Unfinished Business E-Book

Leye Adenle

• Herausgeber: CASSAVA REPUBLIC
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Dead pastors. Corrupt government officials. And over 100 million dollars unaccounted for. Amaka is back in this electrifying third instalment in the Amaka Thrillers series. A frantic phone call interrupts Amaka Mbadiwe's new life in London. A renowned pastor has been assassinated in his hotel room while one of her girls, Funke, hid naked and terrified inside a sofa. Amaka is headed back to Lagos, and to a new world of private jets, money-laundering and mega-churches. With her trusted ally Police Inspector Ibrahim out of the country, and the hostile Inspector Musa breathing down her neck, Amaka must race against the clock to rescue Funke and untangle this twisted web of religion, power and politics. With a punishing intensity, full of twists and turns, Unfinished Business oscillates with scandal, corruption and sleaze.

Leseprobe

UNFINISHED BUSINESS

An Amaka Thriller

Leye Adenle

Contents

Title PagePrologue123456789101112131415161718192021222324252627282930313233343536373839404142434445464748495051525354555657585960616263646566676869707172737475767778798081828384858687888990919293949596979899100101102103104105106107108109110111112113114115116117AcknowledgementsAbout the AuthorCopyright

Prologue

Ibadan. Southwest Nigeria.

‘Our son saw a beautiful flower in your garden and he would like to pluck it.’

Retired Major General Festus Emanuel’s head snapped towards the elderly man in burgundy aṣọ òkè with gold and silver stripes who was seated on the adjacent sofa.

‘Flower?’ he asked, bewildered. ‘I do not have a garden in my compound.’

Behind him, a murmur spread among the resplendently dressed people standing against the walls – there were about 20 other people scattered across the room. His wife, next to him on his sofa, turned around, silencing them with her glare. By the time she turned back around, a toothy smile had replaced the stern look. She moved to the edge of her seat, one knee hovering just above the carpet, and rubbed her palms together as she scanned the faces of the guests seated before them. She settled on the old man in the burgundy aṣọ òkè.

‘Our daddy is only joking,’ she said. She turned to her husband and fixed him a look that no one could have missed.

‘I am not joking,’ the General said. He ignored his wife’s warning glare and turned to the elderly man. ‘If you look around, you will see that I have cemented everywhere. So, this flower that you said your son saw, he could not have seen it in my compound.’ 2

Behind him, the murmur rekindled and turned to a racket. Several young women placated their upset friend.

A young man in white agbada starched like cardboard was sitting next to the elderly man, his great uncle, the patriarch of his family. He looked at the young woman, worry and panic on his face.

The elderly man scanned the faces of his family sitting in the large living room. He turned to the General’s wife, his wrinkled old face pleading for help.

The General’s wife fell to her knees. ‘My in-laws,’ she said. ‘Please, say what you have come to say. Daddy is only playing.’ She looked at the perplexed young suitor who was dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief that was already wet. ‘Goke, fara balẹ̀.’ She ran her palms down her chest. ‘This is not the first time you have visited this house. You know how General jokes.’ She returned to the elderly man. ‘Baba, please, continue.’

The General watched his wife climb back onto the sofa. He sniggered and began to rock his legs.

The elderly man swept his eyes over his kin, then he cleared his throat.

‘As I was saying, our son, Prince, Engineer, Adegoke Aremu Adedayo, asked us to come here with him today to seek your permission to pluck the flower—’

The General jolted. His feet stretched out and his arms flew up. The elderly man jerked back in his seat. The room fell silent.

The General looked around at everyone before him as he dug his hand into his trouser pocket. ‘My phone vibrated,’ he said with a grin.

His wife kissed her teeth. The guests exchanged looks. The young women behind held on to their distraught friend. They tended to her teary makeup.

Despite the threat of his wife’s look, the General took the call. At first, his grin lingered, but as he listened and with every 3eye on him, his face dropped. His eyes bulged and his lips parted but he did not speak.

He pushed himself off the sofa.

‘Kí ní?’ his wife asked.

He looked at her, his face full of fear. He searched all his pockets where he stood and looked about as if searching for something.

The guests watched and whispered among themselves, shifting in their seats, their postures animated with unease.

The General turned and bolted up the staircase, leaving panicked shouts and screams in his wake. Panting at the top, he slammed shut the bulletproof door that separated the living areas of the ground floor from the bedrooms of the first and secured the latches. He ran into his bedroom, paying no attention to the banging on the reinforced steel door, and he fell to his knees, his head and arms sinking into the mattress. He turned his head to the side and gulped air. Lifting his chest off the bed, he looked up at the suspended ceiling tiles. He got to his feet and looked around, searching, until his eyes fell on the window. He ran to it and rolled one length of curtain around his forearm and yanked. Nothing. He thrust the fabric upwards. He kept his eyes on the metal rail that held it up and continued yanking in desperation. The supports came away from the wall and the rod came down. He pushed the curtain off the rod, gripped the pole and looked at it. He turned to the exposed window and looked out of the glass. Two of his soldiers were outside the compound, standing over the laden tray of a crouched groundnut hawker. He turned away from the window and returned to the king-size bed.

He climbed onto the mattress, stepping wide from foot to foot for balance. Looking at the ceiling, he gripped the base of the rod in both hands, steadied himself and jabbed up at the tiles. His feet wobbled on the mattress. He continued jabbing. The first square broke. He ducked at the falling debris as bricks of dollar notes still sealed in plastic came falling. 4

He moved on to another square. Bundles of hundred-dollar notes gathered at his feet where his weight created depressions in the mattress.

He threw the rod to the ground and climbed down from the bed. He gathered the edges of the duvet and dragged the bundle, laden with cash, into the bathroom. He emptied the money into the bathtub, discarded the duvet onto the ground and stood to wipe his face. He cocked his ear to the window. Sirens. He climbed onto the closed lid of the toilet bowl and looked out the window. A van with flashing lights was parked in front of his gate. His soldiers were squaring up to a group of people in red vests, some of them armed with bullpup firearms.

He rushed back to the bathtub, filled with bricks of dollars, and knelt. Fumbling in his pocket, he retrieved a plastic lighter. His packet of Consulate Menthols fell to the ground. He struck the lighter. Tiny sparks shot out. He looked at it. It still had fluid. He shook it and tried again, his fingers shaking. He looked at his sweaty palms. He wiped them on his clothes and tried again. Still no fire. He whimpered, glancing at the window. He tried again. And again.

He shook the lighter and struck it. The tiny tongue of flame flickered and steadied. He held the fire to the edge of a brick. The plastic melted back and the notes darkened, turned black and smoke rose into the air. He kept the lighter going as he tore notes free and set them alight. He placed the burning edges on the heap. His sweaty face crumpled with frustration. He got to his feet, rushed to his wife’s dressing table in the bedroom and scanned the colourful cluster of cans, bottles, containers and candles. He picked up the largest can and shook it. He pulled the lid off and pressed. A white jet of choking hairspray coated the mirror over the dressing table. He ran back to the bathroom. He struck the lighter. It worked. He held the flame close to the cash and sprayed the aerosol at it. The orange jet of fire set the dollars alight. He moved his improvised flamethrower over the rest of 5the money. Black smoke rose from the bathtub. The fumes of plastic and paper burning peppered his eyes. He collapsed onto his bum, back against the wall, one leg stretched out, one arm on the knee of a bent leg, and watched the money burn. As the flames grew and tiny orange specks spiralled up into the air, his shoulders began to shudder and tears rolled down his sweat-covered cheeks.

Outside, an officer of the Economic and Financial Crimes Commission pointed up at the building. On the first floor, smoke was seeping out from under the roof above a window and curling up the tiles. In seconds, flames appeared in the window and an entire section of the roof was on fire. The fire was spreading fast.

Guests, relatives and the entire household were out in the compound, a number of them holding back the General’s wife, her eyes on the burning building as she kept screaming, ‘My husband is still inside! My husband is still inside!’

1

‘Slim Sugar.’

‘Holy Honey.’

‘Slim Sugar.’

‘Holy Honey.’

Pastor Frank, in a pair of purple socks, white Y-fronts and a white singlet tight around his belly, held his hands out and made another playful attempt to catch Funke.

Funke – slim, tall, in black silk panties and, at 27 years old, 20 years younger than the pastor – ran behind one of the two sofas in the living area of the Sheraton Hotel presidential suite, her hands over her breasts.

Frank laughed. Funke chuckled. The air conditioner had chilled the room to 18 degrees but beads of sweat lined Frank’s forehead beneath his dyed hair. He stood straight to catch his breath.

‘You need your inhaler?’ Funke asked.

Frank shook his head. He arched his back again and held out his hands, fingers spread. ‘Slim Sugar.’

Funke dropped her arms to her sides and jiggled her breasts. ‘Holy Honey.’

‘Slim Sugar.’

Burna Boy’s Last Last began to play from Funke’s phone on the armrest of the chair where she had laid her clothes. They both looked at the glowing blue screen before turning to each other. Funke shrugged. Frank pretended to step towards 8the ringing phone and then made for her. She screamed and ran behind the dining table. They laughed. The phone stopped ringing and the doorbell rang. As one, they turned to the door.

Frank checked his watch.

‘Are you expecting someone?’ Funke asked.

‘Shhh.’ Frank put his finger to his lips.

The bell rang again, followed by someone knocking on the door, calling his name. It was a woman’s voice: ‘Frank, open the door.’

His back stiffened and his eyes widened. He began to breathe even faster.

Funke did not know who the woman was, but she knew that voice. It was the voice of a woman in distress, the voice of a wife who had just caught her husband cheating.

‘Go inside,’ Frank whispered. ‘Hide. Don’t make a sound. Go, go.’

Funke had already considered potential hiding places in the suite. There was nowhere a raging wife wouldn’t check.

The banging on the door was getting louder. Frank jolted into action. He gathered Funke’s clothes and thrust the bundle at her. He began pulling on his clothes, missing a leg of his trousers and almost falling over. In the midst of the chaos, Funke stood unmoving.

‘Go,’ he mouthed, his face pleading as he grappled with his belt. But Funke was thinking. His wife would ransack the entire room: wardrobes, under the bed, behind curtains, even drawers. There was no point hiding in there. Her eyes fell upon a sofa.

‘Do you have a knife?’ she whispered.

He stared at her.

Funke moved behind the sofa and began to tip it over. He understood immediately. He ran to her and together they rolled the sofa over. With its base exposed, Funke felt the fabric. Frank ran to the writing desk set flush against the back of the second 9sofa and returned with a letter opener, ignoring the pounding on the door.

Funke made an incision in the fabric. She tore lengthwise, then downwards, completing an L. She pushed her clothes into the opening and climbed in, causing the fabric to tear some more as she did so. He pulled the sofa back onto its legs and checked that no one would suspect there was a young woman in the little space between the cushion and the ground.

Now fully dressed, he dug into his pockets for his handkerchief, mopped the sweat on his face, walked to the door, held the handle and scanned the room one last time.

2

Amaka slipped her pen inside her notebook and closed it. She picked up her americano from the wooden counter along the glass front of the coffee shop on Camden High Street and looked at the nail studio across the road as she took a sip. It was summer. The sun was just beginning to set. Through the window of the nail studio, she could see the young women in white uniforms hunched over the narrow tables that separated them from clients whose nails they clipped and buffed and coated in nail polish. She looked at her own nails – clipped, filed and buffed three days ago by one of the young women. Her name was Lily, according to the older Asian lady who spoke some English and relayed customers’ requests to her gang of workers.

Like the coffee shop in which she was sat, on a bare aluminium stool designed more for style than for comfort, the nail studio was new. Next door to the coffee shop was Taste of Siam where she’d had lunch and supper for the last four days and from where she had first noticed the nail studio. For as far back as she could remember, the Thai restaurant, her favourite in London, had always been there, even as newer businesses popped up around it, like the vape shop next door.

She looked at the flat above the nail studio. Of all the properties set back from the ground floor row of shops, it was the only one that had iron bars over its windows. She arched her back to stretch and picked up her coffee, bringing the mug to her nose and inhaling the aroma, her eyes on the nail studio the 11entire time. A white BMW coupe with glistening rims stopped in front of the shop. The driver stayed in his seat. He looked East Asian, like the boss and the young women who worked at the studio. Was he picking someone up from the shop? Bus 134 drove up and blocked her view of the BMW. Along the side of the double decker, an advertisement for a Pentecostal church promised ‘Heavenly Mercies on Earth’, next to a picture of the smiling pastor whose name as printed on the bus gave him away as Nigerian: Rev Dr Simeon Oladele. When the lights changed and traffic started moving again, the BMW was empty and the driver was in the nail studio talking to the boss.

Amaka checked the time and wrote in her notebook. From where she sat, she couldn’t see the registration number, so she wrote down: ‘White BMW. 3 series. Back windows tinted. Eight spoke alloys. Low.’

Her phone beeped. She looked at the screen. It was Guy Collins. For the past six months, they had lived together in his flat in Fulham, making love, not talking about what happened in Lagos, or when she would return to Nigeria, or what they were doing.

She could have stayed at her parents’ London property, a pied-à-terre they maintained for the occasional stopover so that the Ambassador could visit his favourite Savile Row tailors and her mum could stock up on her favourite Penhaligon’s fragrances, but it would have meant Guy uprooting and transposing his life because there was no way they were going to be apart, not when she was in London, his city, and not after what they’d both been through together in Lagos.

He went to work in the mornings, and she went jogging in Bishops Park before returning to the flat for a shower and heading out to a café where she would set up her laptop and conduct the business of her charity, the Street Samaritans, via email and the occasional video call. At first, she would choose a place on King’s Road, then each day she ventured further, 12discovering new cafés until she had tasted all the artisan coffee between Fulham and Chelsea. Eventually, she gave in to the yearning for familiar territories, and she would either make her way to the Southbank or to Camden High Street. Depending on where she’d settled down to work, when Guy sent a message in the late afternoon, they would decide where to meet for dinner. They would eat out, drink, walk hand in hand and make love through the night. They didn’t talk about them. It was a conspiracy of silence. As if to bring it up was to jinx it. They both knew that sooner or later Amaka would have to return to her life in Nigeria – there was only so much she could do over Skype – but neither of them was willing to bring it up or to ask the pertinent questions: What are we doing? What is this? What’s next?

When Amaka first noticed the iron bars over the nail studio windows and the workers who didn’t look customers in the eyes, she was reminded of the vulnerable girls and women that the Street Samaritans worked with, the sex workers she had devoted her life to protecting. Most disturbingly, it made her think of Malik, back in Lagos, and the girls he kept at his secret sex club, the Harem. It made her uneasy. She had to find out what was going on behind those iron bars.

So far, she had kept it from Guy; partly because she wasn’t sure about her suspicion, partly because he might feel compelled to urge her to be careful, and partly just because. They were an undefined thing. What they had was yet to be vocalised and formed. She had not said the words ‘I love you’ to him, and she was grateful that neither had he. A terrible thing had brought them together in Lagos, but did they have enough to keep them together? He was white and she was black. He was British and she was Nigerian. His life was in London and hers was in Lagos. He was middle-class; she was the only daughter of a career diplomat. The only thing they had in common was Lagos, but here they were, not talking about them in London. 13

She let the phone ring out. She would send a message suggesting dinner at Taste of Siam. She cast a look behind her and then readied her phone to take a picture. The boss lady was pointing at the café, and the man from the BMW was staring straight at Amaka.

Pretending to read from her screen, Amaka took pictures through the glass as the man exited the nail shop, as he waited for a gap in traffic, and as he crossed the road. When he pushed the door to the café open, she swiped away the camera app, brought up her calendar and opened a past event.

Amaka watched his reflection in the window as he walked directly to the counter. He spoke with a barista, and they both turned to look at her. ‘Shit,’ she mouthed to herself, dropping her eyes back to her phone. He was walking towards her.

He came to a stop behind her. ‘Hey.’

She continued looking at her phone.

He pulled out the empty stool next to hers and stood in the space beside her. ‘Who are you?’ he asked.

3

Funke couldn’t see a thing, no matter how hard she tried to focus. Her nostrils tingled from the sawdust smell of the unpolished wooden frame and the chemicals used to clean the carpet. She took shallow breaths and fought the reflex to sneeze. The fabric of the carpet felt like a million tiny needles on her bare skin and the hard sofa frame pressed into her back from above. She wondered if she would be crushed if someone sat down.

Funke had seen the look on Frank’s face when he lied to his wife on the phone. He was afraid of her. Funke had never had the misfortune of coming face to face with a scorned wife, but she’d heard stories of thugs hired to beat up young girls while the erring husband got away with nothing more severe than the embarrassment of being caught. She had also seen videos of girls stripped naked and made to walk in shame and fear to the jeers of a crowd that could at any moment turn into a lynch mob. And what good would it do her for his wife to catch him? She must have gotten information that led her to the hotel, but without evidence… And if Frank was smart, he could deny everything and even turn the tables on her. If he was smart.

Funke thought of her phone. It could ring at any time. It was somewhere in the bundle that was her clothes. She felt the parcel against the side of her ankle. There was no way she could manoeuvre inside the sofa, search for the phone, find it and switch it off without making noise. Should the phone ring, and should his wife hear it as she was bound to do, it wouldn’t take 15long for her to follow Burna Boy’s husky voice to the innocent-looking sofa and what lay naked within, and no denial in the world would be good enough.

The door opened. Funke listened. She heard Frank’s panicked voice: ‘You? What are you people doing here?’

People?

The next muffled voice she heard was male, and he sounded foreign. ‘You know why we’re here, don’t you?’

Something was wrong. Funke had been correct about the distress in his wife’s voice, but she’d been wrong about the reason. It wasn’t anger; it was fear. Frank’s next words caused goosebumps to spread over Funke’s body: ‘Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot.’

4

Amaka looked up at the man standing beside her. He was about five foot four. Slim. Possibly late thirties. His tight black jeans and tweed jacket over a black T-shirt made her deduct a few years. She added back the years when she looked down at his black Nike ankle boots – he was trying too hard. He had a stud in one ear and a section of gold chain was visible from the neck of his T-shirt.

She kept her elbows on the counter, her phone in her hands and gave him a puzzled look.

‘Why are you watching the shop?’ he said.

No accent. Amaka followed his finger, continuing to look confused. The barista he had spoken to was watching. Amaka shook her head as if clearing a fog that made him incomprehensible to her.

‘You came to the shop the other day, then you came back again to harass the staff, and for the past three days you’ve been here watching them. That’s called stalking. What do you want?’

They stared at each other. The barista stared at them. Time ticked by.

‘Are you listening to me?’ he said, his voice raised.

She could stand up, stand straight, right in front of him. Even in pumps, she would be taller than him. Five-foot and eight inches of black woman looking down at him. But you can never predict how an intimidated man will react. Could he see that 17she was slowing down her breathing so he wouldn’t notice how fast her heart was beating?

‘Sit,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘I said sit. Now.’

He remained standing. His stern look faltered.

‘Sit down if you want to talk. If you want to know who I am and why I’m watching your shop.’

She watched his reaction. He did not correct her when she referred to the shop as his. He dragged up the stool he’d pulled away and sat on it. He folded his arms across his chest. He had a huge shiny watch on one wrist and two gold chains on the other. She looked him straight in the eyes till he looked away.

‘I work for the Home Office,’ she said. If he asked to see some ID, she would feign annoyance.

He stood from the stool, and she grabbed his wrist.

‘No. You don’t understand. Sit down.’

He looked at her hand holding him. She didn’t let go.

‘Sit.’

He sat. He shifted the stool a few inches back and watched her. She noticed the quickening of his breath. She looked around before hunching towards him, speaking in a lowered voice.

‘We get a lot of tips, but not all of them become cases. My job is to decide which ones to investigate. Nod if you understand.’

He didn’t nod.

‘I need you to nod that you understand. Don’t say anything, just nod. I need to know that you understand what I’m saying so we can strike a deal between us. You are not admitting anything, just letting me know you understand.’

He flexed his jaw muscles a couple of times and nodded.

‘Good. I’m going to write my report tonight. My preliminary findings. My report can say, “Suspicious activities: young Asian girls who speak no English; who never leave the building; customers discouraged from interacting with them; bars over 18windows; different men coming and going after shop is closed. More investigation warranted”. Or I can say that I have no reason to suspect any illegal activities. Do you understand? Nod if you do.’

He nodded.

‘Now, do you understand this – that you have to help me to help you?’

He nodded.

‘Good. I’ll send my report tomorrow and then we’ll talk. Take my number. If anyone from the Home Office comes to the shop, call me immediately. They shouldn’t, but just in case.’

He brought out his phone and unlocked it. She took the phone from him and typed in her number. She called herself, waited for her phone to vibrate on the shelf, and ended the call.

‘What’s your name?’

He hesitated. ‘Daniel.’

‘OK, Daniel. Remember; if anyone from the office comes to the shop, call me immediately. Don’t say anything, just call me. Are you the owner?’

He shook his head.

‘Is she the owner?’ Amaka looked at the shop. The Asian woman was standing close to the window with her hands on her hips, eyes fixed on them.

He nodded.

‘I have to talk to her, but not today. Pass the message on. When I call you tomorrow, be with her. Once I’ve taken care of the report, we’ll talk. Make sure she understands that I am not cheap. You understand?’

He nodded. ‘How much?’ he asked.

‘Let me deal with the report first, then we’ll talk. Go back to the shop now and explain the situation to her. I’ll wait here. If she agrees with my terms, tell her to wave.’ 19

He stood from his stool and she turned in hers to face the window again. As the man crossed the road, Amaka unlocked her phone, and with shaking fingers, she hailed an Uber.

5

Dave pointed his Glock 43 at Frank’s head. The automatic pistol had a suppressor attached, making the muzzle appear longer and bigger, which Dave knew from experience filled the heart of the person on its other end with profound fear. Only a person intent on firing a weapon would bother to dampen the noise.

‘On your knees,’ he said.

Frank had already stretched his hands above his head. Both he and his wife knelt side by side on the soft cream carpet under the watchful gaze of the gun and the two white men looming over them. Anita shifted one pace away from her husband.

Pete, also armed with a similar weapon, walked past the couple and into the suite. He opened the door to the bedroom and pointed his weapon inside before stepping in. He returned and stood next to Dave, a smirk on his face as he gazed at the kneeling couple. Both suntanned men were in navy-blue jackets over white shirts tucked into blue jeans. At five foot six and 29 years old, Pete was only four inches shorter than the 56-year-old Dave, but his slim stature next to Dave’s muscular frame made him look older and much shorter. Dave was clean-shaven and bald, while Pete’s short hair and trimmed beard had streaks of white amongst the curly brown.

‘What is the meaning of this, Dave?’ Frank said, his hands still above his head.

‘They said they’ll hurt Angela,’ Anita said. Her voice was quiet but steady. 21

‘Jesus,’ Frank cried out. ‘Dave, what the hell is going on? What are you doing? Are you mad?’ His eyes darted between Pete and Dave.

‘Listen to me,’ Dave said, ‘and don’t lie. Why did you take the jet to Ibadan?’

‘What?’ Frank’s tone was indignant, but his chest was heaving. It was obvious he was struggling to appear calm.

Dave moved his gun to his other hand and Frank flinched. Dave dug into an inner pocket of his jacket, pulling out a mobile and thrusting it in Frank’s face. ‘Look,’ he said.

Frank looked at the screen. The picture had been taken from the middle of the cabin of a Bombardier Global Express 800. In each of the six beige leather seats visible on either side of the cabin in the image, large black sports bags were strapped down using the seatbelts, their white Nike swoops randomly oriented.

‘What’s in the bags?’ Dave asked.

Frank looked down at the carpet, shoulders hunched.

‘Answer them!’ Anita screamed.

‘Listen to your wife, man,’ Pete said.

Frank looked up at him, before returning his gaze to the carpet.

‘I’m only going to ask you one more time,’ Dave said, ‘then I’m going to shoot her in the head if you don’t start talking.’

Anita gasped. Frank flinched, keeping his eyes pinned to the floor.

‘And if you lie to me, I’ll go to your house and I’ll put a bullet between your daughter’s eyes,’ Dave said.

‘Frank, tell them what they want to know!’ Anita pleaded.

‘The pilots are dead,’ Dave said. ‘That’s on you. Did you even know they were taking pictures in the jet? You knew what would happen if you pulled some shit like this. Why did you have to go and fuck it all up? You had a good thing going. You were going to make a lot of dough. Then you go and do some dumb shit like this. Look at me. Do not try to be smart now – 22we both know you’re not. What the fuck are you up to? What’s in the bags?’

‘Dave, please––’

Dave moved his pistol left to aim at Anita’s head.

‘No, no, no.’ Frank lurched to the side, hands blocking the space between the weapon and his wife.

‘Talk,’ Dave said.

‘It is business,’ Frank said. He kept his hands between Anita’s face and the Glock.

‘Business? We only have one business, Frank, and the rule is no one else gets to fly our jet but us. Pete and I will take you anywhere you want to go, no questions asked. You don’t pay a thing. Why did you have to go use those guys?’

‘I’m sorry!’

‘Save your sorry for the boss, you piece of shit. Do you even know how much trouble you’re in? How much trouble you’ve put Pete and I in? You’ve got precisely 10 seconds to start talking or she’s gone. One. Two. Three––’

‘Stop, stop, stop. I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you.’ Frank’s face crumpled. Tears welled from beneath his shut eyelids. His face turned to the ground and his body followed. His fingers spread into the rug and his back shuddered as he wailed silently. ‘They will kill me,’ he said, his voice quivering. ‘If I tell you, they will kill me.’

‘I’ll kill you if you don’t,’ Dave said. ‘Eight, nine—’

‘Tell him,’ Anita cried.

‘Money,’ Frank said. ‘Money is inside the bags.’

‘What kind?’

‘Dollars.’

‘How much?’

Frank looked at Anita. His tear-streaked face registered regret.

‘How much, Frank?’

‘One hundred million.’ 23

‘Whose?’

Silence. Dave levelled his gun back at Anita’s head.

‘Church members. They gave me the money to take out of Nigeria.’

‘Why?’

‘Please, Dave.’

‘Fuck you. How did your church members get their hands on a hundred million dollars and why were you taking it out of the country?’

‘Please, Pete, help me beg him. Dave––’

Pete, standing next to Dave, his gun by his side, shrugged.

‘Say “please” one more time. I dare you,’ Dave said.

‘They cannot deposit the money in banks,’ Frank said.

‘You’re gonna have to do better than that.’

‘It is stolen money. They stole it from the government.’

‘Is this like some money laundering shit?’

‘Yes.’

‘Were you going to use our routes?’

Frank shook his head. ‘No. I only lied to them. I wasn’t going to take the money anywhere. I just flew to Ibadan and came back so that they will think I took the money out of the country.’ He hung his head.

‘Look at me,’ Dave said. ‘Were you going to use our routes?’

‘No, Dave. I swear to God, I wasn’t going to take the money out of the country.’

‘What was your plan, then?’

‘I was going to run away with it. They stole the money, so they can’t report me to anybody.’

‘And the pilots, did you tell them anything?’

‘No, I didn’t tell them anything.’

‘You didn’t tell them about our routes?’

‘No. I swear to God, Dave, I didn’t tell them anything. Pete, please, help me beg him.’

Pete sniggered. 24

‘You must have said something,’ Dave said. ‘How else could you convince them you could get the money out of the country? Nobody would give you that kind of dough unless they’re sure you can deliver. What did you tell them?’

Frank touched the tip of his tongue with his right index and raised the finger up. ‘I swear to God, I didn’t tell them anything.’

‘You’re lying, Frank. I’ve given you every chance to come clean but you’re still lying to me. Why would anyone give you a hundred million dollars if they don’t know how you’re getting the money out of the country? You must have told them about us.’

‘I swear to God, I did not tell them anything about you. All I said was that I can take the money out of the country. I told them I had helped other people take their money out. They believed me because I gave them names. They said that after this batch they were going to give me more.’

‘More?’

‘Yes. There is plenty more.’

‘Where did they want you to take the money to?’

‘Ghana. Other people who have planes are doing the same thing and charging up to 20 per cent. I told them I would only charge 10 per cent. Please, forgive me. We can all share the money. We can all make a deal.’

‘We already had a deal and you broke it. Where’s the money now?’

‘Please, Dave, I’m begging you. Pete, please, help me beg him.’

Pete smiled and shook his head.

‘I’ll shoot her,’ Dave said. He held his gun in both hands. ‘Don’t think I won’t.’

‘Frank, you will let me die?’ Anita said. Her mascara had leaked down her cheeks.

‘Then I’ll go to your house and I’ll shoot that lovely little kid of yours,’ Dave said. 25

‘Frank, tell him where it is!’ Anita shouted.

Frank looked at his wife through teary eyes. He closed his eyes. ‘It’s on the jet,’ he said.

Dave bent down and brought his face close to Frank’s. ‘Look at me.’

Frank looked up.

‘Look in my eyes. Are you lying to me?’

Frank shook his head. Tears rolled down his crumpled face.

Dave stared into his eyes. He searched each eyeball in turn.

‘You know what? I think you’re lying.’ He stepped back, brought his other hand to the handle of the Glock and aimed between Frank’s eyes. ‘You had your chance.’

6

The nail shop owner was looking at Amaka as Daniel leaned in and spoke to her. Amaka waved to her, before checking her phone on the counter. Her Uber was one minute away. She gathered her pen and notepad and put them in her bag and memorised the registration number of her ride. She walked out of the café, found the silver Prius and waved it down. She held her hand up to apologise to the car behind as she slid into the back seat. The traffic lights stopped them at the nail studio. She did not look. When they began moving again, she realised just how fast her heart had been beating.

Why was she afraid? It was not like the man could have done anything to her. Or could he? He had confirmed her suspicion: something dodgy was going on at the nail studio. At best, they were hiring illegal workers, at worst, human trafficking. Slavery, on full display behind the glass front of a high street shop. How many people have encountered enslaved human beings on the streets of London and not even realised it? She had noticed the iron bars above the nail studio and it had pricked an instinct she had developed when working with sex workers in Lagos, many of them enslaved in some way or another. But what about massage parlours and escort agencies and illegal brothels? What about those women who are trafficked for one purpose only – to be forced into having sex with multiple men multiple times daily? Those women did not get to see daylight or to interact with any other humans apart from their enslavers and the men 27who buy the services they provide. It was an organised criminal enterprise. An international slavery network, from kidnappers to people smugglers to those who ran the sex prisons to the violent men who kept the women in line. There was violence at every point, even before the violence of the constant rape. Perhaps this was what she was afraid of: the mafia that runs the show.

She took deep breaths and exhaled slowly. She noticed the driver watching her in the mirror. He must have noticed something was wrong. She turned to her phone in case he tried to have a conversation.

Her heart was still beating fast. She hated being afraid. Anytime she felt fear, she questioned it. What was there to be afraid of? They did not know who she was. Yes, they had seen her face, but they did not know her name and she had given a phone number she could lose – she always kept spare SIM cards for that very reason. She had the upper hand. All she had to do now was bring their little operation down even before they knew what was coming their way. She was in control. Her suspicion had been confirmed. She had them where she wanted them.

She looked out of the window. The car was driving past the brick wall of Stables Market. She smiled. She wasn’t afraid. It wasn’t fear at all. It was excitement. She loved doing this. She was good at it. She had dedicated her life to it. It started in Nigeria when she took over the management of the Street Samaritans. Back then, she didn’t know where running the charity would lead. She had taken the job because the charity worked with vulnerable women forced into selling their bodies on the streets of Lagos. Back then, if anyone had told her she would break the law herself in seeking justice for the women, she would have said ‘no way’. If they had told her that she would put her life in danger to bring down rapists and murderers, she would have laughed with incredulity. But here she was, taking 28on international people traffickers in North London and loving it. It was exciting. Somehow, over the years and the dangerous situations she’d found herself in, unbeknownst to her, she had come to enjoy it. She wasn’t afraid. She missed it. She missed taking down dodgy politicians and organ traffickers. She missed outsmarting crooked cops and getting the better of would-be assassins. She missed the sweet reward of avenging an abused girl in her own way. She missed Lagos. She missed the charity. She missed the girls. Her smile waned. She missed home. Now she had to find a way to tell Guy.

7

Mummy, as everyone called the 62-year-old wife of the General Overseer of the All Believers Church of God or the ABC of G, was in her gold and black ornamental chair, next to her husband’s larger and empty one. Her grey, natural hair peeped out of the back of her blue Ankara headgear, the same material as her inexpensive iro and buba. Her dark, never-smiling face was devoid of makeup, and apart from her wedding band and a diamond engagement ring her children had bought as a gift to stand in for the one their father never bought her, she had no jewellery on. Sitting in the carved, gilded chair in the large parlour of their eight-bedroom mansion in Banana Island, she was the least dressed-up person in her own home.

‘Where is he?’ she asked her personal assistant, a young woman who was standing next to her.

The assistant punched into her mobile phone, cupped her hand around the mouthpiece and asked, ‘Where is Daddy G.O.?’ She nodded, shook her head, then began to compose a message as Mummy watched her.

All around, guests spoke in whispers. They were church members, family members, pastors and overseers of other churches, celebrities including a famous gospel musician and her husband, and a born-again actor turned pastor. Standing by the walls away from the guests were two police officers armed with AK-47 rifles and servants in white uniforms with gold trimmings. 30

There was a camera crew of two next to the large front entrance. Their video camera and a mic boom were directed at the door. Another camera moved among the crowd, capturing faces that beamed obligatory smiles into the lens as it paused on them.

Among the crowd was a group of Chinese nationals in white buba and sokoto, all of them holding their well-thumbed copies of the Holy Bible. Away from the crowd, at the far end of the massive room, a group of tanned white men were gathered around a sofa set against the wall. They all wore dark suits and dark glasses, except for the only member of the group who was sitting alone in the middle of the sofa. His suit was white, as was his shirt which had the top two buttons undone exposing a diamond-encrusted gold crucifix partially buried in the black curly hair that grew thick from his chest. His legs, stretched out on the Persian rug and crossed at the foot, showed off most of his grey snakeskin Sancho boots. His arms were spread over the top of the sofa, showcasing his jewelled rings. His greasy black hair was pulled back tightly from his face. He also wore a pair of dark glasses – the gold frame sparkling with diamonds.

A table had been placed at the centre of the parlour. It was cramped with birthday cards and all sizes and colours of cakes, each bearing good wishes and prayers for Daddy as he turned 69. Some of the cakes bore his image: the ever-smiling, clean-shaven, bald-headed birthday boy. Wrapped gifts were piled on the ground around the table.

The assistant’s phone beeped. Her face broke into a smile as she read the message. She looked up at Mummy and declared: ‘They’re at the gate.’

‘It’s time,’ Mummy said. The cameraman that had been moving through the crowd stopped and focused his camera on the door. The servants bearing trays of drinks and food lay down their burdens and stood still, focusing on the door. The guests rose to their feet and, after a murmur silenced by a wave 31of Mummy’s hand, the hum of the two industrial-strength air conditioner units carried the anticipation in the room.

‘Where is the devil’s advocate?’ Mummy asked, looking around as she walked towards the door. ‘Has anybody seen him?’

The assistant leaned close to Mummy. ‘I called his driver. He said he’s on his way.’

‘What of Frank? Has he returned from Ibadan?’

‘I don’t know, ma. His phone is still off.’

‘And you are sure he said he took the church jet to Ibadan?’

‘Yes, ma. To his uncle’s burial.’

‘But when you asked the pilot when they are returning, they said they were not in Ibadan?’

‘Not exactly, ma. They just… He didn’t seem to know what I was talking about.’ Her right hand twisted and turned by her ear as she spoke.

‘You said they said he was not in Ibadan.’

‘Yes, ma. I mean, no, ma. He didn’t exactly say so. He asked me who flew the plane to Ibadan.’ She glanced at the people close to them. They didn’t seem to be listening.

‘Call him again and let me speak to him.’

‘His phone has been off since then, ma.’

‘Which one of them? David or the other one?’

‘Dave, ma.’

‘And the other one?’

‘Pete, ma. His phone is also off.’

‘You see? You know what that means? Frank is now making the pilots also lie to me.’

‘Maybe they’re in the air, ma.’

‘What nonsense air? You said it yourself; they did not know that Frank has taken the jet to Ibadan. What about Anita? Did you call her?’

‘Her phone is also off, ma.’

‘You see now? He and his wife are now too big to honour my invitation to celebrate their G.O.’s birthday. That boy is a 32snake, I’m telling you. Ever since we acquired that jet, his true colour has been coming out. A green snake in green grass. Shebi he said it is his uncle he went to bury this time? Last time it was his nephew. By the grace of God that is how they will all continue to die in his family in Jesus’ name. Family of snakes.’

The assistant nodded.

Mummy stopped a couple of metres in front of the door. She was ahead of all the guests. Her 38-year-old twin son and daughter, also senior pastors in the church, flanked her. The church worker who had checked on Daddy’s arrival exchanged smiles with the waiting camera crew with whom she now stood. The doorknob turned and the door opened. A seven-foot-tall, heavily built man stepped in, his shaven head almost touching the top of the doorframe. The bulging contours of his steroid-enhanced muscles were visible under his tight black suit. He scanned the faces before him, winked at the personal assistant who had texted him to check on Daddy’s arrival, then moved aside. Daddy stepped in with his glistening white walking stick. Tall, average build, clean shaven and with a trimmed head of grey hair, he was dressed in a beige safari suit. A purple polka-dot cravat caressed his neck between the open collar of a white shirt. His walking stick clanked once on the marble porch then rested silently on the rug inside. In unison, everyone shouted, ‘Surprise!’

Daddy’s eyes swept over the beaming, smiling faces in his living room as they sang ‘Happy Birthday’. His walking stick quivered in the grip of his right hand. He let go and clutched his chest. His left leg buckled. He fell to his knees as if in prayer, and then his torso hit the ground where he jerked in spasms, prostrate before Mummy’s feet.

8

A bang jolted Funke. Could it have been a gunshot? It sounded like a small firecracker going off. Surely a real gun would be louder. The heavy thud of a body hitting the floor made her sick. Someone had been shot. Warm urine spread out the carpet beneath her groin.

‘Please, don’t!’ Frank’s voice cried out. A second shot silenced him. His body landed on the thick carpet with a thud.

Two more shots followed in quick succession, each of them stopping Funke’s heart. She clenched the fabric of the carpet in her teeth to stop herself from screaming. Tears flowed from the corners of tightly shut eyelids.

Pete stood frozen, his unfired weapon pointing down at the lifeless couple, his lips parted, his eyes wide open. He took a long deep breath, before, gun still in hand, he grabbed his head and shouted, ‘Shit!’

‘Get yourself together now,’ Dave said.

‘One hundred fucking million!’

‘I’m freaking out too, but now’s not the time. We’ve got to get to work. You do the room; I’ll do here.’

Dave unscrewed the suppressor from his Glock and inserted it into a pocket in his jacket. He tucked the pistol into the back of his belt, crouched beside Frank’s body and spent a moment looking at the blank eyes staring straight up at the ceiling before searching Frank’s pockets. He found a mobile phone. He held 34Frank’s right hand and pressed the dead man’s thumb onto the phone’s fingerprint sensor. The screen unlocked. He disabled the auto-lock function, slid the phone into his pocket and rose to his feet.

On the wall between the two sofas, a flat-screen TV was set flush into the black glass face of a cabinet with enclosures above and beneath. He picked the first of three decorative clay pots in the enclosure above the TV set. He inserted his index finger into its narrow neck and pulled out a tiny black device that had been stuck inside. Next, he went behind the six-seat dining table. Different decorative pieces were placed on shelves with a mirrored back. He picked up an amphora from the top shelf and retrieved the microphone stuck inside it.

Pete returned and joined Dave at the feet of their victims. Both men held out their right palms. Dave had two bugs and Pete had one.

‘The bathroom,’ they both said. Pete left for the bathroom while Dave pocketed the wireless microphones in his palm.

‘Got it,’ Pete said, returning. ‘So glad I don’t have to hear him take another dump. One thing I don’t get; he set this whole thing up and we didn’t know what he was up to. Think maybe he knew we were listening?’

‘Nah, he’s not that smart. We missed it because he never discusses business with her and she’s the only one he brings here. Treats her like a bimbo, if you ask me. I bet she’s smarter than him. And his car, well, he’s got a chauffeur, just like all of them, so that’s not an option either. On the jet, maybe he suspects we can be listening. If we’d managed to get into his home we might have heard something, but I doubt it. This kind of stuff, this kind of money, you talk it out face to face. In a million years I wouldn’t have thought he had it in him to pull off something like this.’

Pete walked around the bodies and looked down at the lifeless forms. ‘You think we should have taken his deal?’ he said. 35

Dave walked up to him. ‘There’s no deal to be made. We’re talking a hundred million dollars. When that kind of money goes missing, there’ll be people looking for it, and they won’t be people like us. We stick to the plan. I need to know now, kid, are you in?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Are you gonna be OK?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Once we do this, there’s no turning back. We take the money, we do the drop, we ditch the jet, and we disappear. We can never go back home.’

‘I’m in,’ Pete said.

Dave put a hand on Pete’s shoulder. ‘Think about it, kid. They’ll be watching your family, my family, waiting for one of us to make contact. And they’re patient. These people, they’ll find it hard to believe that two pilots trained by the US Marines lost a jet. But so long as they don’t know about the money, and we weren’t moving any of their cargo when the jet goes down, and we remain dead, our families will be safe. You can be sure your home is bugged. I found ten devices in mine, and those are the ones they wanted me to find. These are the type of people we’re dealing with. So, really, really take a moment to think about it. Are you in?’

Pete shrugged Dave’s hand off. ‘We already killed five people. It’s kinda too late to back out now.’