Читать книгу The Big Killing - Robert Thomas Wilson, Robert Wilson - Страница 11

I picked up Moses at the Polyclinique. He’d lost his hang-dog look and was waving his prescription at me as if it was a winning lottery ticket.

‘No money,’ I said, and his face crashed.

‘I still pissing glass, Mr Bruce.’

‘I’m sure you are. Don’t drink anything,’ I said. ‘We might get some money this afternoon. Mebbe you shouldn’t have given the girl the two thousand she giving you trouble down there.’

‘Two thousand CFA don’t catch for this thing,’ he said, shaking the paper, ‘and I don’t know she giving me trouble down there. I know, mebbe I beat her doing this thing.’

‘She looked as if she could give you a beating, you ask me.’

‘Mebbe you right, Mr Bruce. She stroooong woman.’

We parked up in the Novotel garage. Moses gave me his prescription and I told him to come and see me first thing in the morning. I asked reception to put Fat Paul’s new sealed package in the hotel safe and went up to my room, double-locked the door and flaked out on the bed. I dreamt, no doubt something meaningful which would catch up with me later, and just as an unanswered ringing had begun to annoy me, I woke up with the phone on the other side of the bed, insisting. Somebody had filled my mouth with those things the dentist puts in to soak up the goo, but it didn’t matter because it was B.B. on the line and he was speaking through a mouthful of four bananas.

‘You tek your time,’ he said.

‘I was sleeping.’

‘It three in de afternoon.’

‘All this leisure tires me out.’

‘I see…’ he said, swallowing something that must have been the size and furriness of a tennis ball because it took him several goes and left him out of breath. ‘Ra-ra-ra-ra Mary!’ he stammered at a roar to the maid and I heard the slip, slap, slop of her arrival at his side. ‘Drink,’ he said. He put the receiver on his stomach and I heard some subterranean noises that would have made a potholer rush for the surface.

‘What you doing in the Novotel?’

‘I’m staying here.’

‘For your own accoun'?’

‘Unless you want to pay?’ I said, hearing that line fizz through his brain.

‘I not payin’ for dat!’ he roared. ‘Gah! You tinking for one…’

‘B.B., calm down. I’m paying.’

‘Mebbe you pay me de monny you owe me ‘fore you go stayin’ in de Novotel.’

‘You’ll get it, and when you do I’m up to my daily rate, remember.’

‘Bloddy daily rate! Bloddy ting! You teef man wid your daily rate!’

‘What do you want, B.B.?’ I asked, measuring out the syllables. B.B. bubbled some more, chewed over his anger and spat it out like gristle.

‘First ting,’ he belched. ‘You go, you go tomorrow. Kurt, he gone. He not dere. I don’ know where he gone. De wife, she say he still dere. I aks to spik to him. She say he always out. You go, you find de problem. You still haf de Kurt passport detail?’ he asked, knowing I still had it from the last time he’d asked me. He coughed a quantity of phlegm into his mouth and I felt him search for his hanky. ‘Second ting,’ he said, spitting the oyster, ‘you go to Danish Embassy?’

‘Not yet.’

‘What you doin’ all day?’

‘I’ve got a tight schedule.’

‘Mebbe you try wokking in de day like rest of us. Sleep at night, you know.’

‘I’ll make a note of that.’

‘You go to Danish Embassy this afternoon; this Kurt man a criminal, I know it. T’ird ting, de Japanese, dey come.’

‘Which Japanese?’

‘De company dat buy de sheanut. Dey have de croshing plant in Japan.’

‘I know, but what are their names?’

‘My God, dis difficult ting. Har-ra-ra-ra-ra…’

‘Was that one or both of them?’

‘No, de udder one is, Ka-ka-ka-ka-ka…’

‘Fax me.’

‘You tinking correck.’

‘What about money?’

‘Wait de monny!’ he shouted, irritated. ‘De Japanese…you show dem round, show dem de operascharn, you give dem good time, tek plenty whisky. Kurt wife, she help make some food tings an’ such. OK?’

‘Fine. The money for this?’

‘You always aksing de monny!’

‘I haven’t got any and it often slips your mind.’

‘Is there anything left in Korhogo?’

‘No. All gone. You find de books and tell me where it gone. OK. You better horry or de bank it shut,’ he finished, the phone clattering into its cradle.

I called the Danish Embassy and made an appointment to see a vice-consul called Leif Andersen at 4.00 p.m. The sky had clouded over by the time I left the hotel at 3.15 and looked ready for rain. I took a taxi to the bank in the Alpha 2000 building and told the car to wait while I withdrew both B.B. and Martin Fall’s money. I put it in a plastic carrier bag from Le Coq Sportif that I’d brought with me. The taxi was gone when I came out, which was a small worry. I didn’t want to dally too long in the street with a bag holding nearly 3 million CFA – $12,000 doesn’t look much like a pair of running shoes.

Up the street a rangy kid of about twenty, in a sweatshirt with a big number thirty-two on it, strolled out of a shop doorway with his hands in his baggy jeans pockets. He had his hair razored up over the ears and cut flat top. Across the street another punk looked over the roof of a car, wearing a baseball cap the wrong way round and a black T-shirt with something white on it. These kids had been watching movies, I thought, and turned to walk down the hill. Two boys walked out of a garage in front of me, one lifting his T-shirt to get some air up there and to show me what he had in the waistband of his jeans, the other with an ear missing. These two were shabbier, old jeans cut tight, faded T-shirts. The one with two ears had Mr Smile on the front without the smile, both with no shoes. I turned back and the other kid was standing by the door to the bank, his friend starting to cross the road now. The taxi rounded the block and started cruising down the hill in no hurry. I walked up the hill towards it, the kid outside the bank with his hands out of his pockets now, wiping them on his shirt front, nervous, like me. I ran at him. His eyes widened, looking for his friends. I could hear a pair of trainers and the slap of bare feet on the pavement. I kicked the kid outside the bank hard on the inside of his left knee and he went down so fast on to the concrete slabs of the pavement that his head hit the ground first. I turned, the taxi coming in front of me now, the kid from across the road in between the parked cars and the one with both ears between the taxi and me, a flash of silver in his hand. The driver, still coasting, opened the passenger door and hit the kid on the point of the elbow. The kid went down and the knife span across the pavement. I got in the taxi, the other two boys backing off.

I told the driver that when a man goes into a bank and tells the taxi to wait it wasn’t just out of a feeling of importance. He said he knew that but the traffic police didn’t give a damn. Then he thought about it and said he reckoned they were on the take. They were always there for a parking fine and nowhere near a bag snatch. I told him it was the same the world over.

We drove around the block. I pointed him down Avenue Chardy and into a car park at the back of some buildings. I went into a travel agent called PanAfricAbidjan and found a Swiss guy in there who spoke seven languages, one of which was mine. I asked him if he could make 75,000 CFA available in a travel agent called Bénin-Bénin in the quartier Zongo in Cotonou. He made a phone call and said he could. I gave him the money from my Coq Sportif bag.

At the Novotel reception I took some more money out of the bag and asked them to put the rest of it in the hotel safe. I went into a chemist and picked up Moses’s prescription and bought a large supply of condoms for him which they were decent enough to wrap. It was a short walk from the chemist’s to the Danish Embassy and I was shown straight into the vice-consul’s office with its windswept off-white carpeting that looked like snow on its way to sludge.

Leif Andersen was a short, powerful, mid-thirties guy with a friendly brown moustache and a face that had enjoyed a few too many drinks, as it was puffy with vein maps leading nowhere on his cheeks. He was wearing a sports jacket, a white shirt, and some kind of club tie with wine glasses and bottles all over a burgundy background. He sat with his fingers dovetailed across a bit of a belly beneath a painting of some bleak North Sea-whipped Danish coastline which made me grit my teeth in the overstrong air conditioning.

‘How can I help you?’ he asked.

‘Got a visitor’s jacket?’

‘Sorry,’ he said, opening his hands. ‘The AC’s stuck.’

‘At minus five?’

‘Plus sixteen, zero humidity.’

‘Any chance of something to drink?’

‘Tea?’ he asked, and I shook my head.

‘I’m looking for a guy called Kurt Nielsen.’

‘The one running a sheanut operation in Korhogo?’

‘You know your nationals pretty well.’

‘What’s your interest?’

‘My client’s a Syrian businessman in Accra. He owns the sheanut operation.’

‘Kurt Nielsen’s wife was looking for him, too.’

‘Was?’

She called a couple of weeks ago. We asked for passport details and photographs and she called two days later and said he’d reappeared.’

You weren’t curious?’

‘Not really. Men take time off from their wives. They spend a lot of time together in these isolated places.’

‘So the men go off without telling their wives where they’re going?’

‘We don’t do marriage guidance here.’

‘So you didn’t do anything about it then?’

He shook his head. ‘One, he reappeared. Two, there are a lot of Nielsens in Denmark, and Petersens and Andersens. We all have the same names. We need more than “Nielsen” to help us find him.’

I held out the photocopy of the passport details which B.B. had given me and he looked at them for a few seconds and left the room. I did some running on the spot to keep the circulation going and looked around Leif’s minimalist office for a drinks cabinet with something warming in it. Ten minutes later he came back with a computer print-out and a pair of black-framed glasses on his nose.

‘I’d like to find Kurt Nielsen as well,’ he said.

‘He’s on the run?’

‘No, he’s dead.’

The Kurt Nielsen who’d owned the passport was born in Alborg in 1954. He left school when he was sixteen and started work on the fishing boats, Danish and later British. He served two short stretches for robbery, the first in ‘70, the second in ‘74. After the second term he started working on British ships and spending shoretime in England. He seemed to have developed a taste for young girls and served three years for sexual assault on a twelve-year-old in Middlesbrough. He got out in ‘85. He died a year later in Nottingham. He had been a lodger with the Cochrane family. Mr Cochrane came back early from his job as a scaffolder after a fall and found Kurt Nielsen having sex with his thirteen-year-old daughter over the sink in the kitchen. Cochrane hit him over the head with a full bottle of cider which had been on the kitchen table and stuck the broken end in his neck. Kurt Nielsen died 3rd June, 1986.

‘What are you going to do about it?’

Leif Andersen sat on the edge of his desk with the print-out resting on his thigh and said nothing for several minutes.

‘I don’t want to rush you, Mr Andersen, but it’s bloody cold in here and I don’t want to be the first man five degrees off the equator to get hypothermia.’

‘Do you drink, Mr Medway?’

‘Not tea, for Christ’s sake.’

‘Aquavit?’

‘Now I’m with you.’

He locked the door of the office and produced a bottle and two glasses from his bottom drawer.

‘Not what you British would call consular behaviour, but we are in Africa.’

‘How do you think the Falklands War got started?’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Consular behaviour,’ I said. ‘Skol.’

We banged back a slug apiece and he refilled the glasses. He banged that one back too, catching me on the hop so that he had to wait to fill up for thirds. He nodded and we threw the third one down, and I felt a moment’s abandon and thought it might be throwing-glasses-in-the-fireplace time. He put away the bottle and glasses and unlocked the door. He sat back down, gritted his teeth, tensed his biceps and hissed out the pent-up air in his lungs.

‘Good. Where were we?’

‘What are you going to do about the Nielsens?’

‘The Nielsens? Right. Yes, of course. You know,’ he started and got out from behind his desk and walked over to the window and looked out on to a dull, grey Avenue Noguès, ‘sometimes I look out of the window in the rainy season. The sky is grey. I can hear the wind off the sea around the building, the rain on the window. It’s cold in here, as you know. I have a couple of glasses of Aquavit and I think I’m back in Skagen, you know it? Right on the northern tip of Denmark. Terrible place, but I like it around there.’ He paused, letting the Aquavit shunt around his system, letting it take the edge off his cares. He swallowed something the size of a crab apple, as if he was trying to keep his longing down, and took his glasses off.

‘You know what I think?’ He turned to me. ‘Mrs Nielsen didn’t call herself Mrs Nielsen, she referred to Kurt Nielsen as her husband but she called herself Dotte Wamberg, she’ – he ran both hands through his hair – ‘she couldn’t find her husband, she called me, I asked for her husband’s details, she said she’d have to find them and send them on. Then she must have started thinking and realized that she was going to have some problems if she did that, so she had her husband reappear. How’s that?’

‘You’ve done some conclusion-leaping, Mr Andersen.’

‘Only since you came in asking about him and we’ve found that he’s on a dead man’s stolen passport.’

‘OK, I’ll buy it. What’re you going to do about it?’

‘I’ve a lot…’ He looked at his watch. ‘The ambassador’s coming back from Lagos, the agronomists, back to…’

‘Nothing, then?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘Will a fourth Aquavit get us through this hazy patch we’re in at the moment?’

Leif locked the door, and took the bottle and glasses out of the drawer again. We had a fourth and a fifth before he put the bottle away, but it didn’t make him any more expansive on what he had in mind. He slapped and kicked his desk around a bit and rolled himself back and forwards on his castored chair and laughed about things in his head without involving me, but he avoided definitive action on Kurt Nielsen and Dotte Wamberg.

Somebody knocked on the door and the vice-consul sat up and asked whoever it was to come in. The door was still locked and he said ‘shit’ under his fiery breath and took off out of his chair, which backed off into the far corner of the room so that he was in two minds as to whether to open the door or go after the chair. He unlocked the door. A woman with straight blonde hair, a light-blue dress and folders held to her bosom, came in. She looked from Andersen to me and then at the chair, which in my vision seemed a long way off. She wore a pair of blue steel-rimmed spectacles whose lenses were the size of throat lozenges. She put the files on the desk and left without turning to see Leif bowing with a flourish from his right hand, which would have given the game away if the alembic fumes hadn’t already. He shut the door, breathless.

‘She’s very attractive, isn’t she?’

‘Is she new?’

Leif didn’t have to answer and he didn’t have to tell me why he didn’t want to go up to Korhogo and find out what had happened to Kurt Nielsen, who was going to be some lowlife, probably an escaped convict. What did he care about all that? He said he’d fax the passport through to the Danish police authorities and get an ID on who Kurt Nielsen really was and ask them if they wanted any action taken. I said I’d appreciate it if he could give me the dirt on Kurt Nielsen and he gave me his card and said to call him in a couple of days.