Hour of the Red God

by Richard Crompton

  —Get on with it.

  Mollel admires the way Kiunga talks to the prostitutes: professional yet affable. He asks them whether they’ve heard about the girl found in the park; whether they know of anyone missing from her regular beat; whether the description of a young Maasai hooker is familiar to them. The answers, all negative, strike Mollel as truthful and considered. These girls don’t want a killer on the loose any more than the police do.

  They move on. There’s a girl on her own, not with any group. She’s young, but her disheveled appearance is in contrast to most of the others working this street. And despite the heat, she is standing in the full sun, wearing black leggings and a black cutoff top. She sways slightly as she turns and beats the same tired loop on the sidewalk.

  Mollel is ready to approach, but once more, Kiunga steadies him with a touch to the arm.

  —Don’t bother. You won’t get anything out of her.

  —Why not?

  —Look at the eyes.

  As they walk past, Mollel looks at the girl’s face. Her eyes are deep set and sunken; they roll and slide under their lids.

  —Hey boys, she slurs. And in Kiswahili: —Mnataka ngono?

  The straightforward proposition is completely different from the nod-and-wink approach of the other girls, and Mollel understands why this one will provide them with nothing. She’s a drug addict. Well, so are most of the others. But she’s also high right now, probably the only way she can cope with doing what she does.

  The pair of them walk on, pounding K Street for another hour or so, speaking to all the prostitutes they meet. Some gaze at them with the same blank, apathetic junkies’ eyes. Others are more willing to speak, especially to Kiunga. But the answers are always the same.

  No, we haven’t heard anything.

  No, I don’t know who she is.

  * * *

  The city heat begins to take its toll, and Mollel suggests a change of scene. They have walked the length of K Street, anyway, and are back on Biashara Street, where the Land Rover is parked.

  It’s past four o’clock. Mollel sees that the bike shop has opened its shutters once more, obviously banking on getting some last-minute Christmas trade. Mollel enters; Kiunga follows him.

  —Welcome, sir. Are you looking for anything in particular or just browsing?

  —Remember the little boy who was here earlier?

  —Oh, it’s you, says the storekeeper, retreating behind the counter and switching instantly from obsequious to defensive. I told you before, other people’s children are not my concern. I have got a business to run. And unless you want to buy something …

  —Hold on, hold on, says Mollel. When he was here, did you notice him looking at any particular bike?

  —Ah, I see. Well, now you come to mention it, I think it was this one that most occupied his attention, yes, yes, certainly.

  The Indian storekeepers have a reputation for driving a hard bargain, and Mollel’s heart sinks as he sees the man lead him toward what is obviously the most expensive child’s bike in the shop. The man takes the handlebars and bounces the machine on its chunky tires.

  —Fifteen speed, front and rear suspension, alloy frame. You really can’t get any better than this.

  —How much does it cost?

  —Might as well ask, how much will you save? Think of the constant repairs you’d have to make on a cheaper model. All those punctures from inadequate tires, all the damage due to shoddy manufacture. Plus, think of the savings on fuel and matatu fares once the little man becomes independent.

  —How much?

  —Twenty. And that’s the best price you’ll find.

  —Twenty thousand shillings? I can’t afford that!

  The storekeeper smiles. —It’s a shame that sir was not present when the young man was looking at this model, he continues. The way his face lit up. It made it seem all the more tragic afterward, when he realized—when he realized his daddy wasn’t coming back to get him.

  Kiunga steps forward. His face is blank, his arms folded, chest out. Neutrality never looked more threatening.

  —I don’t think you understood my colleague. He didn’t say he couldn’t afford the bike. He said he couldn’t afford the price.

  —The price is nonnegotiable, sirs, the shopkeeper persists with a tremor in his voice. If you’d care to look at some of the cheaper ones—scarcely more than toys, really—but perhaps more fitting to your budget …

  Kiunga places his hand on the bike’s saddle. —I assume you have all the importation documents for this one? And the rest of your stock?

  The storekeeper’s mouth falls open, and Kiunga continues: —Because we can either have a very long conversation about that—and about your business permits and back taxes and social security contributions—or we can have a very short conversation about your police discount.

  —Police discount? Why didn’t you tell me that you were officers of the law? Did I say twenty thousand shillings? I meant fifteen. And did I mention that I’d throw in a crash helmet for free?

  4

  Bike in the back of the car, they drive out of the city center and back to Uhuru Park. Mollel wants to go over the crime scene again before it gets too dark. The sun is already low in the sky, and they have to pull down the car’s visors as they traverse the Kenyatta Avenue roundabout. The park is less crowded now. People are making their way back to their homes. With the heat less oppressive, those remaining in the park have a newfound vigor. Boys play football, children are flocked on the swings, lovers amble hand in hand.

  At the scene, the removal of the body has dispersed the curious onlookers. A solitary uniformed officer is sitting on the low wall by the culvert, chatting on his mobile phone. He jumps to his feet and ends the call as the other policemen pull up.

  —Oh, it’s you, he says to Kiunga. I thought it was the boss.

  —I am your boss, Kiunga responds. Three months’ seniority and an extra five hundred shillings a week says so. You haven’t met my new partner yet, have you? Mollel, this is John Wainaina. A disgrace to the service.

  Wainaina grins broadly and shakes Mollel’s hand. —Sorry you’ve been lumbered with this piece of wood, he says, indicating Kiunga. We were at school together. We always said he’d make detective—so long as he’s tracking down food, or pussy.

  —He’s a noma, says Kiunga. Mollel does not know much Sheng—the hybrid language of Swahili, English, and Kikuyu—but he infers that noma has a positive meaning. Someone who can be trusted.

  The two nomas laugh heartily, and for a fleeting moment Mollel wonders why he’d never managed to make any friends on the force like this. Probably for the same reason that he’d never sit around chatting on the phone when there was a crime scene to be investigated.

  —Everything under control here?

  Wainaina stretches. —Seems to be.

  Mollel has brought a flashlight from the car. He descends into the concrete ditch—empty now, but full of muddy footprints and smears where the body has been removed—and starts to track back along its length.

  —Is this park part of your regular beat? he asks Wainaina.

  —I suppose. I cover half of Central district one way or another.

  —Do you come into the park at night?

  —Not if I can help it. No reason to. It’s officially closed, though, of course, there’s no real way to stop people coming and going.

  —And presumably they do? Mollel has reached the end of the ditch and is shining his flashlight up into the large concrete pipe that feeds it.

  —There’s always activity. Some people sleep in the bushes. Others come here for sex. The K Street hookers use it as a cheap alternative to hotel rooms.

  —Right. So she could have been in the park with a client, killed some short distance from here, and thrown into the ditch?

  —That’d be my take on it.

  —I want you to come back later, round up some of the people who usually sleep or hang out near here at night. Find out if they
saw anything.

  Wainaina gives a loud sigh. Mollel pretends not to have heard it, and sticks his head into the pipe. It is wide enough to carry a person. With the flashlight, he can make out that it runs for a short distance more or less straight, then veers abruptly upward. The smell is awful; a greasy slime coats the base of the pipe. He pulls out and gulps fresh air.

  —Has anyone been up here?

  —You must be joking.

  Mollel takes off his shirt and hands it to Kiunga. No point getting too filthy. Wainaina and Kiunga watch with amusement as Mollel, bare chested, pushes his way steadily into the mouth of the pipe.

  The sounds of the city fade behind him as he gets farther in. The smell grows in intensity. There must have been an overflow from the sewage system in the heavy rains the previous night. He steps carefully on the surface below him, which is curved and slippery, a steadying arm pressed against the top of the pipe. He is bent nearly double but has no intention of getting onto his hands and knees if he can help it.

  At the junction with the inclined section, he takes the flashlight and looks up. The pipe disappears into darkness, following a steady ascent of about fifteen degrees. There is no sign of any grille or mesh; a body could easily be carried down here by fast-flowing water. That could be one explanation for the corpse’s battered state. He circles the light around, looking for a telltale fragment of fabric or a murder weapon. But there is nothing.

  —Where does this lead?

  He has backed out to find Wainaina and Kiunga waiting patiently for him. They look at his smeared body with disgust.

  —There’s a tap over there, Wainaina says, pointing to a gardener’s standpipe nearby. Mollel goes over and starts washing.

  In answer to his previous question, Kiunga says, —From the look of it, the drain goes straight up State House Avenue. Must bring water down from as far away as Kilimani and Lavington.

  —Okay. Let’s try to trace it. To Wainaina: —You stay here.

  * * *

  The pair of them walk around the chain-link fence that bounds the park and start trudging up Upper Hill. The road curves back around, and they are standing some ten meters above Wainaina down at the pipe outflow.

  —Here, says Mollel, pointing at a manhole cover in the sidewalk. It is encrusted with mud and rust. He takes a penknife from his pocket and scrapes away enough to find an edge, which he prizes up. Looking in, he sees a short drop to a pipe running along the contour of the hill.

  Mollel hears a shout. —I can see you!

  He stands up and, looking back down the hill, sees Wainaina leaning into the mouth of the pipe. They are still close enough for him to have seen the light from the lifted cover.

  —It’s the same pipe, all right, says Kiunga.

  —This cover hasn’t been disturbed for years, says Mollel. Come on.

  They continue up the hill, spotting the drain covers in the sidewalk or occasionally in the middle of the road, using them to track the course of the drainage pipe. All of them seem sealed by decades of neglect. But in a less salubrious part of town, they’ve been stolen for scrap metal long since.

  * * *

  They are on State House Avenue now, a quiet, leafy street that leads ultimately to the presidential palace.

  —Please tell me, groans Kiunga, that we’re not going to track this all the way back to State House. That would be one hassle I really don’t need.

  Mollel frowns. There should be another cover by now, yet he has scanned the road and the sidewalk for quite some distance and has failed to spot it. The others are spaced at pretty regular intervals. Why break the pattern?

  —I think I found it, calls Kiunga. He is peering over a tall metal gate. —Isn’t that it, there?

  Mollel retraces his steps and joins Kiunga at the gate. —Hard to tell, with the leaves. Could be. What is this place?

  * * *

  Over the gate, they can see an old-fashioned colonial stone house. Two stories high, not very large, windows dark. It has decidedly seen better days. The front courtyard—once, presumably, a garden—has been graveled for parking but is covered with a layer of leaves from the massive eucalyptus trees that shower the area with dappled shade.

  A freshly painted metal sign towers above them. They both step back to take a better look.

  —Orpheus House, says Kiunga, reading the sign.

  COMING SOON, it proclaims above a computer-generated image of a multistory building in creamy, fresh colors with white, curving roofs. No sign of the dozens of stately trees that currently grace the site, though a foamy dot of green here and there on the picture’s periphery suggests a sapling or two.

  ORPHEUS HOUSE. A PROJECT OF GEORGE NALO MINISTRIES, SUPPORTED BY INTERNATIONAL DONORS AND EQUATOR INVESTMENTS.

  Mollel bangs on the gate. A small flock of mousebirds, disturbed by the noise, flee to the adjacent bushes. Otherwise, there is no sign that anyone has heard.

  —Padlocked on the outside, says Kiunga, rattling the chain that secures the gate. —Which suggests to me that there’s no one here.

  Kiunga cups his hands to offer Mollel a boost. A quick look up and down the street—all is quiet—and Mollel is up and over, landing softly on the leaves on the other side.

  —Keep a lookout.

  —Sawa sawa, says Kiunga. Sure thing.

  * * *

  Despite Kiunga’s confidence that the place is empty, Mollel can’t shake the feeling that his movement toward the house is being observed. He scrutinizes the windows. They are barred, dark. Cataracted with dust. No sign of life.

  The farther he gets from the gate, the more the sounds of the city melt into the background, muffled by the trees, whose steady, gentle swishing has completely overwhelmed the noise of the traffic. Mollel is amazed that a place like this still exists so close to the center of Nairobi, and he grieves a little for its imminent loss.

  He walks around the house—gravel crackling under the leaves—and takes a look through a ground-floor window. Nothing. An empty room. He continues walking and looks through the next window: it is larger, but this time it is obscured by faded, heavy curtains on the other side. They’re drawn tightly together. Not even a crack between them to get a clue about what lies within.

  Moving on, Mollel sees that the plot extends far behind the house. Must be nearly two acres. Prime land. A small outbuilding lies at the far end, and this looks more promising. Mollel notices that a path seems to have been formed through the fallen leaves by the regular passage of feet. He approaches the brick outbuilding, a small house with two or three doors, each one a servant’s quarter. One door is open, revealing a dark latrine. He smells charcoal burning, and as he rounds the building, he sees a glowing jiko with a fresh ear of maize roasting on top.

  —Look out!

  On hearing Kiunga’s cry, Mollel spins around just in time to raise his arm against the metal bar that is brought down against him. He jumps back, ducking the second blow, seizing the moment when his assailant must raise the weapon again as his opportunity to grab it. He feels the cold metal in his palm and twists it, tugging it from the other man’s grasp. He snatches it and now wields it high above his own head, ready to bring it down—

  And nearly does so, onto Kiunga’s head. Kiunga has come to Mollel’s aid and has grasped the other man in both arms, holding him tight in a bear hug. The man is small and frail, and Kiunga towers over him.

  —Watch it! says Kiunga. That’s lethal. He could’ve put your skull in.

  Mollel drops the iron bar with a clank. The old man looks up at him pitifully.

  —Please, there is nothing to steal here. I’m just the day askari. The night guards will be here soon. And they’ve got dogs.

  —Come off it, says Mollel. There’s no sign of dogs here. They’d have padded a track around the perimeter. I’ll bet there are no night guards, either. It’s just you, isn’t it? Why didn’t you come to the gate when you heard us banging?

  The old man points to his ear. —I’m very deaf, he says.
Please, let me go. I’m not even a guard, properly. I used to be a caretaker here, and the owners let me stay on, to deter squatters. That’s all.

  —Don’t worry, old man, says Kiunga, releasing him. We’re not going to harm you. We’re police officers.

  The old man stumbles back, rubbing his arms. He doesn’t appear overly reassured by that statement. Mollel shows him his card.

  —What’s your name?

  —Githaka.

  —Githaka, we want to take a look at the drain cover in the front yard. You don’t have any objections, do you?

  Githaka looks at them blankly. Mollel takes this as permission. The three of them walk around to the front of the house. Mollel and Kiunga kneel by the iron cover.

  * * *

  Mollel takes his knife and uses it to lift some of the leaves away. He points out the rim to Kiunga: at the edges, someone has scraped the rust and mud aside to lever it open. They’ve done it recently, too, and brushed the leaves back over to cover it up.

  Kiunga lets out a low whistle.

  —Get Wainaina on your phone, says Mollel. I want to try something out.

  He lifts open the drain cover and sets it gently to one side. Taking his flashlight, he shines it around within. Nothing immediately apparent. He drops down and into the pipe. Crouching low, he sees it stretching before him up and down the hill—the same rank odor, the same blackness.

  From above, Kiunga: —Wainaina’s on the line.

  —Tell him to get up in the pipe as far as he can without losing the signal. Let me know when he’s there.

  Kiunga chuckles. —He’ll be happy!

  Mollel hears Kiunga explaining the task to his friend, and then, in response to an apparent protest, forcefully ordering him. They wait.

  —Okay, says Kiunga. He’s there.

  —Tell him to start shouting.

  —Start shouting, says Kiunga into the telephone. I don’t know what. Anything! Sing “God Bless Kenya” for all I care. Use your imagination.

  In the semidarkness, Mollel strains to hear. He flicks off his flashlight, and somehow this heightens his hearing. Apart from the square of light above him and Kiunga’s feet, he can hardly see a thing. He hears rustling nearby, scurrying. He tries not to think about rats.