SERIAL KILLER 9 SK9 PROLOGUE



On a desolate July night, the streets of Adoh-Ketu, Lagos Mainland, lay shrouded in an unsettling stillness. The perpetual hum of commuters had long dissipated, leaving only a few stragglers to navigate the darkness. Among them was a woman, her goods carefully piled within a large plastic bowl, walking briskly alongside her seven-year-old son, who trailed behind. She had traversed this path countless times, especially when running late, and familiarity had bred a sense of comfort.

As she walked, her mind wandered to the day's events and the exhaustion that came with them. The path, though dimly lit and lonely, wound its way behind fenced buildings and uncompleted structures, stretching over a mile or two before revealing the first of three exits. The cold wind whipped through the cracks and openings of the surrounding buildings, casting eerie silhouettes on the ground.

Suddenly, the boy spoke up, "Mama, there is—" but she silenced him with a gentle yet cautious tone, "Quiet, we'll be home soon." The increasing chatter from the opening ahead reassured her, and she quickened her pace, promising the boy a treat, "What did I tell you? Let's stop and get some beans cake for the night. Wouldn't you like that?"

She stopped. Something felt off, though she couldn't quite put her finger on it. It was as if she was alone, utterly alone.

Little did she know, her son had just become the third victim of a meticulously planned series of serial killings, one that would shake the very foundations of the bustling metropolis. It would be four days before she discovered the horrifying truth.

Copyright © 2024 Henry Inketh

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

"Serial Killer 9"
Henry Inketh
2024

Goodnight

Nice one there waiting 4next episode...

I'm ready for the ride.
Let's go.
Nice one op.👏👏👏

Hello Everyone, thanks for the build up anticipation, I do write with physical materials I. E pen and paper and then make rewrites on digital, where I edit and rewrite. Chapter One will premiere sometime this week, you won't b disappointed that's one thing, I can assure you. Thank you for your anticipation.

Make una sha no give us false hope...
We're awaiting updates!

CHAPTER ONE

Catherine’s heart fluttered as she stepped into the living room, the warmth of home washing over her like a soft blanket. The scent of freshly cooked food mingled with the faint aroma of lavender from the diffuser, and for a moment, the tension of the day began to melt away.

The murmur of the television was a steady hum in the background, a comforting reminder of normalcy after the chaos of the evening.

"You didn’t have to do this, oh my gosh, thank you so much!" Catherine’s voice, a blend of surprise and gratitude, echoed softly as she moved deeper into the room. Her eyes, tired yet relieved, found Dinah and Anthony sitting comfortably on the plush sofa, their faces illuminated by the soft, warm glow of the lamps.

"Mummy!" Dinah's voice, high-pitched and bubbling with excitement, filled the room. She bounded off the sofa, her little feet pattering on the wooden floor as she threw herself into her mother’s arms.

The embrace was warm and tight, a moment of pure connection that both needed after the long day apart.

Anthony rose as well, his presence a steadying force. "Think nothing of it," he said, his voice smooth and calm, like a radio presenter’s—a voice you could trust, one that carried a quiet authority. "On the contrary, I had a good time, and Dinah behaved wonderfully."

Catherine chuckled as she sank into the nearest armchair, the soft cushions enveloping her like a gentle hug. "Oh, really? Okay, so you should pay me then," she teased, a playful lilt to her voice. The armchair seemed to welcome her, offering a much-needed respite from the stress that had knotted her shoulders throughout the evening.

Just hours ago, her mind had been in turmoil. The memory of her boss’s surprise call lingered like a bad dream. Mr. Adeyemi Chris, a man whose obsessive attention to detail bordered on neurosis, had shattered her peace just as she’d walked through the door at 7:30 pm. His voice, cold and unfeeling, had cut through her initial relief at being home.

"Not like now, in the next 15 minutes actually," he’d said, his words devoid of empathy. The demand had been clear, non-negotiable. Panic had seized her, frustration rising like bile in her throat. She had just enough restraint to mask her disbelief and anger. "No, not at all, sir," she’d managed, though her mind had screamed otherwise.

Leaving Dinah alone had never been an option. Her daughter, only eleven, had been fighting a mild fever for days, and they were still strangers in this new neighborhood.

The idea of abandoning her had been unbearable. Her hired babysitter, Madam Abby, was reliable but rigid—her terms clear and unyielding. There was no room for overtime, no flexibility, no last-minute favors.

As she sat in the living room now, relief cascading over her, Catherine recalled the moment Anthony had come to mind. He was the only neighbor she’d had the chance to meet properly. Tall, at least 6'1", with a chocolate-toned complexion that gleamed under the soft light of their first encounter, Anthony had made an impression.

His broad shoulders and muscular frame spoke of strength, but his eyes—big, dark, and warm—had been the feature that captured her. They were eyes that seemed to see more, understand more, and his smile had the power to disarm any defenses.

His charm had been evident from the start, helping her with some stubborn curtain fittings shortly after she moved in.

He had gotten along well with Dinah too, which made asking for his help tonight seem natural, almost fated.

"Mom, guess what we made... Pancakes!" Dinah’s eyes sparkled with pride as she announced their culinary achievement.

"Oh really?" Catherine’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. She hadn’t planned anything for dinner before rushing out to deal with her boss’s emergency, and cooking was far from her strong suit, especially when it came to pancakes.

"I hope you don’t mind," Anthony interjected smoothly. "Dinah hadn’t had dinner before you left, and she wanted pancakes, so we made pancakes." His tone was easy, unassuming, like this was something he did every day.

Catherine smiled, a genuine, relaxed smile that she hadn’t felt in hours.

The evening had turned out far better than she had anticipated, all thanks to her neighbor—the kind of neighbor her friends would rave about, but that she’d never believed actually existed.

"Mummy, you’ve got to try some," Dinah insisted, tugging at her mother’s arm. "Uncle Anthony is a master chef!"

The sight of the pancakes, stacked neatly on a plate in the kitchen, brought another wave of gratitude. They were golden brown, perfectly round, the scent of butter and maple syrup filling the air. She could almost taste the fluffy sweetness just by looking at them.

"Well, in that case, I suppose I must," Catherine said, rising from the armchair with a playful sigh.

She walked over to the kitchen, Dinah by her side, and Anthony just behind. The warmth of the room, the laughter, and the easy camaraderie between them all felt like a balm to her frazzled nerves.

As she took her first bite, the rich, buttery flavor melting in her mouth, Catherine closed her eyes in sheer delight. "You really are a master chef, Anthony," she said, her words sincere.

"Actually, I am a master chef, A Sous Chef to be exact, so yeah," He beamed with satisfaction.

"Well, Then Mr Anthony, I hope you don't mind, ordering our next dinner from you," She teased.

The night had been a whirlwind, but it had ended in a way she hadn’t expected—with a feeling of comfort, of being cared for, and perhaps most importantly, a sense of belonging in this new chapter of her life.


TO BE CONTINUED

CHAPTER ONE CONTINUED

****************

A soft belch and a careful wipe of his wet hands over his lips brought a satisfaction he never seemed to find elsewhere.

There was nothing extraordinary about the meal of fufu and ogbono soup, priced at one thousand eight hundred naira, laced with two chunks of well-garnished cow torso and a piece of cow skin, "kpomo." Yet, this was ASP Edward Adebayo Ogundare's perfect lunch during the afternoon break from the station. Simply called ASA by his colleagues, an acronym for Assistant Superintendent of Police since his promotion to that rank four months ago, he sat before an empty, almost spotless plate, which had held his meal some thirty-five minutes earlier.

The plate was a testament to his mannerisms and dedication towards his meal.

The wooden makeshift shop, made of an uneven mismatch of various types and colors of plywood nailed together, was packed with six other customers.

A young boy and a girl spoke animatedly, seemingly in a hurry to place their orders, reflecting the impatience of the younger generation.


An old retired pensioner divided his attention between a newspaper and his phone as if both items required his utmost care. Opposite him sat a younger woman, who, at first glance, looked to be in her early twenties. She should have been in school but was instead battling with her suckling child and a half-eaten plate of rice and stew.

The last customer was a tall, dark-skinned young man, wearing a sky-blue shirt paired with a cheap, faded navy-blue chiffon tie on worn-out, faded black trousers.

His shoes seemed eager for retirement. He held a medium-sized brown envelope, and a good guess would be that he was job hunting, a venture that hadn’t been successful for a long while.

Edward knew that look on the young man's face—nine years ago, he had looked like that himself: unemployed, miserable, and broke, too broke even to afford a sachet of water.


Though he had been handsome, tall, and fair with an athletic build, small intelligent eyes that missed no details, a hooked nose, and lips that could have favored Nollywood, he could have passed for a Ramsey Nouah double if he had gotten the opportunity.

Now thirty-eight, his features were slightly weathered by his job, but he remained good-looking enough to make any lady think twice.

He considered himself lucky—lucky enough to have decided to join the Nigeria Police Force and lucky enough to have discovered his passion for the job.

The small traffic seething through the roadside under the afternoon sun made it hard for him to think of anything worth the while. Even going online and amusing himself with the content on Facebook or YouTube seemed like a bore.

He was in his sanctuary, a solitary space where peace was possible for as long as he could help it.

Grrr! Grrr! Grrr!

The monotonous ringtone of his phone, frowned upon by many of his colleagues and, of course, his fiancée Sheila, caught his attention. Instinctively, he wore a grimace. His lunch break was over.

"Hello, ASP," came Robinson’s voice, one of the three corporals behind the station counter.

"Robinson, what is it?" Edward’s voice held a note of hope, hoping he could still salvage something from his noon break.

"Umh, we have a man and a woman here, sir. They’ve lodged a complaint—their child is missing, sir!" The officer’s voice was laced with caution.

Ajeke Police Station, located in Ajeke, Ketu, Lagos, had been commissioned and renovated over the last three years. It occupied a 250 by 100-acre stretch of land dotted with mango and cashew trees, which seemed only good enough for shade, propping up here and there like unwanted weeds.

The police station served the small, bustling community of Ajeke, a beacon of law and order, even though most cases were menial and trivial, undeserving of public attention or news headlines.

Until now, and the newly transferred and promoted ASP knew it as well. This was the first peculiar case.

"Come again—when was this?" Edward could hardly contain his excitement.

"A parent, sir. Their child has been missing for two days, sir, and—"

This was good enough to get him back to his office, he thought to himself. "I will be back in ten minutes. Tell them to wait for me. In the meantime, draw up a comprehensive report from them, is that okay?" The reply was affirmative, and their conversation ended.

ASP stretched his limbs, standing up to shake off the dullness before he left.

It was then that he noticed the young man in the blue sleeves, nursing a paltry half sachet of water the entire time, clearly too broke to buy another.

He called the shop owner aside. "Give my friend over there a bottle of cold Coke and a medium-sized bread. I’ll settle the bill when I come next time."

He didn’t have to look around, but he could feel the intensity of the grateful face peering at him. It was his way of encouraging the young man never to give up.

Once he returned to the office—just a walking distance from the restaurant—he led the parents to his office. By office, it was a renovated cubicle that had served in the past as a room for supplies and stationeries.

It was painted light cream with heavy yellow highlights, and its window seemed more like a restroom affair, big enough to fit only an adult human head and positioned above the normal height. The room housed a large old file cabinet, two wooden chairs, and a table. Two frames on the wall displayed pictures of the current president and the state governor.

"Please excuse me for a moment," Edward said, noting that both parents would have only one chair to share. He couldn’t allow that, as both looked weary and grief-stricken. Robinson quickly brought an extra plastic chair as directed, and after the corporal left, the couple took their seats.

The husband was tall and lanky, with an extraordinarily blackened face—a testament to the hard life he was living. The woman, short but no better than the husband, would have presented better with a touch of makeup. She seemed red-eyed and lost in her grief.

"Mr. and Mrs.," Edward paused intentionally, lifting his eyes off the written report—a small and not-so-informative report. He met the couple’s eyes, and they gave him their full attention. "Sunny Abiola, I am very sorry about this incident. It’s a good thing you reported it now.

There are a number of possible scenarios we’ll be considering as we begin investigating this matter, but neither of you must lose hope of getting your boy back. If you don’t mind now, I would like to go over the facts to ensure nothing is missing from the report."

The woman needed a bit of encouragement from her husband before she recounted the story of her son’s disappearance two days ago. Edward nodded, checking, scribbling, and encouraging the woman as she confirmed the report was accurate. Yet, it didn’t make any sense that her child should have disappeared just like that.

"I would like to see the path for myself. I will personally be investigating this matter. Like I said, we cannot lose hope. If it’s kidnappers, we should expect a phone call anytime soon, and we’ll begin tracking them if possible. Otherwise, we must put all our effort into the boy’s safe return."


The couple seemed disappointed and unsatisfied with his response, but neither said anything. Edward wasn’t going to push it either, but one thing was certain: he would find the boy.


TO BE CONTINUED

CHAPTER ONE CONTINUED



Erica Bamidele paced the length of her living room, the soles of her shoes whispering against the polished wooden floor.

The LED lights embedded in the ceiling cast a soft, sterile glow that contrasted sharply with the turmoil within her.

She cradled a glass of vodka in her trembling hand, her gaze lost somewhere along the light fittings, as though searching for answers in the shallow beams.

Anxiety etched deep lines across her face, pulling her features taut in a mix of fear and desperation.

The silence was almost suffocating, broken only by the low hum of electricity.

Then, with a sudden snap, the power went out, plunging the room into a muted darkness. For a moment, Erica stood frozen, her mind racing as the warm, stifling air reminded her that the windows were still shut.

The lack of ventilation added to her discomfort, making her feel trapped.

It was only then that she registered the shrill ring of her phone cutting through the silence, persistent and insistent.

Her heart pounded in her chest as she fumbled for the device, her fingers clumsy from the alcohol and nerves.

“Hello, Barrister,” she answered, her voice cracking with anxiety. “How goes it? How was it?”

The voice on the other end was clipped, professional, and weary. “Erica, I’m sorry, but he refuses to drop the case.

It’s either a settlement of thirty million naira and a published apology, or we go to court. To be honest, I don’t think I want to continue with this case. It’s too risky...”

The words faded, becoming distant echoes as Erica’s thoughts drowned them out. She sank into a plastic chair, letting the phone slip from her grasp. Her mind spiraled back to that one reckless decision—the unverified report she had published in a rush to gain clicks and attention.

It was the temptation that every upcoming blogger faced: the allure of going viral at any cost.

She was paying that cost now. The image of her in a prison cell loomed large in her mind. “Thirty million,” she muttered to herself, the words tasting bitter on her tongue.

The figure felt like a noose tightening around her neck, suffocating any last hopes she had left.

The memories of being locked up, the cold, hard cell walls pressing in on her, flashed through her mind. She had spent four days behind bars—four days that had shattered her sense of security.

The lawyer had worked tirelessly to meet the bail conditions, but now it all seemed futile.

Desperately, she threw back the contents of the glass, the burn of the vodka sharp and unforgiving down her throat.

She winced, but the alcohol provided a fleeting sense of control, a momentary numbness to the chaos around her.

From writing headlines to becoming one herself, she thought bitterly. "Young, upcoming, and successful blogger sentenced to 10 years in prison for defamation of character and slander."

She could almost see the news reports, hear the whispers of judgment. Erica Bamidele had fallen from grace, and there was no one left to catch her.

Three weeks ago, it had all seemed so simple. The Supreme Medical Specialist Private Hospital was making headlines for the heroic actions of Doctor Charles Anozie.

He had delivered triplets on Lagos' Third Mainland Bridge, a feat that had turned him into a media darling overnight. The hospital’s reputation had soared, and Erica had seen an opportunity.

When a source contacted her with a story about Doctor Anozie’s alleged incompetence during a surgery that resulted in a patient’s death, she had jumped at it.

She paid over forty thousand naira to secure the details, eager to be the first to break the news. But she had been played—lured into a trap by a money-hungry informant with no evidence to back up the claims.

Now, she was the one caught in the snare, her career in ruins. Her phone buzzed with notifications, but she ignored them, knowing they were likely messages of pity or disdain.

No one wanted to be associated with her anymore; she was toxic, her reputation irreparably damaged.

“To hell with it all,” she murmured, the decision hardening within her. There was nothing left to lose.

She grabbed her purse and checked the time. A quarter past one. The night was deep, the streets outside cloaked in darkness, but she didn’t care.

The bus ride was a blur, the world outside a smear of city lights and shadows.

When the vehicle finally halted at the bend near the hospital, Erica stepped out, the dry air brushing against her skin like a distant whisper.

The hospital loomed ahead, its facade stark and imposing under the streetlights.

She hesitated for a moment, then straightened her shoulders, summoning every ounce of courage she had left.

The automatic doors of Supreme Medical Specialist Private Hospital slid open as she approached, the sterile scent of antiseptic and the muted sounds of hospital life greeting her.

She made her way to the waiting area, each step deliberate, each breath steadying the turmoil within.



TO BE CONTINUED

If you are enjoying the story so far, kindly give the stories some thumbs up and drop your comments, I would like to hear from you all. Thanks

Update coming in!

CHAPTER ONE CONTINUED


The hospital was a marvel of modern architecture, a sleek, glass-walled fortress that gleamed under the sun. Inside, the pristine white floors sparkled under the bright lights, and the air carried the faint scent of antiseptic mixed with the subtle aroma of freshly brewed coffee from the nearby café.

It was one of the best facilities in the region, renowned for its cutting-edge technology and world-class care.

As Ericca stepped inside, she was immediately struck by the serene yet bustling environment. Nurses and patients moved about, some chatting quietly, others engrossed in their own thoughts. The place had an air of efficiency, but it was not without its moments of casual warmth.

Ericca, however, was on edge, her mind racing as she navigated through the maze of corridors. She finally made up her mind and headed straight for the reception desk.

A tall, imposing woman stood behind the counter, her expression stern and unwelcoming.

The nurse's face, with its heavy frown and cold eyes, gave off an aura that reminded Ericca of a toad, squat and unfriendly. Ericca swallowed her unease, trying to steady her voice as she approached.

"Hi, good morning. I’m here to see Dr. Charles," she said, keeping her tone calm and professional.

The nurse’s eyes narrowed, her suspicion evident. "Dr. Charles who?" she asked, her voice dripping with irritation.

"Dr. Charles Anozie," Ericca replied, feeling the heat rising in her cheeks. She noticed two other nurses had sidled up, pretending to be busy but clearly eavesdropping on the exchange.

Their sidelong glances and faint smirks made it obvious they were enjoying the situation, eager for a bit of gossip.

"Do you have an appointment?" the receptionist pressed, her tone growing more accusatory.

"Well, I’m not sure—maybe you can just—" Ericca started, but was cut off by the shorter nurse who had joined them.

"Why doesn’t she just tell you her name and you can ring the doctor? Eh, what’s your name, Aunty Blogger?" the nurse asked, her voice laced with sarcasm.

Ericca felt the sting of their mockery, but she forced herself to stay composed. "My name is—I'm Ericca. Bamidele Ericca," she said, though her voice came out husky, betraying her discomfort.

She could tell they were barely restraining their laughter.

It was clear they recognized her, and now they were enjoying her discomfort.

"Ericca Bamidele, you mean the blogger, right? As in Madam Blogger, owner of City First Gossip Blog Site?" the receptionist asked, her mocking eyes filled with a mix of disdain and curiosity.

Ericca felt her anger start to simmer. She wasn’t here to be humiliated. "Are you going to let me see him or do I need to create a scene?" she demanded, her voice firm despite the boiling rage underneath.

The amusement vanished from the nurses' faces. The two who had been loitering quickly dispersed, leaving the receptionist to handle the situation.

With a huff, the nurse picked up the phone and made a quick call.

Ericca's heart pounded in her chest as she waited. The seconds felt like hours.

"He's expecting you. Fifth floor, to your left, door number eight," the nurse said curtly.

Ericca nodded, taking a step back.

"But you can’t use the elevator, it’s broken. You’ll have to take the stairs," the nurse added with a sneer.

It was a petty jab, but Ericca refused to let it bother her. Nothing could stop her from seeing Dr. Charles. This was her only way out.

When she reached the fifth floor, she stood before door number eight, her heart racing. The name "Dr. Charles Anozie" was embossed on a metallic gold plate—a touch of elegance that belied the tension in her chest.

She knocked softly, her breath catching in her throat.

“It’s open, come on in,” came a soft, clear voice from inside. There was no animosity in it, or at least she hoped she wasn’t misjudging.

She pushed the door open slowly, stepping into a spacious, well-lit office. Behind a sleek wooden desk sat a man who looked up from his papers.

He had broad shoulders and a tall, commanding presence. His eyes, small and kind behind his glasses, met hers.

His jawline was sharp, framed by a well-trimmed beard. He was handsome, more so than the pictures and videos she had seen of him. She briefly thought of Falz the Bahdguy; there was something similarly charming about him.

“You should sit down, don’t you think so?” his voice was gentle, bringing her back to the moment.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she stammered, flushing with embarrassment as she quickly took a seat.

Dr. Charles observed her quietly. She was petite, her skin a smooth, rich chocolate tone. Her blond-dyed hair framed her face, which bore the light touch of hurriedly applied makeup. Her lips, painted dark red, were sensually inviting, yet there was a hard-to-resist intensity in her gaze. Dressed in a wine-red blouse and black trousers, she seemed intelligent and reserved, but there was a nervous energy about her.

They sat in silence for a moment, both assessing the other. It felt like a battle of wills, each waiting for the other to speak first.

Finally, Ericca broke the silence. "Dr. Charles Anozie, I’m here to—I'm sorry, I know I put out some wrong and totally unverified content that must have hurt you professionally and personally.

I can’t begin to understand what you must have gone through—" She paused when she noticed his expression had changed. He looked bored, as if her apology was something he had expected and was already tired of.

Her heart sank, but before she could say anything more, his phone rang. “Hello, yes, she’s here now. Oh, no, not at all. Is that what you recommend? Well, thank you very much, Larry,” he said quickly before hanging up.

He turned to her with a warm smile, the kind a doctor gives when they’re trying to reassure you that everything will be okay—even when it might not be. "Let’s go," he said, standing up.

"Let’s go? Go where?" she asked, confused.

He glanced at his watch and nodded. "Out for lunch. I want you to meet someone."

She had a thousand questions, but none came to her lips. Resigned to whatever fate awaited, she followed him out.

They walked in silence until they reached the elevator.

“I thought the elevator was broken,” she mused aloud.

“That would be Nurse Mary’s way of getting at you—or anyone she doesn’t like. Actually, she doesn’t like anyone,” Charles replied sympathetically.

The road trip was quiet, but not awkward. The silence was comfortable, almost refreshing. Ericca found herself feeling oddly safe, as though a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. She had to pinch herself a few times just to make sure this was real.

They arrived at a roadside restaurant, modest but pleasant—exactly the kind of place she’d choose for lunch with a stranger.

“He’s waiting for you,” Charles said, opening the door for her.

“Who? Who’s waiting for me? Your lawyer? Your—"

"Me," he interrupted gently. "I want to introduce you to me, Miss Ericca Bamidele, if that’s okay with you?"

She couldn’t suppress her smile. There was something about him—his charm, his easy confidence—that made her want to know more. Perhaps, she realized, this meeting wasn’t going to be as terrible as she had feared.


TO BE CONTINUED

Chapter one still laying up some foundations for some specific characters, how is it going? Comments?

This is good, waiting for more updates

But how did sergeant Edwards move from a Sergeant to ASP? According to the Nigerian Police Force ranks, before attaining the rank of an ASP, such officer ought to have been a Chief Inspector. My observation though.

silverlinen:
This is good, waiting for more updates

But how did sergeant Edwards move from a Sergeant to ASP? According to the Nigerian Police Force ranks, before attaining the rank of an ASP, such officer ought to have been a Chief Inspector. My observation though.

He was initially supposed to be a sergeant but upon research I discovered how the detective ranks go and decided to change the rank however since I write on paper then edit in digital, I missed to make the changes, thanks for bringing it up

One more part loading dear readers, thanks for holding brief!

CHAPTER ONE CONTINUED



The Lagos-Ibadan expressway was oddly tranquil, a rare reprieve from its typical congestion.

For Cinna, the usually drawn-out drive from Mowe to the Mainland would have been quick and cost-effective. Her client’s eagerness to meet made it clear the transaction would be brief—just the way she liked it.

Yet, here she was, stuck in the back of a silver Camry used as a private taxi, shrouded in darkness. An hour had passed since the driver left, and she had begun to curse her ill-fortune in choosing this particular vehicle.

Cinna’s well-penciled eyebrows, carefully shaped to accentuate her eyes, drew together in frustration. Her makeup, while inexpensive, was applied with precision to enhance her sensuous eyes and lips.

But the frown that formed beneath those brows was enough to undo the illusion of calm. She cursed silently again, her fingers tapping impatiently on her phone. Her client had grown increasingly anxious with each minute of delay, more concerned about being scammed than her safety.

“That driver,” she muttered under her breath, suppressing the stream of curses she wanted to release. But what could she do? The man had seemed decent enough, though she noticed something odd about his behavior just five minutes into the journey.

There had been uncomfortable growlings coming from his stomach, loud enough to make the silence between them awkward. They both pretended not to notice, but it was clear that the driver was in distress.

Cinna had assumed he was desperate to find a place to relieve himself but didn’t want to offend her by asking. She had tried to be patient, even as the man finally pulled over and dashed off into the darkness without explanation.

Sighing, she pushed the thoughts from her mind and selected a playlist of Westlife songs, their melodic voices filling the car as she tried to relax.

Meanwhile, not too far away, deep into the roadside bushes, Mr. Adamson—a man in his fifties, with a rotund frame and an air of harmlessness—was in the midst of a dire situation.


He squatted uncomfortably in the darkness, the only sounds around him the quiet rustle of leaves and the urgent splatter of his diarrhea. He cursed under his breath, trying to remember if it was his lunch of ogbonno soup and fufu or the dinner of egusi and boiled garri that had brought on this sudden illness.

Relief washed over him as the cramps in his stomach finally eased, and his bowels emptied. "Thank God," he muttered, biting his lower lip as he looked around, realizing that another problem had just presented itself—he had nothing to wipe with.

The darkness was slowly becoming less intimidating as his eyes adjusted.

He could now make out the shallow shrubs and stretches of sand and granite, punctuated by piles of quarry stones and the hulking silhouettes of abandoned heavy machinery.

It looked like a construction site, a far cry from the kind of place he would have preferred for such a necessary task, but it would have to do.

His eyes eventually landed on a small pile of garbage not too far off, and with some reluctance, he made his way towards it, hoping to find something, anything, that could serve as a makeshift wipe.

As he got closer, something caught his eye—something odd sticking out from the top of the pile. It didn’t belong with the crumpled cardboard, twisted metal, and other refuse. It looked like...human legs.

A cold wave of realization washed over him, and he froze. Was he seeing things? He squinted, straining to see in the dim light.

His heart pounded in his chest as he fumbled for his phone, cursing again when he remembered he’d left it in the car in his rush.

“Hello?” he called out, his voice trembling. He took a cautious step forward, then another, his feet heavy as lead.

More steps, and there it was—a body. A child’s body.

He stopped in his tracks, his breath catching in his throat. The child was dead, no question about it. The lifeless form lay sprawled in a way that made it clear this was no accident.

For a moment, Mr. Adamson was paralyzed by fear, the horrific image searing itself into his mind. Then, his nerves kicked back in, and he turned and ran.


He didn’t care that he stumbled over stones and shrubs in his haste, muttering incoherently as he fled back to the highway. His only thought was to get away, far away from this nightmare.

Cinna saw him first, a half-naked man barreling out of the darkness, and panicked. Misunderstanding his desperate approach, she bolted out of the other side of the car and screamed as she ran.

“No, no, don’t run!” Mr. Adamson called out, his voice breaking between ragged breaths, but she was already far away, her figure disappearing into the distance.

Fear still gripping him, Mr. Adamson had no choice but to get back into the car and drive. He didn’t care where, as long as it was away from the scene.

He shuddered at the thought of what he’d seen, his mind reeling. First the diarrhea, now this—a dead child. What kind of ill luck had he stumbled upon tonight?

He drove into the night, unaware that fate would bring him back to that very spot sooner than he could imagine.


COMING UP CHAPTER TWO

Thank you all for waiting, the final piece of chapter one has been published.

CHAPTER TWO


The morning sun cast a gentle light over the roadside bar, bathing the cracked pavement in a warm, golden hue.
.
Inspector Francis Amir Abdul Kareem leaned back in his worn-out chair, his eyes scanning the quiet surroundings.

The bar, a modest shack with a corrugated iron roof, stood at the edge of a dusty road, its wooden benches and tables scattered haphazardly under the shade of an ancient baobab tree.

The place reeked of stale beer and fried food, a scent that mingled with the earthy smell of the morning dew evaporating from the ground.

Francis sighed and waved to the waiter, a lanky boy who couldn't have been older than sixteen. The boy, with a face marred by a sea of pimples and a perpetual, almost mocking smile, approached with a strange energy.

There was something about him that Francis found unsettling, a kind of hidden mischief that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Over the years, his instincts had rarely failed him, and though he couldn't quite put his finger on it, the boy's presence felt like a small stone in his shoe—annoying and persistent.

"Give me a bottle of malt—Amstel or Maltina, whichever you have," Francis ordered, his voice carrying the weight of authority that came with years on the force.
. The boy nodded quickly, the smile never leaving his face, before darting off to the back of the bar.

As he waited, Francis's mind wandered, slipping back into the dark corners where his thoughts had been brooding all morning.

His hands shook slightly as he fumbled for a cigarette, his fingers clumsy against the worn pack. Lighting it, he took a long drag, letting the smoke fill his lungs before exhaling slowly. This might very well be his last day as an inspector, he thought bitterly.

The realization sent a shiver down his spine, making him reach for the cigarette once more, as if the nicotine could steady the turmoil within.

Two things plagued his mind: his gambling addiction, which had spiraled out of control, and Hafsat, his newly wedded wife.


The memory of their first meeting flashed before his eyes—a friend’s get-together, one of those casual affairs with too much food and not enough conversation.
.
Hassan, his old friend, had been the one to introduce them, and now, in retrospect, Francis couldn't help but feel that the whole thing had been orchestrated.

Hassan had been pushing him to settle down for months, and Hafsat had appeared in his life like a calculated move on a chessboard.

She was beautiful, no doubt about that. Tall and slim, with the regal bearing of her Fulani heritage. Her caramel-colored skin seemed to glow in the soft light, her sharp features softened by a smile that hinted at both intelligence and mischief.

Her eyes, small and bright, had a way of looking straight through him, as if she could see the thoughts he tried to keep hidden. There had been something about her—an energy, a fire—that had drawn him in, even as he told himself that it was nothing more than a temporary infatuation.

But now, with the weight of their hasty marriage pressing down on him, he regretted every decision that had led him to this point. He wished he had seen the signs, that he had listened to the little voice in the back of his mind that had whispered for him to slow down, to think. But he hadn't.


He had jumped headfirst into a situation he wasn't prepared for, and now he was paying the price.

"Inspector, I am sorry I took so long," a voice interrupted his thoughts. Francis looked up to see a man standing before him—a large, sweaty figure who seemed out of place in the quiet bar.


The man, Omoh, was as round as a barrel, with a face that seemed to permanently hover between a smile and a frown.

Despite his jovial appearance, there was a cunning glint in his eyes, the kind that made Francis wary.

"I've been sitting here, waiting," Francis said, barely masking his irritation. Omoh, however, was unfazed, his attention drawn to the bottle of malt on the table.

"You can have it," Francis offered, knowing full well that Omoh wouldn't refuse. The man settled into the seat opposite him, grabbing the bottle with a greedy hand.

Francis signaled the waiter once more, ordering three bottles of beer and a plate of pepper soup. Omoh beamed at the mention of food, his eyes lighting up with the anticipation of a hearty meal.

"Excellent, we will talk once I am well settled with breakfast," Omoh said, his voice thick with satisfaction.

He wasn't in a rush—he never was when it came to matters like this. Information was his business, and he made a point to savor every moment before delivering the goods.

"You’re looking for a police-issued Beretta 92, of course?" Omoh asked casually between mouthfuls of soup. The words hung in the air like a noose around Francis's neck.

"Where is it?" Francis demanded, his patience thinning with every passing second. Omoh wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, savoring the taste of the peppery broth before answering.

"There's bad news and good news, my friend," Omoh began, draining the last of his beer and letting out a loud belch. "The bad news is, Kroc sold it to a gang.


It was on the market for two days before it was gone, sold off at 150k."

He watched as Francis’s face twisted in a grimace, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the edge of the table.

"And the good news?" Francis croaked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"The gang is small-time—three-man drug syndicate, nothing more. I bet they bought it for protection."

"I need addresses," Francis said, his voice firm, though a tremor betrayed his inner turmoil. Omoh hesitated, sensing the desperation in the inspector’s eyes.

He had never seen Francis like this before, so on edge, so close to breaking.

"23 Idowu Crescent, Ajah," Omoh finally relented. "Ask around for Skipper if you have trouble finding them—they’ll point you in the right direction."

Francis peeled off five crisp notes from his wallet and handed them over, not bothering to count. "Thank you, that will be all," he said, his voice flat as he stood to leave. "I have to report for duty now."

As Francis walked away, the weight of his situation bore down on him like a thousand stones, each step heavier than the last. His career, his marriage, his life—they were all on the brink of collapse, and he wasn’t sure if he could stop the fall.

Omoh watched him go, a yawn escaping his lips as he pocketed the money. He waved the waiter over, ready to order more food. After all, he thought with a smirk, let the afternoon worry over itself.

TO BE CONTINUED

wow nice story I like it

@writerx please come and update na

Nightstorm:
@writerx please come and update na

I am running to the thread lol, working to get the chapters into soft copy from hard copy is taking a bit of time, rest assured I will make some updates, thanks for waiting

@writerx please y haven't u updated na

CONTINUED


The rumble of a motorcycle faded as France pocketed his wallet, his eyes flickering nervously towards the half-curious, half-bored police officers standing at the entrance of Ajeke Police Station.

The sun was a harsh, unrelenting glare above, reflecting off the metallic signboard of the station, making it shimmer with a dull, oppressive light.

France could feel the sweat pooling at the base of his spine, soaking into the fabric of his shirt as he walked towards the entrance, each step heavy with the weight of his reluctant return.

The station had an air of faded authority, its once-pristine walls now marred by the grime of neglect and time. The acrid scent of dust and old paper permeated the air, mixing with the faint stench of sweat and gun oil—a reminder of the constant presence of the armed officers inside.


He felt the weight of their gazes as he passed, a twinge of unease pricking at the back of his mind.

His fingers fumbled with the phone in his pocket when it buzzed, the familiar name on the screen only adding to the tension knotting in his chest."Yes?" France answered curtly, trying to keep his voice even, though he knew Hassan would hear the exhaustion seeping through."I told you, didn’t I?" Hassan’s voice had that infuriating lilt of triumph, the satisfaction of a man proven right.

"The ASP was always going to call one of us in. You knew that."France’s breath hitched, his eyes darting around the open space of the station’s entrance, where a few officers shuffled by, oblivious to his inner turmoil. The city noise outside—the distant hum of engines, the sporadic honks, and the murmur of a bustling market nearby—seemed to fade, replaced by the relentless pounding in his ears.

"Look, I don’t have time for this, Hassan," France hissed, his patience fraying. "I didn’t know they’d sent the new official biometrics system data to him.

He got my actual number there and started competing with those damn loan apps to reach me. It was either I report in, or he wouldn’t have stopped, you know how he gets."Hassan’s chuckle was a low rumble, almost lost in the crackle of static from the poor network connection.

France could almost see the grin spreading across his colleague's face, could almost hear the unspoken ‘I told you so’ that hung in the air between them."Now that you’re back, though," Hassan continued, his tone shifting to something a bit more serious, "you should know—no one’s going to contact me. I intend to have my break in full. As far as I’m concerned, we never spoke.

"France let out a bitter sigh, pausing just outside the entrance to the main building, the cool shadow of the station finally providing some relief from the blazing sun. He could see the faint outlines of officers inside, their figures blurred by the dirty glass panes."I’m working on a business deal," he said, his voice firm, as if saying it out loud would make it true.

"Give me three days.""You said that a week ago," Hassan retorted sharply, the connection wavering again, "and now your wife has—""My wife did what, Hassan? What did my wife do?" France demanded, his heart suddenly seizing as the connection cut out, leaving him staring at the blank screen of his phone.

The air in the station was cooler, a relief compared to the scorching heat outside, but France barely noticed.

He was greeted with nods from a few desk officers, their faces unfamiliar, as he moved quickly past them, his mind racing.

His focus now shifted to avoiding Mr. Henson Tabori, the meticulous, no-nonsense police armorer and weapons documentation officer—someone who took his job too seriously for France’s liking.The hallway seemed longer than he remembered, each step echoing ominously in the silence.

He reached his office, slipping inside with a quick glance over his shoulder, hoping he hadn’t been spotted. The room was as he left it—bare and unwelcoming, with walls that had once been white now turned a dull, lifeless gray.

The only sound was the hum of the ancient ceiling fan above, its blades spinning lazily, pushing the stale air around.France exhaled, ready to finally sit and gather his thoughts when the door swung open with a loud creak. He froze, his heart skipping a beat as ASP Edward strolled in, a file in one hand and a bottle of champagne in the other, his face split in a wide, jovial grin."Inspector, are you okay?" Edward asked, his voice dripping with amusement at France’s startled reaction.France stumbled back, his knee catching the edge of the chair, nearly toppling over in his haste.

His mind, already frazzled, struggled to catch up with the sudden shift in atmosphere. Edward looked out of place with that bottle, an incongruity that sent France’s thoughts spinning.

The clock's second hand ticked with a steady rhythm, filling the small, dimly lit room with a quiet, tense atmosphere.

ASP Edward's fingers traced the edge of the file case on the desk, his eyes fixed on the door. Moments ago, he had caught the inspector, Francis, slipping into the building with the stealth of someone seeking solitude—a common habit among officers who needed a moment to gather their thoughts before diving into the day's demands.

Francis halted in his tracks when he saw Edward, his face momentarily caught between surprise and embarrassment. "What—oh, sorry, sir, nothing sir, just got in and—wanted to come and see you—" His voice cracked, dry and husky, the telltale sign of a hastily concocted excuse.

But the look in Edward's eyes was forgiving, signaling that he didn’t mind."It's okay, I understand. Please, let's get on to business immediately.

" Edward's tone was firm yet accommodating as he slid the file case across the desk to Francis.

The case was thin, nearly empty, its lack of weight reflecting the lack of progress in their investigation.Francis took the file, feeling the lightness of its contents, and opened it.


The details inside were sparse, a few sheets of paper, and some scrawled notes.

The case hadn't progressed in any meaningful way yet But now, with Francis on board—a seasoned inspector with previous experience in the Kidnap and Rescue Squad—there was a glimmer of hope.

This was his kind of case, one that required a sharp eye for detail and a mind that could connect seemingly insignificant dots.

TO BE CONTINUED

Nightstorm:
@writerx please y haven't u updated na

Sorry boss, I am battling a bit of cough and cold at the moment, I am making updates now, thanks for waiting

CONTINUED


Edward sighed deeply, his frustration barely contained.

"No one knows anything or saw anything. It seems the boy just vanished."Francis remained silent for a moment, his eyes scanning the contents of the file. Then, something caught his attention.


He picked up a written statement, the ink slightly smudged, but the words clear. Two words stood out to him, almost glowing with importance.

"That may not be true, sir," Francis finally said, his voice steady but laced with a subtle excitement.

He relaxed a bit, leaning back in his chair as he held up the statement for Edward to see.Edward's interest piqued.

"Really? Why do you say that?" His eyes brightened, a spark of hope flickering within them.

He was right to have brought Francis in—this case needed someone with a different perspective, someone who could see beyond the obvious.


"The problem here," Francis began, carefully choosing his words, "is that we're all looking at this case through the lens of what the mother said. But we need to shift our focus. We need to see it from the boy's perspective."

He tapped the statement with his finger, his eyes conveying a certainty that caught Edward's attention.Edward leaned forward, his curiosity intensifying.

"The mother said the boy was being feisty, complaining about being hungry. But that’s not the whole story. She mentioned something else—she said the boy said ‘there is but she had cut him shut, That was the last thing she heard him say.

"Francis let the words hang in the air for a moment, watching as Edward processed the significance.

Edward nodded slowly, the wheels turning in his mind. "‘There is…’ What do you think he meant?"

"I think It’s not the kind of phrase you use when you’re just talking about being hungry. It’s more likely he was referring to something or someone he saw.

‘There is something over there,’ or ‘There is someone here,’ or maybe even, ‘There is a person hiding there.’ The mother was distracted, not fully aware of her surroundings, but the boy—he was. He saw something.

We need to identify exactly where he said this."The room seemed to grow colder as the gravity of Francis's words settled between them.

Edward’s breath caught as he imagined the boy, small and vulnerable, seeing something that no one else had noticed—a crucial detail that could break the case wide open.

"We can take the mother back to the scene," Francis continued, "but not during the day. We need to recreate the exact circumstances—the time of night, the lighting, the sounds.

Let her walk through it all, word by word, step by step.


The human mind is good at illusions, but it also clings to memories, especially when triggered by familiar sights or sounds. She may not even realize what she saw or heard, but something might jog her memory.

Something."

"Excellent, I approve of this," Edward said, his tone betraying a hint of satisfaction. "I didn’t see it that way some minutes ago.

Anyway, whilst I have been unable to get anything going, I have found out the path is used by street urchins and rogues as hideouts and gathering spots.

It's why I called you in."Francis nodded, trying to match Edward’s enthusiasm.

But the weight of his own troubles held him back, the enthusiasm felt hollow, like an empty echo in a vast, desolate space. "We can split it up with any luck. Where do I start?"

His voice lacked the vigor Edward was hoping to hear.Edward beamed, mistaking Francis's subdued tone for contemplation.

"I want you to take a look at the scene again. Let’s see what you come up with, but first by eleven, we’ll arrange to see the parents.

Get your opinions collected and sorted, and then we’ll arrange a get-together at the path by evening, around the same time when the accident happened."

"No problem, sir," Francis replied, standing as Edward prepared to leave.

TO BE CONTINUED

CONTINUED


But Edward paused, his gaze sharpening as he glanced back at Francis."Yes, that's how we go from here. Are you armed?"

The question struck Francis like a sudden gust of wind, unexpected and unsettling."Eh, well, sir…" Francis's eyes flitted away from Edward's piercing gaze, dancing nervously around the room.


His response was an inaudible half-mumbled confession that didn’t do much to assure his superior.

Edward observed him carefully, a slight frown creasing his forehead. "Anyway, sit down, I want to talk to you."

Francis's heart sank as he dropped back into his chair, his palms sweaty against the wooden armrests.


This is it, he thought miserably, the moment I’ve been dreading. He could feel the tension tighten in his chest, beads of sweat forming on his brow as the reality of his situation weighed heavily on him.

But Edward's demeanor softened, and he leaned back slightly, exuding a casual air that was oddly comforting. "I know how this thing works, believe me,"

Edward began, his voice warm and understanding.Francis looked up, surprised by the unexpected tone, his anxiety momentarily easing. "What, sir?" he asked, his voice betraying a hint of curiosity.Edward smiled faintly, a dull smile that seemed to hide more than it revealed.

"Been married, believe me. I may still be single, but I’ve seen a lot of marriages—the good, the bad, and the ugly—to write a book on it."Francis’s heart sank once more, this time with a growing irritation.

What did Edward know about the suffocating reality of marriage? What did he know about the daily grind of living under the same roof with someone, having to wake up and sleep next to the same person, enduring their quirks, their demands, their endless needs? What did he know about the mounting pressures, the debt, the constant feeling of being trapped with no way out?

As Edward continued his sermon on the intricacies of maintaining peace and order in the house, Francis's thoughts spiraled into a vortex of frustration.


He tried to disguise his irritation with a forced smile, nodding along as Edward rambled on about how love and patience were the keys to a happy marriage.

"So you must be calm, don’t be scared. Women need a little time to adjust. I’m sure everything will work out. You love her, and she loves you.

That’s all the magic you need,"

Edward concluded, his voice almost dripping with naive optimism.

Francis silently seethed, his mind screaming to be freed from this conversation. Just take me out and end this misery, he thought ruefully, his lips curling into a hollow smile.Edward seemed oblivious to Francis's inner turmoil. He reached into his bag and pulled out a bottle of champagne, placing it on the desk with a flourish.

"This champagne is for you. I know I didn’t make it to the wedding, but I thought of a gift and couldn’t come up with anything worth the while or worth my pay at the moment. Settle down, and let’s meet at eleven. We’ll go from there."

Francis barely managed a nod of acknowledgment as Edward finally left, the office door clicking shut behind him.


The silence that followed was almost deafening, a stark contrast to the cacophony of thoughts racing through Francis’s mind.He leaned back in his chair, staring blankly at the champagne bottle on his desk.

The relief he felt at Edward’s departure was quickly overshadowed by the cold, hard reality that awaited him. His thoughts drifted back to the staggering debt—11.2 million naira—an insurmountable sum that had accumulated in just four short months.

His wife’s extravagant demands, her insatiable appetite for luxury, had pushed him to the brink.

Francis closed his eyes, letting out a deep sigh as the weight of it all pressed down on him.

The scene he was supposed to revisit, the parents he was supposed to meet, the evening gathering at the path—it all seemed so distant, so irrelevant compared to the chaos brewing in his own life.

His troubles began like this: First, it was her phone that needed to be upgraded from an iPhone 11 to an iPhone 12 Pro Max. She made a big drama about it, lamenting that she was the bride-to-be and the future wife of a detective.

Her theatrical acts and words were almost too intelligent for him to handle. Then, they needed to move from their two-bedroom flat to a duplex, which cost a lot of money. She had done the groundwork with the agents, and before he could refuse, he had signed off on the property.

She secured bank loans and made the necessary arrangements. Next, her wardrobe needed a complete overhaul. They almost had a major fight over that, but she made sure she got the best.

First, she refused to talk to him, then she stopped cooking, kept him away from her, and refused any form of intimacy.

She even took it a step further by waking up most nights to sob and bemoan the fact that she was married to a stingy man. He loved her; she was like a prized asset that even his colleagues envied.

And she knew it, wielding this knowledge as a weapon.

But what about him? Hadn't he also contributed to his mounting debt, having lost over 3.3 million in football betting?

This debt was now slowly drowning him and his future.

He had no salary to fall back on; whatever he had was owed to debt collectors. But nothing worried him more than the loan sharks now on his tail, particularly the vicious tipper driver chairman, Baba Orijah, aka Kroc.

There was nothing he could do. He felt like he was being driven in a car with no brakes. All he could do now was try not to drag more people into his mess. But could he really save himself? He wondered if he could try.

He sighed deeply and took a long look at the champagne—a four-cousin table wine. It wasn't the most expensive, something Mariam would not agree to, but it would have to do. He unscrewed the cork, took one of the clean mugs from his drawer, and poured himself a drink.

The alcohol content wasn't enough to completely calm his nerves, but it did bring one thing into focus: "23 Idowu Crescent Street, Ajah."

By eleven, he had regained his composure and managed to avoid Mr. Henson.

He rode with Edward down to Adoh, Ketu, where the victim’s parents lived. However, there was little conversation between the men, resolved with a grim conclusion.

"Do you think the boy might still be alive? It's now been four days!" ASP Edward asked on their way.

"With all due respect, sir, from experience, the longer the victim is out there, the smaller the chance of survival.

At four days, we usually have to assume the victim is no longer alive," he replied.

His superior nodded thoughtfully at the response, but he could tell it was hitting hard.

They were welcomed by a crowd preoccupied with a brawl between the bereaved mother and another woman.

"What is going on here!" snarled ASP Edward, jumping into action. Perhaps it was his uniform, but the crowd quickly parted upon seeing the advancing officers.

There stood the couple, the husband and wife, and what the policemen guessed were the neighbors—a bald, short man and a tall, lanky woman with a pinched nose. These were the Obahs, as they were later identified.

"They killed my son, officer! They killed my son!" the grieving woman cried out, pointing fingers at the retreating neighbors.

ASP Edward signaled Francis, who jumped into action. "Why don’t we all go inside for now? We’ll address this issue better," Edward said, pulling them away from the neighbors, who were also being led away by Francis.

Francis led the neighbors, who looked as nasty and suspicious as they could be. It was something he could just tell.

"You are Mr. and Mrs.?" Francis asked.

"We don’t have time for this, officer. This woman has accused us of a crime we had nothing to do with.

We’ll go and make a formal complaint and ensure they are dealt with," fumed the man, whose voice Francis thought had a somewhat melodious hint to it—perhaps he was or had been a musician.

"Well, you are in luck. My superior and I are the police. Let’s go inside for a moment and talk," Francis replied.

The couple exchanged glances, something non-verbal that told him these two would be difficult to handle.

"Let's talk here; we don't want police in our house. Besides, I am late for work," the man said, trying to sound hesitant.

"Okay, okay, no problem. Let's have it then. Who are you two, and how do you know them?"

"I am Mr. Obah Aguinede, and this is my wife, Sherry. We happen to have unfortunate neighbors in those two individuals over there," he replied.

"Okay, there's no need for name-calling. Just let’s get things right. How long have you been neighbors?" Francis asked, pulling out his phone to jot down important information.

"Six years—no, five years," Mr. Obah corrected himself.

"Five years, hmm. Okay, do you have any children?" Francis inquired.

"No, we have no children!" Mrs. Obah's voice was filled with bitterness, a sting that even Mr. Obah couldn't deny.

Could this be a motive? A husband and wife, envious and jealous, deciding to harm their neighbor’s son? Francis wondered.

"What happened moments ago that led to your altercation?"

The woman scowled angrily but said nothing. She intended to let her husband handle the conversation, but Francis was not about to let that happen.

"Mrs. Obah, can you tell me about that?" he asked, turning to her, catching her off guard.

"Well, someone broke one of my plastic chairs. She has been the only one receiving visitors recently and should have seen or known who did it. I asked her to pay for the chair, and she started abusing me. Imagine that!"

Mrs. Obah's demeanor suggested she was more of an aggressor than an innocent party in the events that unfolded.

"We are a peace-loving couple here. We don't quarrel with people, but these two seem to have a problem with everything we do. Officer, now she accuses us of knowing what happened to her son.

What could we possibly have to do with her son?" The man interjected, his face reminiscent of a priest about to offer prayers for the world.

Despite their mannerisms, Francis couldn’t dismiss them as mere troublemakers; something was amiss, an intangible presence he was interested in.

"On the night of the boy's disappearance, I would like to know where both of you were," Francis said.

"That's easy. I am a bus driver; I start work at 4 and return around 11:30. I was still at the Ketu bus stop when I came home and heard about what had happened," the man explained.

"I was with my friend, Madam Kelechi, at her store. She is over there; you can ask her. We were talking, and she had people with her. You can verify it with her.

We have nothing to do with the boy's disappearance; she’s just desperate to point fingers at us for her misfortune," Mrs. Obah added.

The rest of the day was spent verifying the alibis of the husband and wife and talking to other neighbors.

The narrative was clear: Mr. and Mrs. Obah were quarrelsome and bitter, causing trouble for their neighbors daily. Many believed that their bitterness stemmed from their own childlessness, making them target the Abiolas, who had a child.

The child had previously been a direct target of physical and verbal confrontations by the Obahs.

"What do you think?" Edward asked as they compared notes during a break.

"At the moment, these neighbors seem like they could be suspects, but they have solid alibis, and there is no evidence beyond what people say. Neighbors fight; it’s a 'face-me, I-face-you' compound. No judge would accept this as evidence," Francis pointed out.

"I have arranged for the woman to join us down the path tonight. The husband has assured us they will be there. She now strongly believes the neighbors have something to do with her son's disappearance, it was never stated before in her report and there is no evidence to prove it," Edward said.

"Well, whatever it is, I am confident we are on the right track. If the Obahs are involved, we will catch them," Francis concluded.

TO BE CONTINUED

CONTINUED


The City Star Hilltop and Suites was a marvel, a colossus rising proudly in the upscale heart of Victoria Island, Lagos.

Its gleaming forty-eight-story façade dominated the skyline, a fortress of luxury and opulence that left other establishments in the hotel and tourism industry trailing in its wake. This grand structure was more than just a hotel; it was a statement, a testament to the possibilities of modern architecture and the boundless ambition of its creators.

Constructed with a blend of Western architectural inspiration, the building’s glass-covered exterior reflected the azure skies during the day and twinkled with the lights of the city at night, a beacon visible from miles around.

Inside, every floor was a carefully curated world, each distinct with its theme, a journey through continents and cultures without ever leaving the building.

From the Turkish delights of the third floor to the Egyptian elegance of the twenty-first, each level was an invitation to indulge in the heights of luxury.

The lobby alone was a spectacle, with soaring ceilings and a grand chandelier imported from Dubai, its thousands of crystals refracting light in every direction, creating a dazzling display that left guests awestruck.

Marble floors, polished to perfection, reflected the grandeur above, while the soft scent of jasmine lingered in the air, a subtle touch that added to the sense of being transported to a different realm.

Among the hotel’s many attractions, none were as revered as its culinary offerings. The restaurants, each more opulent than the last, were a pilgrimage for food lovers. Here, one could savor the rich spices of Indian cuisine, the delicate flavors of Japanese dishes, or the bold tastes of Caribbean fare, each prepared by chefs who were the best in their field.

It was within this world of gastronomic excellence that Tony Roberts found himself, a young chef with a promising career ahead of him.

Tony had been working at the City Star Hilltop for three months, having transitioned from the Blue Dolphin Suites after it was tragically closed down.


His move to this seven-star paradise was both a step up and a challenge.

The kitchen he now worked in was under the command of the formidable Mr. Xi Sheng Wang, a man whose reputation was as sharp as the knives he wielded.

Mr. Xi was a figure of intimidation, standing at just under five feet but commanding a presence that made him appear much taller.

His small, sharp eyes were hidden behind rimless glasses, constantly scanning the kitchen for imperfections. His thinning hair, always slicked back, was a source of silent anguish for him, though he never spoke of it.

He moved through the kitchen with the grace of a seasoned martial artist, his steps silent, his movements precise.

Tony had learned quickly that Mr. Xi was not a man to cross.

His standards were impossibly high, his attention to detail bordering on the obsessive. But beneath that stern exterior, Tony had come to sense something else—a deep, unspoken loneliness, a man isolated by his own perfectionism.

It was an understanding that Tony kept to himself, a bond that had begun to form in the shadows of the kitchen.

Today, however, was not a day for quiet understanding.

Tony Roberts wiped his brow as he stood beside the gleaming stainless steel counters, the remnants of his last order still steaming softly in the cool air of the kitchen.

The kitchen of City Star Hilltop and Suites was a symphony of clattering pans, hissing steam, and the rhythmic chopping of vegetables—a cacophony that belied the precision and mastery each dish demanded.

The air was fragrant with the scents of soy, sesame, and chili, mingling with the savory richness of broths simmering nearby. The stoves, lined up in neat rows, radiated an intense heat that was only tempered by the cold marble of the countertops, where each chef worked diligently, hands moving with the grace and efficiency of seasoned craftsmen.

Above them, a row of gleaming pots and pans hung from hooks, reflecting the bright lights that illuminated the spotless kitchen, as if keeping silent vigil over the orchestrated chaos below.

Mr. Xi Sheng Wang’s entrance was like a knife cutting through butter, sharp and precise. His footsteps were almost silent, his diminutive figure moving through the kitchen with an eerie grace.

His white chef’s coat, crisp and immaculate, contrasted sharply with his deeply furrowed face, which held an expression of stern concentration.

The slight sway of his hunched shoulders hinted at the weight of years spent in kitchens just like this one—years spent perfecting his craft, a craft he now guarded with the ferocity of a sentinel.

"Tony," Mr. Xi’s voice was low, almost a whisper, but it carried through the kitchen like a gust of wind. Tony froze, instinctively straightening up, his hands still damp from the cleaning he’d been doing.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Xi," Tony replied, his tone respectful, but with a hint of the firmness that had earned him both the scorn and respect of the older man.

Mr. Xi’s eyes, hidden behind his old, rimless glasses, narrowed slightly. "I didn’t ask for your greetings," he snapped, his voice cutting through the air like the edge of a cleaver. "I asked for an explanation of your time spent so far here in my kitchen."

The kitchen, usually bustling with noise, seemed to grow quieter. The other chefs, their hands still busy with their tasks, subtly shifted their attention toward the exchange. Tony could feel their eyes on him, the air thick with a mix of curiosity and concern.

In a place where Mr. Xi’s displeasure could end a career, everyone knew to tread lightly.

"I just finished preparing an order of teriyaki chicken and japchae," Tony began, choosing his words carefully. "I was cleaning up my station when you came around."

Mr. Xi stepped closer, his small eyes scrutinizing Tony with a cold, almost mechanical detachment. "You spent 38 minutes," he hissed, his voice soft yet laced with reproach.

"Teriyaki, 18 minutes. Japchae, 15 minutes. You waste time, 4 minutes. Nǐ yīnggāi zuò zuò yǒu yì si," he added, lapsing into Mandarin with a tone that Tony had come to recognize as disapproving, but not malicious.

Tony held his gaze steady, the words flowing over him without shaking his resolve.

In the three months since joining City Star, he’d seen Mr. Xi reduce grown men to tears, seen him tear apart dishes that others would consider flawless, all without raising his voice above that ghostly whisper.

But Tony also knew the other side of Mr. Xi, the side that few ever saw—the meticulous artist, the perfectionist who demanded nothing less than excellence because he gave nothing less himself.

"Anyway," Mr. Xi continued, "follow me to my office. Now."

The last word hung in the air, carrying with it a silent command that Tony knew better than to ignore. Mr. Xi turned sharply on his heel, his small frame cutting a path through the kitchen as Tony followed, the eyes of his colleagues trailing after them, whispers beginning to rise in their wake.

As they walked, Tony could feel the tension in his shoulders tighten, the weight of the moment pressing down on him.

The hallway leading to Mr. Xi’s office was lined with glass cases, each one displaying awards and accolades that the kitchen had garnered over the years. A testament to the high standards set by the man now walking just ahead of him.

Mr. Xi’s office was a stark contrast to the rest of the hotel—a small, cluttered space filled with Asian culinary books and magazines, binders, and sheets of paper covered in neat, precise handwriting.

The walls were adorned with framed certificates and photographs of Mr. Xi standing beside culinary greats, but the most striking feature was the heavy, antique desk that dominated the room.

On it lay an open ledger, its pages filled with the records of every dish that had passed through the kitchen under Mr. Xi’s watchful eye.

"Sit," Mr. Xi instructed, his voice calm, though his eyes still held that critical gleam. Tony obeyed, settling into the worn leather chair opposite the desk, his gaze meeting Mr. Xi’s across the expanse of dark wood.

For a moment, the older man said nothing, his fingers drumming lightly on the desk’s surface as he studied Tony with a level of intensity that was almost unnerving.

Finally, Mr. Xi spoke. "You are different, Tony," he said, his voice devoid of the sharpness it had held earlier. "Different from the others. You are talented, but you are also... daring. This is good, but it can also be dangerous."

Tony remained silent, sensing that this was not the time to interrupt.

"You want to succeed," Mr. Xi continued, "and you are willing to take risks to do so. But you must learn that in this kitchen, perfection is not just desired—it is expected. Every second, every movement, must be precise. There is no room for error. Do you understand?"

Tony nodded, his eyes locked with Mr. Xi’s. "I understand."

TO BE CONTINUED

CONTINUED



Mr. Xi's writhing smile was an unsettling sight, a rarity in itself, even among the many employees who had worked under him.

His eyes, however, told a different story—one of countless years spent in service, woven into the fabric of the country he had come to call home. He began to speak, and his words carried the weight of history.

"Thirty years," Mr. Xi began, his accent still carrying the weight of his homeland, "I have been in this country. I first came when I was twenty-nine. The country was just starting to get off the ground. I served the former president, went on to serve three ex-governors, two ministers, and eight ambassadors."

Tony watched him with a mixture of awe and confusion. The stories Mr. Xi was unraveling were new to him—spectacular, even.

Few, if any, knew much about the stoic chef who had carved out his life in a foreign land, let alone the details of his long service.

Mr. Xi’s gaze drifted to a drawer at his side. He reached in with a deliberate slowness, pulling out a white envelope.

His fingers, marked by years of toil, fiddled with the paper as if the act itself held some deep significance. Finally, he placed it gently on the desk between them.

"I have had quite a success as a chef here," Mr. Xi continued, his voice tinged with a bitterness that made Tony's chest tighten. "Awards, gifts—many would envy me. I am sure they envy me. I’ve invested and saved enough to keep me well looked after for the next fifty years, but I don’t have fifty YEARS, I am sure."

Tony’s confusion deepened as he searched Mr. Xi’s face for clues.

The older man’s expression was inscrutable, his eyes piercing as he gauged Tony's reaction. Without breaking the silence, Mr. Xi raised his right hand, lifting it above the desk so Tony could see.

At first, Tony saw nothing out of the ordinary—a hand that had, no doubt, handled countless ingredients with the precision of a master.

But then, as he looked closer, he noticed the small tremors, the subtle spasms that shook the hand ever so slightly. Scars and cuts lined the skin, each a testament to the years of dedication and hard work.

"The doctors say it’s nerve damage," Mr. Xi said, his voice devoid of emotion. "Left unattended for years. How was I to know? Anyway, I couldn’t make Bibimbap yesterday." He paused, letting the words settle in the quiet room. "It was my birthday, you see. I make Bibimbap for myself to celebrate."

Tony's mind raced. How could a man like Mr. Xi, who had achieved so much, celebrate his birthday alone with a simple dish? Yet, here was the man himself, revealing a vulnerability that felt almost sacred.

"I can no longer cook," Mr. Xi declared, tapping the envelope gently, as if to underscore the finality of it all, of course this to Tony, felt like an exaggeration but he could see Mr. Xi had made up his mind.

"By the week’s end, I will be returning to China. But that’s not why I called you here."

Tony swallowed hard, a knot forming in his throat as the reality of the situation dawned on him.

"I have been watching," Mr. Xi said, his voice steady. "Three months to you is like thirty years to me. I can tell who is fit to make this dish or what mistakes have been made just by seeing it and knowing who cooked it."

Tony nodded slowly, his mind struggling to keep pace with the gravity of the conversation.

"I have sent your name as my replacement," Mr. Xi continued, his tone as matter-of-fact as if he were discussing the weather.

Tony’s breath caught in his throat. A thousand thoughts surged through his mind, each more incredulous than the last. This was no idle jest. This was real.

"You will accept it, and you will do well," Mr. Xi stated, leaving no room for doubt. "They have no option."

The words hit Tony like a wave, almost knocking the air out of him. His voice, when he finally found it, was barely above a whisper. "Why me, Mr. Xi?"

The older man’s gaze hardened for a moment, his expression unreadable. "You don’t want it? Fine, I will get the recommendation called off."

"No, no, sir," Tony stammered, panic rising in his chest. "That’s not what I meant."

Mr. Xi’s smile returned, thin and fleeting, but it held a touch of warmth this time. "You will do fine—better than most. You have something in those hands of yours. Only two kinds of people have those hands: A chef or a surgeon. I didn’t want to open people up and fill them with things—I just wanted to feed them. So, I became a chef. Go back to the kitchen. They will call you in to break the news sooner or later."

Tony nodded, his legs feeling like jelly as he turned to leave. He hesitated, glancing back at Mr. Xi, whose eyes were now distant, lost in thought.

"Tony," Mr. Xi called, his voice suddenly commanding. Tony froze, turning to face him.

"Make me some Bibimbap," Mr. Xi said, the command filled with an unspoken finality.

Tony felt a chill run down his spine. It was like the biblical story of Isaac and Esau, asked to make that one meal for his final blessing.

"Yes, sir," Tony replied, bowing his head before stepping out of the room. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing the magnitude of what had just transpired.

As the door clicked shut, Mr. Xi regarded the envelope once more, before sliding it back into the drawer. His mind lingered on his earlier words, the ones he hadn’t meant to speak.

Three kinds of people, not two, he reminded himself had such hands, a brooding expression settling over his features as he considered the truth he had chosen to withhold.

TO BE CONTINUED

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