by John Ukah
Two days after the murder, we sat around a table in the lounge. An air of depression and shock still hung over the Lodge. The Divisional Police Officer and another plain-clothes policeman were also seated with us. The DPO had introduced himself earlier and now looked completely relaxed. A movie was showing on the television screen, but no-one seemed interested.
“I hope no-one minds?” asked the DPO, as he lit a cigarette. Nobody answered him. He was a huge man with a well-trimmed moustache and small, suspicious eyes that darted all over the place. Most people confessed that they felt uneasy in his presence because of his eyes. I had come across him several times, while I was still in the Force. He was reputed to be such a thorough police officer, that he would not spare his own mother if she broke the law. But he also had a reputation for being full of himself. He now inhaled deeply and blew out some smoke.
“Quite an unfortunate time to commit a murder and all these things actually,” said the DPO, as he let out some more smoke through his nostrils. “I don’t understand the sense of timing of some people. The elections are just around the corner. My big boss upstairs, the Governor of the State, wants to contest again. But with a murder here and a murder there, people are bound to feel insecure. So, he may lose some votes at the next polls. And his opponents are bound to hammer on the insecurity of lives and property during his tenure, by the time they start campaigning. It therefore falls on poor folk like myself to see that these things are kept in check as much as possible and all these things, you know.”
“Mr. DPO, are you saying that if this young lady had been murdered at another time, it would have been more convenient?” I asked, truly bewildered.
“Mr. Simpson, murder is a bad thing at any time, but the timing can make it a lot worse. This, you will agree with me, is one of the peak times that tourists come around here. And you know that tourism provides a major source of revenue to the State. We don’t want to go frightening off our rich and idle visitors by killing someone here and there. So close to Christmas isn’t a nice time for someone to go and get himself or herself killed and all these things, you know. We are even lucky that this is not one of the top class guest houses.”
We all looked in shocked amazement at the DPO.
“Mr. DPO,” I started angrily. “You seem to see this young lady's murder as an inconvenience to you and your people upstairs, rather than anything else. Does it not occur to you that she could have been your daughter or your sister?”
“Oh, rest assured, Alex that the culprits will be apprehended. You just can’t go around killing people and all these things, you know. And that brings a point to mind.”
He blew some smoke in my direction. It was quite a talent he had, the way he made the stream of smoke come out in a straight line towards me.
“It is a curious thing, Alex,” he said. “That someone seems to die each time you appear at this Lodge.” We were now on first name basis, it appeared.
Hearing it put like that, did not sound nice at all. Believe me. Some other guests turned to stare at me. I could read a new suspicion in their eyes, as they contemplated his words.
“I have found it quite a strange coincidence, myself,” I replied, unruffled.
“In my line of work and reasoning, I’ve come to discover that true coincidences are rare. Most of what appear like coincidences are actually so because people planned them to look that way.” He blew some more smoke in my direction, as his eyes surveyed me in an arrogant fashion.
“What exactly are you saying?” I asked.
“Alex, I’m just saying that each time you appear at this Lodge, someone dies or gets killed!” he replied.
I felt Tonye, who was sitting close by, shrink away from me. I chuckled to myself; he was such a nitwit.
“But I was also here, last time,” said Willie in consternation.
“Then, the same goes for you!” said the DPO, giving Willie his own share of cigarette smoke.
“So, Maria was actually killed?” Ayuba asked.
“Yes, she was murdered,” replied the DPO, flicking some ash carelessly on the floor and crossing his long legs casually on the table. I observed that his boots were well polished.
“The killer made it seem as if she had killed herself, by locking the door and leaving her key still inside her purse on her table. But the autopsy has shown that she struggled with the killer before he or she finally killed her. She obviously scratched the assailant because traces of skin and blood were found under her nails, and the blood did not match hers.”
“But how could the killer leave the key inside her purse in the room, then leave with the door locked?” asked a puzzled Mrs. Marshall. She had dark rings around her red and puffy eyes.
“That was simple,” replied the DPO. He took a long drag on his cigarette before he continued. “Tell them how it was done, Mark.”
The plain-clothes policeman smiled and cleared his throat. He was a tall, thin-looking man with bloodshot eyes and a pinched face that reminded me of a sewer rat.
“He collected the extra key to the room from where it was kept and that was what he used to lock the door when he left,” explained Mark.
The DPO exhibited some more of his impressive smoke-blowing talent. This time, it was directed at Ayuba, who looked uneasy.
“That brings me to you, Mallam Garuba,” said the DPO, fixing a glare on Ayuba.
“Ayuba, not Garuba,” corrected Ayuba.
“Whatever,” said the DPO, waving his cigarette indifferently and carelessly in the air. “Now, where were you at about midnight? That was when, according to the doctor’s report, the young lady was killed. You must be honest with me because I always get to the root of things. Did you by any chance pay the young lady a nocturnal visit, using the spare key in your possession?”
Ayuba’s eyes grew very wide and he opened his mouth in amazement. He looked as if the DPO had physically hit him. Then, he looked indignant. “I could never do such a thing now,” he said. “I was asleep in my bedroom at that time that you mention.”
“Can you confirm that, Mrs. Garuba?” asked the DPO, looking quite unimpressed by Ayuba’s reply.
“Yes, we were in bed. We went to bed at about 10:50pm and he never left the room after that, until we woke up in the morning.” replied Amina.
“Are you a light sleeper or do you sleep heavily, Mrs. Garuba?” asked the DPO, as he flicked some more ash on the terrazzo floor.
“It is Ayuba!” Ayuba said, testily.
“I don’t understand your question,” replied Amina, wringing her hands. She was sitting next to her husband.
“Barring the possibility that you were an accessory to the crime, if you sleep deeply, Mrs. Garu – whatever, your husband could have sneaked out in the night without you knowing and all these things.”
“That is ridiculous! Mr. DPO, you insult me with these claims you are making! I could never have hurt that young lady!” said Ayuba, rising to his feet in anger.
“Hold your trousers now, Mallam Garuba, why is there a plaster on your cheek? I suspect that you killed her and that it is your skin and blood that will be found under her nails!” thundered the DPO.
“It cannot be mine,” argued Ayuba shaking his head “I cut myself while shaving.”
But even I began to wonder to myself.
“Ah! Another coincidence, eh?” asked the DPO “No problem, I believe we have got all your blood samples? Fine then, within a short time now, we will know who the killer was. One of you sitting here with me now, killed her. Just hold your trousers, we will know very soon.”
He stubbed out his cigarette and lit another one. The smoke drifted unhurriedly in the air towards John.
“Mr. Brad, you do not seem to be the amiable type at all and all these things?” said the DPO turning to John, who got his own whiff of the cigarette fumes. “I was discussing with some of the other guests and it was mentioned that you have the habit of moving about in the dead of the night, like a ghost. Can you tell me why you do that and
all these things?”
We all turned to look at John with curious and suspicious glances. Honestly, he had scared the crap out of me, when I came across him walking around at night in that ghost-like fashion.
“I’m a student of astronomy,” said John, in a flat tone. “I observe a variety of celestial objects and phenomena. Deep sky objects are usually better seen at night. I’m a student of a branch of amateur astronomy known as astrophotography. It involves taking photos of the night sky.”
“How interesting!” said the DPO with childlike delight. “I’ve always been interested in the study of the stars and all these things, myself. As a child, I wanted to be an astronaut, so I could travel to the stars. But then, Mr. Brad, if you are really any good at studying the star patterns and their effect on people and events, you would have been able to foretell the impending death of this young lady, wouldn’t you?” asked the DPO, with an accusing stare. “Is that not what star-gazing is all about?”
“You’re mixing up two different fields of study,” said John impatiently. “I said I’m a student of astronomy, not astrology. Astronomy is the scientific study of celestial objects such as stars, planets, comets and galaxies as well as phenomena that originate outside the earth’s atmosphere. It is often confused with astrology which is the belief system that claims that human affairs are correlated with the positions of celestial objects. Horoscopes and zodiac signs come under astrology. Although the two fields share a common origin, they are distinct. Astrology is not my field. I consider it a form of divination or superstition.”
“Thanks for the lecture, Mr. Brad. It was quite enlightening. I sincerely hope that killing of young ladies at midnight is not also in your field?” The DPO flicked some ash off his cigarette. John did not bother answering him. He just scowled at the DPO.
We all exchanged glances, as we wondered who the culprit would turn out to be. The DPO blew out some more smoke. Now, it was directed at Mrs. Marshall. This time, the drift and swirl of the smoke was even more impressive. It meandered like a snake towards her, then fanned out in her face as if opening its jaws. She waved her hand ineffectually in front of her face, to ward off the smoke.
“I would rather you didn’t do that, Mr. DPO,” said Mrs. Marshall “If you want to smoke yourself to death, it is your private affair. But you must not include me. Breathing other people’s smoke is bad for my health. It is called passive smoking. In any case, I’m not particularly in a good mood for your smoking games.”
“Mrs. Marshall,” began the DPO completely ignoring her remarks. “I was talking to some of the other guests before we gathered here and it was said to me that you told your daughter, just the day before she died, during a heated argument that you had a mind to kill her?”
CHAPTER SIX
MRS. MARSHALL MAKES A CONFESSION
“And who told you that?” asked Mrs. Marshall.
I was quite surprised that such information had reached the DPO.
“That’s neither here nor there, Mrs. Marshall. The person who told me this is quite irrelevant. The point is, did you make such a statement?”
“I did, but I didn’t mean it like that,” she replied, “I was annoyed with her and the words just came out like that.”
“Are you then telling me that you don’t often mean what you say Mrs. Marshall, or that you often do not say what you mean?”
“Mr. DPO, it seems that you like playing with words?”
“Far from it!” said the DPO. “Play is the last thing on my mind, right now. I shall find out who killed your daughter, when the lab results come in.”
“Then, why are you putting us through this charade?” asked Amina.
The DPO stubbed out his cigarette on an ashtray placed on a stool beside him and stared at her as if she had asked a rather stupid question. Then, he laughed and lit another cigarette.
“Things are not always as simple as you think, Madam. There may be more to this murder than meets the eye.” His eyes roved suspiciously over all of us. “You used to be a policeman, Mr. Simpson, I’m sure you get my drift?”
I certainly did not get his drift, so I made no response. The drift of his cigarette smoke appeared clearer to me, than the direction of his investigation.
“Moreover, things may just be easier for the culprit, if he or she confesses to me now. I can work out one or two things to ease the punishment but if I find out the truth later, as I always do, there will be no mercy.” His eyes hardened.
Apart from the audible ticking of the wall clock, there was expectant silence in the lounge. Then, Mrs. Marshall cleared her throat.
“Well, I’ve a confession to make,” she said in a small voice and we all turned to stare at her in surprise.
“Very good, Mrs. Marshall,” said the DPO, smiling encouragingly. “Out with it then, it is always better like this when I can still do something. This is not coming as a surprise to me, though. Empirical studies have shown that over eighty percent of premeditated murders are committed by the victim’s family members.”
And he nudged the plain-clothes policeman, who took out his notebook and pencil to take down the confession.
“Well, my confession,” began Mrs. Marshall, “Is that I don’t like your manner of questioning and interrogation, Mr. DPO. I hope my words have been taken down?” she asked the man called Mark, who still had his pencil poised to write.
Someone laughed and I caught myself smiling.
“Mrs. Marshall,” said the DPO, his voice sounding like thunder. “I don’t like people wasting my time. You may not like my line of questioning, but it gets me results. Now where was I? Ah yes!” he said and inhaled deeply on his cigarette.
When he exhaled this time, it was Nagoth who got the smoke in his face.
“Mr. Ali, I was at your art exhibition some months ago in Lagos. I actually bought one of them, even though it was rather expensive for a man of my income and all these things.” And the DPO waved his hand in the air to show the degree of expensiveness.
“I’m afraid I don’t remember seeing you,” said Nagoth. “There were so many people around.”
“Yes, there were, Mr. Ali,” said the DPO tapping off some ash into the tray. “I heard you had a car accident, recently?”
“Yes, two months ago, actually,” replied Nagoth
“I’m glad you’re alive,” said the DPO. “I gathered that you were quite close to the murdered, young lady?”
“Yes,” replied Nagoth in a hesitant tone.
“You met her here for the first time?”
“Yes, we met here,” replied Nagoth. I noticed that his forehead seemed to be glistening with sweat.
“You must be rather quick with the ladies, then?” asked the DPO, chuckling. “I seem to have some difficulties with them, myself. It’s either I’m too slow and they slip through my fingers, or I come on too strong and they get frightened off. Shall I come to you for some lessons later, Mr. Ali?” the DPO chuckled, and Nagoth had a forced smile. “But just how close were you to this young lady, Mr. Ali, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“We were close,” replied Nagoth, guardedly.
“But just how close is close?” asked the DPO. “Were you casual friends, lovers, engaged and all these things? You understand what I mean now?”
“We were just friends,” replied Nagoth, stealing a glance at Mrs. Marshall, who was staring vacantly into space.
“I see,” said the DPO scratching his jaw. “Were you friends till midnight when she died, or was there a recent quarrel or break up?”
“We had no quarrel or break up,” replied Nagoth. “We were still friends until she died.”
“But is there perhaps some light you can throw on her death, Mr. Ali?”
“I’m as much in the dark as you are, Mr. DPO,” replied Nagoth.
“Oh, but I won’t be in the dark for long,” replied the DPO with a smile. “I’m going to unravel this mystery in no time. Some light will shine on this case, very soon.”
He rose t
o his feet. “I’ll be off now. But I still have my men around the Lodge and none of you is to leave this place until this case is solved. Is that understood?” he asked.
We affirmed that we understood.
After he left with his plain-clothes officer, I looked at the others in turn. I noticed that three of them looked quite worried.
Ayuba looked uneasy. I attribute this to the reputation his Lodge was acquiring as a place of death, be it suicide or murder. Or it could be that he was the killer. Maria had mentioned him in her so-called hypothetical story. He had possession of the spare key, which he now claimed was missing. Maria had scratched her killer and Ayuba now had a huge plaster on his cheek. Too many coincidences!
Nagoth was also looking distressed. Was it Maria who had been wearing the red dress and the shawl, on the night she was killed? If she was the one, what happened when Nagoth went after her? Did they quarrel? Did he discover that she was a flirt like her mother had said, and was not in love with him? Did he then kill her?
Philip also looked troubled. Since the incident occurred, I observed that his slangs and bravado seemed to have deserted him. He had even lost his usual swagger. He was now talking and walking like a normal person. What did he know about the murder? I remembered Maria had thrown a drink in his face. Was this how he had exacted his revenge? I had also heard him whistling as he went out but silent as he returned, on the night in question. Where had he gone? So many questions, so few satisfactory answers.
Mrs. Marshall was also looking at each of us in turn. I wondered what was going on in her mind. She was wearing a dark blue skirt and a white blouse. She also had a red, woollen sweater with a round neck and white, square buttons down the front draped over the arm of her chair. She was probably wondering who the lab test would reveal had killed her daughter.