Treachery in the Yard Read Online Free Page A

keeping control—it was as vital to Nigeria as keeping the oil wells pumping. The State Police had made certain their offices were housed in the largest building in the complex, towering over the old Colonial Police Force building—the new power overshadowing the old. The top floor offices were palatial in comparison to the original offices: more spacious, fitted with air conditioners, modern furniture, and plants. They even had secretaries. In sharp contrast was my stuffy ten-by-eight-foot space, located just across the Yard. My office was barely large enough to contain two old desks, five chairs (three of which you could sit in without any appreciable risk), and a filing cabinet longing for retirement. At least I had room enough to stretch my legs, which was more than what most of my colleagues had.
    The lower cadre police officials who did the actual work were still housed in the old offices. Myself, for example: Detective Tamunoemi Peterside, Lieutenant, Homicide.
    Homicide was busy. Although unemployment was a major issue in Nigeria, I did not have to worry about my own fate—Port Harcourt ensured Homicide was always busy.
    I was relaxed as I went through the security check at the outside gate and then drove past the old block of offices to the newer one across the Yard. I pulled my car up within a few feet of the new building’s front steps. Blocking the front steps a bit was my way of making a statement. Why use the parking lot? That was for someone else, and I was not someone else. Does that sound arrogant? Iam not sure you can be a Homicide detective without some arrogance flowing in your veins.
    Captain Godwin Akpan responded quite strongly the first time I parked in front. He was forced to walk around my car, which he thought demeaning. He threatened to write me up for insubordination—“the unruly act of blocking the entrance.” But he only threatened. When he saw that the threats did no good, and that I continued to park in front of the stairs, he let it go. He really had no choice. I was not going to budge and he was a pragmatic fellow. I liked him, but his insistence on going by the rules always got in my way.
    Akpan was a model police officer. He took himself seriously and followed his own standard of being a “good cop.” He was also too self-confident and aggressive, and could be very demanding and critical. You usually knew where you stood with him. He was straightforward with his staff. Although he was often a pain in the ass, we still had a good enough relationship.
    When he let it go, I responded politely: I followed the silent protocol and whenever I parked and got out of my car, I did not smile. It is not the Nigerian way to rub it in. Parking in front of the steps is one thing, grinning about it quite another. Though it might be good to try it once just to see what happened . . .
    I saw Barrister Howell Osamu, of Osamu and Associates, walk out of our building and toward a new Lexus Jeep. The SUV looked like it had all the extras. Lucky man, he. Did his luck make him wealthy, or did his wealth make him lucky? Or did luck have nothing to do with it?
    Quite a legend Osamu was—famous for saving Barigha Duncan from jail time. Duncan was the boss of the organized crime syndicate in Port Harcourt, the Duncan family. His mistress diedin his house one night after he brought her home from a club. Word was he suspected her of cheating on him. When he confronted her, she denied it. In the ensuing discussion, she suffered massive damage to her head, which killed her instantly. Duncan was smart enough to call Osamu, a budding lawyer trying to make his mark in Port Harcourt. Osamu had already won some important cases, putting him in demand in and around Port Harcourt, but he had been waiting for the Big One, and the Barigha Duncan case was it.
    The state attorney hurriedly prepared the case, assuming he’d have no problem, given that Duncan had been alone with the