Dear Beneficiary

by Janet Kelly

  It was bliss.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Once we’d exhausted our physical desires for the evening, we opened a bottle of wine Darius had brought back from the airport the day he left England. He said he’d been keeping it for a special occasion, and there could be no better reason than I was in his house.

  He told me again how they’d found and arrested Chike and Fasina. They’d traced the camp using a number of bits of information from the messages they’d sent my family, and some sightings. A number of locals had come forward in response to press calls for information, saying they’d seen two white women being driven to the settlement area. It is still sufficiently unusual to see white people in the poorer parts of the city for it to attract attention.

  ‘We’re fairly confident they will get a very long sentence,’ said Darius, after we dressed and settled ourselves in the front room downstairs, where Darius brought in the food he’d prepared earlier. The extra cooking time meant the meat was particularly tender. I thought it was probably the best meal I’d ever had in my life.

  ‘Have they kidnapped women before?’ I asked, sipping the palm wine from an oversized crystal glass.

  ‘We don’t think so. But they haven’t taken ordinary tourists before either. This gang usually concentrates on business people, working abroad and with the backing of big companies who have to look after their needs. If they don’t, no one wants to volunteer to work in Nigeria long-term.’

  Darius offered coffee and went into the kitchen, from where I could hear the clanking of cutlery and china. In his absence I looked around the sparsely furnished room and took note of the selection of books, mostly non-fiction, and a number of small, framed photographs of young women and children. I guessed them to be of his sisters and their families. There was also a picture of an elderly black couple I assumed would be his parents – reminding me to ask about their health.

  Darius came back into the room and handed me a large blue coffee cup, the type and shape found in the nicer cafeterias in London. I took a sip and immediately made a face when I tasted it.

  ‘I remembered you took coffee white but should’ve warned you, it’s goat’s milk,’ said Darius, who was drinking his coffee black. ‘I can’t touch it since I’ve been back from England. It has a peculiar taste now.’

  I followed him into the kitchen where he made another coffee, black this time, and I asked how his mother was. He replied she was stable after being prescribed new drugs.

  ‘My parents are elderly so are bound to get worries,’ he said, while I tried to work out how much older than me they could be. Possibly twenty years, although that would make them late parents.

  As if reading my thoughts, Darius said: ‘I was the youngest of eight. They kept trying until they got a boy! I’ve been surrounded by older women all my life,’ he said, laughing and looking at me with devilish eyes. ‘Maybe that is why I’m so comfortable with you,’ he added, leaning forward to kiss the end of my nose.

  Darius wanted to tell me even more about the rescue mission, particularly now he was fuelled by the fact my predicament was precipitated by my concern for him. I had the impression he wanted to make amends for my experiences and wanted me to be sure every effort was made to find and release us.

  ‘It was all over really quickly,’ he explained. ‘One of the officers from the raid team told us they’d got all four of the men they knew to be directly involved in your kidnapping, but there was no sign of any other people in the camp.’

  There had, however, been signs of captivity, such as padlocks and mattresses, along with eggshells and banana skins. They’d also found a bottle of Chanel N°5 perfume. ‘We thought that might be relevant,’ Darius said. ‘It didn’t seem likely it would belong to one of the gang.’

  ‘It’s mine,’ I said. ‘The guards kept most of our luggage in their shacks.’

  ‘Well, it’s not the sort of thing you’d expect a Nigerian gangster to have as a bedside accompaniment. Anyway, we were pleased to get our men, but worried about the whereabouts of the hostages, namely you two,’ said Darius. ‘We didn’t know at that stage whether you’d been taken somewhere else, hurt or even murdered.’

  I flinched at the thought.

  ‘Murdered? What for? Surely they wouldn’t have done that to us?’

  ‘Well, they don’t normally kill their victims, but as they’ve never taken tourists before, we weren’t sure how they’d react if they couldn’t get any money from you,’ he said.

  I heard it was the guards who revealed we had escaped.

  Darius added: ‘Two of those we caught refused to say anything, even when they were pistol whipped. They refused to give any information about hostages. However, they’ve been fast-tracked into court, where the charges will include fraud, false imprisonment and kidnap, plus anything else we can add to the mix,’ said Darius.

  I was very impressed by everything he was saying, and felt so very warm in his presence. I felt safe, nurtured and cared-for in a delicate and sedate manner.

  I wanted to ask about other women, and whether he’d been with anyone else since me. I pushed my antics with Gowon to the back of my mind but couldn’t help thinking Darius must have had lustful thoughts towards someone, if not Chinaza. Just thinking about her and her beauty made me want to will her into a very big hole, or for her to evaporate like a snowman in a heat wave, so he could never look at her again. I called on my angels and made a pact to really, really believe in God if only he’d get rid of her and anyone else who might turn the head of this heavenly man in any direction but mine.

  Darius outlined how the legal formalities would work in the court, and they sounded very similar to my own experiences on the magistrates’ bench. Prosecution followed by defence, although this would be in front of a judge with legal training, not a selection of middle-class wives of bankers.

  ‘I suspect there will be a lot of press there, as they will like to hear how you coped with the scammers. They will want to write stories about how you never know who you are going to meet on the internet.’

  ‘Or on Advanced Driving courses,’ I said, looking at him in a way I hoped made him realise I wanted him to make love to me again, right there and then.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The court was full. Chike and Fasina were handcuffed in the dock, looking solemnly straight ahead. Various officials moved around the rows of sturdy wooden seats, whispering in hushed tones and passing on pieces of information to each other in an important fashion.

  A bell sounded, then a clerk stood and told the court to stand. Everyone who wasn’t already standing stood up, while a rotund man of about seventy years old, complete with gown and wig, entered the room and told them to sit.

  ‘Not you,’ he bellowed at the two defendants, who hadn’t acknowledged each other at all.

  ‘Are you Chike Buhari and Fasina Amaechi of Manita Territory?’

  Neither of them responded.

  ‘Speak up,’ said the judge. ‘I can’t hear you,’ he went on, impatiently.

  ‘Yes,’ muttered Fasina, while Chike set his mouth into a hard line and lifted his chin in defiance. Both were wearing dark green cotton jumpsuits – the uniform of the holding prison they’d been bailed to.

  ‘If you do not answer questions when directed to you, then your punishment is likely to be more severe. Do you understand?’

  Again it was Fasina who answered the judge by way of a nod, while Chike stared into the middle distance as if he was posing for a portrait and needed to look enigmatic.

  The judge looked at him briefly, shook his head and peered down at his papers, taking his time perusing the contents while unwrapping a chocolate bar and eating it noisily. He whispered to a neighbouring clerk, who had to refer his question on to the prosecution team, one of whom went outside and returned a few minutes later. Once he returned, the Chinese whispers went in reverse, until the judge was given the answer he required.

  ‘I understand you don’t have any legal representati
on,’ said the judge, looking at the defendants over half-moon glasses.

  Chike whipped his head round and hissed at Fasina, leaning his body into him aggressively enough for his prison guard to pull him back with the handcuffs, as a dog owner might do with a lead.

  Fasina coughed and answered the judge: ‘We do not have the funds for lawyers.’

  ‘And whose fault is dat?’ hissed Chike again, struggling aggressively against the restraint he was under.

  The judge banged a gavel on the bench and called for silence in the court.

  ‘Unless you are answering my questions or those of the lawyers, please keep your comments to yourself, Mr Buhari. Can you confirm you wish to go ahead with this committal without any defence in place?’ he said, again looking over his glasses, giving him an increased aura of authority.

  Fasina nodded. Chike sucked his teeth loudly and kicked his co-defendant sharply on his shin bone. Fasina yelped. The judge ignored him and called on the prosecution to read out the charges.

  A prosecution officer told the court the two men had been found defrauding individuals and companies out of hundreds of thousands of pounds using fake office set-ups. The name John Baker was mentioned, and I assumed that was our ‘rescuer’. He’d gained access to data available to him through one of his business contacts.

  ‘We’ve been monitoring the entire operation with the help of our specialist technology partners, Forensix Inc., and have traced a number of bank accounts which have been emptied as a result of their victims supplying personal details under false pretences. To our knowledge, they have amassed over three hundred thousand dollars in the last two months alone. They also prey on vulnerable Britons, often oil workers but in this case, for the first time, older women, whom they hold to ransom.

  I closed my eyes and shuddered, hoping no one thought of me as I did then – a silly old cow with stupid ideas of her own attractiveness.

  There was another yelp from the witness box. In a moment of relaxation while the prison guard had loosened his grip slightly, Chike had lashed and kicked out at Fasina, this time stamping on his feet and elbowing him in his ribs, hard.

  The judge said: ‘Please keep your arguments to yourselves.’

  He turned to the officer and asked him to continue, adding: ‘Am I correct in thinking there may be further charges?’

  ‘We have two female witnesses, one of whom has been a victim of the “Dear Beneficiary” email scam directly linked to this group of criminals. The other was not connected to this particular crime,’ added the officer. ‘Both were kidnapped and imprisoned soon after their arrival at Lagos airport, on the pretence of being offered help finding friends in our country. Our defendants targeted Mrs Cynthia Hartworth after accessing her email accounts and tracing a booking from London to Lagos in her name.’

  My shame didn’t run too deep. Tracey and I were united in being foolish enough to follow our hearts. Better than letting them rot in middle-aged decline until late life incapacity waved goodbye to all passions.

  The judge glared at the witness box for long enough to make both Chike and Fasina look uncomfortable. He closed his file and stood up, coughing to indicate that the rest of the court was also expected to stand. I noted that the courtroom protocol wasn’t nearly as formal as in my days on the bench, where anyone not respecting the authority of the law would face contempt, not only of the court, but every single magistrate and official in the room.

  ‘In the absence of any legal assistance I suspect the defendants’ ability to effectively cross-examine anything is highly dubious,’ he said. ‘There will be a short recess, and on my return I hope to be able to come to a clear conclusion about this matter,’ he added on his way out.

  The court buzzed with discussion and further aggression from Chike towards Fasina. They were both taken down into the cells to the sounds of further yelps and shouts.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Darius asked the prosecution officer.

  ‘The prison guards told us the defendants had to be separated, as they keep fighting. The shorter, fatter one keeps accusing the taller, thinner one of stealing their cash. He swears he didn’t, but it seems they have no funds at all, despite the likelihood they should still have thousands we’ve not yet traced,’ he replied.

  At this point the main doors to the room crashed open, and a small, bespectacled man fell through on top of a police officer who, in turn, fell into the lap of a large woman who’d been watching the court proceedings while knitting three pairs of baby bootees in succession.

  ‘Mind the bird,’ shouted the small man, getting back on his feet just as a large parrot flew up into the air from under a blanket he’d been carrying, coming to rest on a ledge atop one of the high windows just above us.

  ‘Suck my cock,’ shouted the parrot, followed by ‘tits out, no knickers’, and it was then I recognised it as Pussy. No other bird would be quite as rude.

  ‘What in the good Lord’s name is going on here?’ asked the judge, as he came back to his bench, wiping crumbs of chocolate from his face.

  ‘Fuck off,’ said Pussy, and let loose some droppings which landed on top of Tracey.

  ‘Fuck off yerself,’ yelped Tracey, as she tried to wipe the muck off her hair with the sleeve of her blouse. ‘Filthy git.’

  ‘Filthy git,’ mimicked Pussy, watching from her new perch as the court descended into mayhem.

  ‘I am looking for Cynthia Hartworth,’ said the man with the blanket. ‘She is the sole beneficiary of the macaw you see above you, left to her in the will of one of her fellow Britons.’

  ‘That will be you, then,’ said Tracey. ‘Rather you than me.’

  It was then that Luter came in and pointed his only arm in my direction.

  ‘There she is!’

  The judge called order and asked the two men to explain themselves. They said they knew I’d be in court, from the publicity the case had aroused, and had been looking for me since Bill’s death, as it was his express wish that Pussy be given to me.

  Luter had tried to trace me to the university, but no one would hand over any information, having all been instructed to say nothing about us in case the kidnappers were trying to find us.

  The men explained they had sent private investigators to find me, but they hadn't done their job properly. However, once the court date was announced they knew where I would be. At that point the business at the market, the cars following us and various other suspicious activities started to make sense. It turned out there had been a reward put out by the solicitors acting for Bill’s estate, and they were given express instructions to find me.

  ‘While he didn’t seem to have made it clear, it appeared that he took a liking to Mrs Hartworth,’ explained the man to the judge. ‘We were told to find her, as he believed she would be the only person who could look after Pussy properly.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ I thought. ‘What on earth am I going to do with a swearing parrot?’

  I thought of the brief meeting I'd had with Bill and was flattered he thought so highly of me. He can't have had many friends.

  ‘Take the bloody bird out of here and sort this out when the case is finished,’ boomed the judge.

  ‘Fuck off,’ said Pussy, and was immediately charged with contempt of court.

  After the matter of Pussy was sorted out as best it could be, with some explanations about who was following me and why, Tracey and I took the oath. I swore on the Bible, honouring my new-found connection with God, while Tracey opted for an agnostic version, having realised that swearing-in didn’t require blasphemy.

  Chike looked angry, and I wondered if he was thinking how I’d managed to steal his car and then wreck it. Fasina looked apologetic. There was no sign of Gowon and Chiddy, although it was confirmed how they’d supplied evidence about their bosses in exchange for not having to appear in court against their bosses or face any charges. I was relieved for both our sakes.

  ‘Were you given adequate opportunities to use the bathroom?’ the prosecution o
fficer asked me when I took the stand, at which point Tracey snorted loudly. I glared over at her, and she pretended to sneeze and cough.

  ‘Yes, indeed. We were well treated in that respect.’

  ‘And was there any physical abuse of any kind?’

  ‘Absolutely none,’ I replied, daring Tracey to make any further comment, keeping in mind I could have mentioned her brutal assault on her guard and the use of her clothing to tie up Chiddy before our escape. She kept very quiet.

  ‘However, you were unable to leave the premises until you made your own escape, is that right?’

  I said that was the case, and the questions were over. Tracey’s interrogation was much the same, and although we were both told the defence had the right of cross-examination, it never came.

  ‘Will the defendants please stand,’ the judge said, having allowed the defendants to sit during the proceedings as long as Chike stopped punching Fasina. He almost managed it, although every now and then a squeak or suppressed moan would come from the dock.

  ‘Do you have anything to say?’ the judge asked.

  Chike stood up, dragging his prison guard with him.

  ‘I do, sir!’ he shouted.

  Fasina looked to the floor and sighed.

  ‘Please, go on,’ said the judge.

  ‘This lyin’, cheatin’, good for nothin’ so-called man next to me stole all the money from our business account. There was thousands in there – all gone!’

  The prison guards raised their eyes to the heavens and stood back to wait for the monologue they’d heard every night while the men had been behind bars.

  ‘We had a lot of money – all mine and earned from my hard work and investments, but it’s gone.’ He pointed at Fasina and shook his fist. Fasina sighed and raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘He the only one, the only one, who knew my account numbers, he steal everythin’. That is why we’ve no defence, me lord and honour. That is why.’

  And with that he promptly sat down and adopted his previous pose, crossing his arms for further effect.

  The judge looked at Fasina, who shrugged his shoulders and shook his head in denial.