Kiunga turns back with a grin and makes a telephone sign with his fingers.
* * *
On the street, the green crowd is still massing, heading toward Parliament. The yellow Hummer is up ahead, slowly parting its way through the throng. Mollel and Kiunga pace behind it, keeping a distance but watching intently, stalking.
—Can I give you some advice, boss? asks Kiunga chattily. If it’s not too personal. When you’re dealing with women, you can’t come out with what you want straightaway. It’s too direct. You got to sweet-talk them a bit, make them laugh, flatter them. Get them to open up. Then, maybe, you get what you want.
He hands Mollel a piece of paper. On it is written the name Estelle and a mobile phone number.
Not that side, says Kiunga. Mollel turns it over.
—James Lethebridge, he reads.
—These wazungu have some crazy names, huh?
—This is our Land Cruiser driver? Mollel slaps Kiunga on the back. In his way, the young man is proving a pretty good hunter.
Kiunga continues. —He’s not a member of the staff, apparently, but the girl sees him coming into the building every now and then. He comes, collects a pool car or drops it off. That’s the name he puts in the signing-in book. She says he’s old—sixties probably—white hair, bit of a gut, and skin like an undercooked chapati—you know, all pale, speckled, and doughy.
Kiunga trails off as he notices that Mollel has stopped. The Hummer has drawn to a halt and the crowd has begun to cluster around it. The horn is blasting impatiently. Mollel and Kiunga draw closer.
* * *
The driver’s-side window of the Hummer glides down, and Kingori’s head emerges. He waves his arm furiously. —You should watch where you’re going!
A howl of protest rises up from around the car. —You watch where you’re going! Another voice: —Learn how to drive, you stupid bastard!
As Mollel and Kiunga push their way around to the front of the car, they hear cries of pain. A young man is kneeling down, clutching his foot, while his friends hold his shoulders in concern.
Another blast of the horn. —Get out of the way!
Someone thumps the hood of the Hummer angrily. —You’ve run over his foot!
—I’ll run you all down, you dogs, if you don’t let me through!
Mollel and Kiunga exchange glances. The good-humored mood of the crowd has turned. Things are in danger of getting ugly. Someone mutters, —Do you know who that is? David Kingori. And another, angrily: —Government puppet!
The driver’s window draws silkily to a close and the engine revs loudly, but the crowd presses closer. The huge car begins, gently at first, to rock from side to side on its chassis. A placard—nothing more than a piece of cardboard tacked to a light wooden stick—bounces against the Hummer’s windscreen. Mollel knows that a bottle or stone could be next.
* * *
He has seen enough. He pushes himself forward to the side of the car and jumps onto the running board. He pulls himself up to full height, head and shoulders above the melee. Cheers go up at first, turning to jeers as he holds his police badge aloft, waving it in a slow, wide arm’s-length arc for all to see.
—Step away from the vehicle! he shouts. Despite the ill humor, the rocking of the car ceases. He scans the faces, gauging the mood. There is anger in the eyes, but it’s an instant, hot anger, easily dissipated, unlike the cold, calculated fury he fears. This is not a crowd in search of trouble—at least not today.
—Typical police! shouts one protester. Protect their own! The cry is greeted with calls of agreement.
—Now listen to me! shouts Mollel. There’s been a small accident here, and a man’s been hurt. We’re going to deal with this properly. Now, step back from the car.
There are some muted grumbles, and mutters about police bias, but the people at the front shuffle back slightly. Kiunga helps the injured man hobble to his feet. Mollel presses his badge against the driver’s window and the window whirrs down a reluctant inch. Mollel leans in and speaks through the crack.
—Now, sir, he says softly, what you’re going to do is, you’re going to lean back and unlock the rear door here. Don’t use the central locking, just this door by me. I’m going to get in with two other people. Don’t do anything else until I say so, sawa?
The window snaps shut again, and Mollel wonders for a moment whether Kingori is ignoring him. Then he hears the click of the rear passenger door being unlocked. He edges toward it along the running board.
—Now, we’re going to take this man to hospital, he shouts, for the benefit of the crowd. He beckons to Kiunga, who has put the limping figure’s arm around his shoulder, and the two of them come forward.
—Then, continues Mollel, we’re going to the police station, and we’re going to talk about compensation and charges against the driver. Okay?
—Yeah! call out a few members of the crowd. Charge him!
Mollel heaves open the Hummer’s rear door, Kiunga bundles the protester in and follows suit, and then Mollel himself dives inside the darkened car and pulls it shut behind him, snapping the lock down.
—Right, carefully, slowly: drive!
Kingori edges the Hummer forward, the crowd shuffling out of the way, letting it pass, scowling at their own reflections in the blacked-out windows. There is a halfhearted thud of a fist, but nothing more sinister. The people melt back, and with a clear road ahead, Kingori guns the accelerator, speeding them away from the scene.
* * *
—Oh, it hurts, it hurts! You broke my foot!
—Let me take your shoe off, says Kiunga, but the young man keeps brushing him away.
—Oh, you’re going to pay for this, he groans at Kingori. I’m going to sue you!
—Let me see, says Kiunga, finally succeeding in getting hold of the man’s training shoe and pulling it off. Why you—let me get this sock off. Your foot would be swollen like a melon if this car went over it. There’s nothing wrong with you at all!
—There is, there is! He broke my foot! I need an X-ray! I need compensation!
—Pull over here, orders Mollel. As the car comes to a halt, he leans across and opens the door next to the young man.
—Get out.
—What? This isn’t the hospital!
—Get out, or we’ll push you out.
Reproachfully, the man gets out, feigning a whimper as he puts his shoeless foot onto the sidewalk.
—Here, says Kiunga. Take your shoe.
—You take it! says the young man, standing upright. He makes to fling it into the car, but Kiunga pulls the door shut just in time and the shoe bounces pathetically off the window. Kingori accelerates, and they leave the man behind them. Kiunga looks out the back window.
—He’s walking away normally. He chuckles. —What an operator!
From the driver’s seat, Kingori roars with laughter. —Brilliant! Officers, thank you so much. Please allow me to show my appreciation.
Still driving, he fumbles in his pocket for a money clip and rips out a couple of thousand-shilling bills. —Now, is there anywhere I can drop you?
—Central Police Post, says Mollel.
—It’s a bit out of my way. I have an important meeting in Westlands. Perhaps I could stop at a matatu stand?
—Central Police Post will be fine, says Mollel evenly. —While we’re there, we can discuss a few matters. Like attempting to bribe a police officer.
16
—I want a lawyer!
Mollel and Kiunga are standing outside the filing room, which gets used for interviews at Central Police Post. They can hear a fist pounding on a desk inside. Then a chair falls over, and the fist pounds on the door.
—Get me a lawyer! Now!
—This is decent chai, says Mollel, sipping from his mug.
—Mmm, we all chip in and get the good highland stuff, says Kiunga.
—You use masala?
—That’s my special technique. Mix the spices in with the sugar.
&
nbsp; —It’s lovely.
—Thank you.
They drain their mugs, and each lets out a satisfied sigh.
—Shall we go in? asks Mollel.
—Delighted, says Kiunga.
* * *
Inside the room, Kingori is pacing furiously. He rushes to the door as it opens, but Mollel holds up a hand of warning.
—Take a seat, please, sir.
—I don’t want a seat. I’ve been sitting here for forty-five minutes!
—Please be seated.
Kingori picks the chair off the floor and sits, crossing his arms. Mollel and Kiunga also sit.
—I demand to see a lawyer immediately.
—Did you say you’ve been here forty-five minutes, sir? asks Mollel innocently.
—At least!
—Well that must make it—what time is it, Kiunga?
Kiunga looks at his watch. —Just past five.
—Just past five? And the duty lawyer finishes at five, doesn’t he, Kiunga?
—Saw him leaving myself.
—Oh dear, says Mollel.
—Give me my phone! barks Kingori. I’ll have my lawyer here in a shot.
—That’s your right, sir. Mollel takes Kingori’s mobile phone—gold plated—from his pocket and makes as if to hand it to him, then pauses. —Of course, that would add a certain formality to the proceedings. We’d need to charge you.
Kiunga nods. —Most definitely.
—And then you and your lawyer could discuss your case with the magistrate—oh, but I’m forgetting. It’s Christmas Eve, isn’t it? They’ll have gone home now, too. When will they sit again, Kiunga?
—Well, there’s Christmas Day tomorrow, a public holiday on the twenty-sixth, then another holiday for the election, so it won’t be until Friday, I’m afraid.
—Four days? Mollel tuts. —And I hear the cells are fit to burst. But I’m sure we can squeeze you in somewhere, sir, if that’s what you want.
He holds out the phone. Kingori takes it and lays it on the desk.
—So, two thousand wasn’t enough for you? You should have just said. I can buy and sell a couple of farmers like you a million times. What shall we say, ten thousand? Each? I can give it to you right now. Call it a Christmas bonus.
—It’s not about money, says Kiunga.
—Tell us about James Lethebridge, says Mollel.
A slow grin speads over Kingori’s face, and he leans back in his chair. His attitude says, now we’re getting somewhere.
—Jimmy’s in trouble, is he?
—So you know him?
—I know him. First, you’re saying it wrong. It’s not Leather-bridge, it’s Leethie-bridge. Like the river.
—What’s the nature of your relationship with Mr. Leethie-bridge?
Kingori laughs again.
—He’s my fag. Oh, don’t look so shocked, gentlemen. I’m aware of the contemporary understanding of the term. But in a British public school, the word is slang for factotum. Your do-everything person. Fetching, carrying, odd jobs. We were at school together long before you were born. Long before this nation was born.
Mollel looks at him with surprise. From his brief glimpse of Lethebridge in the car—and the description provided by the receptionist—he’s confident that the man must be in his late sixties or seventies. That certainly tallies with being at school before Independence. But if Kingori is the same age, he’s remarkably well preserved. A full head of hair, hardly a wrinkle, dazzling teeth. All too perfect. Mollel wonders if anything about this guy would stand up to close scrutiny.
—So he is your employee? asks Kiunga.
—I keep him in work. Little tasks here and there. He wouldn’t be able to do anything else.
—Would one of these little tasks be procuring prostitutes from K Street?
Kingori’s smile disappears.
—I wouldn’t know anything about that.
—He was seen curb-crawling the other night.
—That’s his concern.
—In a company car?
—Not my Hummer, I hope.
—A silver Toyota Land Cruiser.
—A lot of people use that car.
—Do you employ many wazungu, Mr. Kingori?
—He’s the only one. So he’s been a naughty boy. I wouldn’t have thought he had it in him, myself. But what has this got to do with me?
—What it has to do with you is that a K Street hooker was found dead last Saturday morning. And she’d told her friend that she was scared of someone. Someone powerful. Now, from what I’ve heard, that doesn’t match the description of Mr. Lethebridge. But it could, pretty accurately, describe you. So how about it? Your movements, please, on Friday night.
—This is ridiculous! You’ve got nothing on me!
—We can always resume this conversation after a visit to the cells, if you prefer.
Kingori scowls. —For what it’s worth, from early morning until about seven in the evening I was at State House, with the President, among about fifty others. We were discussing election strategy. Any number of people can place me there. In fact, I think it was even reported in The Standard. Is the head of state a good enough alibi for you?
—And afterward?
—Well, I take it you’ll be speaking to James. We were together all evening at my flat. Demolishing some rather fine single malt and reminiscing about school.
Mollel takes an envelope out of the desk drawer and pushes it across to Kingori.
—Take a look.
It is a photo of Lucy, postmortem. Somewhere under the Botox, Kingori’s face flickers. With pity? Recognition? Guilt?
—This is the girl?
—Her name was Lucy e-intoi Sambu.
—A Maasai? Like you? I’m sorry she is dead. But I have never seen her before in my life. James will tell you all that.
Now it is Kiunga’s turn to push something across the table: a notepad and pen.
—James Lethebridge’s contact details, please. Address, phone number.
Kingori scrawls an address in Lavington, then picks up his phone, finds a number, and copies it down.
—What do you know of George and Wanjiku Nalo? asks Mollel, taking the pad.
—The preacher? I know he’s living proof that Bible school can be more profitable than an M.B.A.
—Meaning?
—Meaning, he is a sharp one. And his wife is even sharper.
—It sounds like you’re speaking from experience.
—We’ve done business.
—What kind of business?
—Real estate. They’re kind of tenants of mine.
—Kind of tenants?
Kingori shrugs. —They run a project out of some property I own. I’m allowing them to redevelop it rent-free.
—Seems pretty generous, says Kiunga pointedly. If that was my land, I’d put a bunch of apartment blocks on it.
—What can I say? That’s the sort of guy I am.
After a moment’s skeptical silence Kingori adds, —Okay, it’s not pure philanthropy. Look, the Americans have a lot of money that their president says has to go to faith-based initiatives. Our government wants a prestige development in a visible location. Nalo makes all the right noises, I have the land. It’s small beer for me. I let them use the property, I get help with some planning issues I have elsewhere.
—Have you been to Orpheus House?
Kingori laughs. —If I visited every property I owned, I’d never have time to get anything done.
—Has James Lethebridge?
—I don’t know. Ask him.
Mollel replies, —We will. We’re going to have him brought in right now.
—So be it. If you don’t need me anymore, I shall—
—No, says Mollel. You’re going to stay here while we speak to Mr. Lethebridge. You’re not going to have any chance to compare alibis.
—Now, look here! Kingori slams the table. —I’ve been damn patient with you two and your stupid games. But be warned. If you don’t let m
e go right now, it’ll be more than your careers on the line. Do you understand?
* * *
The door opens, and the massive presence of Otieno bursts into the room. Instinctively, Mollel and Kiunga stand. Kingori remains seated.
—David, says Otieno cordially.
—Otieno. They shake hands. —Your clowns here have been treating me to a rather boring performance.
—Don’t worry. I’ll deal with them.
—I want them off the force.
—Oh, I have a far worse punishment in mind than that. I see your car’s outside; please allow me to escort you there.
As Kingori passes, he turns to Mollel and hisses, —If I see you again, Maasai— He leaves the threat hanging in the air, shakes his head, and walks out.
17
—This case, says Otieno, is officially closed.
The two policemen stand before him like schoolboys in the principal’s office. Mollel wishes he could take a seat. He is suddenly feeling an overwhelming sense of weariness.
—You can’t do that! protests Kiunga.
—I can see you’ve learned some bad habits from our Maasai friend here. Tell me, Kiunga, did you happen to notice the sign on my door as you came in? It says Superintendent. You know what that means? Super—that means above. And intendent—well, let’s just say, that means you. Above. You. Which means that in my station, I can do what the hell I like.
—You can’t shut down this case. We’re getting somewhere. We just need a few more days.
—We don’t have a few more days, Kiunga. Have you been paying attention to what’s going on in this city? I need every available man for election duty—doing our job—trying to keep a lid on this cauldron.
—That’s why you wanted me transferred here, Mollel says, suddenly understanding. It wasn’t to solve the girl’s death. It was just to boost your numbers during the election. Help keep the peace. Help you look good. You always intended to drop the case, once you had an excuse.
He feels the blood thumping in his head. Uninvited, he takes a chair from in front of Otieno’s desk and crashes down into it. Kiunga remains standing.
—How’s this for an excuse? replies Otieno. A complaint from a member of the public. A highly influential member of the public. False arrest, intimidation …
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