JIJI NDOGO: Death of Valentine: The 'hanged' body

The young man who brings the bad news also happens to own a motorcycle and is confused about the possibility of ferrying two cops at once.

“Young man,” Sophia says, “for this one instant, I permit you to break the law.”

It’s also the first time Sophia and I have ridden one bike at the same time.

“I won’t be the sandwich,” she announces.

“What are you talking about?” I ask.

“I’ll sit in the back. You sit between me and the driver.”

I shake my head. “That’s not the way it works.”

“Says who?”

“Says… everyone who rides boda bodas. Have you ever seen the arrangement you’re proposing?”

As our argument progresses, the boda rider steps off the bike. “You can have it. I’ll walk. They want you there as soon as possible.”

Fearing our incompetence is showing, I agree to sit between my colleague and the boda guy, staring at the back of his cracked helmet. Sophia holds me so tightly around the waist I’m afraid I she’ll cut of blood supply to my head. Now I’m beginning to understand the reason behind her unusual decision.

We find a sizeable crowd outside the house visited upon by the Grim Reaper. Sad faces part ways upon sight of our uniforms.

“Where’s the homeowner?” Sophia asks.

We’re directed into a small living room, where a smaller crowd gathers around a forlorn older couple. We offer our condolences and dive straight into the business at hand. One of the supporting mourners leads us to a room in the back of the house.

I’m a bit ashamed to admit this, but I get quite queasy around dead bodies. The moment we enter the scene of the incident and I see the young man hanging by a thin rope from the rafters, my stomach churns and threatens to evict my half-digested breakfast.

Sophia throws me a stern look. “Don’t tell me you want to throw up.”

“I won’t,” I say, “but I still might.”

“Make sure to do it outside. Until we determine otherwise, this is a crime scene.”

“A crime scene?” asks our guide. “But obviously Valentine took his own life.”

“Ma’am,” Sophia says softly, “like I said, we reserve that judgment.”

To distract myself, I look around the small room. It’s poor but exceptionally neat. There’s only a bed by one wall and a desk by the opposite one. The lad had stood on a stool to reach the rope. The stool lies on its side below the body.

I walk to the desk and peruse the contents on it: a neat row of printed books against the wall, a small pile of exercise books on one side and a diary on the other. A sheet of paper marks the last diary entry.

Sophia comes over. “Did you find a note?”

I pull out the paper and show it to her.

“It’s confirmed then,” she says. “It’s a suicide.”

“It’s not!”

“What?”

“See the clothesline on the wall? He did his laundry yesterday. Who does that and then hangs himself? There’s also a diary entry for an appointment tomorrow. It’s marked with a star and looks important.”

“What are you saying?”

“Valentine was murdered.” 

Next week: Death of Valentine – The Clues