A Murder In Accra.

[MANICHAEAN]

The British Airways flight to Accra International was smooth & Rossow had been booked business class, in deference he thought to his long frame, or was the boss actually mellowing to him?

The plane came in on time in the middle of one of those rainy season downpours that gives you qualms that touchdown with a machine this size, at that speed will result in one God Almighty skid. But then; tyre contact was made, the weight of the moving plane gently lowered & the engines went into reverse to quickly bring the aircraft into a more sedate taxiing across the runway to the terminal.

Have you noticed how airports vary so much across the globe? Not so much in the architecture & layout as in the atmosphere they evoke as you enter their realms. In Frankfurt, passengers scurry like rodents from one side of the airport to another to get connecting flights. In Jamaica on the other hand you slow down immediately you leave the plane. No "yardie" is going to get hypertension for nobody. "Soon come" is the national standard.

But Mother Africa has an atmosphere of its own. And yet its hard to put your finger on it. Perhaps it's because you are suddenly the odd man out with the white skin, perhaps its the latent tension in the air almost as if you have arrived for the first time from another planet. Your senses sharpen up & you become so much more aware of that around you.

As Rossow was only carrying a holdall & briefcase he cleared Customs quickly, leaving in his wake the inevitable shake down of returning Ghanaians with multiple taped carton boxes & items that most Africans consider as hand luggage like; fold up prams, television sets & even a car windscreen if he was to believe his eyes.

Presenting his passport at the Immigration Desk there was too much eye contact & body language on their part.

"First time in Ghana Mr Rossow?"

"Yes, first time"

"Nature of your visit?"

"Business"

At that point he saw her.

Tall, dark, strong profile in the sharp crisp uniform of a Ghanaian woman police officer.

She stepped from wherever she had been standing behind the Immigration Desk & spoke gently into the official's ear, as if to say; "I'll take it from here"

The Immigration Officer nodded, gave Rossow another eye contact as if some clandestine pact had been acknowledged & stamped the passport.

Rossow stepped through to meet his benefactor.

"She was cool." That was the first thing he noted about her.

A little shorter than he was, with that striking calmness that some African women carry with such confidence.

"Good morning Detective Inspector Rossow. My name is Police Sergeant Emelia Banfo of the Ghanaian Police & I'm the liaison officer assigned to you."

Long slender fingers, cool to the touch were extended for a formal greeting.

"Please follow me. The car is outside."

Declining that she carried his holdall, he gave up his briefcase and followed her through the crowds, noting in transit the superb *** & long slender legs beneath the formal constabulary uniform.

[hillwalker]

Do continue.... this was an enthralling read.

[MANICHAEAN]

Thanks H. Really appreciate your comments.
Its one chapter of a novel I've been working on for about two years whenever I get a chance to write.
The problem is that I'm not sure how much I can post. There are bits that make even you look like Mother Theresa!

[hillwalker]

Mhmm - that's saying something given my track record on here.

It's good to provoke some reaction, but try not to frighten the horses.

[MANICHAEAN]

THE FIRST DAY

It was a full day,first checking into the Labadi Hotel & then through the turmoil of traffic to first meet Matthew Bennett, the touchstone of British Intelligence attached to the Embassy and loosely concealed behind some title of Research Officer or whatever. Then on to make contact with the senior Ghanaian police officer leading the investigation into the missing Ambassador and a local night club owner with dual Ghanian/British nationality.

Chief Inspector Kwesi Jay was a depressing prospect, the uniformed type so prevalent in some countries. Big office, upright stature, chest big enough to adorn with a box full of ribbons and the usual earnest platitudes as to what was being done to get things resolved in an expedient manner. London Head Office would have loved him! But you could sense he was not front line. In fact it reminded Rossow of a rerun of "Casablanca" and "Round up the usual suspects!"

Matthew Bennett was more useful if you adopted that peculiar British way of becoming attuned to what he did not say, as opposed to what he did say. Small and slightly chubby, he was not the type who would set the cosmos ablaze, but then after a very short time you sensed his sharpness, focus and the depth of his educational background.

"Strange bedfellows actually, Tan & Kretzler" he said.

"Night club owner & British Ambassador"

"Could never in reality see what they had in common. But they were in each other's company a lot"

"Did they mix socially?" Rossow asked.

"Depends what you mean by socially. Kretzler's wife could not abide Tan. He was not invited round for dinner with the Ambassador you understand. But then you can sympathise with her priorities. Tan with his business dealings and his ownership of a night club in Jamestown were not exactly on a par with drinks & nibbles at the Embassy do's. But then Tan had some sort of hold over him."

"What about Tan? Whats the story on him?" Rossow asked.

"You had to tread carefully" Bennett said.

"He was amiable enough, but you never really knew what his motives were. It was almost like some kind of game he was playing, one against the other. Not sure he understood it himself. He just played his funny little Chinese game as the cards were dealt. Pretend to be a friend, impart a confidence on someone you both knew & then absorb into his memory whatever response you came up with. Next thing you know, he is going through the same ritual with the same mutual friend you were talking about in the first place. Except this time you are on the agenda."

"Thanks Matthew" Rossow said.

"If you don't mind I'm not going to get bogged down in day to day enquiries. I would like to dig around the edges and see what I can uncover."

"Fine" said Bennett. "But if you are poking around locally, take Police Woman Banfo with you. In uniform or casual as suits your purpose."

[MANICHAEAN]

THE NIGHT CLUB.

He held a cigeratte between the precise fingers of one hand. He put the other hand flat on the white tablecloth, then he looked across the busy tables towards the heart-shaped space on the floor where the dancers prowled under shifting coloured lights.

The righteous loath these dives. They appear as if only existing after dark, like ghouls. The people seem dissipated without grace, sinful without irony.

Cigeratte & cigar smoke laced the air. A group of Ghanians smartly attired stood drinking- the women sipping cocktails, the men apparently on scotch. They were at one side of a curtained opening that led to the gambling rooms. Beyond the curtains, light blazed down on one end of a roulette table.

Twin negresses writhed their bodies on the aluminium central stage, the perceptable sweat from the spot lights highlighting the suppleness and flexability of their muscle tone. Pelvic contortions; slow, deliberate & mind controlling were executed, the male patrons being both focused & aroused by the performance.

No contrived smiles from either dancer. The bodies belied the faces. The mouths implied, "I won't give you a damm thing". The bodies with strong breasts and proud hips said " You can have anything you can take."

Rossow shot a look at Banfo to determine if she were shocked, but no, this cop making up the female Trinity was a trooper too. A look of mild amusement on her lips as she watched the billed Renee & Rosie arching their backs on the stage floor, the dark, almost purple sheen of their tight buttocks clenched together as they attained an inverted "U". Slim, dark and lovely. reeking with sex.

Utterly beyond the moral laws of this or any world Rossow could imagine.

[hillwalker]

The first 3 paragraphs of 'The First Day' put me in mind of Greene perhaps, and I was left wondering whether it would develop into something a shade more contemporary..... which it has. My interest is rekindled.

[MANICHAEAN]

H.
In all due humility, Greene was mothers milk to me!

It always amazed me how he would classify his work as either an "entertainment thriller" or a "literary work novel"

Don't you find the distinction problematic?

Presumably the former included: The Honorary Consul, Our Man In Havana, The Quiet American & The Comedians?

The latter:The Power & The Glory, The End of The Affair & The Heart of The Matter?

Thanks for your kind comments. No complaints about the "horses" yet!

[hillwalker]

The distinction implies he could not combine the two, when of course he managed to so quite well. I'll admit he's not my favourite writer, but a master in his genre without a doubt.

[MANICHAEAN]

At midnight Rossow & Banfo left for his hotel, suspicions unaroused by the Club's management & staff. Another white man with his attractive indigene girlfriend indulging a taste for late night drinking and amusement in seedy Jamestown environs.

Back at his suite Rossow discussed with Banfo on how to proceed. Some shake up was required to open windows in this enquiry.

One thing Ghana was not, thought Rossow, was Columbia, Mexico or any of the other kidnap capitals of the world. And then again, if it was a kidnapping, then going for the British Ambassador was top dollar, and what was this connection with Tan, the local business guy? Both according to reports had left Accra's Sagittarius Club in Tan's Mercedes on Wednesday morning around 1am two weeks ago and had not been seen since.

The file given him by London was sparse regards relevant detail and not much help either, except as background information. Ghana, as he knew, like so many African countries had its fair share of economic & social problems: poverty, corruption, decaying infrastructure, tribalism etc, but then kidnapping was not normally associated with it. Unlike Nigeria along the coast which had grasped the monetary potential of seizing foreigners. If Ghana had its own more home grown demons it comprised scam artists, child prostitution, a growing underground porn industry & the still prevailing belief in juju or witchcraft. Analytically most of its crimes were from pick-pockets, fraudsters & armed robbers. There was an overlay of crimes like the roadside magician tricksters and money doublers who were remotely influenced by juju-marabout mediums and other spiritualists. Rossow in fact remembered reading in one report where the Ghana Police Service had arrested a leading armed robber, Atta Ayi, in a suburb of Accra. Huge amulets and other paraphernalia, prepared for him by various juju-mediums, were concealed around his body.

The Ghana Police Service had no option but to confront these mediums, as they were highly feared in that society based on the belief that they could wage spiritual reprisals from their unknown and dark hideaways. These exotic, yet sinister individuals mostly worked for the politically corrupt elites, criminals and gangs. Thus by playing the powers-that-be, the juju man invariably escaped theresponsibility for causing social dysfunctions.

Rossow felt this was a potential aspect that was worth giving particular attention to, if only in terms of possible linkage.

But it was still confusing and whatever angle one took, it came back full circle. In Rossow's professional experience of police work, as original sin is the mother-fluid of historians, so is human malice the staple of crime. One can view it from an angle of calculation, or there are just people who commit crimes of passion or hatred. But then, once committed these characters just walk out, invariably not caring to cover their tracks.

This appeared not to be the case here.

"No quick fix" said Rossow.

"Last place that Tan & Kretzler were seen was the Club we just left."

"No option but to continue to visit, to mingle, to watch & see whats under any rocks we are obliged to lift and peer under."

[hillwalker]

A lot of background to assimilate in your latest posting, but as it's part of a novel rather than a short story it is acceptable to go to such lengths.

I just felt that last line of dialogue was a little awkward. I doubt that anyone would come out with such a long statement. It matches too much what has gone before - as if you are putting the writer's own words into the character's mouth (if that makes sense).

[MANICHAEAN]

Your right.
I was flagging at the end of this instalment.
But now having got a lot of the country/social/cultural background material out of the way, I hope to get more of a flow in future chapters & explore more the personal interelationships.
The problem is, if you dont lay those damm foundations, its too superficial once you start on the edifice. Unless of course you adopt the airy fairy floating on air mode, which I'm not overtly comfortable with.
Your pointers are a real boon by the way. Thanks.
M.

[MANICHAEAN]

THE NIGHT CLUB MANAGER.

Over the next few weeks, Rossow endeavoured to build up a close &, in the face of it, a surprisingly attainable relationship with the Club Manager, Obi Biston. The individual concerned was of a rotund & somewhat dubious disposition, as befits adequately the profession he had adopted. But he grew, apparently and genuinely, to enjoy the Englishman's company.

Rossow was a drinker. Likewise Biston, in spite of his weathered appearance, looked like and was a fellow traveller. He had the thickened and glossy skin, the too noticable facial veins, and the bright glitter in the eyes. There thus devoloped almost imperceptibily, a mutual male bonding affinity for the venial aspects of life whose foundations were securely laid in an appreciation of; good conversation, expensive alcohol & sassy looking women.

Let's just look for a moment at this aspect of Rossow's makeup. For some of the time he drank for the pure glow of it, at other times back in London with associates & bureaucrats, for more palpable results. Like few others, he was capable of staying canny while drinking, of keeping his head. Although- under the narrow interpretation of morality- this is never an excuse for carousing, it was in Rossow's nature to believe that you could drink with the devil and adjust the balance of evil over a snifter of cognac.It was not that he found more radical methods frightening. It was that they did not occur to him. He'd always been a man of transactions. The tried and tested mantra would always be to believe that the best way to untie any Gordian knot, short of bribery, was booze. As a sideline it also was a means of celebrating the general succulence of life.

In addition, almost as a bonus, Rossow had the characteristic salesman's gift of treating men he might have disliked as if they were spiritual brothers and it would decieve many so completely that they would always believe him a friend.

Obi Biston, apparently suitably decieved, found him refreshingly different from the standard sleazy underclass of night club patrons, in his lack of pretentiousness uncommen in a white man and his freewheeling, imaginative manner of conversation. As the relationship developed, the two invariably sat at the same table & exchanged confidences in whispered tones, from which Emelia, (playing the secondary role), was excluded.

"Next week I'm going up to my place in Kumasi for the week end" Biston informed.

"How about coming up as my guest? No need to bring Emelia" he suggested.

"A bit of variety will do you no harm. Rosee & Renee will be there" he murmered with a knowing look.

'Sounds good to me" Rossow replied.

"Look forward to seeing a bit more of the country."

Biston looked him in the eye again; nothing furtive about this drunk. But he had that empty feeling of having miscounted the trumps. No reason for it at all. Maybe it was the steely quality about the man. No whimper, no bluster, just the smile, the voice and the unforgetting eyes.

That evening at their customary debrief in the hotel, Emelia was apprehensive of his intentions.

"What if things go wrong, what backup?"

Rossow took her head in his hands and kissed her.

That night he worked her body with an intensity & an ardour that left them both with the physical & mental limpness of damp rags. She initially assumed the role of a compliant body offered up & her eyes remained closed. But as he worked away, she affected initially, reluctant small moans until the suppresion was too much & then she broke. The cries became screams as she lost control completely and collapsed on the bed face down, rivulets' of sweat lay like a channel on the indent of her spine & her body convulsed in a series of climaxes.

[MANICHAEAN]

KUMASI

The quartet of Biston, Rossow & the Twins arrived in the northern Ghana town of Kumasi on Friday evening, as the light crimson globe of the African sun disappeared with dying strength to somewhere below the skyline. As if the gods had thrown a switch, darkness followed hard on the heels of dusk, suitably accompanied by the insect night symphony.

Biston's SUV had been light and spacious as he had deftly guided it upcountry for the last three hours through chicken scratching villages with open sewers & non descript towns with even more non descript inhabitants. Rossow had sat insulated from this external reality, aimiably chatting with Biston in the front, while the fragrence of the two females behind had caressed their nostrils and their senses.

The house was on the outskirts of the gold mining hub of Kumasi central, situated behind high walls, the large iron gates guarded by a sinister Taurag from the north of Niger or Chad. Swathed in a long blue robe & a black head turban wrap, equipped with a crude sword & steel cable whip, he seemed to symbolize an earth bound angel of death.

The garden was rich in foliage and luxuriant in variety, obviously tendered on a regular basis. Once past the gate guard post, the main house structure came into view; spacious and two storeys with a balcony on the first floor and a tiled veranda on the ground. Burglar bars on every window.

Like most African households of any substance, it was organised. An elderly steward greeted them at the entrance and two muscular young boys were already emptying the SUV of luggage and carrying it to the rooms. No doubt in the background was a retinue of: cooks, house servants, gardeners and drivers somewhere around, all intent in making an impression on "Olga Obi" & his baturi guest.

Upstairs, Rossow was shown to his room. King sized bed in purple with crisp white sheets turned down, marble floor with beige rugs, soft bedside lamps & over adequate heavy drapes that led out onto the balcony & the Ghana night.

The dining room was substantial and impressive. There was a lot of teakwood and red lacquer. Gold frames glinted high up on the walls, and the ceiling was remote and vague, like the recent dusk of the hot day.

Over a traditional dish of egusi & pounded yam eaten by hand, Biston was noticeably more relaxed than normal. The outward facade of affability associated with running the night club were left three hours down the track in Accra. This is where he inhaled the provincial air, took the waters, did his thing & to Rossow, more importantly & with a bit of luck, let his guard down.

The girls looked great, spoke or murmured approvingly when appropriate by African standards to do so & added to that almost homely occasion an indespensible something that women of beauty have.

After dinner, the two men repaired on their own to the veranda where the steward brought two beers on a silver tray. Biston, ostensibly leaning to measure the coolness of the bottles with the rear of his hand, lowered his head towards Rossow conspiratorially.

"I'm glad you came up Gary. I like your company.
I would guess our tastes are very much the same."

Small red veins were visible on the periphery of his eyes.

"Thanks for inviting me Obi. It's always a pleasure to relax in good company" said Rossow with more than an element of conviction.

Biston leaned in even closer, almost as if the entire army of domestics were hidden in the bushes, metres from their feet, their ears attuned to the latest in gossip & intrigue that is the staple diet for those whose daily existence is lacking in excitement.

"Which of the girls would you like tonight?" Biston asked.

Rossow somewhat flippant, the result no doubt of the drink & a natural indolence replied; "If they are identical twins I really don't see the distinction!"

Biston gave a laugh deep in his leathery throat.

The drinks over, they rose like two soldiers embarking on a joint mission & warmly shook hands. They ascended the stairs to their respective bedrooms & shook hands again before parting, wishing each other good night.

[hillwalker]

I enjoyed this latest installment - particularly the way you decribe the African village (a touch of tropical exoticism always welcome in these parts this time of year).

I just might quibble over a couple of phrases that made me double-check :

the African sun disappeared with dying strength

I personally felt the word 'dying' didn't sit comfortably with 'strength', and

Biston's SUV had been light and spacious as he had deftly guided it upcountry

not sure the second 'had' is needed - and the entire description suggested to me that sometime later the SUV might no longer be 'light and spacious'

Me being Mr. Picky as usual. But an enjoyable read nontheless.

H