BAMAKO - Aribert Raphael (red queen ebook TXT) 📗

her dress to Hassan, who shook his head a smirk coming across his lips.
I must admit the whole scene is rapidly turning into a slapstick comedy.
When the waiter had changed the table linen and replaced dishes and cutlery, they sat down again. The coffee blotch was sticking to her thighs. Talya would have to go and change, but for now she couldn’t help but eating some more.
“The chief hasn’t given me any details except for the fact that your name was scribbled on a letter that was found in this man’s pocket.” Talya was agape. “He wanted to phone you, but I told him I’d take care of it. I thought it’d be better to tell you myself.”
“Again I’m sorry, Hassan. I haven’t slept well last night. All these calls kept haunting me. Of course, this morning I was going to make you pay for it.” She smiled.
“As I said, you’re asking for trouble.” He returned the smile.
After devouring another croissant, under the amused gape of her lawyer, and gulping down some coffee, Talya said, “You’ll have to excuse me, but I’ve got to go and change. I can’t go anywhere like this,” showing the stain on her dress as she rose from her seat.
“Go ahead, I’ll wait …”

34
An hour later, they were sitting in the chief of police’s office located on the third floor of an old converted house near the centre of town. There was just enough space in the room to fit his metal desk, wooden chairs and a row of filing cabinets. Obviously, the government wasn’t spending much on their Police Department. One more piece of furniture and the chief would’ve had to work in the corridors. Omar Diallo was a round and jovial fellow much like the Michelin Man. His podgy face was gentle like his smile but his eyes were keen and observant.
Not a speck of dirt or a bit of information or a cunning glance would be lost on this man.
He wasted no time to tell them that they had nothing to worry about—the matter was “simple,” he said (!)
He opened the thin folder in front of him and began reading from what Talya gathered was a report from the Dakar Police officials.
Hassan and Talya were sitting across from him, their staring gazes not leaving his face.
“A fisherman’s boy has found the body of a Caucasian man on Yoff’s beach near Dakar’s airport. The man was dressed in a two-piece, very expensive Italian suit. He was in his thirties and showed no signs of being in a fight prior to his death. He died of a heart attack apparently, (probably induced by a drug overdose). He had various items in the coat pockets such as a letter on which the name of Talya Kartz was mentioned in connection with Carmine Resources. The name of the victim has not been released to the public as yet—the family has not been notified.”
The chief closed the folder, looking from one to the other. “However, since you are somehow involved in this crime, Madame Kartz, the Department decided to tell you that the corpse was the one of a fellow by the name of Richard Gillman.” He stopped and waited, watching for their reactions. Hassan and Talya looked at each other.
Talya couldn’t figure this out. “Who is, or was Richard Gillman?”
“I must admit, at first, we had no idea. The man had a valid Canadian passport on him and from it, we learned that he’d stayed both in Mali and in Senegal for extended periods of time and returned to this continent last December and landed in Mauritania.”
Talya leaned forward—she was even more puzzled now. “Mauritania? What was he doing there?”
“That was the question, yes.”
“Did you find out?”
“Yes, but not until my colleagues in Dakar contacted the Canadian officials that we had some sort of indication as to why he came to West Africa. He was a metallurgist engaged by a Canadian company to carry out some tests, or engineering type of work—we’re not sure at this time—on various mine sites in Mali and in Senegal.”
“When did he land in Senegal then?”
“We’re not clear on that point, Madame Kartz. Anyway, what concerns us for now is the fact that the man had a letter on his person when he died. It was addressed to ‘whom it may concern’ and not dated precisely although it appeared to have been written some months prior to his death. Apparently the letter is pointing the finger at the killer but not implicating anyone directly.”
“Do you have a copy of the letter?”
“No, Madame Kartz. We were asked to wait until your Consul gives you a copy before receiving one ourselves.”
“Any reason for that?” Hassan was quicker on the uptake on this one.
“Only that Monsieur Gillman and Madame Kartz are both Canadian citizens. Diplomatic courtesy in Mali demands that we give the Consul priority to interview witnesses prior to obtaining a statement.”
I doubt the same courtesy would be extended in Canada to a citizen of Mali, but maybe, who knows?
“Will Madame Kartz be required to give a statement?”
“Not to us, Maitre. She happens to be in Mali as a visitor and the crime has occurred in Senegal. So, that’s where the statement will have to be made. Unless Madame Kartz does not go through Dakar on her way back to Vancouver, then we would take her statement here and transmit it to the Dakar Police.”
Having a legal advisor at your side serves a purpose—Hassan was asking all the logical questions, but Talya had one or two of her own.
“Chief, do you know how my name was ‘used in connection with Carmine’?”
“We don’t know, at least I don’t. There were no more details than what was in the report I’ve read to you.”
“I see. One more question; I understand I’m involved in this affair somehow, but I wasn’t in Dakar when the crime was committed, so why should I have to give a statement at all?”
“As you say, Madame Kartz, you’re involved. How far that involvement has gone we won’t know until we read the letter. So, I suggest we refrain from speculating on whatever is needed to be done until we know more.”
“Do you know if the Consul is ready to meet with us?”
“Yes, Maitre, he is. As a matter of fact he’s called this office an hour ago requesting that you go and see him as soon as we were finished here.”
Hassan got up and said, “Thank you for your time, Chief. If you need Madame Kartz at any time, please contact me first at my office. You have my co-ordinates, I believe?”
“Yes I do, and I’ll be in touch as soon as I have anything to report or if I need Madame Kartz to answer some more questions.” The Chief rose and they shook hands.
What about my questions? I guess they would have to wait.
Talya stood up also and they took their leave.
Hassan and Talya came out of Monsieur Diallo’s office with one question in mind—one of many but one, which was at the forefront of all the rest: Who was Richard Gillman? They were soon to find out.
35
During the short drive between the police station and the consulate, Hassan looked at Talya every chance he got. “Do you know if Carmine has ever hired a metallurgist?”
“I really don’t know, but it wouldn’t make sense. Carmine isn’t producing any gold from any mines—not yet anyway. It’s an exploration company, which means a metallurgist would have no place with us.”
Hassan didn’t make any comments. He seemed to concentrate on driving through traffic, but Talya knew better. He was probably reviewing, as she was, all the possible ramifications or problems her involvement could engender.
They had been invited to attend the meeting at the Consul’s house rather than his office in town. A guard in uniform met them at the gate. He told Hassan to go up the driveway and park near the front door where they would find someone waiting to escort them directly to the Consul’s office.
The French mansion, recalling the grandiose architecture of the Second Empire—Louis Phillipe would be my guess—was located on the outskirts of the business district. It was set a little way from the street and surrounded by sumptuous estate gardens.
Although Talya knew the Consul had a letter to show them and perhaps wanted some clarification as to her apparent connection with Richard Gillman, she had to admit that she was apprehensive.
Once inside, they went up the wide marble steps to reach the Consul’s office. Talya had no idea what was waiting for them behind an imposing brace of redwood doors. She tried to persuade herself not to worry.
At the top of the staircase, a tall, white hair gentleman opened the door of a spacious office. He addressed them in French with a distinctive Quebec accent, and asked them to go in and wait for the Consul to arrive. The room must have been an anteroom at one time. The high ceiling was trimmed with hand carved wooden borders. Sparse antique furniture stood proudly over thick Chinese silk rugs, partly masking the parquet floor. There were three Italian crystal lamps standing on each of the low side tables and matching the overhead chandelier. There was a Canadian flag on the right side of the Consul’s Directoire desk. The portrait of Queen Elizabeth II hung on the wall to the left of it. The French doors on the right opened onto a large terrace. From where they stood, Talya could see the umbrellas of the many trees populating the luxuriant garden below. A delicate magenta bougainvillea encroached onto the white heavy stone balustrade, calling you to come closer and admire its resplendent beauty descending to the ground beneath the terrace. They waited for the Consul.
He came in through the door from which they had entered and spoke to the man who had escorted them. They didn’t hear what was said. Moments later a young lady entered the room with a tray, which she deposited carefully on one of the side tables. On the tray, there was a cafetière, matching cups and saucers and some langues de chat and lemon Madeleines.
After closing the door behind him and on the woman who brought in the refreshments, the Consul crossed the floor with a purposeful stride. He carried a large envelope, which he handed to Talya directly. He looked at her appreciatively and with a slight bow, he said, “My name is Aaron Broughton and I’m delighted to meet you, Ms Kartz. Your employers have spoken highly of you.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Broughton,” Talya replied.
He then turned to Hassan. They shook hands. “Maitre, it’s a pleasure meeting you. Please sit down both of you.” He indicated the Directoire chairs facing his desk while he went around it and sat down.
He was a tall man. He must have been in his late forties.
“Thank you for coming in,” he began. “I know this was quite an unusual request, but this is a highly unusual situation and our ambassador in Dakar needed some clarification as to