Evil in the Land Without

by Colin Cotterill

  John felt his hand shake as he reached for it. The letters crawled from the paper onto his neck like insects.

  Policeman Jessel,

  (How did you lose your ear, by the way?)

  As I warned, you are causing the deaths of those you pretend to help. Here's another to your score. There will be more. First the boys. Then the girls. You will be last as you are the easiest.

  XXX

  This is the revenge of The Paw.

  And if the postcard itself weren’t numbing enough, the postscript rendered him bloodless:

  P. S. I trust Aunt Maud is taking good care of Eddo.

  8

  It was 1:00 in the morning and John had run the poor room-service boy at the Court Hotel into the ground. The electricity was off as usual, so the lift wasn't a lot of use. Bar fridges hadn't made it to three-star Kenya, so every half-hour the boy had to run up to the sixth floor with two cold beers from the ice chest in the basement.

  John hadn't been able to get a phone call out to England until 5.30 p.m. when the service came back on. To his relief, Aunt Maud had told him that Susan and Eddo were fine and had taken his car into town to do some shopping. But there were two anxious hours waiting for his sister to get back. When she finally arrived, their escape from Maud's had already been planned as only an ex chief-super could. It involved two changes of vehicle and an elaborate false trail. It was amazing how many ex-policemen there were in cottages in the Cotswolds.

  So now, feeling only moderately more at ease, he sat by the phone and drank beer by candlelight. He knew that Maud could outwit even the canniest of criminals, but The Paw looked like a certifiable nutcase. You could never be sure with a nutcase.

  On the glass-ringed coffee table, copies of the postcards flickered in the light of the flame. The handwriting was neat, compulsively neat, but it didn't give anything away as to the personality of the author. John had circled one word from the first message: “again.”

  It isn’t wise to make somebody like me angry again.

  “Again?” What had he done to upset The Paw before? Who was he? Nothing John had done could ever have warranted this. Surely not. He’d have to go back over ten years of records and mug shots.

  When the phone beside him rang, his heart smashed against the inside of his ribcage. This case had hold of him and was destroying all his natural defenses. He was a nervous wreck.

  "Yes?"

  "Big brother?"

  "Chick? How are you?"

  "Fine."

  "Where are you?"

  "Can't tell you."

  "Good. Yeah. Really good. Just say you aren't pissed off at me and hang up."

  "Oh, John. Don't be silly. I know you're living this worse than us. I'm worried sick about you."

  "I've survived worse. I'm a trained professional. Remember?"

  "We'll have some stunning cocktail parties when this is all over. 'I tell you darling, while I was being stalked by this manic serial killer. . . .' It's exactly what a suburban vegetable like me needs. Anyway, I can't talk all night. I have to flee terror. Love you. Bye." And she was gone.

  "Bye-bye, Chick." The receiver seemed to stick to John's hand. Something in his mind relaxed, but only slightly. One small corner of the disaster was out of harm's way. But the rest of it stretched out before him, beyond the papers on the coffee table, beyond the hotel and the dry brown countryside of rainless Kenya. It was so immense he'd never be able to float above it to take in its enormity or to see how he fitted into the landscape. The Paw was God, and was reminding John how insignificant he was. Every day there was a sign; a symbol of His omnipotence. His power even trickled down to the third coincidence.

  Here sat John, sleepless and sober in the Court Hotel. It was where the police usually put up their guests. A floor below his was a room with police adhesive tape across the door. It was the room in which they’d found The Paw's last victim.

  *

  The following day, blotchy and bloated from beer and sleeplessness, John arrived on foot at police HQ with his moth-eaten cricket bag over his shoulder. He had found himself shooing off street urchins he should have been feeding; pushing them away with his half-empty bag; forgetting temporarily that they were a lot more than petty annoyances. He was too tired to be sympathetic. He’d been searching through the crime scene at the hotel when he should have been sleeping, but had found nothing.

  He was booked on a flight to Mombassa, and intended to get this courtesy call to Muthoga over with as soon as possible. But the major had one more surprise for him. . . .

  They were sitting in the untidy office waiting for tea. The major seemed unable to begin any point without a cup in front of him. But on this occasion the tradition lost out. He took a folder from the shelf behind him and placed it in front of John.

  "It arrived this morning."

  Inside was the same postcard of the Masai girls, but on the back Her Majesty's silhouette lay eyeless on the pillow of the stamp. It was stickered EMS, Express. John squinted to read the smudged postmark. He prayed silently that it wasn't from the Cotswolds where Susan and Eddo hid. It wasn’t. But it was almost as bad. He could read the “on” quite clearly, and a vague “Tham . . .” and it was quite obvious that The Paw had stood at a postbox in John's own postal district of Kingston upon Thames, not four days before. He knew the bastard had smiled as he pushed the card into the gaping mouth of the red pillar-box.

  John looked into the sympathetic face of the major, who seemed to instinctively understand yet had no charity to offer. It was just the helplessness of it. It was the pathetic, useless lack of intelligence. Why couldn't they live in a world where scum like this couldn't get away with terrorist games they'd learned from airport novels? Why hadn't they tagged him with a nuclear implant after they arrested him so they could blow him up if they found DNA traces on a postcard like this?

  Instead he was laughing at them. He was dragging John around the world by the scrotum and enjoying the power. It annoyed the hell out of him, but scared him at the same time. He read the words aloud, although he knew Muthoga had already been over the card:

  Jessel,

  I do hope you enjoyed your welcome-to-Nairobi present. I didn’t leave many clues, did I. You aren’t as quick witted as him. What irony. There you are, away on holiday, while I’m here looking after your loved ones. Idle, idle youth. Forever sleep.

  XXX

  This is the revenge of The Paw

  The chief must have felt John's despair. "I’m so sorry you are having to go through this."

  John nodded. The Kenyan handed him a photocopy of the card and stood. John rose, also. Muthoga held out his hand, but the resulting shake was more like the desperate clutching at a drowning shipmate. The major saw John sinking but was in no position to save him.

  "My captain will take you to the airport," he said finally. "You will have the full co-operation of my colleagues in Mombassa."

  John, drained of ideas and hope, turned and obediently followed the captain out of the office.

  It was more than an hour before his senses returned to him. The small twin turbo-prop was clattering its way over thirsty terrain and brittle vegetation. John stared through the smudged porthole not seeing the scenery. The huge, soft man beside him had long given up on conversation and was now sleeping, semi-inflated like a failed hot-air balloon.

  John had overcome the fear and was feeling guilty. His work had spilled over into his private life, and he was responsible. His sister and nephew were in danger and their lives were chaotic, and he was responsible. Two children, probably more, had been killed, and he was responsible. What in heaven and hell had he done to The Paw to provoke such a compulsive quest for revenge?

  He looked again at the photocopy. It didn't give him any answers, only more questions.

  “You aren’t as quick-witted as him.”

  Who?

  Perhaps it was meaningless. Perhaps it was part of the torment. He didn't know what to do to turn off this machine that was process
ing him. The only evidence, the only clues he had were supplied by the enemy. John had learned nothing by himself. He was always one pace behind. But now there were bodies. If he could connect Aldy to the crime scene, he’d be on the attack at last.

  9

  The house was the usual whitewashed holiday villa near the ocean. A local detective sergeant called Moses showed him around the place. In the garden he pointed out the groove where they'd dug the child out of the dry wall of the swimming pool excavations. John learned nothing that wasn't in the report.

  The renter had paid the advance in cash under a false name. Nothing unusual. John would go to see the agent later. If the owner hadn't decided to put in the pool, they would never have found the body. Perhaps The Paw had made his first mistake here. John just wasn't sure whether he’d recognize it.

  The detective was friendly but obviously busy with other matters, so John thanked him and said he'd like to stick around for a while if it was okay with him. The Kenyan didn't care one way or the other.

  When he was alone, John slowly walked through the house once more, trying to picture the events that led up to the assault of the boys. The mattress lay in the bare back bedroom as it had appeared on the slides. He could only imagine what horror took place in this house. He needed the walls to tell him what they'd seen.

  "You want somptin’, mista?"

  John turned around to see a small, dark figure in the doorway. "What you got?" He walked towards a boy who remained a silhouette even when he was in focus. He was about nine or ten. His clothes and skin were dusty like the roads, but his smile was polished bright. He shone it at the puffy white moosoongoo in front of him.

  "You goin' to live here?"

  "You never know."

  "I be you boy. All right, sir?"

  "What can you do?"

  "Everythin'."

  "A rare talent indeed." John moved close enough to see there was some intoxication in the boy's eyes, probably from glue fumes or some local weed. He leaned against the inside of the door-frame and slid himself down to the floor. The boy lowered himself against the other jamb so they were both sitting looking into the spacious living room.

  "You ever been somebody else's boy?"

  "Yes, sir. Lots." He smiled his confident calculated smile again. It was the only really attractive thing about him, so he used it liberally.

  It worried John that the boy was so openly touting for business. "What about the man who lived here a few months ago?"

  "Him? No, sir. You know him?"

  "Yeah. He was a friend of mine. You saw him here?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "I've got a picture of him here I think." John clawed through his bag for the blow-up print of Marcus Aldy, alias The Paw. "Aha. Here it is." He put it down on the floor between them as if it wasn't particularly important whether the boy looked at it or not.

  He glanced at it briefly. "Nah." He shook his head.

  "No what?"

  "Nah is not him."

  John was jolted. "You haven't seen my friend here? He said this was the address."

  "You goin’ to live here or what?"

  "I don't know. I want to talk to the man who was here before. See what it's like to live here."

  "He was a Chinaman."

  That came as such a surprise that John instinctively assumed he was being spun a yarn. "Yeah. And I'm Ugandan."

  "I never been there. Is nice?"

  "I don't . . . was he really a Chinaman?"

  "Little eyes, you know?"

  "I know. Did you speak to him?"

  "Yes, sir. I have the interview, too."

  "What interview?"

  "He was interview boys. He say he pay for study in . . . someplace. I don' remember name. My friend, he pass the interview. Now he study engineer in big university." His glazed eyes could see that big university and that big life he'd missed out on.

  John took the photos of the faces of The Paw's victims from his bag and spread them out on the floor.

  "You know these boys?" The daylight glinted off the six confused expressions of soon-to-be-dead beachboys.

  "These two." He poked them with his toe. "I don' know."

  "So the others you do know."

  The boy nodded.

  "And did they have interviews?"

  "They must ha’ passed. One day they come for interview, next day they gone. You interviewing, too? I do better this time."

  "What did the Chinaman ask you?"

  "Usual stuff. Name? How old? What I do before? Family. . . ."

  "Have you got a family?"

  "My ma live here in Mombassa."

  "Do you live with her?"

  "Sometime."

  John thought about it. That was probably why this boy had failed the interview. Connections. Aldy and the Chinaman wanted boys that wouldn't be missed. This was a co-ordinated effort. There was nothing spontaneous about it. He should have realized there was someone else involved. The photos had been taken from various angles. It would have been difficult for Aldy to run around re-positioning the camera and performing at the same time. Whether Aldy hired some kiddyporn Chinaman to take the pictures or whether they were working together made little difference. Either way, John decided they were both sick bastards.

  Things were starting to fit together. He told the boy he was hiring him as an assistant for one or two days, and it had nothing to do with sex. They agreed on a salary and John gave him a day in advance.

  "Listen," he said after handing it over. "There are two conditions attached to this."

  The boy didn't respond and probably didn't understand.

  "One, you give half of this to your ma. Two, before you buy your glue this time, you buy food and have a good meal."

  The boy feigned indignation. "Why you think I want glue, sir? I not like that."

  "Three. No bullshit. I know too much for you to get away with that. Got it?"

  The young fellow smiled to himself. "All right."

  They made an appointment for that evening. John knew that in his short stay he wouldn't get this or any other street kid off a glue habit. But he could improve his physical and social conditions a bit, and increase the boy's self respect. He couldn't save him, but perhaps the boy could start the process of saving himself. And there was some angel on his team already who had kindly failed the interview for him.

  Before he left, John asked him his name.

  "Jackie, sir."

  "Was that the name you were born with?"

  "Nah. Is my street name."

  "What's your real name?"

  "I don' remember."

  "Then the first thing we'll do is give you an off-street name. How about—"

  "You don’ like my name?"

  "Not much. How about ‘Tiger’?"

  "My name Jackie, like Jackie Chan."

  "Well, I'm changing it. To me you'll be Tiger, like Tiger Woods. Greatest almost-black golfer the world's ever seen. So, see you this evening, Tiger."

  The boy was confused, but he'd met a lot of peculiar moosoongoos in his brief but miserable life. This one was paying, so he could call him anything he liked. He followed his smile out into the sunshine.

  John always found some way of changing the street names of the kids he worked with. The name was a large part of the identity they hid behind. It was the tough-guy image that supported the drug and sex habits. It was the image that repossessed the ten-year-old child and turned him into a pretend adult, ill prepared to understand the messed-up world.

  John walked back into the garden to look at the pool pit. Back home, when a body was found, the police tended to look around, just in case another one turned up. He'd asked the Mombassa sergeant why they hadn't dug up the whole garden.

  "It's hot, sir," he'd said, "and this is a very large garden. If such an operation were necessary, I fear I would have to do it all myself, as we are extremely short staffed." And something in his tone added: “And this was only a street bum. And the perpetrator was a foreigner and has l
ong since left the country, so why bother?”

  John knew there had to be more bodies in that garden. He knew somebody would be digging it up, and he hoped to God it wouldn't be him.

  He made two stops that afternoon. The first was to the real-estate agent who had rented out the villa. The lady confirmed that the person in the picture had been to the office four months earlier. He had paid the whole six months’ rent in advance and pointed out that there was no reason to be disturbed during his stay. It was the direct connection between Aldy and the murders John had been looking for. It fortified his confidence and justified the journey.

  His new mood made him aware of how attractive the real-estate agent was. He asked her questions the report didn't cover, and the handsome woman answered them patiently.

  "Did you mention the pool to him by any chance?"

  "The pool?"

  "Yes, the pool. Did he know the owner was planning to put in a swimming pool?"

  She looked through her files. "Yes. They'd already started the foundations. He had the option of the pool being installed immediately. But he said he didn't want workers running in and out. They could do it when he left. He didn't need a pool."

  "Thank you."

  So, The Paw knew there would be excavation. He knew the body would be discovered. He wasn't seriously trying to cover his tracks. He was leaving enough exposed to keep John struggling a few steps behind. Again he had the feeling that Aldy wanted his identity known, and was in some way co-ordinating the investigation for him.

  *

  Back at the hotel he spoke to Muthoga in Nairobi. He explained his theory and what he expected to find in the garden. The inspector was openly embarrassed that there hadn't been a more extensive search, and promised to get on to Mombassa straight away.