And the old couple?"
"At their village. But someone needs to contact Ben's family. There's no Embassy representation here."
"I'll deal with it, Bill. Do you have his passport details?"
"Right here."
"Send me a copy."
Next, he found the phone number for the British High Commission in Abuja and phoned them. "We are sorry but the Commission will reopen on Monday morning." He'd forgotten it was Sunday.
Sunday or not, Martin Abisola would be working so he phoned him and told him about Benjamin
Bill Larsen, meanwhile, was talking to his men. There were twenty of them, subdued and angry, "The COK are too close," said Amos from Ethiopia.
"They live amongst the people we try to protect," Peter Moosa said.
"And only two old people were helping Benjamin," said Afram from Ghana. "Why was no-one else helping?"
"Where is the clinic you promised?" asked Kwami who had trained as a nurse with the Kenyan army.
"And my kitchen?" asked Ali the cook.
With Ben's body lying covered in plastic sheeting just twenty yards away, Larsen was, for the first time, seeing signs of anger and frustration mixed with grief in his men's faces. Utterly devastated himself, he struggled not to admit that he, too, was becoming increasingly frustrated. That was when he saw Halima.
She was standing at the entrance in her baggy trousers and tee shirt, a silhouette against the evening sunlight. He saw her come further inside to stand at the back hidden from view behind the taller men.
"Together we must finish Ben's job of building the school," Larsen said. "We must have a school because we have a teacher already. Mr Solomon says he will bring her from Ghana in the next few days. Her name is Carla. And we will soon have our clinics and......."
"Sir," Larsen heard Halima's voice and saw her raised hand. "Sir?"
"Yes, Halima."
"We must go on, sir," she said. "We cannot let these people win. I will go to the school and help." All of the men turned. "My family are dead, sir. They were killed, just like Mr Benjamin. Now I have no-one, but we must not stop. We must go on. Insha'allah, we will win."
Despite his mind pre-occupied by the case, Mark Dobson enjoyed the six-hour drive back to Abuja. The driver, Saleh, was good - quiet, attentive, focussed, chewing gum, sipping from a water bottle every few minutes and keeping a steady speed.
The A2 dual carriage expressway ran through mosque country, through Kura and Zaria into the greener, open, more scenic parts of Kaduna state. Driving through small towns and seeing fewer people, space and horizons was refreshing from the frenetic, crowded streets of Lagos.
Passing scenery at ground level always felt more relaxing than air travel. It was a chance to think and to get things into perspective. But even as darkness began to fall and they entered the outskirts of Abuja he was still unsure where this investigation was heading. From a normal, business perspective there was no end point, nothing specific to aim for other than, perhaps, to help Solomon Trading start trading again. But for what? For it to be hindered once again for refusing to use bribery to win business? For a foreigner, a complete outsider, Nigeria, with its inbuilt culture of fraud and corruption, felt beyond influence. If Gabriel wanted to carry on with his fight then so be it, but what could he do?
Saleh, the driver spoke for the first time for two hours. "Is it the Grand Ibro sah?"
Yes, Dobson confirmed. The Grand Ibro was good enough for however long he was likely to be staying. In the morning, the British High Commission would be open again after the weekend break.
By morning Dobson was standing outside the Commission before it opened.
"My name's Mark Dobson," he said to the Nigerian girl seated behind the high security window when, at last, it opened for business. "I'd like to report the death of a British citizen."
"Is it a family member, sir?"
"No, and the death occurred over the border in Niger where the British do not have representation."
"You'll need to speak to the Embassy in Dakar, Mr.........."
They went around in circles for a minute or so until: "Listen," Dobson said. "The guy was murdered. I need to speak to someone in person."
"Have the police been.......?"
"I'd like to speak to someone, OK?"
"Your passport, Mr Dobson?"
He handed it over. "This passport is in the name of Hicks, sir."
He was eventually allowed inside and found someone who produced forms to fill out. By mid-morning he'd dealt with the paperwork, shown a copy of Benjamin Simisola's passport on his phone and they'd agreed they had enough to be getting on with.
But then he mentioned the COK link and the officer, with a look of alarm, disappeared, returning with the Deputy High Commissioner himself.
Graham Parker-Stanley was a family man with a wife and two children in Abuja, he was keen to tell Dobson. It sounded very cosy. Then he started on his curriculum vita and Dobson half listened until he mentioned he'd once worked on counter terrorism though his six-month stint hadn't taught him much about the practical side of things as far as Dobson could tell.
Nevertheless, by midday they were getting on well enough for Dobson to feel he could announce that he wasn't Kenneth Hicks at all but Mark Dobson, international investigator of commercial crime etcetera and that he was in Nigeria once again as he found local matters kept him constantly busy. Parker-Stanley's eyes widened slightly and he gripped the side of his chair, but Dobson knew his Mark Dobson passport number from memory. After more clicks on his computer Parker-Stanley calmed down and Dobson was even invited for lunch.
"Bribery and corruption is a major concern for us, Mr Dobson. It affects development aid, terrorism and only makes illegal immigration to the UK worse. I'm surprised our paths have not crossed before but you must have some stories to tell. I'd be very interested in your experiences."
Mark Dobson declined lunch. "Thanks, but I've got a lot on," he said. "But if you wouldn't mind, I'd like to be kept informed about Benjamin and what help the Commission can offer to transport his headless body back home."
"Headless? Oh, my God!"
"Yes. I hadn't got around to telling you that but that's what the COK do these days," Dobson said. "It's dangerous out there. In fact, there were two others who had their throats cut at the same time as Benjamin, but they were locals so of no concern to the British High Commission other than perhaps offering some official words of condolence etcetera."
Dobson was then invited to sit a while longer.
