Flood of Tears as Peter Abel visits murdered colleague’s home

02 May Flood of Tears as Peter Abel visits murdered colleague’s home

The rains had stopped by the time they arrived at 10 Williams Street, an unpainted block of flats with a foreboding feeling of death in the air. Ogba is a high-density area of a medley of industries and residential settlements; it is very busy in the evenings.

Two policemen stood guard inside the small lobby leading to the flats on the first floor. Abel folded the raincoat, hung it on his left hand and moved toward the flat on the right. One of the policemen, a stout fellow in his thirties, approached him.

“Can I help you, Sir?” he asked politely, both hands on the rifle hanging down on a strap from his shoulder. His short-cut hair exaggerated his oval face and big brown eyes.

“Peter Abel from The Zodiac”, Abel flashed credentials as he put the raincoat on one of the two straight back chairs that stood against the wall.

The policeman nodded in recognition. “I am Sergeant Fakorede. We have been expecting you. You have come to see the victim’s wife. But she is asleep. Her younger sister is in….” Fakorede reached to open the door to the flat.

“Hold on. I need to talk to you first”, Abel said as he tried to dry himself with a sodden handkerchief.

Fokorede nodded deferentially. Abel was a well-known figure to the police. He had helped them uncover many crimes. Perhaps the policeman wanted to make an impression so that Abel would one day write about him.

“Tell me, Sergeant, what really happened?” Abel took a second handkerchief from his left pocket to mop his face.

And this prompted Fakorede to show Abel the pair of severed ears in the plastic evidence bag. When Abel had asked about the origin of the ears, he knew he looked ill. He felt ill. The sergeant almost smiled, probably pleased that he had impressed the reporter.

“Well, I need to get these to the station, Mr. Abel”, Fakorede said. “They are evidence, you know. My people are combing the Tagry Road and environs for the body.” A dramatic pause. “While the victim’s wife still holds hope for her husband, I believe he is dead.”

Abel saw Fakorede watching him closely, to see how his statement would affect the reporter. Abel nodded weakly.

“Yes, that is a reasonable conclusion”, he said. “Any suspects yet?”

“No, Sir. The Commissioner of Police has briefed your publisher, and I hope you know that we will be helpful in any way we can. We are not unmindful of the status of your paper or of yourself.”

Abel’s attention was drawn by the voice of the second policeman who guarded the door to Tunde’s apartment. Abel noticed him when he first entered the lobby. Armed. Humourless. Sinister. The man was speaking into a Motorola walkie-talkie. He signed off and then approached Fakorede.

“The body has been found…”

“Oh my God!” Abel said, an involuntary response.

The speaker ignored him. “Those mentioned in the snake story are being questioned.”

The door to the flat burst open just then. A young lady in her 20s stepped out. She regarded them, her eyes red and wet, her hair shabby. This didn’t stop the men from taking note of her appealing curvaceous build. Despite her demeanour, she looked smart in a pair of jeans pants and a black blouse.

“My sister wants to know if Mr. Peter Abel has arrived”, her voice was strained, unsteady.

“Yes, I’m here”, Abel stepped towards her. “What is your name?”

“Bimpe.”

Abel heard Fakorede whisper from behind him, “Don’t do it”, which he understood to mean, don’t tell her about the body. Although he was no stranger to breaking bad news, Abel knew word of Tunde’s death should be delivered by a priest.

After a brief introduction, he followed the lithe young woman into the living room. He immediately took a seat opposite the bedroom. Abel knew Lola, still unaware she was a widow, lay resting behind the closed door.

He glanced around, nervous. Many times he had visited the couple as their friendship grew. They had shared such good times here. And now it was full of sorrow.

Unlike the bare walls of the block, the room had been carefully decorated with cream-coloured Spanish tiles. A pair of leather settees helped fill the space. As he sat on one of the settees, Abel told himself to remain professional. Act as he would on any job. Do not become sentimental. Keep your presence of mind. Keep alert. You still have a job to do. You still must investigate the crime.

He thought of Tunde Picketts. He had been a diminutive young man in his late 20s, yet he packed so much energy into whatever he was doing. He had worked at The Zodiac for only two years, but Abel remembered that when his promotion had been discussed at a management meeting, his editor described him as a “bundle of initiatives”. He also was the friendly butt of newsroom cracks. His colleagues teased that his wife was twice his height, even though she was only about a foot or so taller. Abel smiled sadly at the memory.  He glanced toward the closed bedroom door.

***********************

On the other side of the door, Bimpe was telling Mrs. Lola Picketts that Abel had arrived. Tunde’s wife struggled to her feet and cried, “That is the man he wanted to be like”. Then she slumped back on the bed. She held her head in her hands and could not stop the flood of thoughts that came to her. Thoughts of Tunde’s dreams and ambitions, castles in the air she and her husband had built together.

A graduate of English, she appreciated good writing. She had noticed Tunde’s by-line when he first began at the paper. She admired Tunde’s beautifully written feature stories. But she never thought she’d meet him.

Then she saw him at a cocktail party given by the bank for which she worked. He was there with others from the paper. She wanted to approach him and saw her chance when she noticed that he kept to himself, away from his colleagues who busied themselves consuming the hors d’ouvres and free booze their hosts offered.

“Good evening, Mr. Picketts”, she walked to the corner where he stood alone nursing a glass of Coke. “I’m Lola. I work at the bank.”

“As an officer?” Tunde inquired.

Lola laughed at the notion.

“No. I’m not that important. Just a teller. You sometimes come to my window.”

Tunde smiled, recognizing her. “Of course. How could I forget such a pretty face.”

Lola blushed but thrilled at the compliment. “You don’t want to be alone at a pleasant cocktail party like this, do you?”

“Thanks, Lola. But my height”, he tapped the top of his head, “I easily get lost in the crowd, so I keep a distance from it”. He broke into a grin.

“You speak just the way you write. You put so much fun into your stories, that one hardly gets bored reading two pages of them.”

“Thank you”, he said with a good-humoured bow, and then a laugh that rocked the glass in his hand.

His strong, white teeth caught Lola’s attention. He was elegant, dressed in a rich red-striped Eton shirt and perfectly pressed black trousers. His shoes were Italian. He had more style than any of his colleagues.

“Tunde, it is your taste and not your height that sets you apart.” She ran her eyes from his shoes up. “You are dressed like one of our bankers.”

“Yes, but my ambition is to become a very successful journalist. Do you know Peter Abel?”

“Of course. Everyone knows him.”

“He perhaps earns more than your managing director”, he whispered, “and everybody, from the President down to the common man, fears him”, he took a sip at his Coke.

“They ought to. At least those who don’t keep clean cupboards.”

“When I achieve Peter Abel’s status, I will come back to see you.”

“Till then, Tunde.” She offered her small right hand, which Tunde took with a bow. Then, “Goodbye to the next Peter Abel”, she said and left.

He told her much later how great an impression she had made on him. He had stared at her as she waltzed away. At nearly six-feet-two, she was one foot taller than he was. A mismatch, except she sounded as intelligent as he felt he was. He had noticed she wore a wig, but her heart-shaped face, thin lips and mesmerizing eyes had impressed him. As had her perfect figure.

For her part, Lola went home that night thinking of the determined young man who dressed so well and spoke so beautifully. And who had such beautiful teeth.

A week later, when Tunde invited her out for dinner, she felt her heart dictate, “Yes.” They were married three months later.

Lola lay in the semi-darkness thinking about how the day had begun so routinely. She had to leave for work early, and Tunde was still in bed. His right foot peeked out from under the covers as it always did as he slept on his back. Knowing that he had to travel to Tagry to follow up on the snake story, she had tiptoed to him and whispered “Peter Abel” into his ear. They were the last words she ever spoke to him.

Lola opened her eyes, tears staining her cheeks. Her sister stared down at her, concerned.

“Lola, please don’t be sad. We don’t know what has happened. Do not think the worst.”

Lola ignored her plea. “Where is Peter Abel?” she asked simply.

“Come. He is outside.” Bimpe helped her up.

In her black blouse and piece of cloth tied below it, buba and iro as it is locally called, Lola felt fragile and older than her years. She leaned on Bimpe, too distraught to walk alone. As they entered the living room, she saw Abel. He was sitting with two members of her church who had just arrived to lend support and sympathy.

As Abel rose and started forward to take her hands, Lola flung herself at him hysterically, “He wanted to be like you! He wanted to be like Peter Abel.”

***************************

Abel gathered her into his arms and hugged her firmly, whispering to her “Please be calm, God is in control, be calm”. She sobbed heavily as Abel led her to the settee.

Before Abel could say anything more, the door opened slowly. Police Commissioner, Fred Datti, a tall, burly man, and Chief Benson entered. They were accompanied by a woman Abel did not recognize.

There were pro-forma expressions of concern for Tunde’s fate. Platitudes people say on such occasions. Platitudes Abel had heard when his own wife died. After a lengthy appreciation of Lola’s strength and reliance on God, the Commissioner said the one thing Lola had most wanted to hear. There were indications that Tunde might be found.

Abel knew of course that Tunde had been found already. Dead. The Commissioner was hiding the truth until the family priest could deliver the news. Until then, he could only say soothing things and lie. Kind lies, perhaps. But lies nonetheless.

Then Chief Benson, who was dressed in a flowing blue gown, promised Lola that The Zodiac was going to take care of her “until the family found stability”. Referring to the lady Abel had not recognized, Chief Benson said, “We brought a nurse to take care of you overnight”.

“And we are going to beef up police protection here”, the Commissioner added. “It is good to have sympathisers, but I would suggest only close relations and church members who come to pray for you should stay overnight. We will be back to see you tomorrow morning.”

As they all stood to leave, Abel felt a heavy, crippling guilt. Lola’s admonition, “He wanted to be like you!” echoed in his head. The pain deeply etched in the faces of those around him added to his discomfort.

Lola slumped in her seat, her face wet with new tears. Impulsively, Abel moved over to her, bent over slowly and whispered in her right ear, “It will be alright. Believe me”.

He was compelled to say this. And in making this promise, he had dedicated himself to solving the mystery. To finding Tunde’s killer. And to unravelling the mystery which underlay the killing. He would finish telling the story Tunde had begun. This was Abel’s mission.

It was in that moment that Abel recognized the truth about Tunde’s severed ears. They were not meant as a message to his wife. They were meant as a message to whoever might pick up Tunde’s cause: This could happen to you, too.

The message was meant for Peter Abel.