“Your husband is a doctor. He would be more used to seeing things like this.”
Mrs. Ezeoke smiled. “You underestimate African women. We are much stronger than English ladies.”
“It’s gruesome.”
“The girl is dead. Have you found the killer?”
“I’m not sure.”
“If I can help I should help. You should let me help. Show me the photograph.”
Breen lifted his bag onto the wooden coffee table and opened it. The photograph was still in the brown envelope that Block had sent it to him in. He pulled it out and handed it across to her.
At first her face didn’t register shock; it was calm. But that composure only lasted a second or two. Her eyes widened and the hand that wasn’t holding the picture went up to cover her open mouth.
“I warned you it was bad,” he said.
“It is the bracelet.”
“I had been wondering if you or Mr. Ezeoke could suggest where it might have come from.”
The woman eyed him suspiciously. “When was this photograph taken?”
“Several weeks ago.”
“This is my daughter’s bracelet. My mother bought it for her from a Hausa trader, before the war, when she was just a little girl.”
“Your daughter?”
“My daughter Ijeoma.”
“Izzy,” said Breen.
“What?” said Mrs. Ezeoke.
“You never told us you had a daughter,” said Breen.
“She does not live with us anymore.”
“You’re sure it’s her bracelet?”
“One hundred percent. It is a very unusual bracelet. My mother bought it for her. In our country, the Hausa traders come from the north. They are Moslems. They buy goods and travel south with them to sell to us. Since the war, the Moslems and the Igbos hate each other. But when I was pregnant with my Ijeoma, things were friendlier.”
She reached up and touched her earring. “An old Hausa man came every year and he set up a stall outside our house, out on the street. Every year, soon after the rainy season, he would appear and lay out his goods. He knew if he needed water to drink he could come to our house. Every year he would bring us a little present. As a girl I always used to like his jewelry. When Ijeoma was christened, my mother bought a bracelet from him as a christening present. It was too big for the baby Ije to wear, but I wore it for years. When she was big enough I gave it to her, and bought another for myself. See?” She showed the photograph of the thick bronze bracelet. “Why does this dead woman have my daughter’s bracelet?”
“Her daughter gave it to her before she died.”
The woman nodded somberly.
“When did you last see your daughter, Mrs. Ezeoke?”
“Three months ago.”
He rubbed his forehead hard, then cleared his throat. “Mrs. Ezeoke. It seems she was friends with Morwenna Sullivan, the murdered girl. I’m afraid that means there is a chance she might be dead as well.”
“Nonsense,” Mrs. Ezeoke said abruptly. “She is in Ivory Coast.”
“Ivory Coast?”
She frowned. “It is a country in West Africa. Many Biafran refugees are there. She has gone to look after them.”
“When did she leave?”
“In the summer. In August.”
“And you know she’s there?”
“Of course.”
“Can we contact her?”
Mrs. Ezeoke laughed. “You can send a telegram. Or write a letter. She writes to us sometimes, but not often. She is angry with us. She will not forgive her father for sending her there.”
“Mr. Ezeoke sent her there?” asked Tozer, looking at Breen.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To save her.”
“I don’t understand,” said Breen.
Mrs. Ezeoke said, “My husband is a very complicated man. He grew up in this country. But he is black.”
“We know.”
“He did not have a happy childhood here.”
“I can imagine.”
“I don’t think you can begin to imagine it. He told me that until he was thirteen he never met any other black people. Can you imagine that? Can you imagine? It would be like being a ghost in a land of the living,” she said.
There was a hardness in her voice now. “He never knew what it meant to be an African. You English grew up with an Empire. You believe black people are like children. It is why he worked so hard all his life. He didn’t want to be like one of those lazy, childish black people. When he told his foster parents he wanted to come back to Africa to find his true family, you know what they told him? ‘It would be better if he didn’t.’” She laughed. “But he came anyway. It is when I met him. He was full of excitement at being home in the country of his ancestors for the first time. Our town threw a big party for him when he returned. Dancing, beer. He drank palm wine for the first time and it made him sick as a dog.” She giggled. “Poor Sam looked so happy, and so confused and lost at the same time. Even the water we drank made him sick. He wants so much to be African, but he can never be properly African. Because of that he will always be angry with you. Everything is the fault of the English. It is the English’s fault he was taken away from Africa. It is England’s fault Biafra is not winning the war. They support the Federals who are killing us.”
“And your daughter?”
“My daughter was born in England. She grew up in England. She has never lived in Africa until now. She does not share her father’s obsessions.”
“And she liked pop music.”
Mrs. Ezeoke laughed. “It would make my husband angry that she would not listen to African music.”
Tozer said, “He sent her back to Africa because she liked the Beatles?”
“Our people need help. We have many refugees in Ivory Coast. He wanted her to help.”
Tozer said it again. “He sent her away because she liked the Beatles?”
She looked at the carpet sorrowfully. “No no. It was not just the Beatles.”
“What?”
“This has nothing to do with the murder of your poor girl,” said Mrs. Ezeoke. “I have nothing more I can say.”
“She was friends with the murdered girl. She gave her your bracelet. That must mean she was close to her.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Ezeoke, still looking at the carpet. “I am a mother too. I wore that bracelet myself.”
“Why did he send your daughter away?”
“He wants her to find a husband. An African man.”
“She and Morwenna were lovers,” said Tozer.
The woman stood and turned away, started pulling books out of one of the boxes and arranging them in piles. After a minute she spoke again. “She never brought her friends to us. It is wrong for a man to lie down with a man or a girl to lie down with a girl. My husband says that only white people are like that. He believed it was just a teenage infatuation. An illness, you could say. She had to be cured of it. He is a very proud man, you understand. Everything can be cured. I would have forgiven her. It is more important to be happy. He wanted it fixed.”
Breen nodded.
She abandoned the books and sat down again. “She is gone. I am not sure she will ever come back to us. I think we have lost her forever,” she said, sitting straight-backed.
“And so your husband has sent her away from temptation?”
“He believes girls like that do not exist in Africa. Africa is a perfect place for him. It is Eden. He thinks for a girl to love a girl is just a Western corruption. In some ways he is a very innocent man.” She closed her eyes and breathed deeply.
“You never mentioned you had a daughter the same age as the dead girl.”
“I do not speak about her much now. It makes me too sad. It makes him too angry.”
“Did your husband ever meet your daughter’s lover?”
“My daughter was careful to keep her away from us. She knew her father would not forgive her. I know he met the girl’s father once.”
“When?”
“After he sent Ijeoma to Africa. He went to clear her belongings out of her flat and the other girl’s father was there too, doing the same. Moving his girl’s things.”
“Did he talk about him?”
“Why do you need to know this?”
“Please.”