Silhouette

VIII

Dave crouches on the roof top. The rain is a slow lazy drizzle but the sky is heavy with the promise of more. The night is dark and silent except for the occasional flash of thunder and rumble of lightning.

He jumps onto the balcony and eases a pin out of his front pocket. He slides it into the keyhole and twists. The window opens with a small creak. He eases one boot in and peers in; the office is dark and empty. He jumps in and closes the window behind him.

Dave switches on his penlight. He scans the table. Sees arrest sheets, warrants, reports. He sees the brown envelope containing Detective Ralph's pictures. He slides them out and snaps them with is phone.

He flips through a couple of papers, but nothing catches his eye. He doesn't know what to look for.

He punches a key on the keyboard and the monitor comes to life. It fills the room with a blue glow. Dave glances at the door. It is locked from the outside.

The computer asks for a password. He drums his fingers on the table and groans inwardly. He tries the deputy commissioner's date of birth. 1963. It isn't the right one.

He straightens and runs his eyes through the office. There are a series of framed photographs on the wall. A certificate for a diploma at a Russian Defense School, an Order of The Niger award, a photograph with the president.

Dave walks up to each one and stares at it. He almost misses the last one just above the window he just climbed in. It is a picture of Anthony with a boy, either twelve or thirteen, at the top of a mountain with a trophy.

Dave takes it off the wall. Turns the back of the frame. Squints at the scribbling.

2017, Matthew, it says.

He returns it back to the wall. He types 'Matthew' as the password. It grants him access.

He sits on the cold leather chair and scrolls through more arrest sheets, memos and warrants. Then, he checks the mail. Scrolls through. Clicks on the most recent message in the outbox.

You didn't have to murder the detective. There are many other ways we could have silenced him. The benefactor will not be pleased. Let us meet.

Makun Park. 8pm

Dave frowns and prints out the message. The paper slides out. He folds it and puts it in his pocket. He switches off the computer and opens the window. There are a million questions burning in his mind as he eases himself out.

***

Ishola's day started badly, then got worse. His landlord had shown up with his puffy face to inform him that he had increased the rental. He had lost all the money he had placed on a football bet the previous day. To make matters worse, he had to work overtime for the days he had missed last week when he had been hospitalized for food poisoning.

He holds his stomach involuntarily as he remembers the twisting pain that left him writhing on the floor. He should have realized the amala had tasted funny.

Ishola hunches under the raincoat and ticks the list on the notebook in his hands. The rain has stopped but the air is frigid.

He begins to whistle under his breath. He isn't the only worker in the port but he is alone on the wharf. The Customs and Duties officers were coming the next day for their daily rounds. He knows they hardly check anything but on the rare occasions they do, they are grumpier than sleepy snakes.

He twists and turns among the rows of the hulking metals, until they are the only thing he sees, that and the dark sky above.

He turns around when he notices one of the containers does not have a manifest.

The manifests are documents sealed in transparent cellophane and attached onto the doors of the shipping container. He runs a hand across where it should be, it appears to have been ripped away.

He removes his master key and twists it into the huge metal lock. The door screams open on its hinges.

The interior is nothing like he expects. He stares -- mouth wide open.

A small bulb at the very middle gives out a low white light. The floor is peppered with dust and small strings of wire. At the far end is a long, sleek silver cube, slightly bigger than a water cooler.

Ishola takes a step then another. His head is screaming danger but the container has no manifest. It is his job to investigate. He considers calling the wharf authorities but he stops. What if he finds an unbelievable amount of money? That wasn't impossible with the way panicking money launderers hid their money these days.

There is a spring in his step as he kneels before the cube. He drops his notebook and fits his hands on the lid. He heaves.

There is a tiny whine and a blast of cold air hits his him, so cold that he cannot feel his face. He clenches his teeth and squints at the contents. A glowing timer with the time set at 00:00. A smaller cube wrapped in a yellow plastic like material with thick red cables running across it. A small glass cylinder filled with a pale green liquid.

Ishola hears footsteps behind him. Before he turns his head, his vision explodes in a bright white flash. There is a moment of excruciating pain and he is toppling backwards. He is dead before he hits the ground.

By morning, his body is twenty miles off the Lagos coast.