The Boy in the River Read Online Free Page A

well-dressed people promenaded along it every evening with something approaching elegance.
    We had been invited to swim at the British Embassy pool, a favourite haunt for expatriates at the weekend. The terrace was crowded with white people lounging on sunbeds and sitting around the metal tables while their children splashed and screamed.
    ‘First time in Kin?’ a man from British American Tobacco asked me, sipping Heineken from the bottle.
    ‘Yes, that’s right.’
    ‘Poor old you.’ He gave me the kindly-wise look I soon grew to detest. ‘I’m afraid you’ll find there’s bugger all you can do to help these people. Won’t help themselves, you see? You’ll find out what I mean when you’ve been here as long as I have.’
    It struck me as intriguing that a man from a tobacco company was concerned with helping anyone.
    ‘Going up country, are you?’ a red-faced Scots engineer exclaimed, joining the group. ‘Well, bloody good luck to you is all I can say. It’s dreadful up there in the villages. The whole country is a complete bloody shambles. I don’t know why we bother with it.’
    ‘Why are you here if you hate it so much?’
    ‘Dunno. Beats me most of the time. But have you been to Glasgow recently?’
    I was later to discover that most people who spoke with such world-weariness of the hardships of the bush never got out of Kinshasa. Quite a few of them never moved further than the security fences of their own compounds.
    Even at the time I wasn’t convinced by the knowing glances they exchanged, and the endlessly repeated advice about what you couldn’t do – trust anyone, eat the local food, expect to achieve anything. I hadn’t come to Africa for this.

 
    5
    Bath, February 2002
    A little before noon on my next free day – a Wednesday – the anonymous silver police car drew up again. The detectives had come to the house this time.
    DI O’Reilly had a new companion, Detective Sergeant Nick Chalmers. Nick was taller than Will and slighter and younger. When he spoke it was as if he were measuring the weight of each word.
    We decided to go straight to lunch.
    ‘Someone has clearly handled this killing with great care,’ I said. ‘That may sound like a bizarre way of putting it, but it’s extremely important. It’s also a bit puzzling.’
    ‘Puzzling? Why?’ Will’s coffee sat untouched before him.
    ‘Because when body parts are needed as ingredients for muti medicine, there is usually no need for any great precision in their removal. In muti murders, parts are taken from dead bodies, or even while the victim is still alive. Either way, they don’t need to be removed with precision. I know this sounds pretty horrible, but there are even people who believe that the medicine is empowered by the victim’s screams. I know of a case in South Africa where a woman remained alive for more than two hours. They started by slicing off her breasts.’
    Will was visibly shaken. I realized that whatever atrocities these men might have encountered in their day-to-day activities, we were now entering a different world.
    ‘Adam’s neck wound is precise, and it killed him. If this was muti , I would have expected them to start chopping pieces off him while he was still alive, and, when he finally died, to take not only his head but his internal organs and genitalia too.’ I told them I wanted to do some more work on the manner of death, and on his circumcision.
    Will agreed, then began toying with his coffee spoon. He shifted in his seat. ‘You probably know that the police sometimes use mediums. To help locate bodies and so on. Not everyone agrees with doing it, but . . . Well, what we want to know is, what would you think of us going to an African witch doctor to see if we could get him to find out who did it? My boss Commander Baker wants to know if you think we should. And, if so, how would we go about it?’
    I could see why Will was uncomfortable, imagining how a tabloid newspaper might report