‘I haven’t any idea what you’re talking about,’ he finally said, forestalling her obviously rising ire by adding, ‘but if you tell me what you think it is, and you’re right – I’ll admit it.’
‘Colin!’ She looked at him and furiously shook her head. ‘You are so transparent.’
He stared back confidently. She couldn’t know anything.
‘You had something to do with that gold bullion robbery!’ Her face was set.
Strangely, her accusation didn’t surprise him. In fact it was almost a relief to have it out in the open. But even after his promise he fought a last-ditch battle of denial.
‘Who, me?’
‘Yes, you.’ She pursued him relentlessly. ‘For weeks now I’ve hardly set eyes on you and on the odd occasion when you have appeared you’ve either been exhausted or totally preoccupied. I put it down to the heat at first. At one time I even began to wonder if you had found someone else. Then this evening I was talking to your uncle and it was obvious that he thought we had spent the day together. I had no idea what you were up to, so I didn’t tell him that I hadn’t set eyes on you all week, never mind today! Then I heard the news of the robbery. I was busy the first time I heard it and didn’t pay much attention. But when the details started coming in, hijacking a plane and escaping by parachute, it all fell into place. That day at Cape Coast, the way you stared at that plane, as if it was some sort of miracle. Then rushing me round the museum and dumping me back here as if I had a nasty disease. Then there was your unexpected boat trip to God knows where. Your whole attitude changed from that moment. It was as if you had something constantly on your mind. And you had too! You’ve been planning to steal that gold ever since you saw that plane at Cape Coast!’
‘Aye.’ His voice sounded far away, as if someone else was doing his talking for him. ‘Aye,’ he repeated, trying to regain some of his self-control. ‘You’re right.’ He had to sit down.
‘Why, why, why?’ She held her hands out to him, jerking them in time to her words. Then she clasped both hands to the side of her head as if shutting out the facts.
‘Our future. I did it for our future.’
‘You think I want a future with someone who can casually hijack an aeroplane?’
‘I had nothing to offer you,’ he appealed. ‘This sets us up. Gets me away from villainy forever. We’ll never need to worry about money again.’
‘But it’s not your gold!’
‘And it’s not the government’s either,’ he argued. ‘They’ve been stealing it for years. Driving the country into poverty.’
‘Oh! So now you’re an authority on Ghanaian politics?’
‘I met this guy … a lawyer. He told me what was going on.’
‘And who was this lawyer?’
‘A Ghanaian, Yarty Okufu. He helped me with my visa, then I bumped into him on the plane. He told me he was the son of the Asantehene, King of the Ashanti or something. Anyway, he’s some sort of a big shot and he seemed to know a lot about things.’
‘And he told you about the gold?’
‘Not exactly. He just told me about the general state of things: corruption in the government, systems breaking down, workers being ripped off and stuff like that. He was really bitter about it. Said he was coming home to try and help his people.’
‘And it’s all true,’ she agreed. ‘But that doesn’t entitle you to steal their gold.’ She gripped his hands. ‘You must give it back, Colin. If not to the government then, at least, to the people who will benefit most from it.’
‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘There are other people involved. I couldn’t hand it back now, even if I wanted to.’
‘And you don’t want to?’
He looked her straight in the eye. ‘If I was the only one involved, and it meant so much to you … yes, I would give it back. But the decision’s not mine to make. I’m sorry.’
‘Oh, Colin!’ A tear rolled slowly down each cheek and he rose to hold her, feeling her body tremble against him. ‘What are we going to do?’
The rest of the evening was an anti-climax for him and at one in the morning he made his excuses and headed back to the cocoa mill, stopping only to deposit a letter in the company’s mailbox as he passed the post office. This time he went straight to the refrigerator and transferred his cartons to the packing department. It took him over three hours to make a passable job of sewing the cartons into their hessian sacks. His final task, before stacking the finished packages in a secluded corner, was to stitch labels onto each of them. They read:
Mr J. Thompson (Purchases)
Hansel Of London (Confectioners)
632 Goldhawk Road
Shepherds Bush
London UK
Tomorrow morning, or more correctly, in a few hours’ time, George would be surprised to find a cash order for 500 kilos of cocoa butter in the morning mail. The International Money Order to cover the purchase price and shipping costs might cause some comment, but it would certainly ensure that the Hansel of London order received prompt attention.
31
At the airport, happy Cooper fans were becoming restless as yet another delay was announced. Few of them realised the reason for the hold-up; they were too busy celebrating their champion’s success to appreciate the local news, however sensational. But Bert was very conscious of the heavy police and military presence. There seemed to be uniforms everywhere. One fan struggling with a heavy suitcase was approached by two armed soldiers to have his suitcase unceremoniously torn from his grasp and thrown open to display a selection of wood carvings. With no apologies the soldiers moved on, their eyes already tracking another heavily laden fan.
Bert looked around, thankful for his immediate companions. Attending the morgue the night before had been a harrowing experience. An officious administrative clerk insisted on questioning him regarding the disposal of the body, taking notes and asking questions regarding payment for the undertaker’s services and air-freight charges to fly ‘The Deceased’ home, as if he was dispatching a piece of machinery or furniture. However, the man had been ruthlessly efficient and had quickly ascertained that Doc’s travel insurance would indeed meet all charges. This put a smile on his face and an end to his questions. On his return to the hotel several of the supporters who were aware of what happened had invited Bert to join them. Strangers had become supportive friends, and he had gone to the fight to shout his support for Cooper along with them, consciously choosing to become ‘one of the boys’. He just wished that Doc had been there with him to celebrate their own particular victory.
*
Behind the scenes angry airline officials were locked in combat with the authorities as pressure was brought to bear.
‘I warn you,’ the local British Airways agent raised his voice above that of the airport manager, ‘the Ghanaian government will be held fully responsible for all charges or debts incurred by any delay.’
‘I have two international flights arriving within the hour. I must have space,’ the airport manager demanded, glaring angrily at the sinister-looking army officer who seemed determined to disrupt the smooth running of his airport.
Major Judas Akaba controlled himself with an effort, his basilisk eyes flickering between the carping men. Straight-backed, he stared them down, his own silence demanding silence in return. When he spoke his voice was calm, but inside he quivered like a bowstring, taut with the strain of suppressed anger. The hijacking and theft of the gold, his gold, gnawed deeply at him. He was well aware of his failure and already his superiors at General Headquarters had hinted at strong career repercussions should he fail to retrieve the stolen gold and bring the culprits to justice. The more he thought about the robbery coinciding with the influx of visitors for the big fight, the more convinced he became that the two incidents were connected. With so much at stake and with nothing else to work on, it was a possibility he could not overlook.
‘Gentlemen,’ he spoke through angry lips. ‘A serious crime has been committed agai
nst the government. It is known that the terrorists are white men and almost certainly English, despite their foreign-sounding names. Is it not reasonable to suspect that they could be amongst this crowd?’
‘I would imagine that to be extremely unlikely,’ the tour organiser spoke drily. ‘These people only arrived here on Tuesday morning, barely forty-eight hours ago. Hardly long enough for anyone to organise and carry out a robbery of this magnitude.’
‘It is possible that the criminals entered the country some time ago,’ Akaba countered. ‘No one pays any attention to routine arrivals. But after the deed, when the alarm has been raised, they would need some camouflage to leave safely. What would be better?’ He used his cane to point at the crowded concourse. ‘I cannot overlook the possibility. The plane will not leave until I am satisfied that neither the gold nor the criminals are on board.’
‘But the delay!’ The airport manager pleaded. ‘Other traffic is due.’
‘What you are suggesting, Major,’ the tour organiser interrupted, ‘about passengers joining the plane for the return flight … Camouflage, I think you said?’
‘Yes?’ The weal above Akaba’s eye pulsed convulsively, the skin throbbing visibly in an angry, shiny swelling.
‘It’s impossible! Every seat was occupied on the outward journey.’
‘And why would this make it impossible?’ Reptilian eyes narrowed maliciously.
‘This is a special round-trip charter flight,’ the tour manager spoke pedantically, ‘and it is fully booked. Therefore if anyone intended to use only the return flight, it would have meant empty seats on the outward trip. However, as I have already mentioned, the flight was fully booked on the outward leg and there were no empty seats. It follows then that the return flight is also fully booked, leaving no seats available for new passengers. Ergo, your culprits cannot hope to board this plane.’
Judas Akaba was a logical man by nature and by training, and what the tour organiser said made sense. It seemed ridiculous to argue against such obvious logic, and he had just received a call suggesting that a body in the city morgue might be connected to the robbery. It was something he would have to check. But he sensed a connection between this plane and the robbery and a deep gut feeling told him not to let it fly. He would go to the hospital, but in the meantime he would issue an order that would delay the departure of this plane a while longer.
For a moment he stared balefully at the organiser. ‘They could be using accomplices,’ he said. ‘The gold may even be hidden on the aircraft itself.’
‘No!’ The airport manager interrupted the verbal battle on the side of the tour organiser. ‘The plane arrived direct from Rome less than three hours ago. It has been refuelled and pushed to its allocated parking stand and no one,’ he emphasised, ‘No one has been allowed on board. Wherever your gold is, Major, it is most certainly not on board that aircraft.’
‘I will order a body and baggage search of every passenger,’ Akaba told them, confident that a painstaking search of over 250 passengers would give him time to visit the morgue and return again before the plane was cleared to take off.
‘Then I suggest you set your men to work,’ the airport manager quietly advised him. ‘The facilities here cannot cope much longer with these numbers. Already half the toilets are out of order through vandalism. There has been sickness, even some fighting, and the first aid post is overcrowded.’
*
Alert for any change, Bert became aware of increased activity as workmen helped customs officers and airport security staff erect extra tables alongside the permanent counters. Then a loud cheer went up when the loudspeaker chimed musically into life with the announcement: ‘Special Flight BA 142 to London is now boarding. Will all passengers of this flight please make their way to customs and passport control.’
The airport manager bustled about behind the tables like an agitated ant. He could not ignore Akaba’s order but the extra tables and staff would certainly speed up the search process. In thirty minutes a long haul jet would be depositing another 250 passengers in his lap, and twenty minutes after that a 707 would be coming in with more passengers. He looked at his watch, winced, and ordered his men to hurry.
There were loud cries of protest as bags were roughly opened, their contents tipped on to the counter and ransacked by at least two officers in an orgy of efficiency. There were more protests as black hands squeezed and probed at bodies, feeling for any suspicious lumps or bulges. Finally a metal detector was run over the complaining travellers, every response disappointing the seekers as innocent bunches of keys or heavy belt buckles activated the alert. Then, quickly, the protesting fans were herded to the exit doors to run a gauntlet of police, soldiers and airport officials on their way to the waiting plane.
Bert dumped his canvas holdall on the worn customs table, pulling the long zip open to expose the bag’s meagre contents. Nothing found; he was waved on to the body search. He wasn’t in the least worried; he hadn’t even been aboard the hijacked plane. With a satisfied smile on his face he stepped through the exit and walked towards the plane.
To Bert, it was almost like coming home. That’s it! he told himself as he settled into his seat. Done it! Now let’s get off the ground and out of here! He looked down from his window seat, mentally urging the last of the stragglers to hurry.
*
The scent of death did not disturb Judas Akaba when he entered the mortuary in Accra City Hospital. Unperturbed, he waited alone in the frigid atmosphere, casually eyeing the shrouded cadaver which lay on a marble slab. He was beginning to enjoy the cold when the door hissed open to admit the sparse, blood-spotted, almost ghoulish figure of Doctor Benjamin Boesak, the hospital pathologist and undisputed ruler of this labyrinth of death.
‘Ah, yes, Major Akaba,’ Doctor Boesak held out a hand as clammy and eerily loose-skinned as the thin rubber gloves of his profession.
‘You sent word that you had a body that might be of interest to me.’ Akaba dry-washed his hands as he spoke. The dead didn’t worry him, but those clammy hands and what they might have handled did.
‘Ah, yes.’ Boesak smiled, exposing teeth like worn tombstones, and moving to the draped figure on the marble slab. Slowly, like a curtain rising on a horror film, he drew the shroud from the body. Akaba swallowed and tightened his lips as the cloth slithered to the floor to expose a scalpel-ravaged corpse. The deep exploratory chest incision began just below the bulge of the Adam’s apple. From there it widened, huge chrome clamps pulling at sawn pink ribs, as if they were trying to tear the carcass apart. The slashing incision carried on over the soft belly flesh, forking left and right below the navel like lines to unmarked destinations on a map. Neatly placed to one side lay several enamel dishes. Akaba thought he recognised the heart, and there was some darker meat that might have been the liver or kidneys. A pale loop of glistening intestine drew his eyes to a bowl containing the sludge-like contents of the stomach and he almost retched, swallowing deeply to hold down his gorge. What was left of the body was a bloodless, blue-tinged mass of dead, white flesh, against which some heavy bruising across the hips and shoulders framed a sickening, surrealistic picture of the mutilated chest. Under the glaring overhead lights, it looked like some hideous detail by Hieronymus Bosch.
‘And why should this body be of particular interest to me?’ Akaba tore his fascinated gaze from the ruined remains.
Doctor Boesak referred to a clipboard he held in his hand.
‘Joseph Docherty. Male Caucasian. Twenty-eight years old. Native of the United Kingdom. DOA at this hospital at 19.15 hours yesterday evening. Cause of death: multiple fractures sustained in a fall from hotel balcony.’
‘And why should the death of this man require my attention?’ Akaba looked at him curiously.
‘When the body arrived here the time of death was accepted without question. There were several witnesses who saw it on the ground seconds after the fall.’
‘But you do not accept this?’
&nbs
p; Boesak shook his head. ‘I do not,’ he replied, turning to the body on the slab. ‘I began my postmortem examination at precisely …’ he referred to his board again, ‘10.25 this morning. It was immediately obvious from the stasis line,’ he pointed at a faint, purplish ‘plimsoll’ line on the carcass at waist level, ‘that Mr Docherty had died, I would estimate, anything between two and five hours before his body fell from the balcony of his room. And the damage is also inconsistent with a fall of around fifty feet, even if it was on to the surface of a concrete car park. In fact, I am able to identify several fractures that must have occurred a few hours after death, which would indicate that the body suffered a second fall some time after the original fatal injuries were sustained.’
‘So you are suggesting that he was the victim of murder, disguised as an accidental death by falling?’ Akaba anticipated him. ‘But what has this to do with me?’ he asked impatiently. ‘It is surely a matter for the police department?’
‘Normally, yes.’ Boesak agreed. ‘But I heard about the bullion robbery last night, and read in the morning paper that you were in overall charge of the investigation. I felt that you should be the first to hear my suspicions.’
‘Suspicions?’ Akaba looked at him, eyes suddenly slitted.
‘Observe this heavy bruising between the legs and across the hips.’ The blunt side of his scalpel traced the marks. ‘And here.’ The scalpel moved to the shoulders. ‘These marks indicate a severe blow or jolt to the skin and musculature. After I qualified as a doctor I served two years with the military forces, Major Akaba, and I recognise this bruising as similar to the damage caused by a badly fitted parachute harness snapping too hard against the body. That, along with a smashed pelvis, broken ankles and compacted fractures of the spinal column, lead me to believe that this man was the victim of a failed parachute drop.’
Ashanti Gold Page 23