A Darkening Stain Read Online Free PDF Page A

company called La Cote Oueste. Looks like a crook too.’
    â€˜They’re all crooks. How long have I got?’
    â€˜Ages. Ten minutes?’
    I hung up. The
gardien
came in with the best thing of the morning and I gave him a tip to go and buy his
bouille,
the wet sugary bird food they like to eat for breakfast. I gave him some extra to go and find a girl to clean the office up properly too. I drank coffee and fluffed eating the croissant badly so it was all over me when Polly called back.
    â€˜That was quick,’ I said.
    â€˜Only because we’ve been working the ship for Marnier’s company, loading cotton seed.’
    â€˜The
Kluezbork II
?’
    â€˜You’ve heard?’
    â€˜I was on it yesterday afternoon.’
    â€˜They think the crew did it and they were going to throw them to the sharks when they got out to sea.’
    â€˜That’s not logical, Polly.’
    â€˜That’s the rumour.’
    Bagado’s machine working already.
    â€˜You got anything sensible or interesting on Marnier?’
    â€˜He imports veg oil in drums and bottles it here in Cotonou to sell locally. He exports cotton seed and fibre. Somebody said he’s done cashew but I don’t remember the name La Côte Oueste. I’ve heard he does business out of Lomé and Abidjan too. That’s it.’
    â€˜Well, that all sounds very legal to me.’
    â€˜He doesn’t
have
to be a crook.’
    â€˜The people I know he’s dealing with say he does,’ I said. ‘Anyway, thanks. When’s your birthday?’
    â€˜You missed it.’
    â€˜I’ll make it up to you, Polly.’
    â€˜Don’t call me Polly, that’ll do.’
    â€˜You’re lucky you’re not pretty.’
    â€˜That’s not what the girls say in the New York, New York club.’
    â€˜It’s dark in the New York, New York, and you’re black.’
    â€˜
Au revoir,
M. Bru.’
    I got in the car in a sweat from the coffee and headed east to cross the lagoon to Akpakpa and the industrial zone where Marnier’s company had their offices, about four kilometres out on the Porto Novo road. Bagado’s car was sitting beside a large puddle near the Ancien Pont, and there was a big crowd streaming down the bank to one side of the bridge. I parked up and went with the flow. I knew it was bad because some wailing had started up towards the front and people were crowding on the bridge looking down at the water’s edge, the Catholics among them crossing themselves.
    An ambulance arrived and reversed down the bank. I followed it in and broke through the police cordon to find Bagado standing alone by a small skiff with sails made out of polypropylene sacks. His hands were jammed down into his mac pockets, stretching it tight across his back. His body language was grim. I drew alongside. His jaw muscle, working over some high-density anxiety, popped out of the side of his cheek.
    His head turned five degrees to me and then went back to the skiff. In the belly of the boat, blown up to the point where the brown school pinafore was stretched taut, was the decomposing, fish-ravaged body of what I assumed was one of the missing schoolgirls. On the ground by the skiff, with his head between his knees, was the boat’s owner. His skin was grey and there was a patch of vomit between his heels.
    â€˜He found her up on the sand bar. She was on her way out to the Gulf and the sharks and we wouldn’t have known anything more about her,’ said Bagado.
    â€˜Where’s Bondougou?’
    â€˜He’s coming. You’d better get out of here. This crowd could go off any minute.’
    â€˜You’d better get going too, Bagado.’
    â€˜I just want to look at this a moment. Hone my wrath.’
    I worked my way back through the jostling crowd. Younger men at the back were beginning to get excited. They had sticks
and rocks and their fists were jabbing the air. Some