Burley Cross Postbox Theft Page 11

  As you will read (in my occasional parentheses), I believe him to be an African man in his mid-fifties (I enclose these details in the unlikely circumstance that you have yet to identify/apprehend him). He was orphaned as a child and has a brother (to whom the letter is addressed). He is handsome (by his own admission!) and moderately well-educated (by African standards).

  I’m sure it will come as no surprise to you that this complex translation – these few, humble pages which you now hold in your hand – is the result of many, many long days spent poring over mountainous piles of well-thumbed dictionaries, countless hours of intensive research on the internet, a smattering of emails to various obscure parts of the globe, and a desperate, last-minute trip to the Rare Books section of the British Library in London (the cost of travel, and the price of – as it turned out – two nights spent at a mid-range hotel, have naturally been included in my bill).

  In between there have been interludes of deep soul-searching, numerous bungled attempts, a small period of writer’s block, the acquisition of a new kitten, a thirtieth wedding anniversary party to plan and execute (a roaring success, but with the odd inevitable hiccup – the cake turned up a total of four weeks early!), countless re-thinks, revisions, re-writings etc.

  A good translator rarely feels as though their work is ‘complete’ (I’d be ‘tweaking’ things forever given half a chance!), but now that my job here is, to all intents and purposes, ‘done’, I must confess that I feel a certain amount of pride in what I’ve achieved.

  Of course along with the natural ‘high’ one experiences on completing any large and demanding project, there comes the unavoidable ‘low’, i.e. the overwhelming sense of dislocation, the crushing numbness, the physical and mental exhaustion, that is part and parcel of ‘inhabiting’ a character like Lokele’s mind for so long – and intense – a duration (you may laugh at this, Detective, but in some small way I almost feel as if I had become temporarily ‘possessed’ by Lokele’s spirit for a while, although I’m not suggesting that anything remotely ‘paranormal’ took place, nothing tangible, anyway. Or even, God forbid, that Lokele might have passed from his current, earthly incarnation to – as they say – ‘a better place’).

  It’s a difficult process to describe (still more difficult to understand, I don’t doubt!), but the exercise of translating this letter feels loosely comparable to the act of thrashing my way into the heart of a tropical jungle and somehow – quite miraculously – conniving to fashion a small garden (fourteen feet by fourteen feet, approximately) in its dense and heaving midst.

  I have brought order where once there was chaos. I have dug borders, grown a lawn – even plumbed in a small fountain (atop of which a charming stone cherub dribbles water from an upturned bowl). I have planted lavender and begonias where before there was only an inhospitable tangle of weed, thorns and wild grasses.

  Welcome to my garden, Detective. Take your time, look around… relax. I do hope you enjoy your visit here…

  Sincerely Yours,

  Rosannah Strum-Tadcastle

  ********

  *** **** ****

  ****** ****,

  ********.

  20/12/06

  Dearest *******,

  [I’m guessing this deleted word is ‘brother’ because it is seven letters long and the suspect ‘Lokele’ addresses his brother throughout the unfolding text – he also refers to him as the ‘second-born’, i.e. a younger brother, in other words.]

  My, how time flies! It’s Christmas, once again, and I thought I should drop you a quick line (is it me, or doesn’t it seem to come around that little bit sooner every year?!). Do find it in your heart to forgive me my awful French…

  [From this we can deduce that ‘Lokele’ has been away from his place of birth for many years.]

  … and my terrible handwriting, there’s a good chap.

  [Possibly ‘Lokele’ has ‘the shakes’ because he is a drug addict, or else an alcoholic – he refers to ‘toasting’ his brother on several occasions. Perhaps he is under some kind of unendurable pressure connected to the crime he is being investigated for – gold, diamond or uranium smuggling naturally spring to mind, since these are all activities that are virtually endemic in the place of his birth – the Democratic Republic of Congo.

  Other possibilities are that he has sustained a hand injury through carving wood – a so-called ‘hobby’ of his – or even as a result of some other, rather more ‘nefarious’ activities – who am I to judge?! Finally, of course, ‘Lokele’ might spend much of his time working – as we all do, nowadays – on a keyboard, so his handwriting skills may have deteriorated as a consequence.]

  I was only thinking about you the other day – pondering those many, colourful, childhood experiences we shared together in Leopoldville at the Catholic Orphanage…

  [Ah! Leopoldville, now Kinshasa! The name was changed in the late 1960s. This small slip tells us that the writer of the letter – i.e. the suspect – is a man who was probably a boy in the late fifties, early sixties – a detail I made passing reference to in my notes, above.]

  What japes! What high jinks! Hard times but good times, eh? Not all of them a barrel of laughs, by any means, but when we had fun, what fun we had! The trees we climbed! The music lessons we enjoyed! The delicious fruit we devoured!

  [If this cunning monster’s barrister harps on in court about his ‘difficult childhood’ to try and get the ‘sympathy vote’, nip it in the bud, Detective, pronto!]

  I recall how proficient you were as a student of the recorder – but how irritating it could sometimes be to hear you practise the same refrain over and over. I often wonder whether you made a career of it. You were certainly talented enough!

  [My younger daughter is a dab hand at the flute – she recently passed grade 5 – and I’m exceedingly proud of her achievements, but when I hear her tooting away at her scales some mornings the hair on the back of my neck stands on end! I can’t help it! It’s just instinctive! I sometimes wish she’d taken up the oboe, or something with more of a ‘bass’ sound.]

  If only we hadn’t lost contact! It tears me up inside to think about it, it really does, but I suppose life has a cruel habit of sending us these little challenges, and, at the end of the day, it’s not so much about the challenge itself, but how we chose to rise to it, eh?

  [This is so true, Detective – and a keystone philosophy of my own, as it happens.]

  Let us lift a metaphorical glass to our mutual good health, old boy!

  [I say metaphorical, but…!]

  Well, I suppose it’s about time I filled you in on some of what I’ve been up to over the past few months…

  [Hmmn. Very useful…]

  It’s been a dreadfully wet year…

  [True. We can certainly trust the accuracy of ‘Lokele’s’ grasp on the facts. He isn’t a raving lunatic, or so far ‘gone’ on ‘junk’ that he is incapable of coherent thought. This may be an essential detail to share with the criminal psychologist if an assessment of his mental status is pending. It may also be something a judge might be interested in if sentencing is imminent.]

  We barely had any summer to speak of, and while it was – I must confess – rather maddening (to say the least!), on the upside, the lawns in ****** have never looked better.

  [The lawns… This is a complete shot in the dark, but I’m guessing ‘Lokele’ dwells in suburban anonymity, somewhere.]

  I’m experiencing a few health problems at the moment, I’m afraid. There’s been a certain amount of chest pain, and my memory is certainly not what it once was… I’m unsure what the family history is in this regard. I’d love to find out (an incipient strain of dementia in the blood line, or a major history of heart issues would undoubtedly be of interest). Do you have any comparable health problems yourself?

  It can be so difficult for us orphans to track down this kind of information. I find it’s one of the major downsides of being an orphan, in fact. But let’s not harp on, endlessly, abo
ut my piddling health concerns – it’s Christmas, after all, a time for joy! I mustn’t be too much of a misery-guts – Bah, Humbug and all that!

  [I’ve opted to ‘reconfigure’ the structure of the letter at this stage, to bring all of ‘Lokele’s’ health worries into a single paragraph. I think we could say I’ve ‘condensed’ them to a degree. He does have quite a tendency to witter on about this stuff.

  I don’t imagine the information involved will be of much significance to his case, overall. I have the distinct feeling that he’s probably a bit of a hypochondriac. That said, if you’re planning a surprise arrest – e.g. smashing down his door in the middle of the night; plucking him, unannounced, from his bed – and he suddenly starts panting and clutching at his chest… Well… consider yourself forewarned!

  While ‘Lokele’ is undoubtedly a bit of an old whinger, I must, nevertheless, commend him for his spirited attempt to try and turn things around towards the end of the last paragraph. Christmas is a time of joy. Absolutely.]

  My wife finally died…

  [The word ‘Lokele’ actually uses is ‘gone’, – i.e. ‘my wife has gone…’ – so she could easily have done a runner with his ‘stash’, I suppose.]

  I’ve been pretty broken-up about it, actually, although I won’t pretend – least of all to you – that things were ‘picture perfect’ between us. I’m trying to focus on the positive. Her passing was definitely a ‘blessed relief’ for all parties by the end.

  [Good attitude. No use crying over spilt milk, as they say.]

  To try and cheer myself up, I headed off to The Gambia for a spot of winter sun…

  [There’s a brief phase in the letter here where ‘Lokele’ starts reminiscing, incomprehensibly, about his ‘escape’ from the Congo many years ago on an illegal fishing trawler. He had to work his passage and the captain treated him rather shoddily, it would seem. The boat has since sunk, he says, but he’s not crying any tears over it.

  This section is completely out of context and gets in the way of the main thrust of the narrative, so I’ve opted to delete it, although – of course – it’s my professional duty to make a quick, passing reference to it.]

  … I ended up in Banjul. It’s a charming place but the beach isn’t all it might be (too close to the big port and all those shipping lines for my tastes).

  [I’ve heard this complaint about Banjul before. I’ve also heard – on the BBC’s World Service – that homosexuality has lately been outlawed in The Gambia. From this we can deduce that our suspect isn’t ‘that way inclined’. We are dealing with ‘a man’s man’ in other words.]

  I tried to make the best of it, just the same, parading up and down the beach in my natty swimsuit and panama hat (I’m not in bad condition, physically, and like to think I cut quite a dash, even if I say so myself!).

  [He’s either unusually well-preserved, ridiculously vain or utterly deluded – and in this respect bears a startling resemblance to every other middle-aged man I’ve ever met!]

  The night life was lively, although sometimes everything does feel a tad dated – like you’re trapped inside some sordid television serial from the 1970s; all big-collared shirts and flared trousers!

  [Welcome to Africa, ‘Lokele’, welcome to Africa. The suspect is extremely arrogant and judgemental.]

  The staff at the hotel were very friendly. They quickly got to know all of my little habits – my regular evening tipple, the kind of fish I prefer at dinner… They referred to me as ‘The Congolese’ among themselves…

  [Oh-ho! A code name, perchance?]

  In the end I would’ve quite liked to stay on a while longer, but my flight was pre-booked so it simply wasn’t possible…

  [Pre-booked? Or was there, perhaps, a vicious, square-jawed, gun-toting, Russian thug at the other end of your flight keenly awaiting an illicit ‘delivery’ of some kind, eh, ‘Lokele’?!]

  … I’d barely had the opportunity to check out Banjul’s legendary market, which is apparently second to none (full of an amazing array of coloured cloths, leather goods, seafood stalls etc.) …

  [As a matter of interest, there are some fabulous photographic images of Banjul’s famous market on the internet. It does look wonderful. ‘Lokele’ obviously really missed out.]

  Shocking as this may sound, I met a girl on holiday. She was a lovely, little thing, quiet, very modest…

  [Muslim]

  … who I called The Girl with the Dotted Scarf…

  [Another code name! Has to be! This girl was plainly instrumental in ‘the drop’. Although it’s just conceivably possible that she was actually the girlfriend/wife of the local gangster ‘Lokele’ was dealing with – in which case: Ouch! You’re playing with fire, there, ‘Lokele’. Back off, my friend, if you know what’s good for you!]

  I beat myself up a little, emotionally, about moving on so quickly (although nothing physical took place) …

  [I should hardly think it would! She’s in purdah, you lunatic! And she’s married to a hooligan from the Gambian Underworld!]

  It’s always been my philosophy, Brother, that a man needs to keep a little something back in matters relating to the heart. Don’t throw out the baby with the bath-water, in other words. Stay cool and collected. Show restraint. There’s no point charging in with all guns blazing…

  [Not if you’re hoping to get out of The Gambia alive, eh, ‘Lokele’?!]

  Play things cool, but always try to be a gentleman. Pay special attention to her needs. Make her feel cherished. Ask if she wants extra ice in her drink, pull out her chair for her – perform all these basic acts of chivalry, but still guard your heart carefully. Don’t give yourself over entirely – or you’re asking to be hurt. Show a measure of restraint, but still try to be gallant…

  [I can’t fault ‘Lokele’ on his dating techniques.]

  Consistency is often the key, I find. Don’t make the error of giving away too much up front – or of making too many rash promises which you won’t be able to keep. The ‘hearts and roses’ stuff never lasts that long. What you need to build are strong foundations.

  Relationships aren’t ever easy, Brother. They take a lot of hard work.

  [Yes. And I should certainly know, thirty years on…]

  I must confess to having been less than ‘the perfect spouse’, on occasions. It horrifies me when I consider the ‘merry dance’ I’ve led the many women in my life. And to think what a good, Catholic boy I once was (always the first to lead the procession into mass)! Well, that certainly didn’t stop me from ‘putting it about’ a fair bit.

  How I cringe when I think of how selfish and arrogant I was back then!

  You were quite a ‘ladies’ man’ yourself, as I recall. I suppose some of it might have rubbed off on me over the years. And let’s not forget my highly developed sexual drive – that’s also played its part.

  Let’s make no bones about it, Brother: I’ve been a horny devil in my time. But I regret it deeply now, more than you will ever realize…

  I suppose what I’m trying to say, in my own, clumsy, roundabout way, is that it’s important to know yourself – what you’re capable of, emotionally – and to conduct yourself accordingly. Don’t make too many rash promises. Don’t give your partner false hopes. Be up front about your fallibilities. Communication is the key, and honesty…

  [Thanks, Dr Phil. Can we move on now?]

  Just try and be yourself…

  [Obviously not…]

  Hopefully she’ll still manage to love you with all your faults…

  [‘Lokele’ gets distracted again at this point and starts talking about a bad Tour Guide he had on holiday who led him astray. It’s pretty much just gobbledegook. I can’t even decipher whether he means ‘astray’ in a geographical or a moral sense – although my instinct is to plumb with the latter. I don’t imagine that this is anything that need concern either the moral or the actual police, Detective. Boys will be boys etc.]

  But enough of me wittering on about my holida
y. I must be boring you stiff with it by now!

  [You don’t say!]

  Something that might actually pique your interest, however…

  [I wouldn’t bet on it!]

  … is that I have started carving again. I say ‘again’, although you were always the better carver, eh?

  [The texture of the language here precludes me from telling whether he actually means ‘carving’ as in ‘woodwork’ or ‘carving’ as in ‘mercilessly butchering an unfortunate adversary – or any other innocent individual he might randomly happen across – with a lethally sharp weapon’. A switchblade instantly springs to mind, or one of those large, African knives sometimes referred to as a ‘panga’.

  ‘Lokele’ the brutal assassin, eh? This is certainly a most disturbing thought.]

  I have been greatly influenced in this ‘life change’ by a new friend, Tilly, an English doctor. She’s very wild, very tough, with skin like bark…

  [I think the simile he’s really grasping for here – bless him – is ‘skin as thick as a rhino’s hide’, i.e. she’s highly insensitive, in other words.]

  … She’s certainly ‘one of the boys’. We have a great rapport between us. She’s very discreet, and can definitely be trusted…

  [Narcotics! Bingo! The penny finally drops! So this woman doctor is his new accomplice – they’re dealing counterfeit drugs together – and ‘Lokele’ is obviously very keen for his degenerate brother to make her acquaintance. This ‘Tilly’ is part of a criminal gang which includes a woman who is known only as her ‘sister’; in African parlance this isn’t necessarily a blood relation, ‘sister’ is generally a colloquial phrase for ‘pal’ or ‘mucker’. The sister happens to be friends with an old gang warlord called ‘The Reverend’, who ‘Lokele’ doesn’t entirely trust… Possibly he’s had problems with The Reverend before… But I’m getting ahead of myself, here…]