The Big Killing. Robert Thomas Wilson

outside Abidjan. In the pineapple plantations off the road down to Tiegba.’

      ‘They found him, what, walking around, taking a leak, out of his head…?’

      ‘Dead, Mr Medway. Strangled with a wire garrotte.’

      ‘Was he a floater?’

      ‘I’m not sure…’

      ‘Was he in the lagoon?’

      ‘No, he was in a Toyota Land Cruiser.’

      ‘His own?’

      ‘It belonged to M. Kantari in Korhogo. He reported it stolen this morning. The report made its way down through Bouaké and Yamoussoukro to Abidjan by this afternoon.’

      ‘Have you seen the body?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘How do they know it’s Nielsen?’

      ‘He had his passport on him. That’s why they called us.’

      ‘Did they find anything else?’

      ‘No, but if they did and it was valuable we wouldn’t hear about it.’

      ‘Well, Mr Andersen, thanks for your help…’

      ‘One thing more, Mr Medway. We need positive identification of the body.’

      ‘I never knew him.’

      ‘No, but Mrs Nielsen, or Dotte Wamberg, did and we have been unable to contact her.’

      ‘You want a phone number?’

      ‘We have one, but first of all there’s no answer and second, these things are better done in person.’

      ‘What about someone from the Danish Embassy?’

      ‘There’s no one available. We’ve informed the local police, but they cannot be relied on.’

      ‘I can’t guarantee I’ll get there tomorrow. You know how things are.’

      ‘He’s in the hospital morgue. He’s not going anywhere.’

      ‘Well, I won’t put it like that to Dotte Wamberg.’

      ‘You’re a sensitive man, Mr Medway, I can tell.’

      ‘How?’

      ‘Anybody who drinks Aquavit in the afternoon understands.’

      ‘I thought it was because I was a drunk.’

      ‘What does that make me, Mr Medway?’

      ‘You get diplomatic immunity.’

      Andersen laughed. ‘Another thing for you that you should keep to yourself. Kurt Nielsen’s stomach had been ripped open by a set of metal leopard claws. I think they found someone called James Wilson in the lagoon here in Abidjan the other day. He had the same problem. Cheers,’ he said, and put down the phone.

      I phoned reception again – still no calls, but there was a fax from Ghana. Then I remembered Bagado and put a call through to Cotonou. The phone rang and rang for minutes until a dull, thick voice answered.

      ‘Bagado?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘You all right?’

      ‘I’ve some fever. A little malaria. I was sleeping.’

      ‘Do you want some work?’

      ‘What sort of work?’

      ‘Picking bananas,’ I said, and he thought about it for ten seconds.

      ‘Forget it,’ he said.

      ‘Detective work, Bagado. What the hell else would I call you for?’

      ‘Picking bananas – I don’t know. I’m nearly that desperate. My little girl is sick and I have nothing. I open the cupboard, and the cupboard is bare…not even any shelves…my wife has used them for firewood.’

      ‘Go to a travel agent called Bénin-Bénin in the quartier Zongo; you know it. They have some money for you. Seventy-five thousand CFA. Give some to your wife and use the rest to get yourself to Accra. I want you to check out someone who calls himself Fat Paul who works out of an office in Adabraka called Abracadabra Video on Kojo Thompson Road. He has two bodyguards who call themselves George and Kwabena. The first one is a shooter, the second is just very big. He says he runs a video business, you know, a chain of video cinemas. See what you can find out about him. Then come to the Novotel in Abidjan as fast as you can. OK?’

      ‘What’s the hurry?’

      I told Bagado about the failed drop, Martin Fall’s job and the James Wilson/Kurt Nielsen killings and we signed off.

      I put a call through to the Hotel La Croisette and the receptionist there answered in a thick, tired voice which came from a head that must have been asleep on the counter. She told me that Fat Paul and Co were in 208 and tried to call them – no answer. Then she started waking up a bit and told me the key to the room was in reception, which meant they must be out. I asked her to check the bar and restaurant. They weren’t there. I asked her if there was a large American car parked outside the hotel and she said that was the only car parked outside the hotel. They were the only guests. The hotel didn’t fill up except at the weekends. The phone went dead. I asked reception to reconnect me. They tried, but the woman said the phones were down with the storm. I left a message that if a Mr Paul called, to tell him I was going to meet him in the Hotel La Croisette in Grand Bassam. I said he might call himself Mr Fat Paul, I didn’t know, and I heard her writing it all down. I told her if anybody else called not to give them that message and took the lift straight down to the basement.

      There seemed to be several storms around taking their turn coming in. Thunder boomed off in the north and the sky lit up in the east over Grand Bassam. When I came out of the Novotel it was raining, but not as hard as it had done judging by the slow trickle in the road gutters and the huge bodies of water that had collected at the bottom of the steep streets of Plateau. The storm drains were choked and cars were cruising with water up to their sills.

      I crossed the lagoon. The lights were out in Treichville, Marcory, Zone 4A and C, Koumassi, Biétri and Port Bouë. Just after the airport I had to pull over and let the storm through, the rain a solid wall at the end of the car, the wipers out of their depth even at that crazy double speed when you stop looking at the road and marvel at the insanity. The rain blasted full heavy metal on the roof for minutes, then backed off to light instrumental. I set off on full beam, down the black glass road to Grand Bassam.

      There were no lights on there either. People were moving around as if an air raid had just finished. A car horn was sounding off constantly in the streets beyond the gare routière and a harsh white halogen light came on by the market, powered by a diesel generator which farted up to full speed somewhere in the dark. The light showed rain slanting silver and people hopping across the streets with plastic bags over their heads. I sank slowly into street-wide puddles and crawled across the lagoon to the Quartier France. I parked next to Fat Paul’s Cadillac in front of the Hotel La Croisette. The sea fringe was invisible in the dark. The roar said it was rough out there. A stiff breeze blew on to the shore, snapping at my shirt.

      There were two hurricane lamps lighting the lobby and the receptionist was asleep on a chair behind the desk, her head resting on the wall, snoring. I lifted the key to room 208 off its hook and palmed it as the woman woke up. She was dazed. I asked to go up to the room, showing her the key was out. She took a lamp from under the desk and lit it with the slow and gentle movements of someone on automatic.

      The lamplight made huge shadows that loomed and wavered down the warm, bare corridor to Fat Paul’s room. The hotel was silent apart from the loose change and keys in my trousers and my feet on the strip of sisal carpeting over the polished floor. Several rooms had their doors open, sheets piled on the floor in one, the maids slacking with the lack of business during the week. There was a smell of raw sewage that didn’t surprise me after the rain.