Derailed Sentence

By Val Hillsdon-Hutton

Because of a murder investigation in which she is falsely implicated, Kate Wagner leaves Idi Amin’s Uganda and returns to her native England. Because of her language skills and experience, she is recruited as a British Government Agent and sent back to Uganda to gather information on troop and equipment locations. Pursued by a disgruntled Ugandan ex-policeman, she makes a dangerous trip by car to Northern Uganda, helped by those she knew in the past, often having to negotiate at army checkpoints, bribing civilians and military personel alike and using the information provided by local and British assets.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 26, 2021
• ISBN: 9781664193192

Val Hillsdon-Hutton

Val Hillsdon-Hutton was raised in Northern England and worked in Uganda during the early 1970’s. Idi Amin took power in 1971 and she met him twice, mainly because he was originally from close to where she lived in NW Uganda’s West Nile District, and on occasion would command ex-patriates to meet with him in groups for propaganda reasons. During her time there she helped secretly smuggle Asians across the border to The Congo (now Zaire) following Amin’s 1972 declaration that all Uganda Asian minorities should leave the country. When her job assignment ended she accepted a teaching job at a London College and two years later accepted a temporary teaching and consulting position in California for one year. She has remained in the United States and taught writing courses at a Junior College. Following a move to Vancouver in Washington State she worked in the mental health field and resided with her lifetime partner Lynn. Val retired in 2006. She is a member of Good Shepherd Episcopal Church, where she has served as a Vestry (Board) member and a past member of the church’s Safety Team Ministry. She also enjoys gardening with a particular interest in succulents. She has expertise in the Lugbara language and has a good knowledge of Uganda’s geography and cultures, making her a good source for this novel, especially as the main character, Kate Wagner’s, geographical knowledge and linguistic skills match! In the year 2000, Val published Whisper of Protest via xLibris and under the author name of Valerie Spencer, a novel which was also set in Uganda with the same main character and in a similar setting. Val hopes that her readers will identify with the possibilities the main character presents and enjoy new insights

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Derailed Sentence

A Kate Wagner Story

Val Hillsdon-Hutton

Copyright © 2021 by Val Hillsdon-Hutton.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 03/09/2022

Xlibris

844-714-8691

www.Xlibris.com

834452

CONTENTS

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Postscript

DEDICATION

DERAILED SENTENCE

Authors know how difficult it is to obtain friendly criticism. My partner, Lynn Parker’s commitment to seeing this novel in print was evident from the start. Her ability to spot ambiguities and errors is amazing. Lynn encouraged me when I wanted to give up and argued when I was stubborn. I dedicate this work to her with my love.

The people of Uganda form the background of this novel. It has been my privilege to work with so many of them. They are a graceful people and their loving acceptance of me was life-changing.

Val Hillsdon-Hutton

Author

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CHAPTER ONE

1.

1974

I never crossed the threshold of a decent eatery until I was about eighteen years old, so I certainly wasn’t brought up appreciating gourmet food in high - end settings. Apart from the fish - and - chip shop around the corner from my childhood home in Northern England, and the occasional steak and chips in beachfront cafes during brief trips to Blackpool, we ate home - cooked meals prepared by my mother on the gas range in our tiny kitchen. Things are a lot different now.

It’s not just food that attracts me to restaurants. People pledge themselves to others in restaurants, eyes and hands locked in fervent expectation, while other couples hide in corner booths, their tight faces grim with boredom and the effort of merely staying together for another day. International plots are hatched over prime rib and dark red wine; nations are created and silently dismantled before coffee and cheese are served; monarchs’ and presidents’ reputations rise and fall with the quality of the brandy.

I enjoy anything from fine bistros and hotel dining rooms, to fast food joints like McDonald’s. In trendy eating establishments fashion is displayed and disparaged, gossip created and spread, lives arranged and rearranged. McDonald’s does not nuance things quite so skillfully, their customer conversations taking place against the background racket of kids, loud discussions about the hourly pay rate and the food all over the floor!

Big money is spent in restaurants. The upwardly mobile customers over tip in order to prove that they can afford to do so, then exit with loud complaints about the cost, only to return with another group a few days later to prove they don’t give a damn.

I love money, mainly because a lack of it made eating out largely inaccessible to me in my younger years. Now, while earning a regular wage as an adult, I am more open to countless gourmet opportunities. Few people in my family ate out on a regular basis. Lack of regular work in post-World War II meant a rare greasy meal in a local cafe, fish - and - chips to go, or a day trip out of town by bus twice a year.

Walking past Liverpool’s better eateries as a child I would slow my pace, hoping for a glimpse of what the people in the window seats had ordered and then trying to carry home the smells and ambience, only to conjure them up in dreams of romantic liaisons in exotic places. When I was 18 years old my office Christmas dinner was held at Chang’s Mandarin Palace in Liverpool. It was the zenith of my culinary experiences to date. My job as a trainee optometrist helped pay my way through university, and even though Chang’s did not offer traditional Christmas fare Bernie Greenburg, my Jewish boss, did the best he could to make us all happy. What else was he supposed to do to celebrate with his numerous Gentile employees?

How could there ever have been so many Chinese culinary dishes on one large, round table in Chang’s? Giddy from too much plum wine, I went home that night trying to remember the names of the different foods while deciding on a favorite amid daydreams of becoming a restaurant critic. I swear that I stayed in that optical trainee’s job longer than I needed because my salary included free lunch vouchers and staff meetings in fancy coffee houses on Liverpool’s trendy Littleton Street, where our optical business was located.

Sometimes Bernie took us to a restaurant to celebrate a special event, like when he became engaged to his future wife, or to thank us for a profitable previous quarter. He liked to eat out, too, and the staff had no objection to helping him spend his money.

As the decades passed, eating out became more frequent for me. When I received my deceased father’s life insurance check, I took myself out to an exclusive French restaurant in London’s Blackheath Village and toasted his memory with a very good imported red wine and a T-bone steak. I had come a long way from Chang’s Mandarin Palace. Somewhere around that time I received a Valentine from an anonymous source saying that the secret of true love is how often you say those three little words – Let’s eat out! The anonymous sender of the card must have known me well.

I soon developed a taste for Indian food and tonight found myself in the Lotus Flower in Blackheath for the first time. Tucked into a row of antique shops, it offered that perfect mix of ambiance, reasonable prices and good food so rarely found in suburban London. Oh the garlic naan! And the Basmati rice with Rogan Josh lamb smothered in yoghurt! Bliss...

A female voice interrupted my reverie and shocked me back into the present.

...and I come here at least once a week. They know what I like, so I never have to go through the not-too-spicy, not-too-bland ritual with the waiters. The restaurant is rarely overbooked, so I can eat by myself and never feel guilty that I am monopolizing an entire table that should’ve been given to a more deserving couple.

Pat Howard’s dark brown eyes scrutinized me over the rim of her wine glass. Was she even aware that I had been daydreaming?

I nodded. I don’t mind eating alone either, as long as I am not treated as if I have a communicable disease and placed behind a pillar lest my aloneness be a detriment to their reputation as a first-class dining establishment.

Pat grinned as she finished her wine, poured two cups of Darjeeling tea and leaned back in her chair. Speaking of aloneness, what about you, Kate Wagner? Is there a special man in your life? Her right index finger circled the rim of her teacup.

My eyes scanned the room, avoiding her gaze. It was certainly a quiet night. A man and woman engaged in a conversation about who should pay for what on their bill, rose to leave. There was nobody else in the restaurant.

There was someone...in Uganda...but it’s over.

Who was he? Pat queried, her eyebrows raising. A government bloke? A teacher perhaps?

A linguist. Still no eye contact from me. "And the linguist was a she, not a he. As this brought no visible response, I ventured one. What about you? Are you seeing anyone?" Awkward now, but at least I made brief eye contact.

Pat placed her cup in its saucer and eyed me. She and I had met at Heathrow Airport only a few hours before when I was interviewing a political refugee from Uganda seeking asylum in the United Kingdom. I did not know Pat well enough to guess whether she was contemplating my gorgeous blue eyes or thinking whether a customs officer like herself should fraternize with an employee of the British Foreign and Commonwealth Office. I squirmed inwardly.

Not at the moment, but I think my luck is about to change.

I leaned back, crossed my legs and tried my best to appear as a woman of the world. After all, I had been half way around it.

I’m not sure I’m ready for a new relationship. It hasn’t been that long... I teared up. Damn! Why do I always go looking for someone then sabotage my chances?

Then let’s at least be friends, she answered. Her response was far too chirpy, maybe because I had hoped she might push me to explore something else. Her boyish hair framed a perfectly innocent face and accentuated her dark eyes and full lips. She looked about two inches taller than my five foot seven and of a slightly heavier build, but by no means fat or flabby. Her arms were muscular and tight, as if she worked out with weights. I made an effort to relax.

I’d really like that, Pat. Was I sounding coy?

So how long have you worked for the Foreign and Commonwealth Office? Pat’s glance at a hovering waiter indicated a request for another pot of tea.

Only a couple of months. With so many Ugandan refugees attempting to enter Britain illegally, my translation skills are useful to the government, but only for as long as the crisis persists and Idi Amin remains in power. So, I know the job’s temporary and can end on short notice, but it might get me through the door into the Diplomatic Service. I folded my napkin nervously. Because the FCO promotes the UK’s national interests abroad, including protection of British nationals, it helps build a strong world community. I’m committed to that kind of thinking. There are international forums sponsored by the FCO and bilateral relationships help spell out the values of human rights and civil liberties. We also issue visas to enter this country. Because I am one of a few British nationals who speak the Lugbara language and reside here, there may be a few job prospects down the road. I sounded like a brochure on tape.

L-u-g-b-a-r-a? She spelled it out, unsure of the pronunciation.

Right first time. It’s one of the languages spoken in Uganda’s West Nile District. It’s also found across the border in Northern Congo.

That’s where you worked – in West Nile?

Right. For about three years. I dropped the now - wrinkled napkin onto my plate and clasped my hands in my lap to keep them out of mischief.

Were you doing government work there?

No. I wrote vernacular training materials for the Church of Uganda and trained their leaders to use them. I also initiated a number of creative writing and leadership projects to keep the program running itself after I left. I also taught English to young people who were preparing for English - speaking colleges in other parts of Africa, worked with Asian refugees, and helped a Bishop navigate the English language maze that would get him to the Lambeth Conference on the right date – you know the sort of thing. She obviously didn’t, so I resumed the napkin folding. He made me his Honorary Chaplain soon after I arrived.

Did you enjoy the work?

Mostly. As you know, Uganda has been in the thick of a terrible and bloody revolution. The carnage was, and still is, indescribable...unspeakable. Bodies were dumped outside my house on the day Amin seized power and from that time the violence and bloodshed accelerated daily. People would just disappear. One minute they were working in their gardens or typing at their desks. The next minute – vanished into thin air, never to be heard from again. Again my eyes welled up with tears. Sorry, I...

Pat reached across the table and clasped my arm. I shouldn’t have asked. It’s hard to have such dreadful images in your head. She squeezed before letting go. Ah, here’s more tea. She busied herself pouring it.

I took a sip of the too-hot liquid and set the cup down, leaving me nothing but conversation. Strangely enough I miss Uganda and all those resourceful people. Given the chance I’d go back in an instant. I dabbed my eyes with my napkin, which had taken on the appearance of a dust rag.

Then why did you leave? As a Customs Officer I know that there are still foreign nationals working in Uganda. Were you forced to come back to the U.K?

"I had been beaten up by burglars and woke up next morning and realized that I didn’t love all of humankind after all. That, along with the increasing violence orchestrated by Amin himself, made my London bosses and myself decide that it was time for me to get out of the country for my own safety.

"I could have refused, in fact I’d done so a few months earlier when things were rapidly deteriorating, but this time I was truly ready to throw in the towel and everything conveniently came together. In a matter of weeks, I was flown home, given time off with pay and asked to make a few fundraising speeches. And there’s nothing like carnage to open people’s wallets. When all the speaking engagements were fulfilled, I considered my obligation to be at an end. I’d been grateful for the opportunity to be immersed in another culture for three years, but missionary work was never a lifetime commitment for me. Also I don’t want to be a lay minister in the Church of England anymore, so now I am on six months’ leave from that ministry in order to sort myself out."

Pat nodded knowingly. I’ve heard similar stories from other temporary translators who have returned from short-term assignments in developing countries, especially if they’ve worked for the churches. Did you learn any Asian languages? You mentioned Asian refugees.

"I met many Asians socially and most spoke excellent English, plus the languages of their parents and Lugbara. When Amin stripped them of their Ugandan citizenship and gave them short notice to leave the country, many had little or no contacts in India or Pakistan, and many more had not learned any languages other than English when they left their home countries - - not to mention the people who were born in Uganda of Indian or Pakistani parents who spoke only English. Many of those who did have people to go to had little desire to do so, preferring to emigrate to Canada, the United States or Britain.

Pat hesitated, then replied, I remember how many were processed through Heathrow. Many came on planes chartered by the British government and because of their hasty departure from Uganda, few had the proper paperwork with them. It was a nightmare getting people sorted out. A frown wrinkled her brow. I interrupted your story. Do go on.

This whole conversation was beginning to feel like an interrogation. It was time to speed things up and figure out a way to make a polite departure.

There’s not a lot more to tell. Because I worked for the church I wasn’t supposed to get involved in local or national politics in Uganda, so when my supervisor found out that I was helping Asian refugees cross the border from Uganda into Zaire at night he was furious and wrote a letter of complaint about me to the London office. Fortunately, the letter fell behind some furniture and it was never mailed, so London knew nothing of his displeasure and thought everything was going smoothly in West Nile. It just shows to go you. My mother’s face flashed into my mind. She always said it backwards like that. I missed her. What about you, Pat? How long have you been a Customs Officer?

"Since high school. I was determined not to go to college or university because I wanted to travel. I saw an advertisement, applied, passed the qualifying exam and interviews, was accepted and sent for training. That was fifteen years ago. Now I’m in charge of the airport’s Customs and Excise operations and have never left England. My subordinates call me The Scourge of Heathrow and I must say I enjoy that reputation. I’m good at what I do. Very little gets past me and everyone I work with knows it. She glanced at her watch. It’s almost nine and this place closes about now. If you’re up for it we could take a stroll across the heath. You’ll get a taxi more easily on the main road and it’s a lovely night."

Escape at last! I had blundered and blubbered enough. Despite my protests, Pat paid the bill, leaving a generous tip for a now groveling waiter. Gushing and appreciating far too much, the man opened the door for us and it was all we could do to extract ourselves and stumble out into the clear, mild night, a glittering navy-blue sky framing a bright half-moon.

We strolled uphill, turned right, crossed a cobblestone path, stepped onto lush grass and headed towards the pointed spire of All Saints’ Church before Pat broke the silence. So, tell me Kate, how long have you known our mutual friend from Uganda?

I gasped then feigned a quick recovery.

Oh! I was so deep in thought you made me jump. I stopped walking and turned to her. In spite of all the headlights, the traffic sounds are really muted. I love the heath at night.

She moved closer to me. Yeah. I like it too, but I was wondering how long you have known Musuveni.

I continued walking, keeping a few steps ahead of her. Known him? I don’t know him. Today’s interview at the airport was the first time I had met the man. What makes you think I know him?

Like I said, I’m good at my job, Kate. She caught up with me in one long stride. But I have to admit that even my rookie assistant spotted the signals you both put out.

I remembered her awkward sidekick, Clive Jerome. Look Pat, I... She cut me off.

It’s okay. I just think that if we are to be friends, we need to start by being honest with each other. What do you say? Admit you know him and we’ll leave it at that.

But what about Clive Jerome? Surely he’ll...

No need to worry yourself about him. I insinuated that he was way off base and sent him back to his protocol manual. He protested, as well he should, but seniority prevails and I had the last word. Besides Police Sergeant Musuveni is already on a plane back to Entebbe, where he will be taken into custody for deserting from the Uganda Police Force. He will either be shot or detained for years. As for Clive, he has no reason to follow through unless I tell him to, and I have no intention of doing that. Pat’s tone had changed, but I had no idea what that might mean.

Thanks for telling me that. What if I had broken the rules by failing to indicate that I knew an interview subject? No big deal. Pat couldn’t possibly know anything about the murder investigation following the discovery of Stuart McBride’s body. Musuveni was pretending not to understand or speak English at Heathrow, so he wasn’t likely to have had a conversation with Pat or anyone else in the interview unit. Unless he talked to Clive Jerome after Pat and I left the airport, nobody else could possibly know that Musuveni had tried to implicate me in a murder conspiracy, or that I had thwarted his blackmail attempt by leaving Uganda in a hurry.

An ornamental wrought iron bench presented itself and Pat sat down. Hoping the subject was closed, I joined her. So how long have you known him? she asked again.

Doing my best to sound relaxed and confident, I responded, Not long. He was the investigating officer in a murder case involving my supervisor, Stuart. It was that relationship with Stuart that made Musuveni question me. I stretched out my legs and looked around. Would that be enough for Pat?

Apparently not. There must be more, otherwise you wouldn’t have cooperated with him by pretending not to know him. Does he have anything on you?

About the murder? I sat up and straightened my back. "Of course not. And I’d hardly call what I did at the airport cooperating. Had I been cooperating I would have seen to it that he entered the U.K. as a political refugee. Besides, Stuart was knifed in the chest and shot twice. Do I look like someone who could even contemplate doing such things?"

No. Do I? Pat retorted.

Yes, you bloody well do, I blurted. At least you did earlier when you were in uniform, but not so much now. I hesitated. Look Pat, he doesn’t have anything on me. It’s just that the murder happened fairly recently and came right on top of an attempted burglary at a house where I was staying. I guess there’s still some residual stuff going on with me so I got spooked and pretended not to know him.

I can see that as a possibility, but why not reveal the fact that Musuveni could speak English? After all, his lies about his language skills would not have seriously jeopardized his refugee status, provided his declared reason for fleeing his country was genuine. He could’ve put the language issue down to trauma and stress, or claimed that the terror of living in Amin’s Uganda made him afraid of uniformed government agents like us – or something of that nature.

Honestly, I don’t know why I lied. When I last saw the man, he was a police officer in good standing. He wasn’t popular with those under him, but as far as his political leanings were concerned, I knew zilch. The situation in West Nile is still very volatile; things change in an instant, so it’s impossible to know what was going through his mind during the interview. I translated everything he and I said and the tape recorder was on the whole time. I stood up and scanned the nearby road for a taxi. It’s late. Is this the best place to hail a taxi? Was I in trouble? It certainly seemed so. Pat was looking at her watch and frowning.

Nine forty-five isn’t that late. Look, why don’t you come back to my flat for a glass of wine? It’s only a few minutes away and we can call a taxi from there.

She sprang to her feet and began walking away from the church with me a couple of steps behind. A sudden nip in the air quickened our pace and we were soon passing the now - closed Lotus Flower Restaurant before we crossed a narrow street.

The flat was above one of three elegant little shops tucked into spaces that appeared to be designed for only one dwelling above. Pat led the way, guiding me up a wrought iron staircase on the side of the building to an imposing black door, on which was secured an oversized, dragon - shaped brass door knocker. She saw me staring at it.

A gift from the bloke in the antique shop downstairs. I admired it and the next thing I knew he had installed it slap bang in the middle of my front door without so much as a how do you do. Classy though, don’t you think? She placed her key in the brass lock and turned it. Come in. Let me go first and I will turn on the lights.

The hallway was as appealing as the front door had led me to expect. An arrangement of fresh flowers in what appeared to be an old Chinese bowl sat on a lacquered table covered with inlaid mother - of - pearl dragons and birds and filled the flat with a heady fragrance. Very expensive.

I see you favor an Asian style. My voice had taken on a nervous, strident tone. I followed her down the darkened hall into a brightly lit room.

Yes. I have been to China a couple of times and managed to bring back a few things. The carpet was purchased in Hong Kong a couple of years ago. Like it?

So, she had been out of the country after all. Why would she lie? Maybe for the same reason I lied to her. Truth can be dangerous.

I felt the softness of the carpet under my feet and looked down as I slipped off my shoes, more out of respect for the carpet than comfort. The deep pile enveloped my feet in warmth and luxury, and the design – a pale rose color with dragons in blues, greens and peach and a perfect contrast to the dark wood floor – relaxed me. It’s beautiful, I whispered to myself, hardly what I expected her home to be like. It should have been cluttered and utilitarian, not elegant and tasteful. Wrong again!

The open kitchen was to the right and gave a spacious look to the entire living area. Two cream - colored doors, both closed, led to what I assumed to be a bedroom and bathroom.

There’s red wine already open, Pat called from the fridge door. I also have several kinds of white not open. There’s sherry, but very dry. And port. Very cheap.

Open red is fine, thanks. I flopped down onto a plain pea-green sofa. I hope you don’t mind that I have taken off my shoes.

Of course not. I left mine somewhere over there. Mind you don’t trip over them.

It seemed our awkwardness and the seeming interrogation was at an end. Tucking my legs under me I relaxed into the softness. I’d have the glass of wine, we’d call a taxi and that would be it.

This is a beautiful flat. Not cluttered at all. Elegant pieces tastefully arranged. I accepted a very large glass of wine. Cheers.

Cheers yourself, she replied