Ннеди Окорафор - Lagos Noir

“Did your husband get along with Bobo?”

“Yes, Gordon doted on him. Why? This wasn’t Gordon’s fault,” she said, and paused. “Or Bobo’s, for that matter. Just a dreadful accident.”

“Of course,” Okoro muttered. His gaze drifted back to the body. Something was off. He bent down and examined the wound on Gordon’s head. The whole back of his head had been ravaged. No teeth marks, no claw marks. The beating had been savage though it looked like it had been done by a manmade object. Something metal perhaps.

“Are there any objects missing from this room, Mrs. Parker?”

“I don’t know. Ask Emmanuel, that’s his job.”

Okoro nodded. “Emmanuel,” he called out.

Emmanuel appeared at the door as if by magic. Okoro thought it strange he hadn’t heard him clacking up on the tile flooring.

“Yes sir,” Emmanuel said. He stood at the door, seemingly reluctant to enter the living room. His eyes seemed glued to Gordon’s body. And there was that look on his face again. A deep sorrow and grief. Why? Okoro wondered to himself.

“Are there any objects missing from this room, Emmanuel?”

“I don’t steal,” Emmanuel replied, his voice soft in tone but with an edge as sharp as a knife. He locked eyes on Mrs. Parker — the look between them was chilling. Okoro missed none of it.

“I’m sorry, Emmanuel,” Okoro said, breaking the tension. “I didn’t mean to imply that. I am curious about what might have been the murder weapon.”

The houseboy pointed at the chimpanzee, or maybe Mrs. Parker. “That’s the murder weapon,” he said.

Okoro nodded. He prowled around the living room, looking for a sign of anything displaced, any dust rings left behind after something heavy and metal had been moved. He couldn’t find anything.

“What is going on here, sergeant, what exactly are you implying?” Dorothy Parker asked.

“I’m not implying anything. Just doing my job.”

“I’ve told you what happened. Bobo here had an incident, and killed my poor Gordon.”

“Of course, Mrs. Parker. Remind me again how you know for sure Bobo killed your husband? Were you a witness?”

“I didn’t see it happen but when I came into the room when Gordon wasn’t answering my calls, I saw Bobo standing over him covered in blood.”

“Standing over him? Like he had just clobbered him to death?”

“Yes, like that.”

“Was anyone else in the room?” Turning rapidly to Emmanuel before Dorothy Parker could answer, Okoro said: “And you, Emmanuel. Where were you when it happened?”

The man seemed lost in a daze.

“How long did you work for Mr. Parker?” Okoro asked him.

“Too long, really, wouldn’t you say?” Dorothy Parker answered for him.

Emmanuel blinked but said nothing.

Okoro turned to Dorothy Parker. “Was he a religious man, your husband?”

“No, not at all religious. Why do you ask?”

“Something about the way the body is lying.”

“The body? That’s my husband!”

“Of course, madam. My apologies. There is something about the way your husband is lying that suggests he was kneeling when he was struck.”

“You can tell that from the way he’s lying?”

“Yes. Is there any other reason your husband may have been kneeling?”

Dorothy Parker flushed at the question and Emmanuel swallowed and looked away quickly.

“Prayer?” she said, more question than answer.

“But you just said he wasn’t at all religious.”

“Mr. Parker found religion tiresome,” Emmanuel interjected.

Okoro and Dorothy Parker both turned to look at him.

“I’m sorry,” Emmanuel mumbled. “I had no right.”

Dorothy Parker cut her eyes at him, then turned to Okoro. “Gordon wasn’t much of anything, really. Just a civil servant.”

Okoro studied her for a minute. She seemed way too collected and calm for a woman who’d found her husband dead in their house just that morning. But she was white and English and he had heard they were cold; emotionally stunted, his father had called them. He would know, he had fought alongside them in Burma in the Second World War.

Okoro took out a small camera and began taking pictures.

“Why are you taking photographs?” Dorothy Parker asked.

“The latest in criminal investigation, madam. We preserve the scene for posterity. Even here in the colonies we like to keep up with the latest. Did I tell you Sherlock Holmes, the great British detective, is a hero of mine?”

“Why and when would you have told me that? Also, you do know that he isn’t real, don’t you?”

“Real enough for Scotland Yard to learn from.”

“Look, l don’t want to be rude, but as you can imagine, this has been an overwhelming day. When can I expect you to be done?”

“When I am done, madam — I’ll be gone when I’m done. Have you had a good strong cup of tea? I hear you English find it helps with shock. I’m more of a Scottish man myself.”

“Do you mean a Scotch man?”

Okoro smiled. “Something like that.”

“You are quite rude,” Dorothy Parker said. “I shall be making a report to your superiors.”

“Of course, that is your right, madam. I would expect nothing less.” As Okoro took the photographs, he mentally ran through the questions he hadn’t asked. What would Sherlock do? He paused and looked up. “Can Emmanuel hold Bobo for a moment?”

“I don’t want to hold the monkey, sir,” Emmanuel said. “I don’t like dirty animals.”

“You would know,” Dorothy Parker spat.

This exchange confirmed in Okoro’s mind what he had already suspected — Gordon Parker had been involved in an affair with his houseboy. And the wife knew. Yet the thing between her and Emmanuel, the subdued and seething rage, smelled of some kind of collusion, but a forced one. Okoro turned his attention once more to Mrs. Dorothy Parker.

“Can you put Bobo down?” he asked.

“Why? You bloody—”

“I wouldn’t recommend finishing that statement Mrs. Parker,” Okoro cut her off. “I need to examine your hands and take photos.”

Dorothy Parker reluctantly set Bobo down. Okoro watched as the ape ambled over to Gordon’s body. It stopped just short of it and began to whimper, rocking from side to side. It dipped its hands in the blood on the floor, which was now congealed, and held them up in what looked like awe. It kept whimpering. There was a look of sadness and something else in Dorothy Parker’s face. The first crack in her façade that he had seen. She held out her hands. Okoro reached for them and she pulled back. He smiled and lifted his camera instead and resumed taking photos. There were strange cuts on her hands.

“How did you get those marks?” Okoro asked her.

“Bobo gave them to me.”

“Don’t look like claw marks,” he said. “Looks like something sharp nicked you a few times.”

She said nothing.

“How long was your husband dead before you called?”

“I called as soon as I found him,” she said.

Okoro nodded, then asked to see Emmanuel’s hands. The houseboy held them out. Not a mark on them. No callus or blister, not even a scratch, and they were soft to the touch. He clearly didn’t do any of the strenuous work around here.

“Are there other servants that work here?”

“Yes sir,” Emmanuel said.

“Take me to them.” Turning to Dorothy Parker, who was now holding Bobo again, the blood from his paws all over her blouse, Okoro said: “As soon as I have interviewed the rest of the staff, I will be pretty much done here. In the meantime, I do have to call the coroner’s office to come and take your husband. May I use your telephone?”

Dorothy Parker waved at the phone on a side table.