Adimchinma Ibe - Treachery in the Yard

She held out a well-manicured delicate hand. A pianist’s long fingers. Slim wrists.

“Pleased to meet you,” I said. Her hand felt warm; touching it was like walking into your home.

“Freda, meet a very good friend of mine, Tamunoemi Peterside. We all call him Tammy. He’s a police detective attached to Homicide. You can get along with him when he’s not carrying handcuffs,” he said, punching my side playfully. “Or maybe especially when he’s carrying handcuffs.” That was Modestus-always subtle.

“My pleasure, Mr. Peterside.” Very cool. She had heard it all before. I might as well have given up and gone home if I was going to just feed her lines.

“Detective Peterside,” I corrected.

“Detective.” She smiled sweetly, but it was not sugar I was used to. “Why are you a detective?”

I had no ready answer. My mother never understood why and my father had hated the idea. I did not even take bribes, so a lot of my uncles asked why I would be a police officer in Port Harcourt if I wouldn’t profit from it. “I’m no good at conversation. So I work with dead people. I don’t have to talk much with them.”

Her smile changed, warming.

Modestus looked at Freda, at me, and begged his leave. Neither of us noticed.

“Are you married, Tammy?”

Well, that was direct. “No. My mother wants me to be.”

“Why?”

“She thinks I’m lonely.”

“Are you?”

“Not right now.”

“And do you want to be married?”

“No.”

Her smile grew a little warmer. “And why not?”

“In my work, I too often see the results of love. There’s usually a blunt instrument involved, and a fair bit of blood.”

“Maybe I should help you overcome your cynicism.”

“Maybe you should.”

That was exactly twelve months ago. We had gone out steadily since then. With romance, time flies-like flies on a corpse. Okay, I have not completely lost my cynicism, and I am uncomfortable. After a year, Freda wants, and should expect, a commitment.

I sat back in my office, thinking about meeting her a year ago, thinking about where we were today: the same place. I yawned and looked up at the wall clock. Three long hours to lunch.

The commitment thing was not going very well for me.

I sighed and picked up the file again.

It was already steamy and hot in my office when I finished reviewing Femi’s report on the bombing, beads of sweat glistening on my neck. Femi was worse: the back of his white long-sleeved shirt was soaked, clinging to him. Apparently engrossed in his work, he pretended not to notice me looking at him. We both had work to finish before it got too hot to concentrate.

Femi was a quiet and reserved individual. He generally took things very seriously, but he also had an offbeat sense of humor. We got along fine, except when he sounded like Akpan; sometimes he became overly obsessed with procedure, insisting on doing everything “by the book.” Me? By the book, my ass.

I read through his report. Not much there, he did not have much to work with, but the implication was clear that the bomber must have had help from the security guard at the gate: Without a friend on the inside, how else did he get past the front gate? I finished the report but it did not answer the most important questions, so I interrupted him. He would tell me what he would not put in writing. “What do you make of Okon Abasi?”

He looked up. “Who?” He looked drained from the long hours of concentration. He started earlier, I stayed later. Pity we had no laptops like police do in the “civilized” countries, where a detective’s work is made easier by technology. In Nigeria, we work largely by experience, common sense, instinct, judgment-detective work. No software program to break the information into bitesize pieces, no fancy electronic gadgets to show you patterns-there is only paper, what you remember, and your intelligence to help see you through.

“The security guard at Okpara’s. You interviewed him. What did you think of him?” I asked. “Does he strike you as the square and straight?”

Instead of being square and straight with me, Femi decided to wax philosophical: “How straight can one be in the face of poverty and the greed bred out of poverty?”

“Okpara probably pays him well, if only to keep him loyal.”

“You’d think. But he doesn’t seem to hold any leads for us.”

“I’m thinking the bomber must have had help from the guard. How else did the bomber get into the compound?”

“That would be one way.”

“What was it you said: How straight can one be in the face of poverty?”

“What if the bomb plot did not work-which it didn’t. Okpara is still alive, he’d figure out what had happened, and the guard would not see the next sunrise.”

“Maybe the guard did not think of that,” I said, nodding. “Come to think of it, how much would you accept to help someone murder me?”

“It would have to be more than two weeks’ pay,” Femi said to me. “For enough money they could blow up the Chief, for all I’d care. I’d be long gone.”

“That isn’t a nice thing to say about your chief of police.”

“He isn’t chummy with me. ”

“Maybe whoever paid the bomber already took care of the guard. We should interview him again. In depth.”

“Bring him in?”

“Yes. Meanwhile, I want to pay the Karibis a visit.”

“What are you up to?”

“I want to speak to Mrs. Karibi a second time. Maybe we missed something the first time around. Maybe I’ll speak first to the guard’s wife. Your report has her address.”

“What good would that do?”

“I want to see if the guard has suddenly come into money since his master was nearly blown to bits. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find out he’s bought a new TV he can’t afford.” I got out of my chair. “Bring in the security guard and keep him until I’m back.”

Femi nodded and picked up the phone as I left. I walked outside and regretted leaving even my office; the intensity of the sun created a vapor steaming up from the nylon tar covering the courtyard floor. Nylon tar was a poor choice compared with interlocking tiles or even concrete. However, contracts are awarded not for quality of work but for who you know.

Before I saw Mrs. Karibi, or the guard’s wife, I knew I first had to go up to Chief’s office.

As usual, Stella was busy at her desk. She waved me in. Neither of us had the time for a frivolous chat.

“Good day, Chief,” I told him as I walked in.

He looked up from his endless paperwork. “Good day to you, detective. I expected you. Sit.”

“Thank you, Chief.” He was not surprised. I should not have been. I sat.

“Where is the Okpara report? I’m under pressure.”

“That’s why I came.”

“Is it? Fine. What do you have?”

“For now, only suspicions.”

“Such as?”

“The security guard and how the bomber gained access.”

“Are you thinking Dr. Puene?”

“Sure.”

“Dr. Puene knows that he would be seen as a suspect. He’s not stupid. Why would he go ahead? It doesn’t make sense.” He frowned, looking at me with those hard eyes.

“Maybe it isn’t a question of sense. Maybe it’s winning at any cost.”

“Maybe he thinks he’s untouchable. He has money, he’s very well connected. There are lots of people who think they can get away with anything in this country so long as they know someone high up and have the money to pay.” He leaned back. “Do you really think the guard was part of the plot to kill Okpara? If it failed, the guard would be the first person Okpara would look at.”

“Obviously, no one thought Okpara would be alive to look at anyone.”