by Stav Sherez
Solomon shook his head. ‘No, he didn’t even drink alcohol. All I ever saw him drink was milk.’
Carrigan looked at Spencer. ‘What did he do for money?’
‘Money?’ Solomon coughed on the cigarette smoke. ‘We had no money. We ate food that people threw away. One of the men who lived in the house collected food from outside restaurants, from those black plastic bags they leave on the street. Bayanga showed me this and said what kind of people can they be, to throw all this good food away? He was always laughing at English people. He saw a city laid low by welter and waste. By money, bad dreams and secular arrogance. He saw emptiness and hunger in all the white faces, a hunger for something they would never have. He would quote the Bible as he showed me well-dressed men drunk and drooling, passed out on pavements outside pubs. He said we had arrived in the fallen world and that we had to be careful.’
‘You said you thought Bayanga was helping you but you realised differently. What happened?’ Behind them Carrigan could hear the sounds of kids playing, high voices shrieking with pleasure and astonishment, the contented barking of a dog.
‘One day, I came back from the street and saw him sitting alone in the room. I took out my bottle of wine and sat next to him. I could tell something was different. He seemed brighter, more excited, not as bitter as he often was and he started telling me about how when he had the money he would move from this hell-hole and into one of those nice houses we always passed on our way to the Village. How he would buy himself a suit and a car and ladies to go with it. I’d never known Bayanga to resort to these common fantasies and so I asked him how he would get this money. He laughed and said it was almost a done deal. He told me that he’d been walking in the city and had bumped into someone he knew from back home. The man called him a week later and offered him a proposition. He said that perhaps there was a job for me too in this.’
Carrigan rubbed his chin, the sound like an angry insect trapped inside a clenched fist. ‘He said he met someone from back home? From Uganda?’
‘That’s what he told me. I asked him what kind of work, wondering if it was drugs. He said the kind of work we used to do back home and smiled. In that smile I knew that things had changed for him as much as I knew that I would never be part of it. The kind of “work” we used to do back home was how we always talked about fighting, killing, the work of war.’
Carrigan felt the blood coursing through his veins, the sensate feel of his own body. ‘He said it was killing work?’
‘He didn’t need to say it like that. It was obvious what he meant.’
Carrigan felt the scratch of his pen against paper as he wrote it all down, trying not to leap to conclusions, not to see that one name glowing insistent in front of him, Geneva’s voice ringing in his ears with I told you so.
‘You never saw this man?’ Carrigan asked.
Solomon shook his head. ‘I’m not sure I even fully believed him until he came home that day with the phone.’
‘Phone?’ Carrigan looked up from his pad. ‘When was this?’
‘A couple of weeks ago. He came in, it was morning and he was smiling and couldn’t wait to show me his new phone. It was one of those big ones with a screen and internet.’
‘An iPhone?’ Carrigan interrupted.
‘I don’t know,’ Solomon admitted. ‘He also gave me twenty pounds from a large roll he had in his pocket. This was the first time I’d ever seen him with more than loose change. He told me everything was going to plan, said he still had room for me if I wanted to join him. I thanked him and said no. I told him I was working here, had met the priest, that this was the work I wanted to do.’
Carrigan noted it down, his handwriting speeding up as he tried to preserve all this new information. ‘When did you last see him?’
‘A couple of days after that. He gave me his corner. Said he was moving to a better place. Said I could have joined him if I had been more of a man but that was not the man I wanted to be.’ Solomon shook his head, pointed to the darkness of his makeshift classroom. ‘We all have to make our decisions, Inspector, that’s the easy bit. The hard part is we have to live with them. I learned this in Uganda. I was lucky enough to have a second chance, to make another choice, but Bayanga would always make the same choice no matter what. The work of killing, some men are forced into it but others, it finds them like a long-lost brother.’
27
It was easy to get lost among the crowds, easy to merge into the flow so that even when Gabriel looked behind him he didn’t see her, only a tight compacted group of chattering students. Geneva followed him through dusty corridors, past classrooms emptying out, and into the student bar. She watched as Gabriel bought a can of Fanta, talked to a girl he knew then, just as he was making his way past her, Geneva grabbed the sleeve of his jacket. ‘Thought it was you.’
Gabriel looked wildly around, his hands buried deep in his pockets. ‘What do you want?’
She pointed to a small dark alcove to the left of the bar. Gabriel looked behind him once then followed her to a black table, its surface sticky with spilled drinks.
‘Lucky for me, huh?’ she said as he opened his Fanta. ‘Had a few questions for you, save you a trip to the station.’ His eyes flared for a moment then dimmed back into their sockets. ‘Don’t worry, Gabriel, anyone sees you with me they’ll think you’re just chatting up another white girl.’
His fingers danced around the edge of the can but the fear didn’t leave his eyes. ‘I have a lecture to get to.’
‘Glad you’re such a conscientious student,’ she smiled, ‘and, as you’re so eager to get back to class, I’m sure you’ll answer my questions quickly.’
Gabriel looked around him but there was only a blur of people drinking, shouting into each other’s ears over the din of music, the clatter of empty glasses.
‘I had nothing to do with Grace’s death.’
‘Wasn’t what I was going to ask you.’ She laid her hands flat on the table, remembering how Gabriel had stared at them during the interview. ‘Instead, why don’t you tell me about General Ngomo?’
He didn’t say anything, kept his head down, his fingers circling the top of the can so fast he cut himself, a thin whistle of air escaping his lips and a single drop of blood flowering on his thumb.
‘I know you recognised him.’
‘So? He’s a famous figure back home, everyone recognises him.’ His voice had reverted to its earlier petulance and Geneva knew she was halfway there.
‘I’m sure they do. But I think you know what I’m talking about.’ She stared at Gabriel, saw him trying to feign nonchalance, but his muscles twitched and jumped as if an electric current was being run through them.
‘We know all about him,’ she continued. ‘We know who he is and what he did to Grace.’
Gabriel’s head snapped up, his eyes showing a certain amusement. ‘You have no idea.’
‘Oh, I think we do. And I don’t think it’ll be too long before we find him.’
Gabriel tried looking everywhere but across the table. Geneva could feel the tension in his bearing, the way he was struggling to hold himself together. ‘Think about that, Gabriel,’ she continued, trying not to enjoy this too much. ‘We know Ngomo killed Grace because she was writing an exposé of his deeds. He ripped out her heart – that’s his signature after all, isn’t it? My boss, he’s not sure who told Ngomo what Grace was writing about, how he found out, but I think, you and me, we both know the answer to that.’
Gabriel’s eyes blinked rapidly, his skin turning grey. ‘Bullshit.’ He stood up so fast the can went flying across the table. Geneva watched as he glared at her, shook his head, and headed off back into the main building.
She should have gone home. She should be unpacking boxes, calling her mother, her divorce lawyer, studying the case file. But instead she found herself following Gabriel through the twisting corridors of the university, wondering why he seemed so much more scared today than when he’d been under arrest fo
r murder.
He didn’t look back once. He walked straight past the lecture theatres and empty classrooms and out into the drizzled daylight. Geneva huddled next to a group of students by the stairs, camouflaged among the bright Puffas and woolly hats, and watched Gabriel heading down Great Russell Street. She was about to turn back and go home when she saw him take out his mobile phone, start punching in a number then stop, look around and put the phone back in his pocket. He crossed the street and entered a public phone box.
She watched him from the other side of the road, protected from view by the bus shelter and huddle of people waiting in the rain. He lit a cigarette as he waited for his call to be answered. His face looked grim and solemn when he spoke. She couldn’t hear what he was saying but there was no need; his body language was as expressive as someone signing to the deaf. Gabriel shook one hand in the air, then banged the phone back down into the cradle. It bounced off and crashed against the glass as he exited the booth and headed for the Tube.
She crossed the road and followed him into the station. Every hair on her arms stood up as she saw him take the lift to the platform. She leapt down the stairs three at a time, glad she wasn’t wearing her heels.
She reached the platform just in time to see him slip into one of the far carriages of a waiting train. A good-looking young businessman held the door open for her and she thanked him as she got on, her heart booming in her ears.
They changed trains at Bond Street. The scrum of rush-hour passengers hid her as she followed him through the tunnels.
He took the Jubilee Line, northbound, getting off at Willesden Green. She stared at the station sign, remembering Grace’s Oyster card.
She followed him past a small parade of shops and watched as Gabriel turned down a long tree-lined street, power-walking past two old men and their straggly nicotine-stained dogs.
She crossed to the other side of the street, breathing heavily, and crouched behind a parked car. Gabriel stopped and opened the gate to a small semi-detached house. He looked behind him once then headed for the door. He leaned on the buzzer until the door opened and a man greeted him from the darkened interior.
There was no small talk. They evidently knew each other, the man stepping aside to let Gabriel through, and it was then, in a flicker of light, as Gabriel entered the house, that she saw the occupant clearly, his balding skull gleaming under the bare bulb light, his moustache thin and groomed and his eyes, those same eyes she knew so well from the photos and books she’d spent all week immersed in.
She quickly ducked down feeling a sick rush of adrenaline as General Lawrence Ngomo looked up and down the street then, apparently satisfied, turned and shut the door.
28
Carrigan had waited ten minutes to see whether Geneva would show up for the afternoon briefing he’d called and then started. ‘I’m handing you a one-page profile of our suspect put together by DI Spencer of the Trident Unit.’ He heard groans and whistles as the constables passed around the photocopies. ‘I know, profiles don’t catch anyone and all that . . . nevertheless it’s important we know who we’re dealing with, the kind of person this Bayanga is. He’s not our normal scum – believe me, this is a lot worse.’ Carrigan wiped the sweat from his brow and continued. ‘We know that Bayanga met someone from back home who offered him work. A week before Grace is killed he suddenly turns up with a new smartphone and a roll of money.’ He paused. ‘I know how seductive this chain of events is but we have to be extremely careful here – we still don’t know motive and we can’t rule out coincidence but, having said that, it does look like this is the man who killed Grace and it looks as though someone paid him in advance to do it.’
He watched their faces as the realisation sunk in – this wasn’t just a sex murder any more but something far more professional and they all understood how much harder this would now make their jobs. ‘DC Berman?’
Berman looked around the room, his eyes narrowing as if the daylight was too much for him. ‘I traced the site on which Grace and Bayanga corresponded.’ He shuffled on his seat, fingers worrying the end of his shirt. ‘The company that runs the forum, after a bit of persuasion, let us look at their data. I managed to find the email address Bayanga used.’ Berman paused, watching the detective’s faces all fixed on him, Carrigan blinking rapidly. ‘He only sent one other email from this account. It was addressed to My dear comrade, Lawrence and it said, I have the thing I promised to give to you. It is time for us to meet.’
‘When was it sent?’ Carrigan asked.
‘Yesterday morning.’
Carrigan closed his eyes for a second, rubbed his temples then turned to DC Singh.
Singh said they’d had no luck in tracing Bayanga. They’d shown the photo around likely areas but had no response. Carrigan had hoped someone would have seen him – there was something about Bayanga, something about his eyes that made you notice him.
The door opened and Geneva came in, her face red and flushed, hair all over the place, one earphone dangling across her left shoulder. She walked up to Carrigan, whispered in his ear, telling him about following Gabriel to Ngomo’s house. No one else could hear what she said but everyone noticed Carrigan’s face light up, his eyes widening as he turned to them. ‘I’ll let DS Miller explain,’ he said and took his seat.
Geneva recounted how she’d spotted Gabriel running away from her, questioned him then, not satisfied with his answers, decided to follow him. She told them who answered the door.
‘Sir, I’m still not sure I understand how all this links up to Grace.’ Jennings’s upper lip quivered as he talked, his eyes downcast and dark.
‘I think DS Miller can explain better than I can.’ Carrigan turned towards her.
She resisted the urge to scratch her wrist and cleared her throat. ‘Grace was writing her thesis about General Lawrence Ngomo. A thesis which basically amounted to an exposé of his many war crimes. She was particularly interested in the 1990 murder of four British aid workers. I believe Ngomo got wind of this, realised it would upset the new life he’d created for himself in London, and hired or asked Bayanga, one of his former soldiers, to kill Grace and get rid of the evidence. I think that Bayanga has Grace’s computer.’
‘I know we’ve been through this before, but if he took her computer then why didn’t he take all her notes too?’ Karlson asked.
‘I don’t think he was interested in her thesis,’ Geneva replied, having readied herself for this. ‘I think there was something else on the computer far more damaging to Ngomo than anything Grace had written.’ She looked up and saw that she’d snared Carrigan’s attention. ‘I believe Grace had managed to get hold of uncut footage of the aid workers’ murder and it was stored on her hard drive. I think that’s what Bayanga meant in the email: I have the thing I promised to give you.’ She stopped, suddenly aware of every face turned towards hers and stared down at her papers.
Carrigan tried to sense if there was any of the I-told-you-so in her tone but he couldn’t discern anything but her excitement at this new lead. He looked at the team, his decision made. ‘I’m going to go for a warrant on Ngomo’s house. We have enough evidence linking him with Bayanga to persuade the judge. Karlson – we need to bring Gabriel in for further questioning. He’s involved in this somehow. I’m putting a surveillance car outside Ngomo’s house tonight, make sure he doesn’t suddenly decide now’s a good time for a holiday. Tomorrow, five sharp, assuming we get the warrant, we take him down.’
He sat in the car and watched the river sway and shimmer against the sun’s dying rays as he ate a cereal bar, crumbs and raisins raining down on his beard and jacket. He read Geneva’s précis on Ngomo, the things she’d found out at SOAS, impressed by the sharpness of her logic, her persistence in the face of his own obstinacy.
He left the car on a double yellow line and walked up through the verdant garden, the crumbly stairs, his finger lighting gently on the buzzer. He brushed the crumbs off his jacket, watched them fall to the floor, squ
irrel food, and waited for Ben to come shambling down from his study.
Ursula opened the door. If she was surprised to see him, she didn’t show it.
‘Hi.’
She nodded back but her eyes were now staring at some point behind Carrigan. He turned to see what she was looking at but there was only the river, the mossy banks of Barnes on the other side, a single ketch slicing through the waves.
‘I suppose you’d better come in.’ She turned away, letting the door swing open.
He followed her into the silent hallway feeling encroached upon by the dusty hunting scenes lining the wall, the sense of a house abandoned to fear and darkness.
‘Ben around?’ he asked, sitting down in the living room, trying to keep his eyes off Ursula’s lest some snapcharge of memory derail his composure.
‘I thought you knew.’ Her voice sounded different he noticed, the way she crossed her arms as if defending herself from an unseen attack.
‘Knew what?’ He tried to remember their last conversation but all he could recall was the look on Ben’s face when he realised what they were dealing with and how quickly that look had turned into one of a man betrayed.
Ursula walked over to the cabinet and poured them both a drink. ‘He flew out to Berkeley last night; his classes start tomorrow.’ She put the glass down clumsily, avoiding his eyes, turning quickly and retreating to the safety of her armchair. ‘You look disappointed.’
He shuffled in the seat and looked at the photos on the mantelpiece. ‘I was hoping he’d help me with something.’
Ursula’s face narrowed, the lips pulling in against each other, her skin whiter than ever. ‘I’m surprised at your audacity, I really am.’ She took a sip of scotch, her hand trembling the glass. ‘After what you’ve done to us.’
He wasn’t surprised at her attitude, knew the girls were the most important things in her life and that anyone endangering them was immediately and without question her sworn enemy.