WITHOUT A TRACE (4)

Saturday August 30, 2014

I don’t know why the words sound familiar but I’m sure they’ve been uttered by some wise ass somewhere; it is by no means an original thought; “The thing about the truth is that someone somewhere always knows where it is hidden”.

Perhaps this fundamental belief is what makes Inspector Friday such a tenacious man; this unwavering belief that with almost every case, someone, somewhere, would know something.

He’s not nervous yet, but he’s going to be soon enough if there’s no trace of Lily. His latest stratagem is simple; with the Adegbenro’s approval, he has put out a series of press statements informing the public of her disappearance.

It’s of course backed with a promise of a handsome cash reward of two hundred thousand naira for whichever lucky individual who would come forward with useful information.

It’s a simple matter of directing the Adegbenro’s on what to do as well as distancing himself publicly from the case. Theirs is a name which opens door and soon enough they’re on a breakfast program, shedding carefully practiced tears and begging the nation to call specific numbers if they happen to see or hear anything.

Inspector Friday’s confidence stems, it seems, from his extensive experience. Perhaps, he reckons it’s just a matter of time before someone calls to offer information. His usual restless nature, however, prevents him from sitting in the office and waiting.

He reaches into one of his drawers and pulls out a phone; I doubt he recognizes the model of the phone; it’s a Blackberry Porsche and it takes him more than a few minutes to search for the power button. He finally shakes his head in defeat, he has no luck finding it.

We can’t exactly blame him; barring a miracle, it’s not a phone he’ll ever be likely to afford on his policeman’s salary even with the healthy tip or two from concerned citizens.

One call to his tech buddy, Nnamdi and he heads out of the office for computer village. It’s not a trip he’s enthusiastic about but it beats sitting in the office twiddling his thumbs. Careful to remember his one indispensable accessory, the hand sanitizer, he sets out.

Saturday August 30, 2014

A hour and a half of navigating treacherous traffic gets him to his destination and his police tags earns him the right to park in a space reserved for only people with money to pay. Nothing comes free in Computer village, not even parking space.

Nnamdi is the quintessential Igbo hustler who has come to Lagos to make it big. With an accent thick enough to still be too much if it was shared among three people, he sports a colorful tee shirt, baggy shorts and an ostentatious pair of red crocodile skinned shoes.

He looks like a cheap version of an Italian mobster; he greets the Inspector with an easy smile, broad enough to be genuine but not long enough to boast of particularly close friendship.

Theirs is a friendship driven by necessity; the Inspector provides the necessary clout to scare some customers into paying long standing debts as well as the occasional need to get the innumerable Lagos council touts out of his hair.

In exchange, Nnamdi provides the Inspector with generous tips from time to time. His business is a thriving venture, having the force of a high ranking police officer to back it up is one of the necessary determinants of success in a city like Lagos.

The Inspector whips the phone with no pretensions to friendly banter and the whistle from Nnamdi is shocking

“Oga, your hand don touch am o, where you see this kain phone?”

His interest is piqued as to how a poorly paid police officer can afford a phone that costs a little less than four hundred thousand Naira.

“No be that one dey important, I need check the things way dey on top the phone” the inspector says.

Nnamdi flicks the power switch with a familiarity which tells us he’s a true gadget enthusiast, “The battery don die o, make I boost am make e fit on”

He finds the suitable charger and plugs it in and a few minutes later, the background light of the phone brings a smile to the inspector’s face.

“The person no put password o, na why we fit access the phone, if not, e for hard small” Nnamdi supplies.

In a few minutes he copies the details of the all the calls on the device to a notepad the inspector is likely to be more comfortable with.

Monday, September 1, 2014

With almost inhuman concentration, his attention is transfixed to his notepad; a pen is circling around the number; “112” and he wonders why she was on the phone to an emergency number for fifteen minutes.

The other numbers dialed are; Mohammed, Bashiru and a couple of unfamiliar names. It’ll be easy enough to get the transcript of all the phone calls.

The beautiful thing about being a policeman with all the right connections is having access to certain things without needing the wrangles of bureaucracy or stupid processes.

It may not be legal or admissible in a court but such trivial concerns do not bother the inspector; his first obsession is with knowing. He makes a note to call his contact who helps retrieve phone records. He pays heavily for these things but with the kind of tips he’s receiving from the Adegbenro’s, it’s well worth the effort.

The door to his office suddenly jerks open, with such urgency it gives him a start; it’s Felicia, who’s in charge of handling the phone lines connected with Lily’s disappearance and dismissing 98% of the calls as just desperate Nigerians SEEKING an extra buck.

Her rush is sudden enough for her not to offer any greeting or protocols; she’s out of breath as she says;

“Sir, we’ve found her body!”

                                                                                                     ...To Be Continue.