The Cellar by Minette Walters Read Free Book Online

found, but a jury would always give a grieving father the benefit of the doubt.
    And grief was certainly what Mr Songoli had felt on the night of Abiola’s disappearance. It was why he had omitted to say he’d driven the streets in a desperate search for the boy after coming home that Thursday evening. Mr Broadstone described his client as a proud man who couldn’t admit how deep his despair was when he failed to find his son. His wife looked to him for strength yet, blinded by tears, he had pulled into the side of the road and wept uncontrollably for over an hour before returning to call the police.
    Mr Broadstone never described Ebuka’s accident as a blessing in disguise, but he mentioned several times that public sympathy had swung behind the Songolis. The people of this country were softhearted, he said, and there was a sense of collective guilt that visitors to their shores had suffered so much. To lose Abiola – without his body being found or any progress made in the police investigation – was bad enough; but for Mr Songoli to miss his footing on the cellar steps seemed to compound the tragedy. It wasn’t right that a man, distracted by worry and grief, should be asked to produce insurance documents from his files in the cellar to prove his other son was entitled to medical treatment.
    ‘The British pride themselves on their free healthcare system,’ he told Yetunde. ‘It embarrasses them when the press and media run stories like this. We may have a case for compensation if we can claim your husband was so intimidated by the paramedics that he put finding documents before his own safety.’
    Yetunde looked doubtful. ‘Is that what he told you happened?’
    ‘He said he was afraid Olubayo would receive poor treatment without proof of insurance. I’m assuming the paramedics led him to believe that?’
    Yetunde’s expression said he was wrong, but honesty was less important to her than money. ‘Will we be paid if they did?’
    ‘Paraplegia is a serious disability, Mrs Songoli. Your husband should receive a substantial amount if we can prove the paramedics were at fault.’ Mr Broadstone leaned forward. ‘Perhaps they led him to believe Olubayo would be denied treatment? Perhaps you believed the same thing and begged him in Hausa to find the insurance policy and rush with it to the hospital?’
    ‘We spoke only in English. The ambulance men know that.’
    ‘It’ll be their word against yours.’
    Yetunde shook her head. ‘They allowed me to ride in the front with the driver and I heard him speak on the radio to the hospital. He said he had a thirteen-year-old male patient with a suspected epileptic seizure but made no mention of papers. Whoever took that call will side with them against us.’
    ‘That won’t affect how your husband felt about the situation. Just by being asked for your names and nationality, he will have felt under pressure. I’m sure you can recall him looking anxious as you left.’
    Yetunde thought for a moment. ‘He became angry when we were told that only one of us could accompany Olubayo. He had an argument with the driver, saying the police had impounded his car and he had no means of following without it. The man answered that he didn’t make the rules and warned Ebuka that it was an offence to threaten a member of the emergency services.’
    ‘Had Mr Songoli raised his hand?’
    Yetunde nodded.
    ‘He’s a passionate man from a different culture. It’s natural for him to express anxiety through hand gestures. No official in uniform should have accused him of committing an offence because of it … particularly when he was so clearly distressed about Olubayo’s seizure.’
    Yetunde brightened. ‘Will we be given money if I say that?’
    ‘It’ll help.’
    After that all Mr Broadstone’s visits involved talk of compensation. He was white yet everything he said was against whites, and Muna distrusted him for it. Did he hate his own tribe so much that he was willing