Free Easy Motion Tourist by Leye Adenle Page B

to her and turn Sergeant Hot-Temper loose on him. I suddenly felt a strange sense of responsibility for the girl.
    ‘OK,’ I said.
    ‘Good.’
    His phone rang. He checked who was calling and told everyone to be quiet. All eyes were on him. He answered the call.
    ‘Hello, sir,’ he said.
    In seconds, his face dropped and a frown formed. When the call was over, he looked scary. When he spoke, he sounded dangerous.
    ‘Everybody, clear out,’ he said.
    Everybody began to leave. I followed them.
    ‘Not you.’
    I turned to look.
    He walked past me and his shoulder brushed mine so that I had to step back to remain standing. He slammed the door. It hit its frame and bounced back. He rough-handled it again and this time it stayed closed. What the hell did that call have to do with me?
    He went to his desk and picked up a remote control. He pointed it at the TV set on top of a rusty filing cabinet. A few clicks later and we were watching CNN.
    I recognised the road in front of Ronnie’s and my apprehension moved up a notch. The picture was grainy, probably filmed with a mobile phone. A female voice spoke over the shaky video, reporting what I already knew: a woman had been murdered in an apparent ritual killing, organs had been taken from her body, and it happened right outside a busy nightclub in Lagos.
    His face creased and contoured with every frame.
    ‘You people. Sergeant!’
    A policeman came running into his office.
    ‘Lock him up. Cell B.’

13
    Cell B. I didn’t like the sound of it.
    The summoned officer looked at his boss. If he was worried, so was I. He stepped towards me with one hand showing the way to the door.
    ‘No.’
    Inspector Ibrahim looked surprised. ‘What?’
    I don’t know how I got the courage. Perhaps it wasn’t courage. Perhaps it was just desperate, cowardly determination? Whatever it was, I wasn’t going to walk willingly to the images of killers, violent cellmates, and brutal sodomy that filled my mind. Not that I would have physically resisted if it came to it. I still remembered the clubber who’d been beaten to silence in front of Ronnie’s, but Cell B didn’t sound like a place you simply allowed yourself to be led to.
    ‘I haven’t done anything wrong. What are you detaining me for?’
    I considered telling him about my law degree and my past life as a solicitor but I calculated that it would only infuriate him further, and that was not the point of my outburst.
    He didn’t say anything so I continued.
    ‘I’m a journalist. I came here to cover the presidential election and nothing more. If you want to confirm that, I’ll give you my work number. Either that or you can call the British High Commission.’
    He just kept staring. What was he thinking? Was it the mention of the British High Commission? Like playing the race card, it was cheap, it was manipulative, but if it worked, what the heck.
    Someone knocked. A skinny officer opened the door and stayed there.
    ‘What is it?’ the inspector said.
    I wished CNN would go to commercials or something, anything but the images of the breaking news they kept repeating.
    The little man seemed scared. ‘There is a woman here to see you, sir,’ he said. ‘She said she knows you. She said the Minister of Information sent her. She gave me her card to give to you. She’s just arrived.’ He took a step into the room and held out a business card with both hands. ‘She says it is urgent.’
    ‘What is her name?’
    ‘Amaka, sir.’
    He looked at the messenger and at the same time pulled out his handkerchief.
    ‘She’s out there?’
    He cleaned his face and the back of his neck then folded the cloth and used it again, then he straightened his collar. On the back of the business card I recognised the red eagle, black shield, and two white horses of the Nigerian coat of arms.
    The inspector turned his attention to the card. ‘I thought you said she gave you her card?’
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    ‘This is not her card. This is the