Blood is Dirt. Robert Thomas Wilson
‘I take it you haven’t done business in West Africa before, Mr Briggs?’ asked Bagado. Napier looked up, confused, too many things bowling around in his head. ‘You specialize in dirty fuel transportation but you don’t know what a Bonny Light Crude scam is.’
‘No. Yes. I see what you’re getting at.’
‘The truth, Mr Briggs, that’s what we want to get at. That way we can help you. Many of these scams sound incredible in the telling and absurd on paper, but if you’re involved in them they become a part of your life, a part of your business hopes and aspirations. You’ve no need to be coy about …’
‘… my greed?’ asked Napier, his head tilted to one side like an intelligent dog.
‘Be brutal with yourself, by all means,’ said Bagado. ‘But tell us what happened too.’
‘I received a letter from a man who described himself as a senior accountant at the Ministry of Finance of the Benin Republic living and working in Porto Novo.’
‘Do you have this letter?’
‘The letter,’ said Napier, surfing over Bagado’s question, ‘offered me a percentage of something over thirty million dollars. The money came from overinvoicing on a contract awarded to a foreign company.’
‘All you had to do,’ Bagado cut in, ‘was supply them with signed letterheads, signed invoices and the name of your bank along with the account number and telephone/fax number.’
Napier Briggs sat rigid, Bagado’s words as good as a glance across a crowded room of Gorgons.
‘Hundreds of these letters are coming out of Nigeria every week. What’s happened to you Mr Briggs is that you’ve been four-one-nined.’
‘Four-one-nined?’
‘Obtaining Goods by False Pretences, section four-one-nine of the Nigerian Criminal Code. You really haven’t done much business in West Africa, Mr Briggs.’
‘I’ve done some deals,’ said Napier, finding a carat of professional pride from somewhere, and then giving himself away by scratching the crown of his head and picking at imaginary specks on his face.
‘The senior accountant at the Ministry of Finance in Benin, did he come to you via one of your successful deals … as a reward for something, perhaps?’
If we’d been impressed by the range of Napier’s nervous tics before, now we were spellbound by the sheer speed with which his hands shifted over his face and head. He tugged his ears, scratched his head, picked at the side of his nose, smoothed his eyebrows, pulled at the point of his chin, pinched his eyelids, the cigarette changing hands all the time, not having enough to do, he could have used six or seven smokes to keep himself occupied.
‘Why don’t you just show us the letter, Mr Briggs?’ I asked.
‘Napier. For Christ’s sake, it’s Napier.’
‘Napier?’
He lit another cigarette from the butt, and dragged on the stub, hauling the most acrid smoke deep down into his lungs. Bagado nudged the tin again, wincing at what the X-rays must look like. Napier brutalized the tin with the butt and walked to the window holding his forehead with his free hand as if the nicotine rush might drop him.
‘Mr Briggs,’ said Bagado, still not comfortable with Napier, ‘I’m not one for turning down custom. As you can see, we need the money. But, in this case, I think you would be better served, and I will write a letter of introduction, by going back to Nigeria to see a man called Colonel Adjeokuta. He has set up an investigation bureau within the Lagos police force specializing in 419 cases. He knows how these gangs operate, he has case histories, he knows some of the gang members, he has some of them available for comment in the Kirikiri Maximum Security Prison in Lagos, some of them are on death row and are interested …’
‘I want a private investigation,’ said Napier Briggs, in a quiet intense voice that seemed to have stopped the traffic for a moment. ‘Anyway, this is a Benin thing.’
‘It’s a Lagos gang using a Benin scenario. Porto Novo is on the border. There are many crime links between Benin and Nigeria. Stolen cars, hi-fi, petrol, drugs …’
‘I don’t want the Nigerians involved.’
‘I’m half Nigerian myself, Mr Briggs.’
‘Then perhaps you’ll know why.’
‘Do you mean the Nigerian authorities?’
‘No,’ he said, his head seeming to operate independently of his neck, the puppeteer getting his fingers crossed. The three of us exchanged code through the volumes of smoke leaking out of Napier.
‘They used the letterheads to clear out your account?’ I asked, trying a new line.
‘They said the invoices would show goods and services I’d supplied,’ said Napier, ‘the letterheads would be used to give covering information. They’d put the whole lot through the system and effect a transfer. They needed a foreign company account to pull it off.’
‘What were you doing with nearly two million dollars in your account?’
‘They were freight payments from contracts and time charters and I’d had some good months on the spot market. It was all money due to go out to the shipowners in the New Year … apart from my two per cent.’
‘Timely,’ I said. ‘All that money being there, Napier?’
‘Not for me. Not for my owners.’
‘Who would have known about that kind of money being in there?’
‘The charterers, the owners, the bank … myself.’
‘You have someone else in your office?’
‘Karen. Out of the question, she’s been with me for years.’
‘She’d have known, though?’
‘Yes.’
‘Your associate?’
‘I told you. Nonexec. Remember?’
‘Do you have a wife, an ex, a girlfriend, a partner in life?’
‘Divorced. Three years ago.’
‘Bitter?’
‘This isn’t relevant.’
‘You’re not giving us much to go on this end, Napier. I’m just coming at it from a different angle. Did your wife know about your business?’
‘She used to.’ ‘You talked about it with her?’
‘She was a broker. She covered the Mediterranean small ships market.’
‘Was there anyone else involved at that time?’
‘Back off,’ Napier snarled. ‘This is none of …’
‘It’s only a question. Has your company always been called Napier Briggs Associates?’
‘No. It used to be Atkin Briggs Shipbrokers Ltd.’
‘What happened to Atkin?’
‘Blair Atkin.’ He said it as if he’d just got a mouthful of coffee grounds.
‘Your wife ran off with Blair?’
Napier had his back to us now, his hands above his head, leaning against the window, two fingers trailing smoke.
‘Yes,’ he said, taut as a drum skin.
‘You’re sure this isn’t relevant?’
‘They split up a year later. I haven’t seen or heard from her since. Nor has … anyway, she was a bitch.’
‘Was?’ asked Bagado.
‘Still