“It is a chimpanzee, I can see that from the photos,” Okoro said. “So, it’s an ape, not a monkey.”
Emmanuel nodded and began to walk again. “Yes sir,” he said. “The monkey is an ape. This way, please.”
Emmanuel led Okoro into a large living room at the end of the hall. It was airy and full of light from the French doors at the far end that led into the garden. Emmanuel stopped at the entrance to the living room, refusing to go inside. He glanced briefly at the body on the floor and looked away. A woman stood by the French doors holding a chimpanzee in a diaper in her arms.
“Madam, this is the police,” Emmanuel announced, and turned to leave.
Okoro stepped forward. “Good morning, Mrs. Parker. I am Detective Sergeant Okoro.”
Okoro moved around the crime scene, viewing it from different angles, searching for a clue. For anything that might reveal what had happened there. There was something in the way that the body was lying, spread-eagle. Clearly the body had fallen forward and it was also clear that the blow had been delivered from behind and that it had caught the victim unawares. But the knees were all wrong, as if the victim had been kneeling when struck. But that made no sense — why would a man be kneeling in his living room? Perhaps he had been made to kneel, which suggested a premeditated murder, an execution even. That would rule out the chimpanzee. It wasn’t that Okoro had any difficulty believing a chimpanzee would kill a man. They were in fact killers, and carnivorous too. They ate their young sometimes and definitely ate other monkeys. But they only attacked if they felt threatened. What would make a pet feel threatened?
“Did your husband get along with Bobo?”
“Yes, Gordon doted on him. Why? This wasn’t Gordon’s fault,” she said, and paused. “Or Bobo’s, for that matter. Just a dreadful accident.”
“Of course,” Okoro muttered. His gaze drifted back to the body. Something was off. He bent down and examined the wound on Gordon’s head. The whole back of his head had been ravaged. No teeth marks, no claw marks. The beating had been savage though it looked like it had been done by a manmade object. Something metal perhaps.
“Are there any objects missing from this room, Mrs. Parker?”
“I don’t know. Ask Emmanuel, that’s his job.”
Okoro nodded. “Emmanuel,” he called out.
Emmanuel appeared at the door as if by magic. Okoro thought it strange he hadn’t heard him clacking up on the tile flooring.
“Yes sir,” Emmanuel said. He stood at the door, seemingly reluctant to enter the living room. His eyes seemed glued to Gordon’s body. And there was that look on his face again. A deep sorrow and grief. Why? Okoro wondered to himself.
“Are there any objects missing from this room, Emmanuel?”
“I don’t steal,” Emmanuel replied, his voice soft in tone but with an edge as sharp as a knife. He locked eyes on Mrs. Parker — the look between them was chilling. Okoro missed none of it.
“I’m sorry, Emmanuel,” Okoro said, breaking the tension. “I didn’t mean to imply that. I am curious about what might have been the murder weapon.”
The houseboy pointed at the chimpanzee, or maybe Mrs. Parker. “That’s the murder weapon,” he said.
Okoro nodded. He prowled around the living room, looking for a sign of anything displaced, any dust rings left behind after something heavy and metal had been moved. He couldn’t find anything.
“What is going on here, sergeant, what exactly are you implying?” Dorothy Parker asked.
“I’m not implying anything. Just doing my job.”
“I’ve told you what happened. Bobo here had an incident, and killed my poor Gordon.”
“Of course, Mrs. Parker. Remind me again how you know for sure Bobo killed your husband? Were you a witness?”
“I didn’t see it happen but when I came into the room when Gordon wasn’t answering my calls, I saw Bobo standing over him covered in blood.”
“Standing over him? Like he had just clobbered him to death?”
“Yes, like that.”
“Was anyone else in the room?” Turning rapidly to Emmanuel before Dorothy Parker could answer, Okoro said: “And you, Emmanuel. Where were you when it happened?”
The man seemed lost in a daze.
“How long did you work for Mr. Parker?” Okoro asked him.
“Too long, really, wouldn’t you say?” Dorothy Parker answered for him.
Emmanuel blinked but said nothing.
Okoro turned to Dorothy Parker. “Was he a religious man, your husband?”
“No, not at all religious. Why do you ask?”
“Something about the way the body is lying.”
“The body? That’s my husband!”
“Of course, madam. My apologies. There is something about the way your husband is lying that suggests he was kneeling when he was struck.”
“You can tell that from the way he’s lying?”
“Yes. Is there any other reason your husband may have been kneeling?”
Dorothy Parker flushed at the question and Emmanuel swallowed and looked away quickly.
“Prayer?” she said, more question than answer.
“But you just said he wasn’t at all religious.”
“Mr. Parker found religion tiresome,” Emmanuel interjected.
Okoro and Dorothy Parker both turned to look at him.
“I’m sorry,” Emmanuel mumbled. “I had no right.”
Dorothy Parker cut her eyes at him, then turned to Okoro. “Gordon wasn’t much of anything, really. Just a civil servant.”
Okoro studied her for a minute. She seemed way too collected and calm for a woman who’d found her husband dead in their house just that morning. But she was white and English and he had heard they were cold; emotionally stunted, his father had called them. He would know, he had fought alongside them in Burma in the Second World War.
Okoro took out a small camera and began taking pictures.
“Why are you taking photographs?” Dorothy Parker asked.
“The latest in criminal investigation, madam. We preserve the scene for posterity. Even here in the colonies we like to keep up with the latest. Did I tell you Sherlock Holmes, the great British detective, is a hero of mine?”
“Why and when would you have told me that? Also, you do know that he isn’t real, don’t you?”
“Real enough for Scotland Yard to learn from.”
“Look, l don’t want to be rude, but as you can imagine, this has been an overwhelming day. When can I expect you to be done?”
“When I am done, madam — I’ll be gone when I’m done. Have you had a good strong cup of tea? I hear you English find it helps with shock. I’m more of a Scottish man myself.”
“Do you mean a Scotch man?”
Okoro smiled. “Something like that.”
“You are quite rude,” Dorothy Parker said. “I shall be making a report to your superiors.”
“Of course, that is your right, madam. I would expect nothing less.” As Okoro took the photographs, he mentally ran through the questions he hadn’t asked. What would Sherlock do? He paused and looked up. “Can Emmanuel hold Bobo for a moment?”
“I don’t want to hold the monkey, sir,” Emmanuel said. “I don’t like dirty animals.”
“You would know,” Dorothy Parker spat.
This exchange confirmed in Okoro’s mind what he had already suspected — Gordon Parker had been involved in an affair with his houseboy. And the wife knew. Yet the thing between her and Emmanuel, the subdued and seething rage, smelled of some kind of collusion, but a forced one. Okoro turned his attention once more to Mrs. Dorothy Parker.
“Can you put Bobo down?” he asked.