by Anthony Mugo
“Prize winners you have here,” Sanse said pointing at the three Friesian and two Jersey cows.
“I am so proud of them,” the man said in a big voice. “Boss would not let them compete at the agricultural show, unfortunately.”
“Why not use the chopping machine?”
“There is no power.”
“That is a pity,” Sanse said. “I am Mike Sanse. I am looking into Gitonga’s murder.”
“Police?” The man asked. Obviously he did not like police’s company.
“I am a private investigator.”
He didn’t get it but he relaxed a bit.
“I am Job. I wasn’t there.”
“Where were you?”
Job explained that when Gitonga returned he found him dancing to a favourite tune and sacked him on the spot. He had never seen his boss so angry before.
“Did you see Bob arrive in the day,” Sanse said.
“I saw him leave. He later told me of the quarrel at First and Last Bar.”
“Exactly what did he say?”
“Gitonga had disowned him,” Job said. “He threatened to kill Gitonga. I didn’t take him seriously. Have you met him? He is a softie like no other. I was stupefied to hear that he had carried out his threat.”
“Whom were you drinking with?”
“Tim, Silas and Jimia. At seven-thirty Jimia refused to buy us more beer arguing that Bob needed the energy to work his fly when he got to his wife. Bob turned unruly prompting Jimia to leave. A while later one of the waiters threw Bob out.”
“When was Bob thrown out?”
“Eight.”
“Did he say he was going to see his wife?”
“Jimia pestered him to but Bob avoided the topic.”
“How drunk was he?”
“Bob should never go beyond two beers,” Job said. “He had drunk four.”
“How long have you worked for Gitonga?”
“Nine months.”
“How was the relationship between Gitonga and Elizabeth?”
“She guarded him like a chicken does her chicks.”
“Wira?”
“Gitonga had issues with Wira’s extravagance. Wira should be the last man to let near your wife or daughter.”
“Is he home?”
“I saw him leave.”
“Do you have his number?”
“Wira lost his phone the other day,” Job said. “He is yet to replace it.”
“Thanks for your time.”
Elizabeth was just stepping out of her brother’s house when Sanse came to the front of the house. “You are a bomb,” he said telling himself that it would be selfish to deny her a compliment for which she had worked so hard. Her skirt was too short, her blouse was too low at the neck and her lipstick was too crimson. She had applied skin lightener and eye-pencil and God knew what else. She only needed to stand still to be a mannequin in an upmarket shop.
Elizabeth’s first thought was to call Pai. However, that would be a show of weakness. The drunken detective might even think her closet was full of skeletons. She shouted for Job to open the garage which housed a Benz, a BMW and a Prado. She walked to the BMW and held the driver’s door open. “Will you, please? I have waited for my driver long enough.”
Sanse approached her but stopped at the Benz. But for a fresh dent on the right side fender the Benz’s bodywork was as good as new. He caressed the dent feelingly.
“My bad!” Elizabeth exclaimed and slammed the door.
Sanse hurried behind the BMW’s wheel and turned the ignition key. The roar under the bonnet made his heart thud with delight. Great is the day wishes will become horses, he told himself. Elizabeth slid in the passenger seat.
“Be my wife,” Sanse said.
Elizabeth turned sharply to look at him. “Me?”
Sanse tapped the crown on the steering wheel. “BMW. Be my wife. That is what the initials translated to back in the day.”
Sanse pulled out only to stop and to step out of the car for a closer look at the gate post to his right. The stone slab was painted blue but now, on a portion slightly above his knee, was a foreign colour, cream to be exact. He ran his fingertips on the surface then brought the fingers against his nose. He nodded with self-satisfaction, saluted a confused Job and returned to the BMW. Elizabeth was like a cobra about to pounce.
“Do you suffer from mental imbalance?” Elizabeth asked.
“I wouldn’t pose such a question to the man behind the wheel. Talking of the man behind the wheel, why would a seasoned driver like Gitonga drive such a stately car so carelessly?”
“You smell like a beer tank,” Elizabeth said. “Woe unto the mosquito that bites you.”
“Are you comfortable in that?” Sanse asked prompting Elizabeth to cover her thighs with her purse.
“How much is she paying you to go round asking pointless questions?”
“Will you better her offer?”
“You probably think you are up to the game,” Elizabeth said. “People your type are cobblers and mole trappers.”
“Really?” Sanse said.
“What is your interest in this, money?”
“Partly, yes.”
“What else?”
“The truth.”
“What suggests otherwise?”
“How many voices would you recognise?”
Elizabeth clicked her mouth repeatedly. “Now I know your motto. ‘Roll in the mud as long as you get paid.’”
They arrived at the church and pulled up amid stares. The church was a big corrugated iron sheets structure. Elizabeth was lost in thought for a long moment. She seemed to recoil into herself.
“I was supposed to call Detective Pai the moment you showed up,” she said. “I might not need a driver next time. The good word might soften your heart. Welcome.”
“My donkey fell in a pit,” Sanse said.
“Your donkey belongs in the pit,” Elizabeth retorted. Sanse stepped out of the car and started out of the compound.
***
Catherine sat on the six-by-six bed brooding. The bed, her parents’ wedding present eight years before, looked ridiculously big now that Alex and she were the only occupants. An eerie silence engulfed the big house. Raymond had left this big void which was driving her crazy. She missed his strong arms. She wanted to love and be loved. She wanted to be possessed, to feel protected.
That Friday was still very fresh in Catherine’s mind. Raymond had arrived from the bank a few minutes to six and said he would challenge Sanse to a game of pool. He loved pool and, apparently, Sanse was a pro of some sort. He called her from the kitchen where she was busy preparing chicken soup to say that he was leaving. A while later she heard gunshots and wails. She dashed into Sanse’s compound. She was met by Raymond’s body. A bullet had ripped his heart open.
Catherine couldn’t hate Sanse enough. Why did he have to be her neighbour? Before his arrival Rundu had been safe. Then he had arrived with his heroics and nothing was the same again.
Catherine walked to the window and looked towards Sanse’s house. His lights were out meaning that he was asleep. The thought hurt even more. Was he not remorseful? How could he live with himself knowing the loss he had caused her? She wished Sanse all the evil things.
Some noise from the west wing of the house made her start. Whack! Whack! Whack! It was somewhat muffled but still audible in the still of the night. Fear gripped her. She dashed to the bedroom door and fastened the three latches. She killed the lights and leaned against the door, her heart threatening to rip her chest open. She tried to remember whether she had bolted the doors leading to the bedroom but her mind was too numbed by shock to remember anything. Customarily she only secured the front door. Why did she neglect the others? She knew that Karembo, the world’s heaviest sleeper, was but a log two rooms away. She tiptoed back to the window and peeped outside. Darkness had doubled, or so it seemed. She couldn’t see a thing yet she had the nerve-wrecking feeling that someone out there was
watching her. Whack! Whack! Whack! The noise persisted mimicking the thud of her heart. Was it the window or the back door? How she wished Raymond was here! Raymond, oh, sweet Raymond, why did he have to leave her so young and vulnerable? The noise struck a higher note which sent a cold shiver down her spine. She could take it no more. A minute longer and her heart would stop.
“Help! Thief! Help!” She wailed as loudly as her trebling voice could get. She dashed to Alex who woke up screaming, “Mama! Mama!” It occurred to her that she couldn’t scream and calm down her son simultaneously. She chose to calm Alex down. Tears were running down her cheeks freely. What was she going to do? Then it occurred to her that the noise had died out. But the silence that followed was more frightening than the noise itself. Was the intruder already in the house? Her heart picked up speed, if that was possible at this point, as a beam of light shone throw the bedroom window. It could only mean that someone was answering her distress call or the intruder was still outside working his way into the house. She whispered to Alex to stay calm and tiptoed back to the window. Someone standing outside the gate was shining a torch into her compound. Untold relief swept over her. The torch shone close to three minutes changing angle every so often before it died out. Catherine wanted to thank the Good Samaritan but she was tongue-tied by the fear that it was Mike Sanse.
Chapter 6
Sanse could easily read human behaviour, but not machines’. For the past few months his car, a Mazda Familia, had impressed on him that cars too have an expiry date. The Mazda used to uphold some sort of moral conduct but now it collapsed without regard to location or situation. It had become a goldmine for mechanics who, either by default or design, were as experienced in fixing it as in inducing its breakdown. After trying to start it for twenty minutes Sanse gave up and trekked to town.
Six girls passed the first leg of the interview. A quick look at their papers said they were all qualified academically. Obviously, each hoped he had the key to her heaven on earth. Each had followed rules and worked hard for this moment. Most probably their parents were threadbare and indebted in sacrifice for this moment. Unfortunately, he was about to impress upon five of the girls and their parents that they didn’t deserve their dreams. He had himself worked hard driven by fear of his kids ending up in a similar predicament.
The interview was brief. Sanse held a piece of paper with two dots and asked in turn what one saw.
“Dots.”
“Two dots,” said the second.
“A black and blue dot,” said the third.
The sixth one studied the piece of paper long and hard. “Two dots, one black, one blue on a white, A4 piece of paper.”
“When can you start working, Miss Naomi?” Sanse said.
After agreeing on working terms and a twenty minutes induction Sanse took a boda boda to Jimia’s home. A background check had established that Jimia was the proprietor of Silverlink Agencies, the foremost of a clique of thieves who called themselves ‘brokers’. Brokers sold everything and nothing. Buyers bought non-existent properties, sellers lost their proceeds. Brokers doubled as shylocks. Thanks to them courts were sagging under the weight of land cases.
Sanse preferred to interrogate people in their homes. To him, respect, honesty, honour, humanity, justice and other virtues are clothes people wear in public. They change to their true selves the further they get from the public eye. The man of collar becomes a paedophile in the dark; the macho man shakes in his shoes at the thought of a spider. The marriage counsellor becomes a wife-beater. The peace campaigner is the warlord in solitude. The protector is the oppressor. The rich, generous man at the bar can’t afford a packet of milk at home. In solitude one is hardly Honourable So-and-so, Lady This or His Eminence That. Home is the middle ground where an outsider can catch a glimpse of their host’s true fabric. Essentially, a detective is someone who matched the public with intrinsic self.
Jimia’s house was magnificent but not as Gitonga’s. Its earth-brown tile roof was dull against the morning sun. A dog sleeping at the door stirred, raised its head then started to bark. Sanse hated dogs and the hatred went way back. He was relieved when a woman stepped out of the house and calmed the dog. Glad to spare its breath, the dog coiled into foetal posture and went back to sleep. The woman was in an ankle-length black dress. Her hair had been done hastily in big loose knots that projected off her head like daggers. She was barefoot.
Sanse greeted her.
“Mr. Jimia is out,” the woman answered before Sanse could ask. “His wife too.”
She started at the sound of a honking car at the gate.
“Excuse me.”
She hurried to open the drive-through gate letting in a Toyota Caldina that pulled up near Sanse. The driver stepped out clutching a huge mobile phone and a newspaper with his left hand. His movements were brisk and businesslike. He was in a Stetson hat, a leather jacket, denim jeans trousers and a pair of sandals. The white traces in his beard suggested advancement in age but the rest of him was a big contrast. The mongrel was fully awake now. It rested its muzzle on his paws staring as if to warn Sanse to take his leave when he could. The mongrel came to its feet, shook its jacket, stretched then yawned displaying razor-sharp fangs.
“Mr. Samuel Jimia, right?” Sanse said stretching his hand. “Mike Sanse.”
Jimia shook Sanse’s hand. “What can I do for you?”
“I have a few questions on Gitonga’s murder.”
“What are you?”
“A private investigator.”
Jimia’s eyes became slits. “Bring my briefcase,” he told the woman. “A private investigator in Kathare? We are growing fast. It is a good thing given our low regard for the police.”
The woman came rushing with a leather briefcase. Jimia got in the car and opened the passenger door. Sanse slid in.
“We all love a good mystery, don’t we?” Jimia said starting the car. “Looking at Gitonga soaked in his own blood I tell myself, man, this is your chance to solve a mystery. I saw several clues; the hammer, the torn documents, Bob’s threats; they all pointed in the same direction: Bob. He didn’t make the solution challenging to anyone.”
“Bob says he was fixed,” Sanse said. “My client believes him.”
“Who is your client?”
“Grace,” Sanse said.
“And you intend to make some money out of it, right?”
“Naturally.”
Jimia tuned the radio. “Do the police know you are out to challenge them?”
“I am a licensed investigator if that is what you are asking.”
“Are you any good?”
“I try.”
“I wish I met a detective as good as they appear in novels,” Jimia said. “They have a way of proving everyone wrong. Nevertheless, I would have trouble trusting myself if it turned out that Bob didn’t do it. That aside, what has it got to do with me?”
“You were with Bob at First and Last,” Sanse said. “You were also among the first people at the crime scene.”
Jimia stuck a cigarette stick in his mouth. His left hand struck a match. Sanse took one of the pamphlets on the dashboard in which Jimia was presenting a title deed to a smiling woman.
“Have you ever wished you could turn back the hand of time?” Jimia said releasing a cloud of smoke. “I do. I should have averted the murder, you know.”
“How?”
“I was in my wife’s office when a prospective client called me at 5.40 p.m. He wanted us to meet at First and Last Bar. Land sellers arrange the worst meeting points.”
“Where is your wife’s office?”
“Cecily is secretary to the District Officer, Waigiri Division. I decided to take one for the road as I waited. I recently came to the unsettling realisation that I consume less than ten per cent of my income on my person. A few beers here and there correct that injustice. I had just been served when Bob joined me. I had not seen him for ages. Job, Gitonga’s farmhand, joined us at some point. So did two other men
. I bought them beer. Bob whined about hitting the wall after coming all the way from Nairobi to make peace with his father. Bob was always a whiner. He threatened suicide. But he would kill his father first. By seven-thirty my client had not showed up and his phone was not going through. Bob was creating a scene and the place is stuffy so I left for Ikeno Bar, my regular joint. Gitonga called me some minutes after eight. He wanted a word with me.”
“About what?”
“He didn’t say,” Jimia said. “There are two possibilities though; his scuffle with Bob and the theft.”
“What theft?”
“Gitonga came to my office three days to his death saying that he had lost some money in the house. He kept a piggy bank that held a large sum of money. He rarely bothered with the actual figure because he solely knew of its existence. The previous day he had needed a hundred and forty thousand but the bank had a hundred and ten. He topped up the amount early in the morning only to discover that the amount was down to eighty thousand. He was beside himself. He guessed he must have lost a fortune over time.”
“Who is the thief?”
“He didn’t know,” Jimia said. “He gave the household three days to return the money failure to which he would kick everyone out.”
“Wait a minute,” Sanse said. “Did the ultimatum fall on the day he was killed?”