Burley Cross Postbox Theft (15 page)

I’m experiencing a few health problems at the moment, I’m afraid. There’s been a certain amount of chest pain, and my memory is certainly not what it once was… I’m unsure what the family history is in this regard. I’d love to find out (an incipient strain of dementia in the blood line, or a major history of heart issues would undoubtedly be of interest). Do you have any comparable health problems yourself?

It can be so difficult for us orphans to track down this kind
of information. I find it’s one of the major downsides of being an orphan, in fact. But let’s not harp on, endlessly, about my piddling health concerns – it’s Christmas, after all, a time for joy! I mustn’t be too much of a misery-guts – Bah, Humbug and all that!

[
I’ve opted to ‘reconfigure’ the structure of the letter at this stage, to bring all of ‘Lokele’s’ health worries into a single paragraph. I think we could say I’ve ‘condensed’ them to a degree. He does have quite a tendency to witter on about this stuff
.

I don’t imagine the information involved will be of much significance to his case, overall. I have the distinct feeling that he’s probably a bit of a hypochondriac. That said, if you’re planning a surprise arrest – e.g. smashing down his door in the middle of the night; plucking him, unannounced, from his bed – and he suddenly starts panting and clutching at his chest… Well… consider yourself forewarned!

While ‘Lokele’ is undoubtedly a bit of an old whinger, I must, nevertheless, commend him for his spirited attempt to try and turn things around towards the end of the last paragraph. Christmas is a time of joy. Absolutely.]

My wife finally died…

[The
word ‘Lokele’ actually uses is ‘gone’, – i.e. ‘my wife has gone…’ – so she could easily have done a runner with his ‘stash’, I suppose.]

I’ve been pretty broken-up about it, actually, although I won’t pretend – least of all to you – that things were ‘picture perfect’ between us. I’m trying to focus on the positive. Her passing was definitely a ‘blessed relief’ for all parties by the end.

[Good attitude. No use crying over spilt milk, as they say.]

To try and cheer myself up, I headed off to The Gambia for a spot of winter sun…

[There’s a brief phase in the letter here where ‘Lokele’ starts reminiscing, incomprehensibly, about his ‘escape’ from the Congo many years ago on an illegal fishing trawler. He had to work his passage and the captain treated him rather shoddily, it would seem. The boat has since sunk, he says, but he’s not crying any tears over it
.

This section is completely out of context and gets in the way of the main thrust of the narrative, so I’ve opted to delete it, although – of course – it’s my professional duty to make a quick, passing reference to it.]

… I ended up in Banjul. It’s a charming place but the beach isn’t all it might be (too close to the big port and all those shipping lines for my tastes).

[I’ve heard this complaint about Banjul before. I’ve also heard – on the BBC’s World Service – that homosexuality has lately been outlawed in The Gambia. From this we can deduce that our suspect isn’t ‘that way inclined’. We are dealing with ‘a man’s man’ in other words.]

I tried to make the best of it, just the same, parading up and down the beach in my natty swimsuit and panama hat (I’m not in bad condition, physically, and like to think I cut quite a dash, even if I say so myself!).

[He’s either unusually well-preserved, ridiculously vain or utterly deluded – and in this respect bears a startling resemblance to every other middle-aged man I’ve ever met!]

The night life was lively, although sometimes everything does feel a tad dated – like you’re trapped inside some sordid television serial from the 1970s; all big-collared shirts and flared trousers!

[Welcome to Africa, ‘Lokele’, welcome to Africa. The suspect is extremely arrogant and judgemental.]

The staff at the hotel were very friendly. They quickly got to know all of my little habits – my regular evening tipple, the kind of fish I prefer at dinner… They referred to me as ‘The Congolese’ among themselves…

[
Oh-ho! A code name, perchance?]

In the end I would’ve quite liked to stay on a while longer, but my flight was pre-booked so it simply wasn’t possible…

[
Pre-booked? Or was there, perhaps, a vicious, square-jawed, gun-toting, Russian thug at the other end of your flight keenly awaiting an illicit ‘delivery’ of some kind, eh, ‘Lokele’?!]

… I’d barely had the opportunity to check out Banjul’s legendary market, which is apparently second to none (full of an amazing array of coloured cloths, leather goods, seafood stalls etc.) …

[
As a matter of interest, there are some fabulous photographic images of Banjul’s famous market on the internet. It does look wonderful. ‘Lokele’ obviously really missed out.]

Shocking as this may sound, I met a girl on holiday. She was a lovely, little thing, quiet, very modest…

[
Muslim]

… who I called The Girl with the Dotted Scarf…

[
Another code name! Has to be! This girl was plainly instrumental in ‘the drop’. Although it’s just conceivably possible that she was actually the girlfriend/wife of the local gangster ‘Lokele’ was dealing with – in which case: Ouch! You’re playing with fire, there, ‘Lokele’. Back off, my friend, if you know what’s good for you!]

I beat myself up a little, emotionally, about moving on so quickly (although nothing physical took place) …

[I
should hardly think it would! She’s in purdah, you lunatic! And she’s married to a hooligan from the Gambian Underworld!]

It’s always been my philosophy, Brother, that a man needs to keep a little something back in matters relating to the heart. Don’t throw out the baby with the bath-water, in other words. Stay cool and collected. Show restraint. There’s no point charging in with all guns blazing…

[Not if you’re hoping to get out of The Gambia alive, eh, ‘Lokele’?!]

Play things cool, but always try to be a gentleman. Pay special attention to her needs. Make her feel cherished. Ask if she wants extra ice in her drink, pull out her chair for her – perform all these basic acts of chivalry, but still guard your heart carefully. Don’t give yourself over entirely – or you’re asking to be hurt. Show a measure of restraint, but still try to be gallant…

[I
can’t fault ‘Lokele’ on his dating techniques.]

Consistency is often the key, I find. Don’t make the error of giving away too much up front – or of making too many rash promises which you won’t be able to keep. The ‘hearts and roses’ stuff never lasts that long. What you need to build are strong foundations.

Relationships aren’t ever easy, Brother. They take a lot of hard work.

[Yes. And I should certainly know, thirty years on
…]

I must confess to having been less than ‘the perfect spouse’, on occasions. It horrifies me when I consider the ‘merry dance’ I’ve led the many women in my life. And to think what a good, Catholic boy I once was (always the first to lead the procession into mass)! Well, that certainly didn’t stop me from ‘putting it about’ a fair bit.

How I cringe when I think of how selfish and arrogant I was back then!

You were quite a ‘ladies’ man’ yourself, as I recall. I suppose some of it might have rubbed off on me over the years. And let’s not forget my highly developed sexual drive – that’s also played its part.

Let’s make no bones about it, Brother: I’ve been a horny devil in my time. But I regret it deeply now, more than you will ever realize…

I suppose what I’m trying to say, in my own, clumsy, roundabout way, is that it’s important to know yourself – what you’re capable of, emotionally – and to conduct yourself accordingly. Don’t make too many rash promises. Don’t give your partner false hopes. Be up front about your fallibilities. Communication is the key, and honesty…

[Thanks, Dr Phil. Can we move on now?]

Just try and be yourself…

[Obviously not…
]

Hopefully she’ll still manage to love you with all your faults…

[‘Lokele’ gets distracted again at this point and starts talking about a bad Tour Guide he had on holiday who led him astray. It’s pretty much just gobbledegook. I can’t even decipher whether he means ‘astray’ in a geographical or a moral sense – although my instinct is to plumb with the latter. I don’t imagine that this is anything that need concern either the moral or the actual police, Detective. Boys will be boys etc.]

But enough of me wittering on about my holiday. I must be boring you stiff with it by now!

[
You don’t say!]

Something that might actually pique your interest, however…

[I
wouldn’t bet on it!]

… is that I have started carving again. I say ‘again’, although you were always the better carver, eh?

[The texture of the language here precludes me from telling whether he actually means ‘carving’ as in ‘woodwork’ or ‘carving’ as in ‘mercilessly butchering an unfortunate adversary – or any other innocent individual he might randomly happen across – with a lethally sharp weapon’. A switchblade instantly springs to mind, or one of those large, African knives sometimes referred to as a ‘panga’
.

‘Lokele’ the brutal assassin, eh? This is certainly a most disturbing thought.]

I have been greatly influenced in this ‘life change’ by a new friend, Tilly, an English doctor. She’s very wild, very tough, with skin like bark…

[I
think the simile he’s really grasping for here – bless him – is ‘skin as thick as a rhino’s hide’, i.e. she’s highly insensitive, in other words.]

… She’s certainly ‘one of the boys’. We have a great rapport between us. She’s very discreet, and can definitely be trusted…

[Narcotics! Bingo! The penny finally drops! So this woman doctor is his new accomplice – they’re dealing counterfeit drugs together – and ‘Lokele’ is obviously very keen for his degenerate brother to make her acquaintance. This ‘Tilly’ is part of a criminal gang which includes a woman who is known only as her ‘sister’; in African parlance this isn’t necessarily a blood relation, ‘sister’ is generally a colloquial phrase for ‘pal’ or ‘mucker’. The sister happens to be friends with an old gang warlord called ‘The Reverend’, who ‘Lokele’ doesn’t entirely trust… Possibly he’s had
problems with The Reverend before
… But I’m getting ahead of myself, here…]

Tilly has a ‘sister’, a bodyguard of sorts, who is powerful as an ox. She’s the ‘moll’ of a man they like to call ‘The Reverend’. This man is a brute, very violent. He puts me in mind of Francis, that thug we knew when we were young upstarts in Kinshasa who used to beat us, mercilessly, at the drop of a hat.

After you did a runner and I joined the Congolese Police Force…

[
A corrupt insider! It gets worse!]

… I helped to bring about his undoing…

[I
say ‘undoing’ but the word he uses is ‘dispatch’ – as in ‘I dispatched him’. The language is very ‘sticky’ though, very ‘opaque’, and – in all good conscience - I don’t feel entirely comfortable in pushing the point any further than I already have.]

A few weeks ago, while I was carving in the kitchen…

[Terrifying thought! Such macabre images spring to mind! Although I think he is actually just doing some woodwork on this occasion, Detective.]

… ‘Reverend’ Horwood paid me a visit…

[
You’ll already be very familiar with this notorious individual I should imagine.]

…and expressed a great interest in my work…

[
Turf war! Not a shadow of a doubt. Horwood plainly already has a counterfeit narcotics ring operating in the area
…

I do think it only fair to warn you that from this point onwards the narrative becomes very ‘psychedelic’. The language is far more
esoteric and abstruse, with a slight whiff of ‘the occult’ about it. I don’t think this is just an accident, either. It’s ‘Lokele’ truly ‘coming into himself’. All marks of civilization gradually drop away as he begins ‘talking jive’ or ‘the language of the “hood”’.]

I happened to be putting the finishing touches to a figure on a cross, a ‘nkondi’ …

[I have left the word ‘nkondi’ untranslated because there is no real English equivalent for it. A ‘nkondi’ is a kind of traditional Congolese wooden sculpture which is held to have magical and spiritual powers. They are usually about three feet high and can be found planted in clearings in the Congolese jungle, usually clustered into small groups
.

There is absolutely no doubt in my mind at this point that ‘Lokele’ is carving these objects, hollowing them out, and then filling the insides with illegal, narcotic substances – fashioning a kind of African ‘Trojan Drug Horse’, in other words.]

… Horwood was very impressed by the standard of my work. He had a good look at it, smiled at me, somewhat intimidatingly, then gestured towards it and asked if he could take it away with him…

[A line delivered at gunpoint, I’ll be bound – although this fact isn’t made explicit.]

There was little I could really do but oblige him. I warned him that the sculpture wasn’t finished yet. I even went so far as to suggest that it had latent, supernatural powers. Horwood wasn’t buying any of it, though…

[‘Lokele’ says some stuff about banging nails into the chest of the figure he’s carved. In this manner the ‘nkondi’ traditionally becomes
a kind of ‘fetish’ or voodoo doll. Try not to be too alarmed by this idea, Detective. There’s nothing remotely controversial about it. Most Congolese sculpture is held to have such properties.]

… he just grabbed the sculpture and carried it off to his ‘church’ where he displayed it in full public view.

[‘Church’ or ‘gang hideout’, i.e. the natural extension of the ‘Reverend’ metaphor.]

I can’t pretend I wasn’t fairly ticked-off by this development…

[
Horwood made ‘Lokele’ look ‘a pussy’, in other words – out on the streets, where these things really count. ‘Lokele’ is now in danger of losing the respect of the wider criminal fraternity. Respect – as you will know – is everything to people of this ilk.]