The Cellar (16 page)

Not we, Master …
you
.

But I can do nothing while you keep me prisoner and deny me access to my phone and my laptop. I assume it’s your way of punishing me but it’s hardly clever. You can’t stay here without me.

Muna knew this to be true. She dreamed often of pitching Ebuka down the cellar steps but she recognised that his death would cause more problems than it solved. However much she wanted the house to herself, she could think of no good explanation for why her crippled father would leave without her or how he could make a journey on his own. All manner of busybodies would come asking questions – the witchy-white more than anyone.

Also she doubted her ability to drag Ebuka’s heavy, lifeless body into the second chamber when it had been so hard to move Olubayo’s. The boy, still grateful for her kindness after his seizure, had followed her downstairs in the middle of the night when she told him Yetunde had left a message on the landline that his father didn’t want him to hear.

Olubayo was very stupid. Muna persuaded him to descend in silence and darkness so that Ebuka wouldn’t wake, and, yawning constantly, he didn’t see the open cellar door or the hammer that smashed against the side of his head. He fell and tumbled to the Devil’s laughter just as his mother had, and Muna thrilled to see him crumpled on the stone floor when she switched on the light.

She crept down the steps, eager to remind him that she’d said she hadn’t wanted him for a brother. But he was dead, and the job of dragging and rolling his limp body to the hidden door was arduous and tiring, leaving blood trails on the stones which had to be cleaned and carefully covered with dust when they were dry. Of course little Muna did it well. She did everything well, but she would have to be bigger and stronger before she could do the same with Ebuka.

Did you ever try to punish Yetunde? Ebuka asked suddenly.

I would if I’d been able, Master, but she was too big for someone as small as me. You’d have found me dead on the floor if I’d tried. She came close to killing me many times.

Ebuka gave a weary sigh, knowing she was right. She made monsters of us all the day she went to the orphanage, he said. She found your name in an old newspaper, which is why she was able to forge documents, claiming a relationship with you.

Why was I in the newspaper, Master?

Your mother was murdered when you were four years old. The nuns took you in and gave you a home.

Why don’t I remember my mother, Master?

Your experience was traumatic. You cradled her head in your lap for three days before neighbours came to check on you. The smell of death alerted them that something was wrong.

I have no recollection of it, Master.

Shock robbed you of speech and memory. The nuns described you as the most silent child they’d ever had, and advised Princess you would never be able to communicate fully. It was they who suggested you might have suffered brain damage at birth.

Did they find the murderer, Master?

Ebuka shook his head. Your mother knew many men. The police were never able to discover which of them killed her.

Did they try, Master?

Not as hard as they should. She brought shame on herself by the way she earned her money.

Muna pictured the naked women on Olubayo’s computer. Princess said my mother was her sister, Master.

Only because it suited her purpose. She spun a story about a second wife who allowed her daughter to go to the bad and lose contact with the rest of the family. She told the nuns she’d only recently learned that your mother was dead. If she’d known earlier, she’d have rescued you sooner. She lied well and they believed her.

Who is my father, Master?

I don’t know. The neighbours said your mother didn’t either.

Muna’s unblinking eyes stared at him. Why are you telling me this, Master?

Because it’s better you know your story before the police do. There’ll be no keeping secrets once we’re forced from this house. It’s only the walls that have kept the truth hidden so long.

Nineteen

Muna showed no expression when she opened the front door and found Inspector Jordan and Mrs Hughes on the doorstep. But her heart churned with anger. Ebuka had betrayed her. When she’d brought him his mobile, he’d said his calls would be to his employer and the Housing Officer at the council, and she’d believed him. She chastised herself now for not noticing that he never addressed the people he spoke to by name.

The Inspector looked past her into the hall. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Songoli. Did you intend us to come at the same time or would you rather one of us went away and came back later?’

Ebuka brought his chair to a halt. ‘It was intentional,’ he said. ‘Mrs Hughes can substantiate what I’m about to tell you. Let the ladies in, Muna.’

I will not, Master. I don’t want them here.

He moved alongside her so that she couldn’t shut the door. ‘You must speak in English,’ he urged. ‘Mrs Hughes knows you’re fluent but it’s impolite to let the Inspector think you don’t understand what’s being said.’

Muna dropped a small curtsey. ‘I’m sorry, lady. Dada teaches me new words each day but I still find my own language easier. I’m glad to see you again.’

Inspector Jordan examined her curiously, and Muna experienced the same thrill of fear that she’d felt the first time she’d met her. She’d forgotten how piercing the blue eyes were – as all-seeing as Mrs Hughes’s – and she shuddered to think that both whites could read what was in her mind. She stepped aside to let them in and listened solemnly while Ebuka asked her to go to the kitchen to make some tea.

‘I don’t think I should, Dada. You can’t leave the shameful bits out of Mamma’s story if you’re to tell it properly. It would be better if I explained why she left.’

‘I still want you to make tea, Muna.’

‘There’s no need,’ Inspector Jordan murmured. ‘I’d like to hear what your daughter has to say. You told me on the phone it was urgent, Mr Songoli.’

‘It is,’ he said excitedly. ‘I believe my wife is dead.’

Ebuka had never learned patience. If he’d wanted to be believed, he should have told his story slowly and with guile as Muna always did. Both whites looked doubtful as they followed him into the sitting room, though perhaps it was his agitation that was worrying them. His eyes bulged alarmingly as he thrust the credit-card statement into the Inspector’s hands, maintaining forcefully that if Yetunde were alive, there would be more transactions than a couple of purchases from the local supermarket.

‘At the very least there should be charges from five-star hotels and department stores,’ he insisted. ‘She stays in the best accommodation and buys clothes and jewellery when she’s angry.’

The Inspector took a seat to put herself on his level. ‘You need to calm yourself and start again, Mr Songoli. At the moment I can’t see why a piece of paper means your wife’s dead. Do I gather she’s left you?’

‘I thought she had,’ he said impatiently, ‘but I changed my mind when I saw the statement.’

‘You said she was angry. Did you have an argument?’

‘A small one but it has no bearing on why she hasn’t used her credit card.’

‘What did your daughter mean by “shameful bits”?’

Muna sat on the sofa with her head down, a picture of timidity as she’d been on the night of Abiola’s disappearance, and listened to Ebuka try to minimise his confrontation with Yetunde. Foolish man. It hadn’t occurred to him that Inspector Jordan would be as interested in the reasons for Yetunde’s departure as her apparent failure to use her credit card. If such a thought had crossed his mind, he would never have invited the witchy-white.

He expected Mrs Hughes to speak only of his anxiety for Yetunde – reminding her of his tears and distress – but she shook her head apologetically and told the Inspector that Mr Songoli’s fight with his wife had been so violent she’d urged him to call the police.

She described Ebuka’s bruises, his reluctance to re-enter the house, his relief to find it empty. She talked of the hoist being in the hall and track marks on the carpet where Mr Songoli had tried to pull himself towards his bedroom. She said she could confirm that Mrs Songoli had left because she went upstairs to check the bedrooms. She’d done the same after Olubayo’s departure when Muna had come to her house, begging for help because her father was so distraught.

‘Have you forgotten what you told my husband that evening?’ she asked Ebuka. ‘That your wife planned both exits? You were very upset about it … said she blamed you for Abiola’s disappearance, and your relationship had suffered as a result.’

Ebuka gave his jaw a violent rub. ‘That was before I knew she wasn’t using her card. She can’t live without it.’

The Inspector placed her finger on the page. ‘She’s bought four hundred pounds’ worth of food.’

‘Someone has,’ he agreed. ‘But not Yetunde.’

The words and the way he was staring at Muna had meaning for Mrs Hughes. She stirred as if preparing to speak again but Muna raised her head in order to answer first. ‘There was nothing to eat after Mamma left,’ she told Inspector Jordan, ‘so I took the smartphone to my friend Mrs Hughes and asked her to teach me to use it. It’s how Mamma always bought our food. I wanted to please Dada. He doesn’t think men should be troubled with kitchen work.’

The Inspector looked enquiringly at Mrs Hughes who gave a small nod. ‘How did you get your mother’s card?’

‘I didn’t, lady. I remembered the moves she made with her finger each time she used her phone for shopping.’ Muna placed her hand on the sofa and mimicked tapping a screen. ‘I can’t read numbers but I know the order the little boxes have to be touched, and that’s all that’s necessary to make the white van come. Mrs Hughes will tell you how well I can do it.’

Mrs Hughes gave another nod. ‘I’ve never come across a child with such an agile mind. She can memorise any sequence.’ She turned to Ebuka. ‘It makes me wonder why you thought it right to keep her out of school, Mr Songoli. I’d hazard a guess her IQ’s well above average.’

‘You had no business helping her,’ he retorted angrily. ‘She let me think my wife was alive. When I called the credit-card company, they said the card was being used. Muna could have told me the truth then … but she didn’t.’

The Inspector handed back the statement. ‘Muna couldn’t know hers were the only purchases,’ she said. ‘If you assumed Mrs Songoli was spending money then so would she. It’s easy to be wise after the event.’ She glanced at Muna. ‘Why didn’t you admit it this morning when the bill arrived?’

‘I was afraid to, lady. I knew Dada would be angry.’

‘I’m not angry,’ Ebuka growled, his tone contradicting his words. ‘I’m worried.’ He tapped the page. ‘This doesn’t make sense. I know my wife.’

‘Are you sure, sir? Her assault seems to have taken you by surprise. Are you going to tell me why she lost her temper? Did it have something to do with Abiola’s disappearance?’

Ebuka didn’t answer immediately, but when he did he echoed the excuse Muna had given Mrs Hughes. Perhaps he’d come to believe it himself. ‘In a way. I wanted Muna to take me into the garden and I urged her to put on Abiola’s anorak and boots because they were close at hand in the cloakroom. Yetunde became distressed when she saw her.’

‘Is that all?’

‘It’s all I remember.’

The Inspector wasn’t convinced. ‘There must have been something more, sir. Violence against a person comes from pent-up rage, not momentary sadness. It’s close and personal to pull a man from his chair and kick him in the head. It speaks more of longstanding resentment than distress.’

Ebuka crushed one fist inside the other. ‘It makes no difference. The issue is why Yetunde isn’t using her card, not why she left. How are she and my son living if they’re not running up credit?’

‘She has another source of income … a bank account you don’t know about.’

Ebuka shook his head. ‘Not possible. I was the only breadwinner.’

‘Did you give her an allowance?’

‘A little cash from time to time, otherwise she charged everything to account. I settled the bills by cheque. It’s what caused the arguments after my accident. How were we going to live if I couldn’t work?’

‘Who wrote the cheques when you were in hospital?’

A look of weary resignation entered Ebuka’s eyes. ‘I signed blanks.’

‘And gave them to your wife to fill in?’

‘There was no other choice. It was a long journey to the rehabilitation centre and Yetunde didn’t want to be away from the house for so long. She said it was because of Olubayo’s epilepsy but’ – his voice faltered – ‘she found my condition harder to accept than I did.’

‘I’m sorry,’ the Inspector said with genuine sympathy. ‘It was a difficult time for both of you. Abiola’s loss was still raw, and it can’t have helped either of you to suffer months of separation afterwards.’ She leaned forward. ‘You need to speak to your bank … find out who the cheques were made out to. If Mrs Songoli wrote them to cash, you’ll have a problem, but a good private investigator may be able to trace her. It’s not something the police can help you with, I’m afraid.’

Ebuka stared at the floor for several seconds. When he spoke next it was in Hausa. Did Princess keep money in the house while I was in hospital?

Muna wondered if he was trying to trick her. Had he forgotten the rows he’d had with Yetunde about writing cheques to ‘cash’? She hadn’t understood the meaning at the time, but she believed she did now after listening to Inspector Jordan. Was it better to pretend ignorance or knowledge?

You know she did, Master. You threw a letter from the bank at her after you came home and told her she was stupid to think turning cheques into money could hide how much she’d spent.

What did she buy with it?

Muna thought of the heavy gold chains that hung around Yetunde’s sagging neck in the cellar. She had boasted to Olubayo about the clever deals she’d struck in the open-air Asian markets, refusing to listen to his warnings about Ebuka’s fury when he found out. Gold was a good investment, Yetunde had said. If the case for compensation failed, she would have something of value to sell. And for once it would be the husband asking the wife for money instead of the other way round.