The Shokolokobangosho Mysteries
Say Who Die
By AC Alegbo
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY:
AC Alegbo on Smashwords
Say Who Die
Copyright © 2012 by AC Alegbo
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Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
Contains Strong Language.
*****
I
It was a Tuesday in the middle of November that Casey O’Reilly strolled into the little room that they called their office. Immediately, the space around them shrank for Casey was a large fellow with as large a personality. He had a face like a rock wall, wide slits for eyes and a squat big blob for a body. He chewed a gum and spat as he spoke, quite involuntarily but enough to well up disgust in his hosts. Wilson sat huddled in intimidation while attempting to take down notes but his African companion who stared unblinkingly at Casey didn’t seem to bother at all. In fact, it seemed like he didn’t care, wasn’t listening; only his eyes hinted otherwise. They were beady little things that latched on to Casey’s frame tenaciously, little things firmly fixed in a mean face, beneath a high brow, between jutting cheekbones, atop a big nose with wide nostrils and a pair of thick lips.
‘This is a once opportunity for you folks...you understand,’ Casey spat, moving his head menacingly.
‘I haven’t got time man. Let’s get to the point,’ the man opposite replied.
The fool – they’d more time than they cared for, Wilson Tate silently cursed.
The little room hadn’t seen any visitors since the business opened four months previously; in that time, they had only been occupied by literally idle pursuits – leafing through glossy magazines, listening to each other breathing, twiddling their thumbs. Only the Thursday before, he’d had to listen all day to his partner struggling with his desk. The man always found it difficult to tuck his little bulge underneath the cheap desk he’d got off the furniture store on Front street about two summers before; it was made of low quality pine and boasted a chest of drawers at one end and vast middle that depressed fearfully, creaking mournfully underneath the slightest weight, as carried the laptop that sat in that space. Besides it, the desk carried a pretentious pile of books that had never felt the caress of human hands, arranged smartly over the end supported by the second foot while at the other end sat a mid 90’s Panasonic television, a good bargain from the local Cash Converters. The incessant scraping sound of wood on floor as he adjusted, accompanied by the groan of a threatening desk grated on and alarmed Wilson at the same time, making it very hard to concentrate on his crossword. Often, the young assistant would cast a reproving glance at his balding and bearded companion lost in a 99p magazine and who never seemed remotely aware and didn’t look like he would care even if he was.
They shared a small space between them with just enough room to house all the necessary stuff that gave the right feel of a professional outfit. Appearance is everything; First impressions are everything; you have one chance to make a good impression first time. Tired old clichés, he loved them – the bumbling fool. He never tired of them, repeating them with as much enthusiasm as if he’d just heard them, as if he’d just invented them, spouting them like a faulty faucet. The desk scraped again and the baldy moved; it seemed to be his thighs that were getting stuck. He couldn’t seem to find room for them. They needed work, just as much as he’d sworn to visit on his middle and general frame. And he must have too because Wilson thought he looked a tad healthier, leaner, fitter the Thursday before as they conversed.
‘Sounds like fun,’ Wilson said without much interest after he’d finished his tale of his Nigerian home.
‘Sounds like that now but you see where my father was coming from.’
That ended one of their rare conversations and the silence and scraping returned for about a minute. ‘Have you lost weight?’ Wilson came from nowhere just as he finished his second scraping.
‘Fuck off Mr,’ he replied without raising his head from the magazine.
This only spurred Wilson. ‘You must have, to fit under that desk at all despite all the noise you’ve been making.’
‘You know what they say – if you can’t stand the heat...’ It didn’t come off him naturally. He sounded like he’d simply borrowed it for that use.
‘Quite fitting foreigner, considering it is freezing in here,’ Wilson answered. ‘How long are we going to put up with this?’
‘Hmm...Go home. It is not by force to be here,’ he answered rather solemnly.
The rest of the room was practically bare, save for a few half empty mugs of cold coffee, empty paper crowns of consumed muffins, four lifestyle magazines and an old radiator in a corner. The windows were tight shut thankfully; they’d been that way ever since they signed the contract on the room. The sea breeze that constantly washed over their little district of Tynemouth meant they were always cold, more so now that they were broke and couldn’t afford to pay for heating.
‘I can’t feel my feet,’ Wilson moaned. ‘We need to get some business soon or park this stunt in. My mum can’t continue to bring us muffins.’
‘Abegi,’ he blurted involuntarily in pidgin. ‘Tell her to stop,’ thumbing through his magazine rather furiously unmasking a little irritation.
‘That is not the point,’ Wilson shot back unfazed and undeterred. ‘She had high hopes for me. We’ve got to get off our backsides, really. This is Tynemouth; no one will find us here.’
‘We are off our backsides, white boy. We are in the pages so eat a muffin or find one and calm down.’
‘Don’t know what I was thinking to get involved in this dream. One month and I’m out of here.’ The room fell silent after that as Wilson returned to his puzzle and he to his magazine. The wind outside howled again and slammed into the closed door rattling it slightly. Outside, people trickled by and occasionally stopped to stare at the tag on the door, sometimes smiling, sometimes laughing but it did grab attention. WillDash Detectives and All Round Problem Solvers. The words had been his choice as had most things – he practically owned the outfit and had roped Wilson in to be his partner.
‘Are you out tonight?’ Wilson asked not looking up from his puzzle. That was all he could think of now; he needed a drink. With frustrating days like they always had, drinking had become very attractive.
‘Not thought about it.’
‘You should. There is this place in Whitley bay I’d like to show you.’ There was a very slight quiver in his voice as he said this. Whitley bay near cancelled out the call of a drink; it required consideration, even deliberation.
‘Land of the cursed,’ he echoed Wilson’s thoughts.
Tynemouth was tiny, shaped like a cute wicket with a curved horizontal bar. Front Street was that bar, lined with shops, bars and cars, swarmed on day and night by visitors a constant perilous threat to the tranquil, a threat that magnified grossly the closer it got to the weekend and the spring. For miles, they would traipse harrying all parts of the wicket, besieging the bars and cafes until they sprawled out all over the pavements at tables set up by management and in the height of summer, they hummed all day at the beach late into the bright evening. The office stood at the top end of Front Street just where it curved to meet the road that ran seaside past the old and falling Priory castle that got a fair share of look in from the visitors who would also venture to the pier that extended from the lighthouse. Tynemouth had a lot that invited and that bugged him. On the evening of the Thursday before, he’d driven past the office just after nine-thirty on his way out to Whitley bay. There hadn’t been any need to but he’d wanted to collect his thoughts, look at his door and analyse the inscriptions while distancing himself as much as he could like an objective outsider, like a potential client the kind of which they were yet to meet. When he got there, he paused in the middle of his narrow lane to read his tag again. There were a good few letters he’d generously put after both their names – BA, MSc, PhD, JP, CC, CNP. Granted, most belonged to him but it certainly didn’t matter who merited what. From his, now objective, viewpoint it looked slightly ridiculous, almost like they’d gone all out to take the piss but there was no telling people’s tastes and since everything was governed by necessity, a person with a real problem would overlook inscriptions on a door. Satisfied that his door was just right, he headed out and drove along the seafront watching a few night stragglers who strolled on the embankment. They were all in pairs, holding hands, laughing out so loudly that he could hear them above his radio and his engine. Who went for a walk in the cold? People were weird. The noise they made descended on him in waves, felt closer than his mind, got entangled with ‘Night Shift’ by the Commodores that Smooth fm had generously put on. The Toyota purred quietly as it went through the first roundabout and out of Tynemouth.
It’d felt dry and airless in The Owl and Pussycat as he strolled in to raised eyebrows. He cut quite a strange picture in his braces, shirt and tie, thick rectangular framed spectacles and balancing a curious looking hat; he looked like a moving wardrobe, a man emigrating in a hurry. His path walked him into the thick of a crowd trying to make sense of the music on the dance floor. One of them danced up to him arms raised in a bid to clasp him in a hug. Brushing the ungraceful dancer aside with the thinnest and most strained of smiles, he side-stepped and made his way through the dark interior. The bar was crowded, too crowded in his opinion for a Thursday evening; people were too impatient for the weekend, too impatient for everything just like Wilson. The young man wanted everything too quickly – the weekend, customers, a business, a life. He looked at the tail end of the bar and spotted Wilson who appeared quite merry, leaning on a companion to stay on his feet. His hair was sprawled all over his face shielding his pinched, narrow features from view; his thin crooked nose broke cover first and as he turned to face the approaching man, his squeezed face became visible and head on, his eyes came really close together almost as one. The man walked over and tapped Wilson on the shoulder digging his fingers into his back at same time. Wilson beamed and slurred happily, ‘Dash! You made it. What are you drinking mate?’
‘I’ll get mine thanks,’ he replied smiling awkwardly at Wilson’s companion who offered his hand politely.
‘Dave!’ He yelled.
‘Oh sorry,’ Wilson remembered his manners. ‘Dave, meet my business partner Dash. Haunt of the North, composite problem solver.’
‘Thanks Wilson. You should sit down and speak less,’ Dash said.
‘A product of British public education, a keen logical mind in analysis and detection – you know, problem solving,’ Wilson teased, relentless.
‘I think Dave gets the picture,’ Dash said grabbing Wilson roughly and shoving him onto a nearby stool. ‘You can now shoot your mouth without falling about.’
‘Thanks,’ Wilson shouted. ‘He is your man Dave if you’ve got any problems.’
Is that what you do or is he just saying that?’ Dave asked.
‘I told you Dave. We are detectives,’ Wilson butted in still swaying on his stool. ‘He is the man; my partner.’
Dash smiled awkwardly as he gently patted Wilson to slow him down. ‘Well, we are private investigators and we haven’t had any business so don’t listen to him,’ he said to Dave.
‘That’s interesting. Do you specialise in anything in particular?’ Dave had the look of a man who’d just been told a fantastic story but didn’t want to offend the teller.
‘Composite problem solvers, we are,’ replied the merry Wilson. ‘Do listen.’
‘You heard the man,’ Dash followed up, brave-faced. ‘Do you have a problem?’ he asked distracted as he tried to catch the attention of a bartender. This was a frustrating art that he’d never fully mastered. He preferred to snap his fingers but for some reason, that was considered rude and provoked offence. So now, he simply waved.
‘Well no,’ Dave answered ‘But but I’ve got a mate who needs to find his inheritance,’ He had a smile that didn’t project very much seriousness.
‘Brilliant!’ Wilson was off his stool. That’s right up our street.
‘Shut up man,’ Dash pushed him back down breaking off his visual grip on the bar. ‘Let’s hear about this inheritance.’
‘His dad’s died and left a will with money that needs tracing,’ Dave explained as he gulped down a mouthful of his lager. Even as he said it, he started to think it sounded just as fantastic as what his listeners had told him. ‘Well, he says that’s what he thinks. I don’t have full details but he’s already hired a private detective – he says.’
‘We could do it, Dave – for free.’ Wilson shouted. ‘Let him know.’
‘Shut up Wilson,’ Dash silenced him again. He stepped slowly forward and took off his hat revealing his bald patch. He handed it to Wilson and approached Dave. He placed on his shoulder and said, ‘Look man, your friend can’t lose here. Give him my card and tell him we can help him for free. Well, our fee is five percent of find. No win, No fee.’ He reached inside the right back pocket of his trousers and fetched a business card. At the same time, he noticed a lady behind the bar was looking right at him. He brandished his card in a wave and approached her, neatly passing the card to Dave as he touched wood.
‘That’s a fair deal,’ Dave said with another mouthful. He’d near emptied his glass inside a minute; he conceded to himself that the man must make him nervous. ‘I’ll let Casey know.’ He studied the card and frowned, ‘DSL Bangosho?’
‘Gin and Ginger Ale please,’ Dash requested of the lady at the bar and turned to Dave, ‘That’s simply for your benefit.’
‘We’ve got no Ginger Ale,’ the lady replied.
‘What does it mean?’ Dave interrupted.
‘Uh-oh,’ Wilson sighed with a burp. ‘He’ll tell you.’
‘They never do,’ Dash said to the lady. ‘A gin and tonic then.’ He slowly put his hat back on and turned to face Dave. ‘It’s Dashola,’ he said as he paid for his drink. ‘Brace yourself – Dashola Shokolokobangosho.
Yet Casey’s entrance had been a surprising affair; a very pleasant surprise. The office had been a mess, not messy as in you-could-be-forgiven-to-think-it’d-just-seen-a-brawl but with a touch of resignation, of routine – very empty routine. It looked the same way it always did – idle men and magazines displaced across room and table, crumbs of muffins imported from neighbouring Cullercoats lining Wilson’s sofa chaotically, books on desk caked with four months old dust. It was the very picture of inaction, not a picture to arouse confidence and not a picture they thought they’d need to change any time soon not even after the meeting with Dave. They entertained hope but of nothing specific; that’d be too dangerous, too risky. So when Casey walked in, past the inscription that they were beginning to hold firm suspicions against, they exhaled. And even as Wilson bounced around beating the crumbs off and tidying the little table and his partner made a show of inspecting the pile while giving it a quick rub, they knew the rough looking customer had come through their filter – they could hope.
‘Hey, don’t be rude mate. I am bringing you custom,’ Casey spat some more and then leaned back studying the man curiously. ‘Where are you from by the way?’
He simply stared back unflinching, silent.
‘He is Nigerian,’ Wilson offered in a placatory tone.
‘Ah, I have a mate out in Nigeria. He is...’
‘Everyone does Mr O’Reilly,’ the man at the desk sharply interrupted. ‘I really don’t have time for this. Let’s get down to business.’
Casey raised his hands and turned around to look at Wilson. ‘He’s rude but I like him. Seems proper.’ He turned around again to face the desk. ‘Okay, here is the deal. I need to understand what the fuck my old man is saying in this.’ He fished a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and handed it to Dash.
‘That’s his will,’ Casey explained. ‘My copy,’ he ventured some more to Dash’s questioning look. That’s how intent he was on making us squirm. He made three exact copies, the old fox.’
Dash unfolded it. The paper was made of good quality material; he hadn’t seen a lot like it. It was a sky blue and bore the letterhead of Bedgin Solicitors Palmersville. The words on the paper had been printed off a computer; that was the extent to which the copies were exact. The only thing that would have varied was the signature at the bottom which was hand-impressed in a flourish. Like Casey, Dash was confused by the words pertaining to his bequest to his sons; beneath the preliminary declarations and naming the executor as his wife Mrs Margaret O’Reilly, they lay on the page mocking. There weren’t a lot of them and in all only took up two lines quite by design.
‘Sons of mine, as no care you gave. Find what I love and you’ll find what you’ll love.’
‘Cringe,’ Dash remarked rather rudely without looking up. ‘Why are you sure these words refer to your inheritance, Mr O’Reilly?
‘It is a will,’ Casey half questioned, half asserted impatiently. ‘Also the solicitors had another letter explaining it.’
‘Your old man would have made a rubbish lyricist,’ Dash said in reply fixated on the will.
‘I don’t care for your personal opinions sir,’ Casey retorted sharply. ‘You wanted to stick with business. So let’s stick with business.’
Dash looked up at Casey expressionless. He said nothing but continued to study the paper. At the bottom right corner was a stamped emblem that sat quite exquisitely. Everything about the will screamed beautiful artistry. The emblem was a circle in the centre of which stood a bird with wings outstretched. It stood on a banner that housed the words ‘Flight of Steady Rock.’ Probably the motto of the firm, he thought as he passed the paper to Wilson. ‘What do you think of this, white boy?’ He asked staring at Casey as he held out his hand across the desk to Wilson who had walked over to retrieve the will.
‘You can’t call him that,’ Casey snorted in disgust as he turned from following the paper move from Dash to Wilson.
‘In here I can,’ Dash answered. His gaze challenged Casey to make a fuss and Casey accepted.
‘Your lot would call that racist,’ Casey said to an almost inaudible gasp from Wilson. He licked his lips happy to draw blood, if he had.
‘You can call me racist then and remember sir, we are sticking with your business,’ Dash reminded very coolly.
Casey paused in consideration and nodded slowly. He turned away from Dash who had begun searching in the second drawer. Presently, he drew out a tape recorder, small enough to fit into his huge palm along with a tiny cassette. He inserted the cassette into the device, slid open the battery compartment at the back, moved the batteries around, closed it and pushed the red button.
‘Could you tell us everything you can about your father?’ He asked after placing the recorder on the desk. It was like he’d just walked into the room and asked to repeat those words. Casey stared back at him aghast. ‘You are a strange one.’
‘We need to know as much as we can about your father Mr O’Reilly so we can help you. It is quite simple,’ he patronisingly spelt out.
But Casey didn’t catch that and let out a huge sigh, bit his fingernails in thought and spat out what he’d acquired. ‘He came into money quite late in life,’ he started without warning. ‘By that time, we were all married so you could say we didn’t grow up spoilt brats. There are three of us - Tom, Derek and I - and we couldn’t wait to leave home. He was an awful man, stingy, violent, a drunk. I suppose, he was the reason we all learned to take care of ourselves. Don’t know what else you need to know. This was all I told the private investigator I’ve hired. You should be finding out stuff for yourself.’
‘Why did you come to us Mr O’Reilly,’ Dash asked as politely as he could. ‘I mean, if you’ve hired an investigator.’
‘That’s a stupid question, isn’t it? You insisted you’d work for free.’ Casey answered.
‘I know that,’ Dash said with a deep breath. He didn’t want to have to explain again, ‘but why would you need two investigators on this?’
‘What’s the harm?’ was his client’s stark reply.
Dash leaned forward putting a lot of his weight on the desk. The middle creaked painfully and Casey winced. ‘Be straight with me sir. That’s the only way I can work with you and for you. Why the urgency? Any particular reason?’
Casey leaned forward too, determined not to be intimidated. ‘Maybe it’s because there is a lot of money at stake.’ They both stared at each other for a few seconds before Casey sat back and inhaled. For a moment, it was deathly quiet as all waited, then, he added, ‘Besides, the solicitors have hinted we have a month to claim what money the old man’s left behind or it all goes to charity. We don’t know how much and it’s winner takes all.’
‘Ha, so you are in a race with your brothers?’ Dash asked unduly gloatingly, a clear expression registering on his face for the first time in a quarter of an hour.
‘Yes smart arse. I am.’ Casey replied, his voice quivering with controlled rage. ‘No need to look so helpful.’
‘How did he make his fortune?’ Dash enquired leaning back and re-donning a blank expression with incredible ease.
Casey took a moment to compose himself. ‘He won the lottery didn’t he? The lucky bastard,’ he said with resentment. ‘His numbers came up on some day in July ten years ago. True to type, he didn’t spend a lot of it; he bought a new car, paid off the mortgage and splashed out on a pair of very powerful binos. When you’ve won ten million pounds, you are bound to have a lot left after that.’
‘Binos?’
‘Binoculars,’ Wilson helped. He’d been standing by the table watching the drama between the two men and was beginning to feel left out.
‘He got into bird watching properly not long after he won the lottery,’ Casey added. ‘It was always a passion but the money helped him take it more seriously.’
‘So what do you think he might be referring to by his love, Mr O’Reilly?’ asked Wilson.
‘You are serious?’ asked Casey with a baleful glare. ‘You’re rich, you two. You asked me to give you a chance and you sit there basically having me do your job. If I had an answer to that question, I wouldn’t be here, would I?’
‘You might,’ Dash replied. ‘Your father was attempting to write in code here. He obviously wanted you to do some searching. It is not going to be as easy as just finding what he loves.’
‘If you have finished showing off your incompetence, there’s somewhere I need to be,’ Casey said rising. He seemed to be in a hurry to leave, seemed regretful that he ever came.
‘Before you go Mr O’Reilly,’ Dash said as Casey reached the door. ‘We’d need the names and addresses of your parents and brothers and...well, I can’t think of anyone else now.’ He held out the tape recorder. ‘And oh, we’ll be sending you our contract in the post. Could you please sign and return to us asap.’
‘Whatever,’ Casey replied as he leaned in closer to the recorder.
II
Dash admitted he didn’t know Spital Tongues existed just after they’d driven past the Royal Victoria Infirmary. The morning had seemed brighter, more prompting, laden with purpose as excitedly they drove in search of the O’Reilly residence. Even Dash had seemed cheerful or the closest thing to that as he’d let a smile break the fortress that were his lips just after they took right at the roundabout before Newcastle University. Usually this fortress merely stretched against any onslaught, may stretch really wide so that his lips betrayed dry white cracks but that was it. Wilson had remarked about how Casey must have hated him and he’d quite smiled, distinctly but discreetly, very easy to miss. He must love to be hated, Wilson thought and asked.
‘Don’t particularly care for it,’ he replied with a straight face. ‘Appearance is everything Wilson, I keep telling you.’ He didn’t attempt to explain how that linked with his previous assertion.
Wilson didn’t ask either. ‘Yes you do,’ he said. ‘Don’t see how that means scaring off a customer though, especially not our first.’
‘Well, the thing is we may be desperate boy but we don’t have to let anyone else know that. Remember he came to us,’ Dash replied.
Wilson chuckled. He couldn’t be serious. ‘I think we let on we were desperate by offering our services for free foreigner. Did you think of that?’