Chapter One

Chapter One

10th January 2009

Lagos, Nigeria.

It was 1am and Biola Johnson sat at her table, in her bedroom in her palatial home located on Osborne road in Ikoyi, a highbrow area in the city of Lagos. 

She sat at the table studying the loan deal she signed three years ago, an activity she’s been performing at about the same time everyday, for the past three months. 

It was a chilly harmattan morning, and even though she had all her windows and curtains closed and her socks on, she still felt the cold all over her. 

This particular hamrmattan period was the worst she had ever witnessed in her entire life. It seemed as if the cold enveloped her and seeped through her body like a penetrating liquid, making her shiver badly like a leafless tree in the middle of a storm. 

Apart from the harmattan, something else was making her shiver-the document she was studying. At the time she had applied for the loan from Edwin Loans, a commercial bank in wall street owned by Mr. Edwin Wolfgang, a New York based banker, she had been experiencing a couple of bad business years. 

It was a period of global economic meltdown, and the stock market in Nigeria had just crashed she had lost several million dollars, with the majority of her shares ending up worth one-tenth the amount she bought them. 

The American stock exchange in which she had invested a sizable part of her wealth, was the worst hit in the economic meltdown, and she lost all she invested. 

In an attempt to try to make up for her losses, she sold some of her properties, but the money she made from the sales was barely enough to get her back on her feet. She thought of applying for loans, as a quick fix to her financial problems, but the interest rates of banks both home and abroad was on the high side, which was quite unfavourable for someone in her financial situation. 

It was in the midst of all these, that her Accountant approached her, and told her a bank in New York was offering a relief loan, for people who had experienced heavy losses from the meltdown. The interesting thing about the loan the New York bank was offering was the collateral, Edwin Loans accepts paintings, and sculptures as collateral for large loans. 

She had jumped at the loan offer, and applied for twenty million dollars, without considering the terms of the loan, which includes a clause that inability to pay back the loan in full within a three-year period, would lead to the bank taking over her entire arts collection, which is about one hundred and twenty million dollars in worth, and was inherited from her late father. 

And in the event of any unexpected death, litigation would only take place in New York courts, where the banks has its headquarters. 

She had decided not to sell the legacy her father left behind, because she felt that with the loan she would be able to get herself and her business stable, and on track. But the loan duration was just two weeks to expiration, and she was still experiencing serious business challenges. 

The oil company she had invested in did not make profit sufficient enough to offset the loan, due to the global economic meltdown, bunkery and vandalisation of oil pipelines. 

She sighed, this was one of the rare moments she wished she got married, the presence of a loving husband would have given her a bit of comfort. 

The sudden opening of her door knocked her out of her reverie. She was surprised, but she did not look up from the document she was studying because she did not expect any of her many servants to disturb her at this odd hour. 

She remained still as she heard the footsteps of the intruder as she approached her bedside table, wondering how and when her domestic staff got the courage to walk into her room, without knocking. 

The intruder touched her on the shoulder, she turned her head to look at her, to her consternation, the intruder was a completely strange white woman who looked like she was in her early forties. 

The woman flashed a sweet and infectious smile at her, she smiled back, and looking down at the stranger’s hand, she saw that she was holding a knife in her right hand. Before she could open her mouth to ask who the intruder was and what she was doing in her room with a kitchen knife, the woman shot out her left hand and dragging her by her long weaved-on Brazilian hair, she pulled her down to the floor, and slit her throat like a turkey that is being slaughtered for Christmas celebrations, with blood sputtering out from her throat, and flowing down to the beautiful Persian rug her room was furnished with. 

Moments before Biola died, the stranger cut two fingers off her right hand.

It was 10 am and madam has not come downstairs for breakfast, she usually have her breakfast by 7am, and leave for the office by 8. 

The chief maid had decided to wait for two hours to see if madam actually woke up late. 

After two hours had elapsed, and there was no sign of madam the chief maid went upstairs to wake madam up, and ask if her breakfast should be brought up to her room. 

The chief maid got to madam’s door and knocked for close to five minutes without getting any response from Madam. 

She had to make sure she get a response from her Madam before going in, because Ms. Johnson had made it a rule for all domestic servants to not come into her room if she does not tell them to, and she never locked her bedroom door.  

The chief maid pulled the door open after close to five minutes of knocking, the sight that greeted her was not in any way pleasant, she stared at the body of madam and suddenly felt weakness, and the urge to vomit at the same time. She closed the door and ran downstairs to grab the phone in the sitting room, she dialed Madam’s only close relative, her brother Lekan.

Lekan had just finished a meeting with an investor, when the chief maid called. He reached into his pocket for his iPhone, which had been ringing for sometime, a vibrating buzz. 

He brought out the phone and looked at the caller Id on the screen, it was his sister’s home telephone number.

 ‘What could be the problem’ he thought, as he picked the call. 

“Hello?” he said. 

The voice at the other end was the frightened voice of Mrs. Balogun, the chief maid.

 “Brother Lekan, we woke up this morning to find madam dead“she said. 

“Which Madam are you talking about?” Lekan barked.

 “Your sister” the chief maid answered. 

“How and when did that happen?” Lekan asked, screaming on top of his voice.

 “This morning, I went up to her room when she did not come early for breakfast, and I found her dead” the chief maid answered. 

“Okay, have you called the police yet?” Lekan asked.

 “No I have not done that yet, I wanted to call you first, before calling the Police” the chief maid said,

 “Okay make sure nothing in her room is tampered with, then call the Police, I’d be with you shortly” Lekan said, and hung up. 

After ending the call, Lekan picked up his carkeys, and ran out of his office to the carpark. He jumped into his car, and drove out of the compound nearly hitting the gates, as the security guard delayed in opening them. 

He drove at a high speed from his office in Ikeja, to his sister’s home in Ikoyi, sometimes breaking traffic rules, and bribing the traffic wardens, whenever they attempted to pull him over for reckless driving. He got to his sister’s home an hour and thirty minutes after leaving his office, he parked his car outside the gate, and ran into the compound, ignoring the security guard’s greetings. He raced up the staircase, and into his sister’s bedroom. 

He was close to passing out, when he saw his sister’s corpse on the floor, with the congealed blood all over the floor. 

He turned away from the corpse, and walked towards the door, taking one last look at the corpse, he noticed her mutilated fingers, he immediately closed the door behind him. 

“Who could have done this to my sweet innocent sister?” he mumbled to himself as he walked down the staircase, tears pouring out of his eyes and coursing down his cheeks. 

As soon as Lekan got downstairs he called for an ambulance. 

An hour later the sound of sirens filled the air, as men from the local police station came, an ambulance followed five minutes later. The leader of the police team spoke to Lekan. 

“I’m inspector Stephen Fadairo from the Ikoyi police station, we got a call from one Mr. Lekan Johnson that someone was murdered are we at the right address?” the inspector asked. 

“Yes you are Sir, my sister was brutally murdered in the early hours of this morning” Lekan said.

 “We’re very sorry for what happened sir, but can you take us to the crime scene?” the police inspector asked. 

“No problem” Lekan said. 

He took them to his sister’s room upstairs. 

Inspector Fadairo pulled Lekan aside, as the forensic experts got down to work, examining the room for anything that can help in tracing the murderer. 

“How long has she been dead?’ Inspector Fadairo asked.

”I can’t really tell, but the domestic servants said they met her dead, when they came into the room” Lekan said, they began to hear the loud siren of an ambulance, as it made its way into the compound.

“Did you call for an ambulance?” the Inspector asked, as  he opened his notepad to take down notes.

“Yes sir I did” Lekan said.

 “So who do you think is behind the killing?” the inspector asked, as he lifted the white sheet that was used to cover the corpse. 

“I can’t really tell who is behind the killing sir, but I would also like to find out who the wicked fellow that decided to take my sister’s life is” Lekan said.

“Hmmm” the Inspector said, nodding his head, he examined the corpse without touching it, and took down more notes, writing for about five minutes.

“We would have to cordone this room off for now, no one goes in or out of this room” the Inspector said, closing his notepad, just as the paramedics came running into the room, with a stretcher.

“We would be running some forensic investigations, so we don’t want anyone to tamper with anything in the room” the Inspector continued.

 I have no problems with that Sir” Lekan said. He and the Inspecor stepped out of the room. 

A huge sign reading ‘CRIME SCENE, KEEP OFF’ was placed in front of the door.

The paramedics carried Biola’s body on the stretcher to the ambulance, and drove her to the morgue. 

Lekan saw the police officers off to their vehicle. “Mr. Johnson, we would try our possible best to make sure that the perpetrators of this crime is brought to book” Inspector Fadairo said, as he shook hands with Lekan, the police officers boarded their vehicle and left.

***************************************************

London, England. 

10th January 2009.

Owen McLean sat on a very cozy and comfortable, arm chair in his study, he lived in a posh home in the highbrow borough of Kesington and Chelsea, studying his company’s financial report for the previous year. 

It was just a few minutes past midnight in London, the best time for Owen to work, as he would not be disturbed by his wife who was already in bed.

He smoked a cigar, as he went through the report. He had inherited the real Estate business ten years ago, from his father, Luke McLean, who was a wealthy midlander from Wolverhampton. 

Luke McLean started out in the 70’s as a bricklayer in Compton, a subhurb of Wolverhampton, building curbs and gutters in the neighbourhoods of West Wolverhampton. He did this for five years, before obtaining a loan from a local bank, and used it to start his real estate business. 

He built terraced houses, and sold them to middle and low income earners, replacing the old Victorian houses. His business boomed, and within ten years he had built several estates all over Wolverhampton, and neighbouring cities in the English Midlands. 

The estates he built catered to the needs of all income grades. In the late 80’s, Luke took the company public, listing it in the London Stock market, and owning fifty-five percent of the shares, he also moved the company headquarters to London, and his family too.

Owen Mclean was the only child of Luke Mclean, he was eleven years old, and had just finished his primary school education, when the family moved to London. 

His dad got him enrolled into Harrow school, one of the most prestigious schools in London, and in the UK as a whole. He was a very smart kid in school, and he finished with a distinction in all the papers he wrote in his GCSE exams. 

Three months after his secondary school graduation, he got admitted into the University of Cambridge, to study Economics.

He finished from Cambridge with a distinction in Economics, but instead of joining his father’s company, he decided to stay back in Cambridge, where he started an e-marketing business. 

Three years after his graduation, his father died of a cardiac arrest. Owen moved back to London after his father’s death, taking over his father’s company. 

He increased the family stake to seventy-five percent, despite the fact that the company’s chief accountant advised against it. The Chief accountant had told him that increasing his stake in the company would mean more income accrued to the family, but the risk the family now bears would be whole lot, and if there is an economic meltdown he would be seriously hit. 

Ignoring the chief accountant’s advise, Owen increased his stakes in the company, also almagamating the company he founded with the one he inherited from his father. For the first seven years, there was a boom in the real estate business, and Owen’s company made a lot of profit.

Owen spread the company’s tentacles all over the UK, and even built high end estates in the USA. He also bought a fifteen million pounds house in the London royal borough of Kensington and Chelsea, moving out of the family house in Brent.

The jolly ride of good business years ended for Owen, when there was a serious economic decline in the United States of America, catalysed by the crash of the USA’s real estate market. 

Owen was seriously hit by the decline, because he had just shifted his attention to the USA’s real estate market, and he had invested a lot of money into projects he undertook there. He weathered the storm for the first two years after the economic decline started, with a grim face, and a stiff upper lip. 

After two years of poor business outing, he decided to invest in Nigeria’s oil sector, since it seemed like oil sales was still doing good despite the economic decline. 

He did not have enough funds to invest in the oil sector, so he decided to borrow money. It was at this point that Edwin Loans came into the picture. Like Ms. Johnson, he decided to take the loan from the bank, since all the bank asked for as collateral were arts, his dad had been a passionate arts collector.

His dad had Rembrandt’s the foot operation portrait, Vermeer’s young woman sitting at a virginal, and Van Gogh’s sunflowers in his arts collection. 

Owen decided to not to sell the paintings to fund the investments, instead he used it as collateral for the loan, because he felt that he would be able to recover the money back before the two year time frame was up, and he’d still have the paintings. He too did not consider the crazy interest rate of the loan, and the clause that said that litigations can only take place in New York courts, before signing the loan contract. 

All that happened two years ago, now two weeks to the expiration of the loan duration, and his company’s finances were still struggling to pick up. He had no means whatsoever of paying back the loan, and borrowing a loan to pay back the one he owes at the moment is totally out of the question. He sighed and took long pull at the cigar, and exhaled deeply. 

“I might have to sell some properties to get myself out of this shithole I’m in” he muttered to himself, as he turned a new page in the document he was studying.

 Suddenly his study door was thrown open, he raised his head up from the documents he was studying, thinking it was his wife Matilda who had come back yet again to tell him to come and join her in bed. He was surprised to see a blond man with deep blue eyes, who looked like he was in his early twenties. 

The young man flashed a smile at him, as he walked towards his desk. Owen smiled back at him, and looking down at his hands, he noticed that the man was carrying a kitchen knife in his hands. 

“What do you want?” Owen stammered, filled with fright. 

The intruder didn’t reply Owen’s question, instead he shot out his left hand, and grabbing him by the neck, he slit Owen’s throat.  

Owen’s last moments were spent, staring into those steely blue eyes, moments before Owen died, his killer cut off his left thumb.

Matilda reached over to touch Owen’s hand and caress his fingers like she does every morning, she touched only the bedsheet, she opened her eyes and was surprised to see that Owen was not with her. 

She called out his name, and went to check him in the bathroom, but he wasn’t there. She left their bedroom, and went to to check him in his study. 

‘He must have slept off’ she thought, as she opened the door to his study. 

“Baby” she called out as she got into the room, but she got no response.

 “He’s not a deep sleeper, what’s going on?” she asked herself. 

She looked down at the ground, and noticed the floor was stained with congealed blood.

 ‘What is happening here?’ she thought. 

She moved closer to the chair, and let out a scream of horror, when she saw her husband’s corpse, with his throat slit open. 

The domestic servants in the house came running into the study. 

“What is the matter ma’am?” the chief cook asked, following Matilda’s gaze, she looked down at Owen’s body, and let out a gasp.

“Who could have done this?” she wondered aloud. 

Matilda grabbed the desk phone in the study, and dialed the eemergency response number.

“Emergency, which service are you calling for? “the voice at the other end of the line said.

 “Police, and ambulance” she replied. 

Ten minutes later, the sirens of a police car and an ambulance were heard as policemen and paramedics from the local Kensington police force, and the local hospital came into the house. 

They examined the corpse checked everything in the study, questioned all the servants in the house and did every other thing that needs to be done at a crime scene investigation. 

The chief superintendent of the local police force in Kensington, John Baldwin came to join Matilda at the coffee table in the sitting room, he had been a friend of the couple ever since they moved into Kensington, always joining Owen for drinks at a pub down their street, every evening.

“Matilda I am really sorry about what happened to Owen” the chief superintendent said, his whole face registered his grief.

“Who do you think could have been responsible for this” he asked. 

“With all honesty chief superintendent, I can’t say for sure who killed my husband, he had many friends and no enemies, I don’t know who decided to have him murdered in such a gruesome way”. 

“Yes I can attest to the fact that your husband was a very friendly person, but you know he was a business person, and you don’t know the toes you might have stepped on in the course of doing business, do you know of any dispute between him and any business man here in England or abroad?” Baldwin asked.

 “No I don’t” she replied. “I don’t know of any dispute between my husband and anyone, my husband was a very gentle man he can’t hurt a fly“she said. 

“Okay then Mrs McLean, we’d do our very best to make sure that we bring the perpetrators of your husband’s murder to book” Baldwin said and walked out of the room to join his men.