CHAPTER 6
'Edwin from Enugu' was as good as his word.
Before daybreak, Mark Dobson was back at the airport before the London Virgin flight landed. Things happened quickly.
Edwin's Toyota had just driven away when, in the pre-dawn darkness, Dobson saw the same rusting yellow Peugeot. With the Virgin flight due to land in fifteen minutes, Dobson watched it stop close to where it had been the last time. He then went into the arrivals hall, bought a newspaper and waited.
Minutes later, the same young taxi driver strolled in wearing the same blue Chelsea FC tee shirt. He was carrying a small, brown canvas bag and took a seat at the end of a row, putting the bag on the ground. He pulled out a phone, said something then picked up the bag and sauntered off towards a closed coffee shop.
Minutes later a Nigerian man in a shabby-looking suit passed by and stopped. They talked, briefly, the bag was handed over and the suit strolled away. Chelsea tee shirt lingered, bit his fingernails, checked his footwear and tried to look cool as Dobson made a strategy decision of the sort he called a whim.
Sometimes whims worked and sometimes they didn't. Generally, whims ran in parallel with another strategy called 'nothing ventured, nothing gained'.
Outside it was still night-time but brightly lit. He walked towards the darker area where the yellow taxi was parked. Parked was a misnomer. It had been left, abandoned, half on the kerb, its front wheels pointing into the road. But the window was open and a plastic figure of a Nordic troll, long hair and wide eyes, dangled in the ignition. On another whim, Dobson leaned in the window and pulled on the troll's long blonde hair. With it came the key. Then he moved into the shadow behind a small van to watch.
A minute later Chelsea tee shirt was sauntering towards his car, playing with his phone. Dobson made a quick assessment - late teens, the swagger of someone lacking the self-confidence of maturity but definitely his abductor. He was stocky but shorter than Dobson and he reckoned he could deal with him given an initial advantage. Dobson's fitness was mostly down to eating carry out pizzas, hotel, cafe and airline food and drinking chlorinated London tap water that has already passed through the bodies of thousands of Londoners. It had nothing to do with work-outs but he was now holding an advantage in the form of a length of frayed tow rope he found tied to the rear of the van.
Chelsea tee shirt arrived, stuck his phone in his pocket, pulled on the reluctant car door, got in, slumped into the sagging driver's seat and pulled the door shut with a bang.
Dobson, creeping closer, watching him grappling on the floor for his keys, opened the rear door, climbed in and fell into the rear seat. "Taxi?"
Tee shirt glanced up from the floor and, as he did so, Dobson wrapped the tow rope around his neck and pulled on it, hard. Then he tightened it until tee shirt was squirming to grab at whatever was strangling the life out of him.
"Keep still," Dobson spat into his hot right ear and pulled the rope tighter still until Chelsea tee shirt's face turned from smooth and dry to puffed up, bloated and sweaty.
Tears formed in his red eyes as he tried looking behind and his hands tried grabbing the rope at his neck but it was too tight and hurting too much. His struggling, Dobson decided, was pathetic so he twisted the rope, wound it around the head rest, tugged the frayed end down to where the seat was bolted to the floor. tied it off and stuck his foot on it in case the knot came undone. Then he pulled it tight again. Chelsea tee shirt was caught like a fly in a spider's web.
"Keep still and listen smart arse. First, why don't you scrap this pile of fucking rust and buy yourself a nice new yellow taxi?"
Chelsea man gurgled, "Yes, sahaaarggh," but even as he stopped struggling to concentrate on sucking in air, Dobson pulled again. But now what?
Only a short while ago this man and two friends had robbed Dobson but, even as the crime was being committed, Dobson had realised something wasn't right. Chelsea tee shirt had actually sounded polite. His expression towards the end had been almost apologetic as if he was not at all happy seeing a white man left with nothing but his passport and an empty wallet. Chelsea boy, Dobson had decided, was doing a job for someone else. Chelsea boy had not enjoyed doing it. That's why he'd decided it was pre-planned, a job sub-contracted out by someone else as a warning to go back to London and forget about anything to do with Pastor Gabriel Joshua, Solomon Trading or the Household of God's Miracles Church. Mark Dobson needed to know who and what was behind it.
"Remember me? I'm Mr Dobson. Remember now?"
"Yessaaaargh."
There was an oily spanner and wheel wrench on the floor and Dobson picked it up and dug it into Chelsea's ribs. If he thought he was about to be shot, so be it. "Speak. Is someone waiting to meet me off the plane right now?"
There was far too long a pause so Dobson dug the spanner into Chelsea's sweaty neck, tugged on the rope and heard him try sucking air through a gap that wasn't there. "Speak. Is someone waiting for me?"
"Wotsaaargh. Yesaaargh.."
"Who?"
"Dunnosaaaagh."
Dobson pulled again and there was a gasp of air coming out, not going in.
"What was in the bag?"
"Gunsaaaargh."
"A gun, huh? Someone wants to kill me?"
"Maybesaaaargh."
"Why attack a nice Englishman here to do his business?"
"Jobsaaargh."
"Job? What job? Who do you work for? Who pays to get nice Englishmen shot?"
He was still holding and twisting the rope, still poking the spanner deep into the boy's neck when he noticed the cheap gold cross hanging on a chain around his neck.
Was Chelsea a churchgoer, someone with good Christian parents and an upbringing that ran counter to what he had been up to in this stinking old car? Why had he looked so apologetic? Was he, like thousands of other young Nigerian men, a no-hoper, just trying to look cool and make ends meet? With just one long pull on the rope Dobson could have put him out of his misery by strangling him, but was Chelsea boy a route to those out to get Gabriel? To whoever had shot Kenneth?
"Where were you going before I got into your stinking car, you piece of sweaty shit?"
"Homesaaargh."
"Home, huh? But you don't have a key to your shitty car."
"Nossaaaargh. Stop, sah. Pleeasesaaargh. No shoot, sah. I tock."
"Talk then, you snivelling little upstart. Who was the man you gave the bag to?"
Dobson stuck the spanner into the rope like a tourniquet and twisted until Chelsea's eyes nearly popped, then slackened it a fraction. The boy looked genuinely frightened. He couldn't see Dobson but Dobson could see he was dribbling down his chin like a baby. A thread of spittle hung from his lower lip and there was an acrid smell of fear and hot, fresh sweat. "You want to die, Chelsea boy?"
"Nosaaaargh."
"And go to hell?"
"Nosaaaargh."
With his free hand, Dobson pulled on the little gold cross. "Are you a good Christian or a bad one?"
"Good, sah."
"You ever hear about Pastor Gabriel Joshua, Chelsea boy?"
"Yessaaaargh"
"What do you know?"
"Church, sah."
"You like him?" It was a pure guess that Gabriel might well be some Nigerian teenage boys' view of a hero.
"Yessah."
"Why?"
"Why sah?"
"You heard me. Why do you like him?"
"Good man sah."
"So, you decided to kill him as well as me?"
"No, no, nosaaaargh."
"Then why give a gun to that man?"
"Waaaaaaargh!"
It was a word Dobson had never heard of before and he loosened the rope just a fraction. "Do you know they want to kill Pastor Gabriel?"
"Hoosah?"
"The man you gave the gun to."
"I dunno sah.. Gabriel good mon, fine fella. Believe me sah I dunno. Stop sah. Please sah, I die."
He was not yet dying but Dobson felt sure he was telling th
e truth. That didn't stop him pursuing the torture. "Believe you, Scumbag? Why should I believe someone who robbed me and stole my computer, my best grey suit and my favourite Citizen watch? Why?"
"Get paid, saaaargh."
"How old are you, Scumbag?"
"Nine, aaaargh,"
"Nine? Only nine? Don't lie to me."
"Nineteen saaaargh."
It was enough. It proved Dobson's suspicion. Someone somewhere had not wanted him in Nigeria because of his link to Gabriel. But now what? Dobson needed a new strategy, a plan and he chose another one from the consultant's armoury: Bullshit.
With his free hand, he took out his mobile phone and pressed a few random buttons, then waited. "Lagos State Police, Commander Samuel please. Yes, I'll hold......"
A gurgling sound came from Scumbag's throat. "Sah, sah. Please sah. No sah," and Dobson removed the silent phone from his ear. "Listen, Scumbag. Pastor Gabriel asked me to come to Lagos. Why do you think he did that?"
"You is not so bad fella sah."
"Correct. I'm a very nice fella until someone upsets me and my friend Gabriel. So, what the fuck were you doing making life so bloody difficult for me and the good Pastor? Answer me."
"Money, sah."
Dobson returned to his phone. "Commander Samuel? Mark Dobson. Yes, sir. I have him. Leave him with me for the time being. Let's see if he'll help us. Thank you, Commander. I'll phone you back. Are you a hired killer, Scumbag?"
"Nosaaaagh not meesaaaagh."
"But someone just hired you."
"Yessah."
"Then what the fuck are you? Freelance?"
"Wozzat saaagh?
"Freelance, self-employed, work for yourself? Which is it man?"
"Wurr mysell saaaagh"
"Right. You work for me now, OK?"
The wide eyes peered at him from their corners. "Saaah?"
"I'm offering you a job Scumbag. A paid job. You interested?"
"Howmuchsaaagh?"
"Jesus!" Dobson decided he'd clearly loosened things too much so he pulled again.
"I want to know who paid you."
"Pink Lips sah."
Pink Lips. The Pink Lips Club was a meeting place for all sorts of illegal transactions. Dobson had been there once himself. "Pink Lips huh? Is this a local club you frequent regularly, Scumbag? I've heard it's a venue for fine upstanding gentlemen. The pillars of Lagos society? Is that you?"
"Yessah."
Still holding tightly on the rope, Dobson made another call, this time to a real person.
"Vigo?"
Most of the time, Dobson's team of international helpers went about their own business whether in Istanbul, Hong Kong, Beirut, Johannesburg, Bangkok or Lagos. Dobson paid for their time, local knowledge and skills. In Lagos there were two in the team. Loosely speaking Vigo and Mazda were in the motor trade but were well connected in many other circles. They called Dobson 'Mercedes' because they thought he was an 'up-makkit man'.
"Hey, Mercedes mon. Where the fuck you bin?"
"Back to London, but I'm here in Lagos and sat in a car belonging to the bastard who tried to kill me."
"Jesus, Mercedes. You so vital?"
"The top most vital one is Gabriel, Mazda."
"Last time you never got to see him."
"I saw him in London instead. He has big problems. That's why I'm back. You want to help?"
"How much you paying, Mercedes?"
"I thought I was still in credit. What happened?"
"Yeh, well. What you want?"
"My skin colour's wrong. You know what I mean. I need you to take this piece of shit under your wing for a few days. I pay you, you pay him. Come out here and I'll introduce you."
"Where park jalopy?"
"The airport. A rusty yellow Peugeot. My assassin can't go far. He's fastened with rope and I've got his car keys."
"On our way."