Juba Good (3 page)

The avocados here are great though, huge and as soft as butter. I eat a lot of avocados. Also a lot of peanut butter on white bread. I might even start to like white bread someday.

Today, I figured I deserved a treat. A late lunch at a nice place down by the river.

I signed out a car and drove to the Blue Nile.

The parking lot was mostly empty. The guard glanced at me as I drove in but otherwise didn't bother to stir himself from his hut.

The wind was high, and tent fabric rustled in the breeze. I took a table by the water, taking care to stay away from a grove of mango trees. Flying mangos can do real damage. Young boys, all skin and bones and gigantic eyes, snatched the fruit. A guard shouted at them to get away. Two women from the kitchen moved through the trees, picking mangos off the ground.

My waitress was a short woman with dark brown, not black, skin. A foreign worker, likely Ugandan. She gave me a smile that didn't touch her eyes. I ordered a beer and Nile perch with rice. It was nice in the shade, so I took off my hat.

When she brought the drink, I said, “I'm looking for a woman.”

A touch of disdain filled her eyes. I added quickly, “A particular woman, I mean. She might work here.” I described the dead woman. I pulled the red earring out of my pocket.

Something flashed across her face. She lowered her eyes. She shook her head and scurried away.

Past lunchtime, the restaurant was empty. A group of men, a mix of white and brown, sat at the bar. Judging by the noise, they'd been here for quite a while.

A different waitress brought my food. I described the dead woman. I got the same shake of the head and quick departure.

The beer was cold and the fish perfectly cooked. I watched the traffic on the river. Rickety rowboats, homemade canoes, a raft with a sail that might once have been a bedsheet, a rusty barge. A kayak rounded the corner. I recognized the two people paddling. Canadians who worked at the embassy. I grinned. Canadians and their canoes.

They were moving fast with the current, paddling more to steer than to provide speed. The kayak rounded the bend and disappeared.

“Can I get you anything more?” the waitress asked.

“No, thanks. Just the bill.”

We looked up at a burst of laughter from the bar. The female bartender had turned away from the men, her pretty face set in angry lines. My waitress threw the men a scowl that would curdle milk.

I put my money on the table, pinning it down with a salt shaker. I put my hat on my head and walked over to the bar. I stood at the far end from the group of drinkers. The bartender asked me what I wanted.

“Just to ask a question,” I said. I tried to sound friendly and not at all threatening. Again I described the dead woman and showed the earring. Again I got a negative reply. She hurried back to her customers.

I wandered around to the back of the building, following signs to the washrooms. I found them, and the kitchen, at the end of a dirt path.

Not being at all shy, I stuck my head in the kitchen door. Two men were resting on plastic stools, chatting. Their eyes widened at the sight of me.

“Hi,” I said. “I'm looking for someone who works here. Maybe you know her.”

Again I described the dead woman. I showed the earring.

“What are you doing in here?” an angry voice said behind me. I turned to see a man with short brown hair and a brown goatee. His cheeks were round and his chin wobbled. His skin was tanned the color of old leather. The permanent tan that meant a life spent in hot places.

“Ray Robertson. I'm with the UN, assigned to assist the local police.”

“I don't care who you are, mate. Get the hell out of my kitchen.”

“I'm…”

“You're bothering my staff, is what you're doing. The girls complained about you. Get lost, and don't come back.”

That took me aback. The staff had nothing to complain about. Maybe they didn't like my question. Maybe their boss didn't like my question.

“This is a police investigation.” I tried to sound as if I had some authority here.

“Rubbish. You're just interfering. Get out.”

“She's South Sudanese. Very pretty. I think this belongs to her.” I pulled the earring out of my pocket.

“I've never seen that piece of junk before. You'd better not be implying I run a whorehouse here.”

“I'm not implying anything. I'm asking a simple question.”

“I'm answering it. Get the hell out of my place.”

“Maybe you've seen her,” I said. Sometimes I don't know when to quit.

With a roar, he came at me. I'd seen his intention in his eyes the moment before he moved. I ducked. I heard the air move as his fist flew past my face.

The cooks leapt to their feet and scattered. My waitress stood in the doorway. Her eyes were round and white in her dark face. She screamed.

I came back swinging. The man squealed. He tried to get out of the way, but he was too slow. Not used to hitting someone who would fight back, I thought. I landed a solid punch in the middle of his flabby belly. He gasped, let out a puff of air and bent over. I stepped back, startled at what I'd done.

Then strong arms were on mine. I was marched out of the kitchen. Two security guards. Tall and lean. The sort of leanness that means hard and fast. They didn't try to beat me up or sneak in a punch or two. Just frog-marched me down the path to the parking lot. They shoved me against my vehicle and then stood back, watching me. They hadn't said a word.

“I get the point,” I said. A gust of wind ruffled my hair. Of which I don't have much. I'd lost my hat in the scuffle. I liked that hat. The guards turned and walked away.

The little waitress came running down the path. She waved my hat toward the guards. They nodded and she approached me. Keeping her eyes down, she held the hat out.

“Thank you,” I said.

“I know her,” she said, her voice very low. “Judy. She works here, in the kitchen, washing dishes. At night, sometimes she comes back. With men. Men like”—she tossed her head toward the bar—“those ones.”

She slipped away. I got into my car and drove home.

Chapter
Six

I had that night off. I'd arranged to meet some visiting Canadian army guys at Notos for dinner.

The place was packed when I arrived. Shirley was behind the bar. Jazz was playing. Cooks tended fires. Waitresses carried trays of food. Spices filled the warm night air. Jake and Ron waved when they saw me come in. They already had bottles of local beer open in front of them. Marlene greeted me with a wide smile and took my order. I thought how different this place was from the Blue Nile.

Two men sat at the table next to ours, devouring pizza. One man was as white as a piece of paper. He had pale blond hair and eyes the color of Arctic ice. The other was jet black. The black man said something and the white one laughed.

Maybe this country had promise after all.

We ordered our food and were catching up on the news when a group of six men arrived. They swaggered in, puffed up with their own self-importance. Government officials. I recognized two senior police officers.

Marlene rushed to serve them. Her real smile was gone, replaced with a tight one. A flash of fear filled her warm brown eyes.

The men made a big show of laughing too loud, shouting for drinks. One of them put his hand on Marlene's ample butt. She flinched but did not pull away.

“Little Hitlers,” Jake muttered into his beer. “The curse of Africa.”

We went back to our food and conversation.

“Morning comes early,” Ron said at last. He waved for the bill.

The restaurant had largely emptied out. After making sure we all knew how important they were, the hotshots had quieted down. They kept Marlene on the go. I hoped they'd leave her a big tip. But I doubted it. Not unless they wanted something in return. Something more than good food and friendly service.

Jake and Ron started counting out their money. I saw the guy who'd been free with his hands push himself away from the table. He'd been watching Marlene most of the night. Now she was disappearing into the back, loaded down with dirty dishes.

The big man stood up and followed. The kitchen, I knew, was not in the same direction as the washrooms.

“Be right back,” I said.

The kitchen was accessed by an outside path. This is common in places where you don't often worry about rain. And never about sleet or snow. The building was on one side of the path. A high concrete wall topped with razor wire was on the other.

I stood in the dark, listening.

A squeal of surprise. A soft grunt. Then a low cry, cut off.

“We're leaving now,” I said loudly. I rounded the corner. “I wanted to say 'bye.”

The big man had tiny Marlene pressed up against the wall. His knee was between her legs and his right hand over her mouth.

“Gee, sorry,” I said, “Did I interrupt something?”

He stepped back. Marlene ducked out from under his arm. She adjusted her shirt, which had become untucked. “Ray!” she said brightly. “I'll be right with you.”

She fled back to the lights of the bar.

The man looked at me. He said nothing.

“Have a nice evening,” I said.

I went back to our table. I suggested Jake and Ron have another beer.

After a couple of minutes, the big man returned. He was strutting and laughing too loudly. He did not sit down, and he and his friends soon left.

Chapter
Seven

The encounter between Marlene and the government official played on my mind for a night. Sure, attempted rape happens anywhere. Far too often. But it bothered me that he'd try it in a public place. With a table of his pals a few feet away. Little Hitlers, indeed. It didn't look good for democracy if the people were afraid of the officials.

Over the next few days, I pretty much forgot about it, as well as the murdered women. My departure and holiday with Jenny were fast approaching.

But I couldn't forget for long. A few nights after the incident at Notos, I was again on patrol with Deng. We got a call. Another one.

A woman. Body dumped in the same place. A white ribbon around her neck.

In Canada, we'd stake out the site. Maybe we'd dangle a couple of policewomen as bait. But here, they just didn't have the manpower. Or, probably, much interest in a bunch of dead hookers.

Then again, I couldn't be too quick to judge. Police in Vancouver had ignored reports of missing Native women for a long time.

A security guard stood by the side of the road, waiting for us. Deng and I climbed out of the truck, and we all shook hands. Then the guard gestured to the body. It lay face down in the dust, against the wall. She was South Sudanese, six feet or more tall and very slim. She was dressed for a night out, in a flowered yellow blouse and flowing blue skirt. I thought the outfit was quite pretty.

Deng grunted.

She wore one high-heeled shoe.

Deng pointed to the other a few feet away.

The white ribbon around her neck fluttered in the breeze.

This time something was different. The ribbon wasn't tied killing-tight. And a knife was stuck into her back.

Deng and I crouched on either side of the body. Blood soaked the beautiful yellow blouse and the ground around her. Dogs and bugs would have a feast tonight.

“Tell me what this means, Ray,” Deng said.

“At a guess, she saw what was coming and tried to get away. He panicked and lashed out. Or maybe he's not having enough fun strangling them anymore. I don't know.”

“Bad business,” the security guard said.

I looked up at him. “Did you hear anything? See anything?”

“No.”

“Are you sure? It happened not long ago.” At a guess, she hadn't been dead for more than an hour.

“I was at my post.” He managed to sound insulted. “I saw nothing. I heard nothing. It is not my job to watch the street.”

My knee protested as I pushed myself back up. I went to the truck and found a plastic shopping bag. It wasn't a proper evidence bag, but it would do.

I leaned over the woman. I pulled the knife out. It came away easily. Not much blood flowed with it. I held the knife up for Deng to see. It was long and not particularly sharp. But sharp enough. A kitchen knife. The sort you'd use to cut up a piece of tough meat before tossing it into the pot.

I signaled to Deng to flip her over. Sightless eyes stared up at us. “Have you seen this woman before?” I asked the guard.

“No.”

I thanked him for calling us. He ambled away, back to his post.

I briefly wondered if the guard had killed the woman. To give him something to do on a long, boring night.

I didn't feel like stuffing the body into the truck to take it away. Instead, I told Deng to phone one of his colleagues to come and do it. Trainer's privilege, I call it.

Deng made the call. Then he said, “Always this place. Why, Ray?”

“Like the meaning of the ribbon, I don't know. Something to do with water, maybe.”

Deng looked around. This was, after all, a residential street. Most of the houses might be made of tin and cardboard, but people lived in them.

He didn't have to ask why the killer didn't take the women, or their bodies, out of town. South Sudan is a post-conflict society. Still heavily militarized. Still at war with its former masters to the north.

Anyone driving out of the city at night had a good chance of being stopped. Probably detained.

I pushed myself to my feet. My knees creaked. “Let's see what we can find out.”

Deng's eyebrows rose.

“Maybe someone saw something this time.” I doubted we'd learn anything, but Deng needed to learn some interview skills.

We worked our way up the street. A guard was posted at the offices of a Japanese business on the corner. Also at Notos and the townhouse complex. People were still awake. Squatting in the dust or resting in plastic chairs by their cooking fires. Dirty-faced children pointed at me, laughed and called, “Khawaja.” White person.