Good night readers!

CHAPTER FIVE



3:00 a.m.

The office was nearly empty. The clatter of footsteps and the murmur of voices had long since faded into silence.

Tips had been counted, sorted, and pocketed hours ago.

The detectives had been filtering through clues, their eyes burning from the strain of long shifts.

The coffee pot had been emptied and forgotten, and exhaustion hung in the air like thick fog.

Kunle slumped in a chair, Lukas the dog curled at his feet, both lost to sleep. Across the room, Danjuma, Fumi, and Black Jack stared at screens, sifting through reports with a desperation that comes from knowing that time was slipping away.

It was Day One, and the clock was ticking.

"Got something," Black Jack's voice cut through the quiet. "Abel Idogie. Nine years old. Missing since June 19th. Ibile-Ketu. Never reported. Went on an errand. Never came back." He didn’t look up from the screen.

Fumi's eyes snapped open, her exhaustion momentarily forgotten. "I've got the third kid. Somadina Ifakhe. Disappeared from a church premises on June 26th. Ifah-Ketu. Parents reported it but it never reached us."

A heavy silence settled. Kunle stirred, his eyes barely open. "What’s going on?"

Fumi barked, "Kunle, get up! We’ve got them!"

He snapped to attention, the fog of sleep lifting as adrenaline rushed in. "What did I miss?" he asked, stretching out the stiffness in his limbs.

"Rahmat, Abel, Somadina," Black Jack answered, his voice rough. "Those are our victims."

Kunle nodded, his mind sharpening as he joined the circle. "What’s the timeline?"

"Three victims," Danjuma began, eyes glued to his notes. "All nine years old. All went missing last month. June 16th, June 19th, June 26th. Two boys, one girl. Ketu for the boys. Ikorodu for the girl."

Fumi's brow furrowed. "Not typical for a ritual killer. Too clean. Too clinical. We need to figure out how these murders went down."

"Strangulation? Blunt force trauma? Poison?" Black Jack offered, shrugging. "Autopsies haven’t been much help. Bodies were too decomposed."

Fumi sighed, exhaustion seeping back into her bones. It was nearly 4 a.m., and they were running on fumes. But they had a lead—a fragile thread to pull. "We regroup at 7," she ordered, yawning. "I’ll handle the autopsies. You three pick a victim and run with it. Rahmat’s confirmed, but we need solid verification on the others."

Kunle stared at Fumi, a frown creasing his face. "What are we dealing with here?"

Fumi paused. Her mind raced, connecting dots that were barely visible. "A serial killer, maybe. This doesn't feel ritualistic. The precision. The timing. It feels too...personal. Too controlled. No witnesses. No evidence. One person. One sick mind."

The room fell silent. No one dared speak, but the weight of her words sank into their bones.

Kunle shuddered. "So it could happen again?"

"It will," Black Jack said coldly. "Unless we stop them."

Danjuma was already typing furiously, pulling up past cases. "We need to check for other similar disappearances. Especially around Ketu and Ikorodu. This could be a hunting ground. Let’s start with kids aged nine. That's no coincidence."

Fumi nodded slowly, her mind already plotting the next steps. "Yeah. It’s not random. I’ll bet a month's pay that this killer’s got a type—kids. Aged nine. That’s our working theory. We all agree?"

They nodded, no one speaking.

Fumi leaned back, the tension in her shoulders easing for the first time in hours. "We have to get this psychopath off the streets. No matter what it takes."

The team was silent, but they were with her. All of them. This was more than a case now—it was a mission.

They dragged themselves to the door, exhaustion weighing them down. The sun would be up soon, and the next day promised to be twice as long. But they had a lead. They had hope.

For now, that was enough.

The office buzzed as the early morning haze lifted. Fumi had arrived earlier than the rest, already hard at work.

Her energy broke through the fog of tired eyes and stale coffee. She held a folder in her hands, her expression tight with determination.

"Strangulation," she announced, voice crisp. "That's the cause of death for all three victims. Confirmed."

The team looked up. Kunle’s brow furrowed, Black Jack leaned forward, and Danjuma stopped typing mid-sentence. Fumi flipped the folder open, handing out copies of the prints.

"I got Senior Specialist John Edoho to take a look," she said, her voice cutting through the still air. "He's with Supreme Medical Specialist Hospital. I told you I’d handle it. It wasn't a full autopsy, but I sent him scans and photos. He’s 95% sure all three were strangled. Same markings. No signs of material used—hands only. The bastard strangled them bare-handed. He says it’s a pattern."

"How’d you pull that off?" Black Jack asked, still scanning the report.

"John’s my godfather," Fumi replied, not missing a beat. "He was my father’s best friend. Happened to check in on me, and I remembered he worked as a chief coroner years ago. He’s got connections. Gave me a favor."

"So we’re really looking at a serial killer?" Kunle asked, more to himself than anyone else.

"We’ve got work to do," Fumi said, rolling up her sleeves. "Nine years, kids all of them, unsolved murders, possible strangulations. We need to go deep. Find out what Intelligence has on this."

Kunle smirked. "Oh, they’re gonna love us as if we didn't give them more than they ever do yesterday, today will be another surprise,"

The air in the room grew tense, a collective focus settling over them. Papers shuffled, keyboards clicked, and the hum of the computers felt like background static to the weight of the task ahead.


TO BE CONTINUED

CONTINUED



The night hung heavy over Mofe-Ketu, a hush so thick even the street dogs seemed to surrender to the darkness.

The occasional flicker from dim lightbulbs cast a weak glow on the battered buildings lining the street. Shadows clung to the crumbling walls, hinting at years of neglect.

The road itself was uneven, patches of worn asphalt scattered with broken concrete and small puddles reflecting the scant light.
Mofe-Ketu wasn’t the kind of place where people asked questions.

It had become a refuge for those who needed to disappear, for those who had stopped hoping for anything better.

Two buildings dominated the street. Rotimi Building on the left, Sule Building on the right. Twin towers of decay.

They loomed tall, imposing but faded, their facades scarred by time.

Each had twenty apartments stacked like forgotten memories. Both had seen better days, back when Rotimi Sule Adeniran had purchased them from a group of Asian contractors who’d acquired the buildings as collateral from a long-forgotten politician. Forty-five years had passed since then, and the buildings were dying—like the people inside.

Rotimi Building had plumbing problems. Bad ones. Leaking pipes had turned most of the bathrooms into cesspools, leaving only three functioning toilets for twenty families. Sule Building was no better, with two barely usable bathrooms.

The agent responsible for collecting rent had long promised repairs, but promises were cheaper than the building’s rent. Most tenants had resigned themselves to their fate.
The rent was low, and for many, that was enough. But the Ogba family, living on the third floor of Rotimi Building, had it the worst.

They had one hope—a single bathroom on the fifth floor, still operational. But it was off-limits after 9 p.m. when the doors were locked. Anyone who needed relief had to go downstairs.

Maris Ogba, the youngest of the family, lay restless that night. She cursed the big bottle of Coke she’d guzzled earlier, the cupcakes that followed.

Now, she had to pee. She nudged her mother awake, but got only a half-asleep grumble in return. No help was coming. She groaned, trying to hold it, but the pressure was unbearable.

Sighing, she got out of bed, the cool air chilling her bare feet as she tiptoed toward the door. Her father, a security guard, often came home late, so the door was never fully locked.

She slipped out easily and descended the stairs, the silence of the building pressing in on her.

The second floor passed quietly. Maris noted the doors: Mr. Samson, the schoolteacher; Aunty Betty, the hairdresser; the Ifeanyis.

Then she saw it—a door wide open. The apartment had belonged to the Aderemis, but they had moved out two days ago.

Now it gaped like a mouth, dark and inviting, a void she dared not look into. It hadn’t been open earlier, had it?

She paused, staring into the blackness. Her heart quickened.

A creak echoed from inside the empty apartment. She froze.

Her breath caught in her throat. She turned, squinting into the shadowed doorway. The creak came again, louder this time.

The urge to pee vanished, replaced by cold fear snaking up her spine. She decided to go back upstairs, leave the bathroom for the morning.

She took one step. Then another.

Suddenly, from the pitch-black doorway, two gloved hands shot out.

One clamped over her mouth, the other wrapped tight around her neck. She had no time to scream.

No time to struggle. The grip was iron. She was dragged into the darkness, the door slamming shut behind her.

For a moment, the night stood still.

Then, the dogs began to howl. It was as if they sensed the wrongness, a primal awareness that something terrible had happened.

Their cries pierced the silence, echoing through the street like a warning too late to be heard.

The buildings stood as they always had, decrepit and forgotten. The lights continued to flicker.

People stayed in their apartments asleep, unaware that something dark and violent had just unfolded in the belly of Rotimi Building.

But the dogs knew. They howled into the night, their cries a chilling accompaniment to the silence that followed Maris's disappearance.


END OF CHAPTER FOUR

Teco2:
Thanks for update, boss

Thank you all for been patient. Honestly, I do appreciate your support

CONTINUED



CSP Audu Jimoh was a squat, beefy man. His white-gray hair clung to his scalp, contrasting with his sallow skin.

Small, unintelligent eyes peered out from under a heavy brow, and his nose flared wide above thin lips that curled beneath a graying mustache, his rubbery double chin sagging like wet dough.

He looked exactly what he was: a figurehead, unintelligent and incompetent, older than his years. He knew it, too.

The sun beat down as he crossed the parking lot, his new silver Hilux gleaming in the blistering heat. His movements were hurried, frantic, and by the time he reached the truck, his breath came in ragged gasps.

He fumbled for his inhaler on the seat, sucking in the chemical rush with desperate urgency. The air finally filled his lungs, and the tightness in his chest loosened.

Relief washed over him. He pumped the inhaler again, settling back into the driver’s seat, letting the moment stretch.

Then he noticed the mob—at first just a blur of motion on the side window, but quickly resolving into shapes he could recognize.

Journalists. Cameras. The press.

His stomach lurched. Sweat broke out on his forehead, and his hand instinctively reached for the door lock. He hesitated. No, he told himself, it's just the press—not gunmen.

But that didn’t calm his nerves. He unclenched his fingers and opened the door, stepping into the searing heat. His hands trembled.

Where on earth was Juliet?


A few miles away, at the police station’s dim office, Miss Juliet Ramsay watched a computer screen with a bemused expression. She sat across from Fumi, her colleague, as a list of shopping items flickered on the monitor. Juliet was pushing thirty, though you wouldn’t guess it. Petite, dark-skinned, with oily skin and a small frame, her babyish face made her look much younger.

Her eyes, though, glimmered with intelligence and a touch of sensuality that made men take notice. Especially CSP Jimoh, though their affair wasn’t exactly a secret.

She had no idea she was being played.

“These are fabulous! I have to get them all—oh, this one’s gorgeous!” Juliet gushed. Her admiration was relentless, and Fumi’s weariness was starting to show.

The plan was working, but the drawn-out game was grating.

Thirty-four minutes. Fumi kept her smile tight as Juliet babbled on. Then the door creaked. Danjuma, one of their officers, poked his head in. A silent nod exchanged between them. Juliet didn’t catch it.

Fumi stood up abruptly. “Oh, look at the time. I need to grab something. You stay, keep browsing. Check the downloads tab for coupons, okay?”

Juliet blinked, unsure. “You want me to stay?”

“Absolutely,” Fumi reassured her with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Enjoy yourself.”

As she exited, locking the door softly behind her, Fumi’s expression shifted. She made a quick call.

“We’ve got him right where we want him. He won’t be able to deny it now.”


Back at the parking lot, the press swarmed around CSP Jimoh. They barked questions, louder and more aggressive with each passing second. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think.

“Sir, what do you know about the bodies discovered?”

“Is there an active cover-up? Are you silencing this part of the investigation?”

“What’s being done to protect the citizens?”

“How long have the police known about this?”

The barrage hit him like a hailstorm, overwhelming. He frowned, scoffed, stammered, growled, and sighed in frustration. Still, the press circled like wolves, snapping for a soundbite.

He hated them, hated their hungry eyes and their probing questions. They didn’t care about the truth—they just wanted their story.

And Juliet was nowhere to be found. She could’ve smoothed things over with her polished lies and well-constructed alibis. She never flinched under scrutiny, unlike him. His heart pounded in his chest.

His lungs tightened. Panic clawed at him again, and he fumbled for his inhaler when a sharp voice cut through the din.

“What’s going on here?”

ASP Korede marched up, a tall, commanding figure with his team of detectives trailing behind him. CSP Jimoh felt a mixture of relief and anger at the sight.

He despised Korede and his “elite” team of misfit detectives. They always showed up in moments like this, and they always made him look bad.

The press turned on Korede like bees to honey, sensing fresher prey. Jimoh’s chest burned with frustration as he barked, “You say nothing to them. The PPRO will handle this. Do you hear me? The PPRO will handle it!”

Korede raised an eyebrow, turning his head dramatically as if searching for someone invisible. “The PPRO? Is she even around?”

Jimoh clenched his teeth, realizing too late that he’d been set up. His gut twisted with dread. The higher-ups would be furious.

He had been specifically told to keep the situation low-profile, to reduce the media frenzy.

And now, it was about to explode.

He scowled, his face dark with anger. “See me in the office later,” he growled at Korede, who grinned like a man who’d just won a bet.

“Yes, sir,” Korede replied with a mock salute.

Jimoh’s phone vibrated in his pocket—then another, and another. He had three phones, all buzzing with the same fury.

He knew who was calling and why. Without another word, he stormed off, leaving Korede to handle the mob.

“You realize he’s going to come for us, right?” Kunle, one of the detectives, whispered to Black Jack, his partner. “If the higher-ups squeeze him—and they will—he’s going to squeeze us.”

“We can handle it,” Black Jack replied with quiet confidence. “This was the right call.”

They straightened their jackets, stepping forward to face the press. As Korede introduced his team, the detectives kept their answers concise, professional, only giving what was absolutely necessary.

The mob pressed, prodded, and questioned, but they kept their calm.

They knew the storm was just beginning.

Forty-five minutes later, the police division was a zoo. The entire place was jammed with reporters—cameras, microphones, notebooks. Every news agency, every magazine, every tabloid wanted a piece of the action.

The room buzzed with the low hum of murmurs, camera clicks, and the scribbling of pens. Titles and headlines flashed across screens as editors typed furiously, each trying to come up with the sharpest, most sensational hook.

The detectives were already deep into their work. Phones rang off the hook. Messages pinged, emails flooded in. Some were useless, dead ends; others had vague leads, bits of information that might take hours to sift through.

It would be a long night, and they knew it. Cancelled plans, unanswered calls from home—they were in for the grind. This wasn’t just another case. It was bigger, messier.

Meanwhile, in a cramped two-bedroom apartment on the outskirts of Ota-Mowe, Cinna slammed through the front gate, pushing it with enough force to make it bang against the wall.

She paid off the bike man with a quick flick of her wrist, barely sparing him a glance before dashing into the living room. The place wasn’t bad—certainly not flashy, but not a dump either. The kind of apartment you’d rent on a six-figure annual deal. Nothing more, nothing less.

“Collins!” she shouted, her voice laced with anger and something else—panic, maybe.

She knew where to find him. She always did. In the bedroom, sprawled out like a lazy house cat, half-asleep and half-aware. He squinted at her, annoyed by the sudden intrusion. "What now?" he grunted, his voice thick with sleep.

She ignored him, flinging her phone at him. It hit him square in the chest, forcing him to sit up, groaning.

The screen flashed a paused video. He pressed play, watching as the news anchor described three bodies found at a dump site. Cinna paced the room like a caged animal, anxiety boiling over into frantic energy.

“I don’t care about this,” Collins muttered, tossing the phone aside. “Why do you suddenly care about the news?”

“You idiot,” Cinna snapped, glaring at him. “Didn’t you hear what they said? The police are asking for information about the bodies. They want to know if anyone saw something—”

“So?”

“That taxi driver,” she interrupted, her voice rising. “The one who returned my purse. He knows something. I’m telling you, he knows something about those murders.”

Collins rubbed his eyes, trying to shake the last bit of sleep from his brain.

He was awake now. “Really?” he asked, trying to sound interested. But truth be told, none of this grabbed him. Not right now, anyway.

“Yes, really,” she snapped. “He was acting weird, like he didn’t want the police involved. That look on his face—it wasn’t right.”

Collins stretched, letting out a yawn. His stomach growled.

He hadn’t eaten in hours, and her pacing was making him dizzy. “So what? You gonna report him?”

Cinna stopped dead in her tracks, fists clenched. Her eyes darted toward him, dark and suspicious. “I’m going to make a call,” she said, voice low but decisive. She already had a plan. He could see it forming in her mind.

Before she could move, Collins raised a hand. “Hold up. There’s nothing to eat. I need some money.”

Cinna shot him a look of pure disdain. “What do you mean, ‘nothing to eat’? Aren’t you supposed to be out there, making something happen? I’m not your piggy bank.”

“Come on,” he whined, the tone of a child begging for candy. “I got something big coming up, just need a little cash to—”

“Shut up,” she cut him off, rolling her eyes. “I don’t have time for your nonsense.”

Reluctantly, she dug into her bag, pulling out two crumpled five-hundred naira bills. She slapped them into his hand like she was feeding a stray dog.

“Hah, baby, come on,” Collins smirked, flexing his muscles. “You know I’ve got to stay in shape. Look at this, huh?”

He puffed out his chest, striking a pose he thought she liked. Normally, she might’ve found it amusing, maybe even endearing. But not today.

“I’m getting tired of feeding you,” she said coldly, but added another five hundred to the pile. His eyes lit up as he reached for her, trying to pull her in for a kiss.

She swatted him away, barely masking her disgust. “Go do something useful for once.”

He shrugged, pocketing the money. She stormed out of the room, her mind racing. She knew what she had to do, and Collins wasn’t going to distract her. Not today. Not now.


Back at the police division, the press were like vultures, circling in on any hint of weakness, any morsel of information. ASP Korede’s team worked methodically, blocking out the chaos. Their cyber forensics squad was pulling its weight, sifting through data, tracking calls, tracing leads.

Each detective hunched over their desk, eyes fixed on their screens, phones pressed to their ears.

Kunle, one of the detectives, scribbled notes furiously, pausing only to glance up at the latest email.

"This is a mess," he muttered under his breath, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Next to him, Black Jack remained calm, focused.

They had been through worse, though not by much.

“We need to go through all of it,” Black Jack said, scanning through the reports. “Patience. We’ll get the right info.”

Kunle nodded, though he wasn’t convinced. It was going to be a long night, that much was certain.

Just outside the building, Korede leaned against the hood of his car, scanning the crowd.

The press was relentless, but he kept his cool, answering only what needed answering. The bodies found had stirred up a storm, and now it was up to him and his team to weather it.

TO BE CONTINUED

Updates coming in, chapter four is coming to an end folks

The story is taking shape now. Still cooking though.

Good night everyone

CONTINUED



Twenty-eight minutes ago, Tabori Henson made the grim discovery. Francis was off duty, his leave stretching another three weeks. A startling revelation.

It meant Francis had broken protocol—a move that could lead to his indefinite suspension, or worse, his firing.

Francis had taken out a weapon without checking it in. He’d been called in briefly to assist with an investigation, but never mentioned the weapon.

Not a word about returning it. Henson frowned. If he wasn’t worried about being implicated, he’d march straight to his superior. He’d draft a detailed complaint about Francis’ unprofessional conduct, recommend the right punishment.

And yet, how could he ignore it? His frown deepened. Only one option. He locked his office and drove out of the station, glancing at the officer’s file for an address: 27 Colonel Rhodes Street, Ketu.

He’d go to Francis’ house, demand the weapon, inspect it. If there was any sign of misuse, he’d leave Francis with some harsh words. He felt certain. He’d resolve this.

The drive wasn’t long. When he arrived, the sight of the fenced-off duplex startled him. A place like this? For an inspector? Henson couldn’t afford something like this on his salary. Francis, living beyond his means, was already on the path to ruin.

The type of officer that ends up on the wrong side of the law.

He got out of his car, walked to the gate. It wasn’t locked. Odd. He pushed it open, the hinges groaning. Hesitating for a second, he stepped inside.

The duplex was impressive—far beyond what Henson expected. It was the kind of place he hoped to retire to someday. He knocked on the entrance door.

Silence. Knocked again. His eyes flicked to the windows—shut tight. Was anyone home? He knocked a third time, harder. Listened. Was that a shuffle? Or was he imagining things?

“Is anyone home?” he called, uncertain.

Inside, Francis had heard the first knock. Weapon in hand, he’d found a place to hide. But why was Henson at his door? Of course—the weapon.

That explained it. Francis could handle him now. But it was risky.

Three bodies lay cold and still in his living room, blood pooling beneath them. Francis had made up his mind the moment the gun was back in his hands—he wasn’t giving it up.

He’d keep it for protection, especially now, before the deal would be finalized. No one would outsmart him again. He swore it.

The knocks continued, insistent. Henson wasn’t leaving. Francis cursed under his breath. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his back damp under his shirt.

Then, relief—the sound of the gate slamming shut. Henson was gone. Francis exhaled, his pulse slowing. Just as he started to relax, a phone rang. Skipper’s phone.

He cursed again, if Henson had still been outside, the ringtone would’ve given him away.

He grabbed the phone. The caller ID was just two letters: “SA.” Francis hesitated, then answered.

“Have you got the drugs back? Are we in the clear?” The voice on the other end was tense, impatient. Familiar.

Francis felt like he’d heard it before, but couldn’t place it.

“Hello? Who is this?” His voice cracked slightly.

There was a pause, then the caller hung up. Francis stared at the phone, the screen dimming. None of this mattered. Not right now.

He needed to leave. He grabbed the drugs, threw them into a small travel bag, and headed for the bathroom to clean up.

He’d disappear. Once he was overseas, he’d sell everything back home. Start fresh.

Fifteen minutes later, he walked out of the house. Fresh clothes. Hair slicked back. Calm. He flagged down a taxi and gave the driver instructions.

He didn’t notice the car that followed him from a distance. Someone had already started tailing him.


TO BE CONTINUED

My boy Francis is having an adventure of a lifetime, will he succeed to live out his dreams?



Hello Everyone, Please kindly show some love and follow me on Instagram @Henry_Inketh thanks. I will be dropping updates, chapter insights and commentaries. Thanks.

CONTINUED



The lie hung in the air. The tension between them was thick, but Francis could see the doubt creep into their eyes. They didn’t like it. They didn’t want to believe it, but it was better than the alternative.

Before Skipper could respond, the door swung open again. Hafsat. She walked in, her face freezing the moment she saw the gun.

“Who are these people?” she stammered, her voice shaking.

“Shut up!” Skipper snarled. “Go sit with your husband.”

Hafsat shot a confused, frightened look at Francis before she obeyed. Skipper’s eyes flicked between them.

“You’re going to get those drugs, or your wife gets it.” His voice dropped low, dangerous. “I don’t care how. You find a way.”

Francis’s mind raced. He could feel Hafsat’s eyes on him, accusing. She knew he’d sell her out if it came to it.

He didn’t care about her, not really. She was just another loose end.

“I’ll go,” he said, standing slowly, his hands raised. He had to play this right. “I just need to change and make a few calls. The station will be locked up by now. I’ll have to—”

“Don’t care about the details. Just get it done,” Skipper snapped, impatience creeping into his voice.

Francis saw his moment. In one swift move, he lunged at the gunman. The element of surprise worked in his favor.

His hands closed around the gun, twisting it toward Skipper. Skipper barely had time to react before the silenced shot went off.

Skipper’s body hit the floor with a dull thud.

Skipper gasped, his face contorted in agony. His hands gripped his throat like a vice as he crumbled to the floor. Fast. Silent. Dead.

The gunman lunged. Francis sidestepped, but the two men tangled, crashing hard into the ground. Dirt kicked up around them. The gunman's finger twitched on the trigger.

Francis ducked, felt the bullet whip past his ear, close enough to feel its heat. They grappled, each struggling to wrench the weapon free from the other.

Francis moved quick—too quick for the gunman. A sharp chop to the neck. A gasp escaped the man’s throat, his grip slackened, a second’s hesitation.

Fatal mistake. Francis grabbed the gun. A single shot to the head. The fight was over.

Francis rose to his feet. He wiped the sweat from his brow, checking the gun in his hand. Still in perfect working order. He allowed himself a small, cold smile. Battle won.

“Francis…” a voice—soft, weak. He turned sharply.

Hafsat stood behind him, her hands pressed against her stomach, fingers slick with blood. Her eyes—pleading. She staggered, collapsed at his feet, a pool of crimson spreading across the floor.

“Please… call the ambulance. I’m dying,” she whispered. Her voice cracked, hollow, her beauty drained.

She looked like a shell of her former self—old, haggard, pale.

Francis crouched beside her, his voice urgent. “Where is it, Hafsat? Tell me where it is, and I’ll call. I’ll get you help.”

Her breaths came shallow, ragged. “Please… help me…”

“You’re wasting time.” He grabbed her by the shoulder, shaking her gently. “Where is it? Tell me where it is, and I can save you. Otherwise…”

She blinked slowly, realization dawning. Her lips trembled, a ghost of a smile forming. “You… monster… you’d watch me die…?”

Her head lolled back for a second, slipping in and out of consciousness. Her body shuddered as she fought to hold on.

“You’d do the same to me. I know you would,” Francis said. His voice was cold, empty, devoid of sympathy.

Hafsat’s eyes flickered open, full of pain, full of hatred. “You… you’ll rot in hell…”

“You first.”

For a moment, their gazes locked, two killers bound by betrayal. Hafsat’s tired eyes shifted. They flickered toward the freezer. It was subtle—just a glance. But it was enough.

Francis stood, crossing to the freezer. He yanked the door open. A wave of cold air rushed out. Inside, neatly packed and wrapped—three bundles. His fingers twitched. The prize.

He turned to Hafsat, but her face was still, her chest no longer rising.

Her body lay twisted, her mouth frozen in a final grimace of pain. She was gone.

“Good riddance,” Francis muttered under his breath. He wiped his hands on his pants, a smile tugging at his lips. It had worked out better than expected.

He needed a drink. To celebrate. Cool off. Then it’d be time to see Adenuga, make sure everything stayed wrapped up nice and tight.

But just as he stepped toward the door, a knock shattered the silence.

Francis froze. Heart pounding.

TO BE CONTINUED

CONTINUED


Francis stepped out into the night, the cool breeze whipping his face as he mounted his bike. His breath came in heavy bursts, matching the pounding in his chest. Ten million.

The number echoed in his head. It made his hands tremble on the handlebars. Ten million! It wasn’t just a sum.

It was a promise, a shiver running down his spine. He frowned, shaking off the thought. The air was doing him good, cooling the sweat on his neck. He needed clarity, not panic.

Then there was Hafsat. That witch. Greedy to the core. She had to be dealt with, but carefully. He couldn’t afford to let her mess things up.

She had hidden the stash, or so she claimed. The way she said it, though, it stunk of a lie. If she was bluffing, he’d have to force her hand. But not before he could sell it.

No way she was seeing a cent of the money. The thought of her getting away with any of it was like bile rising in his throat.

He arrived home just before two. Hafsat would be at work, and he had time. The house was his to search. He went to the freezer and opened it. There was just packs of left over food and a bottle of beer.

He got the beer. poured a glass of beer, letting the cold liquid steady him. The phone rang. Omoh. Of course. The last person he needed to hear from.

“What do you want?” Francis snapped, irritation sharp in his voice.

“Hey, hey! Is that how you greet an old friend?” Omoh’s voice was oily, too casual. “Just wanted to talk business. Thought I could stop by—”

“I’m not interested.” Francis lied, his pulse quickening. “I’m at the office.”

“Office? Thought you were on leave. You sure you’re not home?”

“I said I’m busy. Don’t call unless I call you.” Francis could hear the agitation in Omoh’s voice, but he didn’t care.

He needed him gone, out of the picture. “You’re not someone I should be seen with right now.”

“Okay, okay, that’s rough, but sure. Maybe I’ll catch you later?”

“Maybe,” Francis muttered before ending the call. Omoh. The fool. Soon, he’d cut ties with him for good.

Once he had the money, once he was far away. He had a guy who could get him a legit passport, quick. Australia, maybe France. A fresh start.

He grinned. Focus. Time was ticking.

The kitchen was his first stop. It had to be somewhere. A kitchen was a woman’s domain. Maybe she thought it was safe there, out of his reach. He tore through cabinets, drawers, even the fridge. Nothing.

Just as he was about to give up, he heard the front door creak open.

Damn. Hafsat.

He tensed, every muscle in his body tightening. Did she know he’d be searching? Was she onto him? He called out, trying to keep his voice steady.

“Honey?”

No answer. That’s when he heard the footsteps in the living room. He stepped out cautiously, his heart hammering in his chest.

Two men stood there. Strangers, but dangerous-looking. One was tall and lean, covered in tattoos, the ink crawling up his neck to his chin. His eyes, bloodshot and wild, locked onto Francis.

The Beretta in his hand, with a silencer attached, was pointed straight at him. Francis recognized it. His own gun. The second man, shorter but built like a brick wall, sat calmly on the couch, dark sunglasses hiding his eyes.

A nasty scar ran down the side of his face. He smiled, and it sent a cold chill down Francis’s spine.

“We finally meet, Inspector.” The shorter man’s voice was rough, like gravel. “I’m Skipper. Sit.”

Francis didn’t move at first, weighing his options. The tall one, the one with the gun, wasn’t a professional. He could tell by the way he held it. There was a chance.

“I said sit!” Skipper barked. The gunman twitched, waving the barrel menacingly.

Francis sat, his eyes narrowing. He needed to think fast. These were what was left of the gang he stole the drugs from.

The last two of the gang. He clenched his jaw, realizing the bitter truth. Omoh. That rat had sold him out.

Skipper leaned forward, removing his glasses. His left eye was a mess of scar tissue, making him look even more grotesque. But Francis saw something else—fear. He could use that.

“I’ll ask once. Where’s my stuff?” Skipper growled.

“I don’t have it,” Francis lied, surprised by how steady his voice was. He had to stall.

“Bullshit. It’s here.”

“Listen, that drug bust wasn’t a coincidence. It was part of an eight-month operation. We were after your suppliers, the big fish. The drugs? They’re already turned in. They’re gone.”


TO BE CONTINUED

Updates coming in.

Happy Sunday Every one!

CONTINUED


Obasi Hendrick, self-proclaimed chief of Lagos, came across as a friendly, sociable businessman.

He owned a string of legitimate businesses: bars, taxis, a supermarket, a fuel station. But there was a darker side. Strip clubs. Gambling rooms.

Brothels. And a drug network responsible for 15% of the heroin circulating in the city. Obasi was pushing fifty-eight, but his boyish features, square head, receding hairline—cleverly dyed black—and small, disarming eyes gave him the appearance of warmth.

It was a warmth he never truly possessed. Nobody knew where Obasi had come from or how he'd made his fortune, but he was a fixture in Lagos, especially in the heart of Ikorodu.

One of his most prominent businesses was the Soul Search Bar in Ilegah, a high-end establishment that oozed luxury.

It thrived under the watchful eye of Adenuga, Obasi's number two. Adenuga, a former army man with a short fuse and a keen business mind, was the one who kept things running. The good, the bad, and the ugly.

He was the enforcer, the problem-solver. No one saw Obasi unless it was serious. Adenuga handled it all.

That afternoon, Adenuga was in his office at Soul Search, sifting through discrepancies in the weekly profits. He didn't appreciate being interrupted.

A knock came at the door.

He growled, "What is it?"

"Excuse me, sir," a waitress stammered. "There's a man here. Says he has business you'd be interested in."

Adenuga frowned, annoyed. "Business? Doesn't it have a name?"

"The other business, sir. You know..." she trailed off nervously.

Adenuga's frown deepened. He understood now, but the situation required finesse. "Tell him to wait at the bar. I'll be there in three minutes."

He reached for a bottle of scotch, downing three quick shots. It steadied him.

Then, he popped a couple of mint gums into his mouth. This was his routine before every business deal—especially ones that smelled of trouble.

At the bar, Adenuga found his guest nursing a beer. The man looked nervous. Eyes darting, hands twitchy. Adenuga didn't like it.

"Sorry for the wait," Adenuga greeted him with a firm handshake, his eyes scanning for clues. The man, Francis, had the rough hands of someone who'd been through some tough times. Another red flag.

"They say you’ve got something I might be interested in," Adenuga said, cutting straight to the point.

Francis hesitated, glancing around. "I need to speak with Chief Obasi. Get him for me."

Adenuga chuckled, amused. "You don’t get to see him. He’s a busy man. You deal with me, and trust me, it’ll be handled properly."

Francis looked uneasy. He didn’t like the public setting. Adenuga caught on. "There are no rats here, I can assure you," he said. "Now, tell me—what is it you're offering?"

Francis swallowed, glancing around again. "It’s the white stuff," he said, voice low.

Adenuga showed no reaction. "What do you want to do with it?"

"Sell it," Francis muttered, clearly out of his depth.

Adenuga observed him closely. This guy wasn’t an independent operator, and he wasn’t seasoned in the game.

Something was off. But curiosity kept him in the conversation.

"How much?" Adenuga asked.

"Three kilos," Francis said. His voice quivered. He was way out of his league.

"Three kilos?" Adenuga repeated. He leaned back, his eyes narrowing. "Where'd you get it? Wait... who exactly are you? Kroc’s boy? Kaneda’s? Or are you a cop?" His words were calm, but his gaze never left Francis.

Francis stiffened, the pressure clearly getting to him. "I have three kilos, ready to sell. You want it or not?"

Adenuga raised an eyebrow. This was risky. Too many red flags. But he played along. "How much are you asking?"

Francis hesitated for a beat. Then, nervously, "Thirty million."

Adenuga burst out laughing. "Thirty million? For three kilos? You must be joking. That’s three times what it’s worth."

Francis swallowed again. "I’m serious."

Adenuga shook his head, amused but cautious. "I’ll give you four million. Cash. Right now. You can walk out of here with it."

Francis frowned. "No. Fifteen million."

"Six million. Still a generous offer," Adenuga countered.

He watched the sweat bead on Francis’s forehead. This man was panicking, and it showed.

"Ten million. Final offer," Francis shot back, a little too quickly. He was desperate, and Adenuga could see it.

Adenuga paused. He didn’t like this. The greed was too obvious, the nervousness too raw.

But the deal was tempting. "Eight million," Adenuga said, his tone firm. "Final offer."

Francis shook his head. "Ten million, or I go somewhere else."

The two men stared at each other, a silent battle of wills. Adenuga hated to admit it, but Francis had him pinned.

The deal was too good to pass up, but something felt off. Still, business was business.

"Alright," Adenuga said finally. "Ten million. Be here by eight. I’ll have the cash ready. You bring the goods."

Francis nodded, visibly relieved. "Deal." He took one last swig of his beer and left.

Adenuga watched him go, eyes narrowing as the man slipped out the door. He waited a few moments, then pulled out his phone.

"Get to my place in twenty minutes," Adenuga said into the receiver. He hung up, already planning his next move.

Something about this deal didn’t sit right, and he wasn’t going to be caught off guard. Not tonight.

The game was on.


TO BE CONTINUED

Good night to you dear readers

CONTINUED


The gates of Ikoyi Prison groaned open. Heavy black metal, slow and reluctant. The sound—harsh, creaky—made the skin crawl. A place like this had a way of getting under your skin. The buildings inside, all the same dull ash and cream, blended into each other.

Six-foot barbed wire coiled around the perimeters, as if daring anyone to think of escape. The air was thick with stillness. It even smelled different, carrying an odd mix of stale concrete and fear.

Kunle parked outside. He couldn't see them, but he knew they were watching. The security tower stood tall by the main entrance, officers in white and brown khaki pants loitering nearby, keeping a sharp eye on everything that moved.

It was his third time here, but the feeling never changed—this place didn’t soften.

Maurice Olawole, Assistant Superintendent of Prisons, waddled over. Tall, sturdy, with a belly that pushed against his belt, his eyes lit up when he saw the paper bag in Kunle’s hand.

“I guess that’s for me?” Maurice asked, his gaze glued to the bag.

Kunle handed it over, the bottle of Johnny Walker disappearing into Maurice’s hands like it had a home there.

The man loved his bribes almost as much as he loved his booze.

"Follow me," Maurice grunted, leading Kunle down a maze of dimly lit corridors. They walked in silence. Maurice moved fast for a man his size, eager to get back to his private party with the bottle.

Kunle kept up, noting the tension in the man’s shoulders. He was eager to be rid of him.

They stopped at Block A4. This one was different. Newer, cleaner. This was where they housed the special ones—the political prisoners, the ones with connections.

The ones like Tobi Larry, who didn’t belong here, yet somehow found themselves locked up anyway.

“He’s in there?” Kunle asked, though he already knew the answer.

Maurice nodded, smirking. “Yeah, threatened to sue the Federal Government for ‘unhealthy conditions.’ Got roughed up a couple times. Prisoners didn’t like his type. Too quiet, too smart.”

Kunle shook his head. “So, you moved him here to avoid the lawsuit?”

“Gotta keep him happy. Cops love these smartasses.”

Maurice swung open the door to Cell 9. Kunle stepped in and came face-to-face with Tobi. He was a mess. Bruised, swollen. His eyes darkened, lips split.

The cell was nice by prison standards—small bed, armchair, reading table, even a partitioned-off toilet. Yet the look on Tobi’s face said it all—he wasn’t enjoying the perks.

“I’ll leave you two to catch up,” Maurice said, eager to get out. He didn’t wait for a reply, already halfway back to his whiskey.

Tobi grimaced. “Look at that. If you were here to kill me, that’s how easily he’d abandon me. Such loyalty.”

Kunle sat down in the armchair, grinning. “Good thing I’m not an assassin, huh?”

The two had history. Old friends from school, though their paths had diverged sharply. Kunle had become a cop.

Tobi had become a whistleblower, the kind that took down big names, spilled secrets that were better left in the dark.

Their paths had crossed before, once on a kidnapping case where Tobi had come through with information. But things had changed since then.

“To what do I owe the honor?” Tobi’s tone was sharp, his face betraying the pain beneath.

“I need your help,” Kunle said.

Tobi raised an eyebrow, the bruises on his face stretching painfully. “My help? With what?”

“There’s a case. We need it cracked wide open. You’re the guy who can do it.”

Tobi snorted, leaning back, wincing as the movement pulled at his swollen skin. “Not interested. Got my own problems. And this is police business. You know I can’t touch that.”

Kunle smiled faintly. He expected the resistance. “I talked to your lawyer. Out of the 23 charges they have on you, 12 are flimsy. You’d need someone on the inside to make the rest go away, though.”

Tobi’s eyes flickered, but he kept his voice flat. “Twelve, huh? Let me tell you, all 23 are garbage. Government lies. They have nothing.”

Kunle didn’t buy it. Tobi had a trail of collateral damage behind him. There was the girl, the senator’s mistress, who had hanged herself after Tobi leaked her private affairs.

Then there was the ex-governor’s son, who had fled after Tobi exposed his corruption, only to plow his car into a family, killing two innocent people. The man had a talent for chaos.

“Sure,” Kunle said, voice tight with sarcasm.

Tobi ignored the jab, leaning forward. “I’m here because one person was too cowardly to get the evidence needed to pin down a murderer. Instead, she turned on me.”

“The charges aren’t all flimsy. The cops have a case,” Kunle replied, his tone dead serious. “I could help you. But only if you help me.”

Tobi scoffed. “I’m not scared of a forty-year stretch. They can try.”

“They’ll move you back to your old cell by the end of the week.”

That hit a nerve. Tobi’s eyes widened for a split second. “That’s a lie. I almost died there. I’m going to sue.”

Kunle leaned in, voice low. “The cops figure that if they rough you up right next time, there won’t be anyone left to sue.”

Tobi paled. His voice wavered. “You won’t let that happen. You said you needed me.”

“I do. But there are other options. People who might be more… motivated.”

Tobi’s bravado cracked. “I can get your story to the international press if you want. CNN, BBC. Just don’t let them send me back. Those guys are monsters.”

Kunle smiled, satisfied. “We have a deal, then. I’ll put in a word for you.”

Tobi exhaled, relief washing over his battered face. They talked a little longer, laying out the plan, before Kunle stood to leave.

He walked out of the prison with the deal he came for, pleased with how easily Tobi had caved.

TO BE CONTINUED

Good night everyone

CONTINUED


Two days had passed since her nine-year-old son vanished without a trace from her shop. The days were long and cruel; the nights were plagued with nightmares that twisted her anguish into mockery.

She was a widow, and Junior, her only child, had disappeared into Lagos’s unforgiving labyrinth.

The city seemed to mock her suffering, as if some dark curse had wrapped around her life, twisting tighter with every passing hour.

In the morning sun of Owedo, Ketu, she sat on a mat outside her apartment block.

The heat was a relentless wave, the kind that made everything stick—sweat to skin, worry to mind. People came and went, offering empty words of sympathy, but none of them had the news she craved. They knew nothing of the hollow ache that consumed her.

“Mama Junior, they’ve found him,” Mama Sabor’s voice cut through the haze of her despair. It was a jolt, sudden and sharp.

“Eh, you say?” Mama Junior’s voice was barely a whisper, her body jerking upright. She looked at Mama Sabor, whose face was streaked with hot tears.

Behind her, Mama Kate and Mama Nice, fellow shop owners, and Papa Nice, the community’s vigilante leader, followed solemnly.

“Where is he? Where did they find him?” Her voice was strained, barely holding together.

Mama Sabor couldn’t muster the courage. The boy’s body had been discovered the previous night, dumped among refuse by the roadside, just three streets from Owedo.

A bike man had stumbled upon the body while seeking relief. Upon realizing it was a child, he had made the call at first dawn. The identification process was a grim formality, but it led to this moment of stark reality.

Mama Junior crumpled to the ground, overwhelmed.

The news had hit her like a freight train, and it took several minutes to revive her. She lay there, her tears mingling with the dust.

Papa Nice, with a heavy heart, said, “We’ve called the police. This is murder. I need to get back to the scene. Someone should stay with her. Don’t let her go alone.” His voice was thick with emotion.

He took off on his bike, racing back to the scene. There, a police pickup van was parked, the scene cordoned off.

Three uniformed officers stood, their faces etched with the weariness of their duty. Edward, a high-ranking officer, was already there, a grim acquaintance.

“You don’t look surprised. Why?” Papa Nice joined Edward, his tone edged with frustration.

Edward greeted him curtly. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? The mother is in agony. Real agony.” Papa Nice’s voice was a mix of anger and sorrow.

“I just wrapped up one murder case, and now another. It’s like a nightmare that won’t end.” Edward’s gaze remained fixed on the lifeless body among the refuse.

He remembered the recent case—the boy, Musa, charged with murder, the subsequent reprimands, and the unsettling call to Musa’s uncle, Sanusi.

The case had barely settled when this new horror emerged.

“Two kids, one eleven and one nine, murdered within a week. Coincidence?” Edward’s mind was far away, wrestling with the implications.

“Are you saying someone’s targeting children? That’s madness,” Papa Nice dismissed the thought.

“Two young victims, a week apart. One found here, the other’s killer is behind bars. It’s more than coincidence.” Edward’s eyes were intense, focused on the scene before him.

His phone rang, snapping him from his thoughts. “Hello?”

“Mr. Sanusi, it’s ASP Edward. I have news.”

The response was a flat, emotionless, “Oh, I see.”

“We’ve apprehended the killer,” Edward continued, met with a similarly devoid tone. “I’ll inform the parents.”

The call ended abruptly. There was no time for reflection. Mama Junior was brought to the scene, her face a mask of grief and disbelief. Edward prepared for a grueling day ahead.


TO BE CONTINUED

CONTINUED


They rolled into the crime scene in a blue metallic Yaris, the car inching through the gloom. The drive was slow, the air thick with unease.

No one spoke. The jostling of other cars, the occasional honk from impatient drivers, was ignored. Edward’s nerves were on edge.

It wasn’t just the quiet that gnawed at him. It was Shorty.

Shorty. The name echoed in Edward's mind. He sat in the back, a menacing silhouette. His face was a canvas of scars and grime, his eyes blood-red and unblinking.

They seemed to pierce right through him. The man looked like he’d clawed his way out of a gutter, but there was something more—a ruthless intensity.

Those eyes followed him with a cold, unwavering stare, like a hawk sizing up its prey.

“That's Salawu,” Nasiru said, breaking the silence as the car jerked to a stop. “He doesn’t talk much. Useful at the market, keeps the boys in line. Don’t mind him too much.”

Nasiru’s tone was dismissive, and Edward could sense the tension crackling in the air. The area looked grim and unsuitable for anyone’s taste.

Edward’s eyes scanned the surroundings, seeking something—anything—to focus on.

“We’re here, Officer. What do you need Musa to do?” Nasiru asked, his voice flat. He seemed eager to wrap this up.

Edward gestured for Musa to come forward. The boy shuffled hesitantly.

“I need him to walk me through what happened that day,” Edward said, directing the conversation with a sweep of his hand. Nasiru interpreted, and Musa mumbled something in his local tongue.

Fear and confusion flitted across his face, but Salawu’s bark cut him off, silencing him. Edward noted his growing dislike for Salawu.

Musa spoke rapidly, his words a jumble of local dialects. Nasiru translated. The boy lived four rooms away from the scene.

Given the layout, it was unlikely Musa could have reached the victim directly. Yet, his room faced the well. The well—a gaping, ominous presence.

“You said you heard the well being opened and shut,” Edward said, studying Musa intently. “I find that hard to believe. No screams, no shouts. Did you see anyone?”

Nasiru relayed the question. Musa’s face contorted through a range of emotions—fear, anxiety, confusion, annoyance. Finally, he dropped his head. After clearing his throat, he spoke again.

Edward didn’t understand the language, but he saw defeat in Musa’s eyes.

It was the same look he’d seen in countless criminals before their confessions. Was he staring at the murderer?

“And?” Edward pressed, eager for clarity.

Nasiru’s voice was grave. “It seems our boy wasn’t truthful from the start. I’m sorry.”

“He admitted to being on drugs that night,” Nasiru continued. “He said he’d gotten some from the local dealers. He was tired and needed something to unwind.”

Edward’s brow furrowed. “So, this was a drug-related crime?”

Nasiru shrugged. “He doesn’t remember much. Maybe he blacked out. He only knew he woke up in his room, sweaty and exhausted. The well was open. When he looked, he found the body. It adds up, doesn’t it?”

“Who sold him the drugs? What kind were they?” Edward pressed. The case seemed too haphazard, too random.

Yet, he feared that sometimes, the simplest explanations were the truest.

Nasiru asked, but Musa had shut down completely. His gaze was distant, eyes averted.

“He won’t say anything more,” Nasiru said. “We’ll take you to the station if you’re ready.”

Edward sighed, frustration simmering. It seemed his investigation had reached an end. It wasn’t the resolution he had hoped for. He took one last look at the scene. It was all OVER. yet this was not the victory, he had hoped for. too bland, too random.

TO BE CONTINUED

Hello everyone, kindly beer with me at the moment, it's been quite a week. I will be putting up new parts tomorrow by his special grace thanks.

Updates coming in!

CHAPTER FOUR


ASP Edward stood amidst the clatter and hum of the Ketu Garbage Market.

The heavy stench of rotting refuse assaulted his senses, mixed with the dry, suffocating heat of the morning. It was a place where life thrived amidst decay, where scavengers and collectors toiled for survival.

His feet shifted on the uneven ground, strewn with waste. Flies buzzed, circling hungrily over the heaps. He adjusted his jacket, though it did little to shield him from the grime that seemed to permeate everything.

He had come here alone, paying off the bikeman and deciding against a patrol van. The last thing he wanted was to stir up trouble or appear as though he was making a scene.
Ketu was a melting pot of ethnicities, and tensions were already simmering across the state. One wrong move, and a riot could break out.

He glanced around, watching the faces staring back at him. Eyes followed him warily. Distrustful. Curious.

His gaze settled on a tall figure emerging from the crowd. Towering over everyone else, the man approached with long, deliberate strides, his cream-colored kaftan swaying slightly. He was well-fed, his face clean-shaven, save for a carefully groomed beard, white as snow. His eyes held a shrewd glint, sharp and calculating.

Edward didn't need an introduction. This had to be Mallam Nasiru, the man who controlled the garbage market.

A well-known figure who had built a small empire from scraps and refuse. Edward had heard enough to know that this man was not to be underestimated.

"You are Mallam Nasiru?" Edward asked, voice firm but steady, still feeling the weight of the eyes on him.

"I am," Nasiru replied in perfect English, his voice carrying an edge of authority. "You are a policeman, I see. What brings you here?"

Edward quickly flashed his badge, his mind still playing over the events that led him to this market. Robinson's tip had been vague at best, but it was all he had.

A young man, nameless, faceless, but likely connected to the disappearance of the boy. Mallam Nasiru might know something—or someone—who could lead him closer to his goal.

"I'm looking for someone," Edward explained, eyes narrowing slightly. "A young man. He might be one of your boys. I was told he’s been around here.

Dark-skinned, dreadlocks, dirty green singlet, and khaki shorts. Well-built. Short, maybe around five foot three."

Nasiru closed his eyes briefly, thinking. Then, without a word, he beckoned to a short, stocky man nearby. The man looked as if he had been carved from stone—his face set in a permanent scowl. Edward sized him up immediately: squat, toad-like, yet agile. Nasiru exchanged words with him in their native tongue, and soon after, five boys were brought forward.

The boys stood uncertainly in a line, their faces devoid of expression. Each one fit the vague description Edward had given.

They looked identical in their shared poverty, their gaunt faces shadowed by the hardships of their trade. He observed them carefully, pacing up and down the line. None of them dared to meet his gaze—until the second boy in line caught his attention.

The boy shifted uncomfortably, staring down at his boots with intense focus. Edward felt a sudden jolt of recognition.

The boots were scuffed and muddy, the same ones he'd kicked out from under the boy in the alley last night. It had to be him.

"There," Edward said, voice low but decisive. "The second one. He's the one."

Before the boy could react, Shorty lunged forward with surprising speed. His thick arms encircled the boy’s torso, yanking him off balance and pinning him to the ground. A small gasp rippled through the crowd as they watched, but no one moved to intervene.

Nasiru, watching with mild amusement, let out a dry chuckle. "I see you used a bit of psychology on him, eh? Quite effective, I must say. But you should know, Inspector, none of my boys are killers. I will bring a lawyer for this one if needed. However, if you’d prefer, I can have him talk right here. I think he knows more than he’s letting on."

Edward hesitated. He didn’t relish the idea of interrogating the boy out in the open, but he also couldn’t afford to waste time. Every minute that passed was another step away from the truth.

"Go ahead," Edward nodded, keeping a sharp eye on the boy as Shorty hauled him back to his feet.

Nasiru spoke to the boy in their language, his tone steady, though not without a hint of menace. The boy stammered out a reply, shaking slightly, his eyes darting nervously toward Edward.

When the boy finally finished, Nasiru sighed and turned to Edward.

"His name is Musa. He’s new here. Only been around for three months. He says he was at the site where the boy disappeared, but he didn’t see much. He heard something—a well opening and closing. He thought it was just the usual troublemakers who hang out there at night.

But then he heard a woman calling out for a child, and that’s when he ran. He was afraid something bad had happened."

Edward processed the information quickly, piecing it together in his mind. Six days ago, the boy went missing. Musa had been there, in that building possibly. The well… a woman’s voice - the mother?

It wasn’t much to go on, but it was a start.

"Six days ago," Edward repeated, more to himself than anyone else. His mind raced, connecting dots, weighing options. The mystery was far from solved, but at least now, he had a thread to pull on.

"We'll take him in," Edward said at last, straightening his posture. "But like you said, Nasiru, no one's pointing fingers yet. We just need to know what he knows."

Nasiru gave a satisfied nod. "As you wish, Inspector. But remember, I’ll be there to make sure justice is done, not just assumptions."

TO BE CONTINUED

Chapter four coming in