Dave pulls over in the parking lot of the zonal headquarters. A five storey tall building, old, shaped like a cylinder with a large courtyard in the middle. The building has stood for half a century. Satellite dishes and antennas stick from the top like a snail’s feelers. The Nigerian flag droops from a white pole at the centre of the parking lot.

At the other end is the administrative block. A modern structure, white paint and twelve storeys. Around it is a wide field of short grass and anthills. Beyond the fields and just out of reach of the eye are the barracks and officers quarters.

A headache is snarling at his head and he winces, rubbing his temples. His phone rings shrilly in his pocket. It is an alarm; a reminder for the therapy session he is supposed to be having. He locks the door.

The courtyard is layered with green grass. The Nigerian police flag – a blue, yellow and green -- sways on a slightly smaller pole than the one outside. A wall six feet across is decorated with white ceramic tiles. Dave waits and reads some of the tiles. Feels a strange sense of comradeship.

Chizoba Michael, Jan 1 2014. Oscar Petersen, Nov 18 2017. Salihu Maihula, May 29 2018. Kayode Edunjobi, Aug 5 2018.

It is called ‘The Memorial To Fallen Heroes’.

Ralph Benjamin should be there but he won’t be. He might never be. Not until someone discovers what deputy commissioner Anthony is up to. The thought makes Dave bunch his hand up into fists.

A small map hangs from the ceiling between the walls of the hallway. Records is on the third floor. Dave takes the stairs. There are few people about; mostly clerks carrying bundles of documents and the occasional police officer. The building is buzzing with the hums of air conditioners. Almost everyone is indoor.

Dave walks the length of the third floor. He doesn’t find the records room until the last door. He stands before the sliding glass door. There is a woman seated inside the room. He knocks slightly and raises his hand. She beckons him in.

He slides the door open. The cool air hits him like a slug to the chest.

“How may I help you?” says the woman. She is middle aged and slender. She doesn’t seem tall but Dave is sure she’d be looking down at him when she stands. Her black trouser clad legs are enough evidence. Her face is framed by a mop of brown hair. There are two computer monitors on her table. Behind her is another room with a vast archive of files beyond.

“My name is Detective Dave Coker. I recently got some new information on a case that I’d like to check.”

“Identification, please,” she says holding out her hand.

Dave fishes his ID from his wallet and hands it to her.

She opens a notebook from the pile on her desk and scribbles in it. She hands him the ID card. “You don’t look like a detective,” she says. She gives him a requisition form to fill.

Dave smiles and pockets his wallet. “I’ve been told that.” He fills the requisition form.

She staples the form together with a couple of others and slips it in her drawer. “You’ll know a detective from the tilt of his shoulders, not the one uniformed police have."

“I think a detective needs a dose of confidence.”

“I think you guys are funny. A clue falls into your laps and you pretend like you had it covered all along.”

Dave laughs. “Most of the time we have to wait for things to happen.”

“So, do you need help with your search?”

Dave pauses, considering. “Where are undercover personnel files kept?”

The woman pauses. “They are locked in the cabinets. You’ll have to write a formal request to Abuja. Only Inspectors, DCs and above have the keys.”

“What about organized crime case files?”

“The Lagos mainland are halfway on your right, the islands are the next alcove down.”

Dave smiles. “Thanks for your help.” He walks into the records hall. A few uniformed policemen sit among stacks of files. A janitor is perched on a ladder.

Dave moves along the shelves. He reads the number cards and labels. Stops before the one that reads ‘mainland’. He takes the first box to the empty table by his right. Goes through the files and archived reports. They are all about mid to low level street gangs.

He takes the second box and the next. He finds some mentions of Chief Koko but they are brief. There is no mention of undercover officers.

He looks past the row of anonymous looking files on the next aisle. At the far end of the wall are the filing cabinets. He is sure the files he seeks will be there. But he has no clearance and therefore no key.

He looks around. At the far end of the wall a camera swings slowly. An old camera with thick blue cables. Everyone is either neck deep in files or furiously scribbling. He returns the files to the shelf and walks out. The woman at the door is on the phone. He smiles and she nods back.

The heat outside is stifling. He takes the stairs. Steps aside for a group of six policemen to pass through. He goes several steps down and stops at the base of the last step. Stares at the fire alarm, then pulls the ‘T-bar’ and runs back to the third floor.

The alarm rings shrilly. It reverberates round the building like a piercing scream. The doors to several offices swing open and people troop out. They all hesitate. There is no scream, no smoke and roar of fire. But they soon surrender to the urgency of the alarm.

Dave slips into the anteroom. It is empty. As he suspects the second monitor on the woman’s table shows the camera feed. He pulls out the blue cable from behind it and the screen goes blank.

He races into the records hall. Grabs a bundle of papers from a nearby table and removes the paper clip. He puts a looped end between his teeth and straightens it. Runs his hands over the cabinets. His eyes are searching. Then he sees ‘Undercover’ and twists the straight clip into the tiny keyhole. Twists and turns it then bends one end of it to create a loop. The cabinet rolls opens with a small squeak. The fire siren stops with an abrupt stillness.

The files are arranged alphabetically. He flips through them until he reaches R. He pulls it out. His heart is racing in his chest. He hears voices outside.

He runs through the pages. Stops at the last one. It says Ralph Benjamin was killed in a botched sting operation on a gun smuggling gang. Dave stares at the fine print. Feels a wave of rage so strong he wants to crush something in his hands.

There is no doubt it is an official document already. Ralph Benjamin, killed in a badly executed sting.

He feels something now; the beginning of a pattern. Ralph Benjamin’s death would be the utter destruction of Chief Koko’s chances at election. So the story had to change. And only one person was capable of that. Only one person in the force stood to profit if the truth never got out. Deputy Commissioner Madueke.

Dave replaces the file and closes the cabinet. He drops to a crouch just as people begin to stream in. He edges to the back of the shelves then steps out when no one is looking. He walks straight to the door. The woman is bent over her monitor with a frown on her face.
He slips out of quietly.

There are hundreds of thoughts being tossed around in his head. He remembers Ralph’s widow and the intense sorrow on her face when the news was broken to her.
He goes to the parking lot and unlocks his car. At a loss as to what to do.

A procession of police vans led by a black SUV park before the administrative block. The officers all jump down. The doors to the SUV opens and two figures step out. One of them is Michael Ejiro, 53, tall and intensely dark skinned. The other is a woman, slight figured and light skinned. She is bespectacled. She looks at the officers before her and she smiles.

They are too far apart but Dave is sure her glance falls on him. He feels her eyes; calculating and penetrative. His back is crawling cold. He holds her gaze but all he sees are her dark glasses. Then she turns around and follows the inspector general into the building.

He is about to get in his car when a blue Mercedes pulls up beside him. The passenger door opens and Dave knows who he is the moment the man steps out.

Carl Johnson, 37, sharp tailored grey suit, black brogues and a gold watch. His hair is short, graying at the temples and thinning at the top. He is using a walking stick but doesn’t seem to lean heavily on it.

Carl was a lieutenant colonel before a roadside IED had cut short his military career. He was let go on a medical disability retirement.

“Well if it isn’t Dave Coker!” says Carl, grinning.

“You got that right,” says Dave. He stretches out his hand but Carl limps forward and draws him into a crushing hug.

Carl stands back. Dave sees his eyes are a bit glassy and there is the slight stench of alcohol on his breath. He has been drinking. Probably an alcoholic. Dave remembers Carl was one of the most promising officers he had known, but his ambitiousness was sometimes his detriment.

“You’re looking good,” says Carl.

“Your pension doing you well, eh?”

Dave shrugs. “Just a humble detective.”

“You are so goddamn lucky. Well, well, well. And you were the best of us. This bloody country. You should be running Academy, for heaven’s sake.” He means the military academy.

“What about you? You aren’t looking bad either.”

Carl chuckles. He takes a pack of cigarette out of his jacket and offers Dave one. “Just some security consultancy here and there.”

Dave declines.

“Ah. You were always the fox among cats. You never smoked or drank.” He lights it up and takes a quick drag. “It’s been a tough few years, mate. Problems with the guy up here.” He points at his head. “And people think twice before hiring a washed out ex-soldier with a metal leg.”

“Do you see a therapist?”

“Yeah, yeah. The same PTSD shit. They tell you they can help you be better, but I say there is no coming back from that road. The things you see… they stay with you forever. Let me tell you a secret; my therapy sessions make me sleepy.” Carl cracks into laughter then a nasty cough.

Dave smiles. There is some truth in what Carl said. What he had seen will forever be a part of him. There was no denying that. No amount of therapy could change that. “Mine says I’m making progress.”

“That’s good. That’s good. And I heard you were made colonel, eh?”

“Yes. Just before my retirement."

Carl shakes his head. “That bloody war that wasn’t even ours.”

“How about your wife?  Linda, right?”

“No, Julia,” says Carl. He flings his cigarette down and grinds it on the asphalt. “Julia and I went splitsville.”

“What? I’m shocked.” While in Mogadishu, Carl always spent his evening time in the officer’s mess on the phone with his wife. Julia came from money and her father was a retired General who would have advanced Carl’s career all the way to the top. Dave suspects she either couldn't live with the changed man who came back from Mogadishu or she had caught Carl in a very bad situation. Carl's promiscuousness wasn't exactly a secret.

“Well people grow apart.”

“So, private security. Sounds exciting.”

“Not as exciting as it sounds. Unlike a detective I have to kiss the ass of every rich guy in the room. That’s why I’m here. One of my clients was involved in some shady business and apparently I’m a witness.” He hands Dave his card. “And what are you doing here? I thought only the office guys worked here.”

“Just searching for something.”

“What is it? You never know, I may be of help.”

“Do you know Chief Koko?”

Carl frowns and scratches his nose. “Yeah, the one running for governorship.”

“He was involved in the death of some undercover detective and someone high up is covering it up.”

“Jeez. What are you going to do?”

Dave shrugs. “I don’t really know. I guess I’ll just wait and see.”

Carl looks at his watch. “Hey, how about you come to my office, let’s have a drink or two and catch up, eh?”

Dave sucks his teeth. “I’m kind of busy now.”

“Whenever you’re free. You just come anytime.” Carl gives Dave his card.

“That would be great,” says Dave, shaking his hand.

Carl limps towards the administrative block. “Looking forward to seeing you,” he says.