‘Yes sir chief you do. You can’t speak to Loda because he has been shot dead, and is now part of a murder investigation.’
‘What! Shot dead? How did this happen?’ Rubia exclaimed.
‘Your man was found by a goat herder in the bush, about twenty kilometres outside Voi. There was no vehicle with him that’s why I asked you if he was alone.’
‘Shit!’ Rubia shouted. ‘You told me he had been in an accident, you lied, why the hell didn’t you tell me he had been shot?’
‘He may have been shot accidentally and you didn’t ask.’
‘Detective, you call yourself? You have not heard the last from me!’ He slammed the phone down. Rubia banged his fist on the desk and swore loudly. A moment of pure fear gripped his guts. ‘Oh shit, what a mess!’ He reached into his desk drawer and taking out a half bottle of brandy, took a large swig to calm his nerves. Loda dead! Where the bloody hell was Nicholls now? He had to find him, and those damned Indians! He had revealed more than he had wanted to Katana. How on earth did Loda himself get shot?
He took another swig from the bottle, smaller this time, composing himself and then called Cyrus. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘are you still at the police station? Loda has been shot dead. Yes dead! I don’t know what happened. Titus took the range rover and now must be out of mobile range in the park, on his way to Malindi.’
‘Now listen, we know the mzungu was on a bike. He must have stopped for fuel. Go to the main petrol station and ask if anyone saw him and also look for the saloon car. Don’t call me till you have picked up the trail again.’
It didn’t take long for Cyrus and his team to find the taxi driver and piece together the missing trio’s movements. He left one of his men - Musa in Voi - to look for the saloon car and then called Rubia with his news.
‘Good. Keep going to Mombasa,’ Rubia instructed. ‘I will call the Mombasa station and get the bike stopped before they get into town. I will let you know what to do after that.’
*
Musa set about looking for the saloon car by employing a gang of street kids to scour the area, while he waited in a bar and flirted with the bargirl. After an hour, the gang leader hissed at him through the open doorway, deftly avoiding a stick waved at him by the askari.
‘Toka!’ the askari shouted at the kid menacingly.
Musa yelled. ‘Wait! I need to talk to that kid,’ and walked over.
‘We have the car, but the front number plate is missing.’ The little thug said.
‘Oh good, where is it?’
‘Not far,’ came the reply, ‘give me the money.’
‘Let’s see the car first.’
‘No money, look for the car yourself.’
‘Ok, half now.’ Musa held out a hundred shilling note.
The kid shook his head. ‘Five hundred, I show you the car.’
‘Listen you little bastard, I can get you thrown in jail like that,’ Musa towered over the child menacingly.
‘Good, I’m hungry,’ came the defiant reply.
The askari on the door idly watching, started to laugh in admiration, but was silenced by a menacing look from Musa. The kid and Musa stared at each other. The cop gave in, took out a five hundred note and handed it to the street boy. ‘Let’s go.’
The kid snatched the note and made off down the street. Musa gave the askari a nasty look and went in pursuit; four other small boys fell in step with him. They did not look at him or speak, but maintained a grim determined escort. The eldest could not have been more than eight years old. ‘He has the money,’ Musa said, pointing at the older kid. This statement went unacknowledged as the four maintained their silence. When they reached the abandoned saloon, he quickly went through it looking for clues, finding only a blood stained T-shirt on the back seat. The urchins crowded around him watching his every move.
‘Fuck off,’ he told them, ‘you have been paid.’ They ignored him.
He called Cyrus, and told him his news. ‘It looks ok,’ Musa told him, ‘but no car keys. I will have to hot-wire it.’
‘Ok, let me call the boss and ask him what he wants you to do.’
Musa took out a penknife from his pocket and in a well-practiced move inserted it into a joint in the plastic housing around the ignition, levering one section off, exposing the wiring. The older kid hissed at him through the window, and held up a set of car keys.
‘Where did you get those? Give them to me.’
‘Money first,’ the kid said moving away out of reach.
‘I’m not joking with you anymore,’ Musa got out of the car holding his hand out and shouted. ‘Give me those car keys!’
As he did so the other kids moved in to shield the key holder. One of them had a knife and pointed it at Musa’s stomach. He stopped and looked down incredulous. ‘You little bastards,’ he pulled a gun from his waistband. ‘Want to play with me do you?’
At the sight of the gun the kids ran, ducking and weaving behind other parked vehicles. ‘Dangerous little fuckers,’ he chuckled to himself, relieved they had gone. He returned to the car and continued with his work on the ignition. In next to no time, he got the car started. His mobile rang it was Cyrus.
‘The boss says you are to drive back to Nairobi. Did you get the number of the bus the Indian woman got on?’
‘Yes I did.’ He lied.
‘Ok, you are to follow the bus and arrest the Indian woman. When you have done that, call me. Good work, speak to you later.’
Musa filled the car up with fuel. Even if he knew the number of the bus there was little chance he could catch it up now, let alone recognise and apprehend an Indian woman he didn’t know. On his way back to Nairobi he would turn off to his hometown of Machakos and spend time with his wife and kids. Happily he switched off his mobile and set off down the highway, radio blaring.
*
Cyrus stopped at the police check outside Mombasa. There were three motorcycles parked on the side, with their disconsolate riders. He identified himself to the commanding officer.
The officer peered at the ID with interest and then with envy at him. ‘These,’ waving at the bikes, ‘are the only ones that passed through since we got the order.’ Cyrus thanked him and then waited for a call from Joe.
‘The boss is going to be really pissed off when you tell him the news.’ His companion said.
Cyrus snarled at him. ‘You want to call him eh?’
‘No, not me, listen I’m tired why don’t we just drive on to Mombasa, you can call him later.’
The phone rang. ‘Have you found them?’ Rubia demanded.
‘No sir. We are at the police check. There has been no sighting of the mzungu and the motorbike.’
‘Shit, where the hell can they be? You’re sure they headed to Mombasa from Voi?’
‘Yes, Sir, they were seen leaving Voi.’
‘They must have turned off somewhere,’ reasoned Joe, ‘or stopped off on route. ‘Ok the two of you carry on to Mombasa and find somewhere to stay. I will call you in the morning once I have more information.’
‘Thanks boss,’ said Cyrus hanging up.
*
Joe Rubia sat at his desk, his head in his hands at a loss as to know what to do next. It was too late to withdraw the notice in tomorrow’s paper. He was confident he would find Nicholls, but for now, who knows where he might turn up. He sat and brooded, this simple operation was going really sour. Other operations were beginning to back up that needed his attention. As far as Nicholls was concerned, it was time to clear the up loose ends.
He started with a call to the provincial police boss for the Voi area; they were on first name basis. ‘Hello Joe, it’s me Joe. Sorry to call you on a Sunday, but I have a bit of a situation on my hands. I’m in the middle of a complicated operation and unfortunately, it's come to the unwanted attention of a Detective Katana of yours at Voi police station. The last thing I need is a nosy detective in my operation. You understand? Thanks so much.’
Next he flicked through h
is phone book, and dialled a number. ‘Hello it’s me. That chap we had on the surveillance job with the scooter this morning - the mzungu with the range rover - yes him. What’s his name? Daniel? Have him call me at my office as soon as possible.’ Rubia felt better now and back in control.
TWELVE
The fireblades headlight pierced the darkness as Doug and Brian joined the main road and made fast progress towards Malindi. Just outside the town, they turned off onto a good dirt road for another thirty minutes. Brian took time to marvel at the brilliant stars in the sky.
They stopped for a pee. ‘Does your uncle know we are coming, should you call him?’
‘There is no way of communicating directly. He is way out in the sticks with no mobile coverage, but I left a message at the grocers he uses in Malindi before we left Nairobi.’
An hour later Doug pulled up outside a slatted wooden gate and tooted his horn, several dogs rushed towards the gate and barked savagely at the headlight shining through the fence.
‘What the hell type of dogs are those?’ Brian asked.
‘Rhodesian ridgebacks, lion baiters - just don’t show any fear and they will leave you alone.’ Doug said with a grin.
Brian stared at the dog’s massive jaws and canines. ‘Yeah right.’
An askari with a torch approached the gate, he had a bow and an arrow notched in the string. ‘Ni nani?’ he shouted.
Doug switched off the headlight. ‘Julius ni mimi Douglas.’
‘Eh Douglas! Karibu bwana,’ the torch lit up Doug’s face. Julius called the unruly dogs over, clipped chains to their collars and then fastened them to a fence post. He then opened the gate, setting his bow and arrow to one side and grasped Doug’s hand in a double handshake grinning widely. ‘Douglas siku mingi, many days I have not seen you.’
‘It’s true,’ Doug responded. ‘This is my friend.’
Julius peered at Brian, greeting him. ‘Sah!’
‘Hello,’ he said staring at the dogs straining on their chains.
Doug rode into the compound towards a low rectangular building and parked beside an old Landrover. ‘My uncle’s place,’ he announced, nodding to what appeared to be a farmhouse perched on a small hill. ‘You had better get behind that fence before Alfonse releases the dogs.’ He pointed at a white picket gate set in a chain-link fence surrounding the farmhouse. ‘Those dogs are not pets, they are locked up all day and are just itching to bite something.’
Brain needed no second bidding. He lifted the latch on the gate and went through closely followed by Doug - none too soon as the three dogs rounded the corner at full pelt barking to wake the dead. Leaping at the fence savagely and bouncing at head height, it shook along its length. Brian stepped back, the noise and ferocity truly frightening; reassured as he saw the fence hold.
‘Why did you refer to them as lion baiters?’ He shouted out.
Before Doug could answer, a commanding voice emanated from the farmhouse veranda. ‘Who is there? Julius what’s all that bloody racket about? Hey you two fools, move away from the fence, I can’t hear myself think.’
Brian looked up to see the silhouette of a man standing on the veranda, a shotgun held lightly in both hands. ‘Who are you?’ he yelled, shifting the gun to cover the intruders.
‘Uncle it’s me, Doug, don’t shoot.’ Doug yelled back.
‘Who? Douglas? The hell are you doing sneaking around like a thief in the night? Come over here boy, let me take a look at you.’ Doug walked up to the steps leading to the veranda, followed by Brian. The man lowered the shotgun. ‘Douglas, what a surprise! Who is with you?’
‘A friend uncle, his name is Brian,’ the two of them walked up the steps.
‘Welcome! Come in,’ he greeted, and stepping to one side he shouted. ‘Julius take those bloody dogs away.’ He then broke the shotgun and putting it on the veranda table turned and hugged Doug. ‘Welcome boy,’ at the same time holding out a large strong hand to shake Brian’s hand. ‘My name’s Firdus, welcome to my home. You guys hungry? Supper just about ready, plenty for three, Margaret!’ His deep voice boomed out as he stepped inside the house. ‘We have guests and they are hungry.’
A maid, dressed in an apron appeared and quickly weighed up the situation. ‘Yes sir.’
‘Loo’s out the back if you need it,’ he pointed through the house to an open door at the rear, ‘take the tilly lamp off the hook on your way through. What can I get you to drink? I have beer or whiskey, no ice.’
Doug said. ‘I’ll have a beer,’ and Brian smiled agreeably.
‘Ok, two beers it is, sit yourselves down,’ he pointed at overstuffed armchairs by an empty fireplace. ‘What happened to Gem, thought you were coming with a girl? I’m looking forward to hearing your bullshit Douglas,’ giving his nephew a knowing look.
‘I have lots to tell,’ Doug replied with a laugh.
‘Good, Good,’ said his uncle as he went to get the drinks.
The two sat down, Firdus returned and handed out the beers. He unceremoniously tossed a sleeping cat off his chair. ‘Go and catch some rats you lazy bugger. Cheers,’ he held his whiskey glass up and took a gulp as he sat down, eyeing his guests with pleasure.
‘So tell me, how did you get here?’
‘Came on a bike,’ Doug replied.
‘On a bike, from Nairobi, you crazy, where’s that girl of yours?’
‘It’s a long story, hard to know where to begin.’
‘I see, well let that beer slip down, then I’m all ears when you’re ready.’ He turned to Brian. ‘So how did you meet this reprobate nephew of mine, and how on earth did he persuade you to sit on the back of a bike for five hundred odd miles?’
Brian smiled. ‘He is very persuasive.’
‘Yes that he can be,’ agreed Firdus with a chuckle.
The three lapsed into silence, as they sipped their drinks. Firdus settled into his chair and looked at Doug expectantly.
Doug fished out a cigarette and lit it. ‘We are in a load of shit,’ he announced, and blew a puff of smoke in the air.
‘Ok, start at the beginning,’ encouraged his uncle.
Doug took another puff and looked at Brian. ‘It all started with him,’ waving his glass at Brian. He then gave a blow by blow account of the lead up to today’s events, interrupted occasionally by his uncle as he asked him to clarify a point. Doug’s voice thickening as he described shooting Loda. He removed his woollen hat to show the blood stained dressing. Brian sat silent only shaking his head in disbelief, as he relived today’s nightmare in Doug’s telling.
Firdus exhaled loudly. ‘You’re not kidding when you say you’re in the shit. Jesus! Let’s have supper,’ he called out, ‘Margaret you can bring the food. You chaps want more beers?’ They both nodded.
Sombrely the three of them tucked into their food, small talk replaced the previous discourse around the fireplace. Brian was particularly quiet, he knew intuitively that when supper was over, it was going to be his turn to answer questions. After supper he took a few moments to go to the outhouse, looking up at the stars as he crossed the yard to the bathroom. When he returned, Doug and his uncle were seated around the fireplace, with a pot of hot coffee, cups, sugar and milk on the dining table.
‘Help yourself.’ Firdus pointed at the coffee. He waited for Brian to settle before he spoke. ‘Now Brian, what’s your take on this, clearly these nasty people are after you for some reason? Doug and his girl, from what he described, were just in the way.’
‘Yes, I can only think that it must have something to do with my work at the bank,’ Brian held out his hands in explanation.
‘Yes go on then, tell us what you think it could be?’
Brian went on to describe his job and aspirations, his run-in with the police in Malindi, the mysterious disappearance of his passport, and its more sinister reappearance in his flat.
‘So you have not been able to examine the bank’s books in Malindi?’ Firdus asked.
‘No, but I have access
to the bank’s accounts, from my computer in the office in Nairobi.’
‘What is in the bank in Malindi that you can’t examine?’
‘Individual files, original certificates, title deeds etc., but the system is pretty fool proof. Any missing money or falsification would soon show up in the banks records, and I’m especially trained to spot these things, it’s part of my job. Evans, the bank manager in Malindi has been with the bank a number of years, his work is conscientious and clean.
‘And what’s bothering you about this clean system,’ Firdus waded in, ‘something is not right is it?’
‘It’s only a hunch,’ admitted Brian, ‘but the system of loans to the farmers seems too good to be true.’
‘Really, describe this to us,’ Firdus raised his eyebrows.
Brian was in conflict, he had been trained not to discuss what would be deemed “insider information” he hesitated.
Firdus insisted. ‘Come on man, lives are at stake, out with it.’
Brian described the successes of Evans’s bank with the small loans scheme, and when he mentioned the word Sabaki settlement scheme. Firdus and Doug exchanged looks of astonishment, and once Brian had finished. Firdus asked. ‘So you have not yet met the directors of Golden Palm, or the Danish NGO organisation?’
‘No, that’s one of the reasons I was returning to Malindi.’
‘So Golden Palm is being run by this Indian fellow Patel and an Arab woman. How much money on loans are we talking about?’
Brian told him the figure.
‘Wow! No wonder they want you out of the way.’
‘I’m sorry?’ Brian asked, confused.
Firdus took a sip of coffee. ‘Brian, the Sabaki River runs through part of my ranch, in fact it’s no more than two hundred yards as the crow flies from where you sit. The road into Malindi, some sixty miles from here follows the course of the river, and in the other direction thirty miles from here, is Tsavo East Park.
There isn’t a single area that has been developed along it’s whole length, these plots that have been “ allocated” so far as I know, do not exist. The whole thing is a complete scam, and I’m willing to bet your Evans manager is up to his eyeballs in all this.’
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