We said, ‘We know the cash is moving from A to B. We know the guy inside is receiving it. How else would he be getting it, except from our guy? No one else goes in and out. And people carry all kinds of things in this city. They carry briefcases full of diamonds, worth much more than this guy.’
‘Shorty thinks it’s a decoy. He thinks the case is always empty. They’re teasing us. They want us to take the guy down. They’re begging us. That’s their plan. They want us to open the case and find nothing inside. Shorty says we’ll look like fools. He says we’ll never get another warrant again. Judges will just laugh at us. We’ll have to leave those guys alone for years. That way they win.’
We said, ‘One guy is paying the other guy money. We know that. That’s a real fact. Because it’s a chain. A lot of people are depending on us to do our part right. We need the evidence.’
‘We can get it,’ she said. ‘But not on the street. That’s not where it is. Shorty says you’re right, one guy is paying the other guy money. But not the way we think.’
‘Then how?’
‘In the parking garage. The guy leaves the cash in the trunk. Maybe in a supermarket bag. The parking attendant takes it out and puts it in the other guy’s car. Which is always there because that garage is convenient for the office building. The real handover is out of sight and out of mind. Everyone is distracted by the shiny briefcase.’
No one spoke.
Celia said, ‘Shorty says it’s a win-win for us. We can check the car real quick, as soon as the guy is out of it, and if after all there’s nothing in it, then we can always catch up to the guy in a couple of steps, and take him down anyway, like we’re supposed to. Shorty says we have nothing to lose.’
The phone rang again. The Port Authority cops, at the Jersey mouth of the tunnel. The guy had just come through the E-Z Pass.
We got going. We waited in the parking garage.
Nothing to lose.
Shorty was right. The cash was in a yellow plastic grocery bag in the trunk of the guy’s car. As evidence, it was as good as anyone else got, and better than most folks. It contributed mightily to the bust of the year. In front of Celia we felt inhibited about claiming all the credit for ourselves, so mostly we told the truth, and as a result the story got out quickly, about a hero cop shot in the leg on Monday, who then lay in his hospital bed and fought through the agony and by Friday had engineered one of his new department’s most spectacular successes, all through brainpower alone. He got a medal for his leg, and another for the parking garage, and then he was in the newspaper, which is what ultimately made him a legend. The union was right about the photograph. It helped a lot.
Moses and the
Locked Tent Mystery
Ann Cleeves
My name is Moses Joho. I work at Cheetah, a tented camp in the Ndutu conservation area, close to the Serengeti National Park. We accommodate people who are on safari; they come looking for adventure and for the game that lives on the short-grass plains. I do whatever is needed to look after our visitors, but at night, my job is to keep them secure. When they first arrive, our guests laugh at the idea of security. They have head torches, and solar panels provide power for the lamps that light the path to their tents, so why would they need an African man to guide them? In the morning, I show them tracks made by lion, and the branches ripped off big trees by an old male elephant and they realise that there’s a reason for my concern. They see then that I don’t just accompany them in the hope of more dollars or Tanzanian shillings in the tip box, but because I want to keep them safe.
Often security in the Serengeti camps and lodges is provided by Maasai, but I am not Maasai. I come from Pangani on the Indian Ocean, and I miss my family and the salt smell of the sea. I am here because this is where the work is. The wealthy Americans and Europeans come to Tanzania to see lion, cheetah, and leopard and to watch the herds of wildebeest and zebra move across the plains like the shadows of clouds blown by the wind. My dream is to be rich enough to run wildlife tours from my home. It is a beautiful place and I speak English well, so well that I won the English language prize at my high school. So I come here each year between the short rains and the long rains, and every shilling I earn goes into a bank account to make my dream come true.
It is hard work at Cheetah. There are no days off. At the beginning of the season with the other men I build the camp in the space cleared in the scrub close to the lake. We put up the tents with their wooden plank floors, arrange the wiring for the solar panels and the generator, the plumbing for the flush toilets that sit, hidden by a canvas curtain, at the back of every tent. Then we furnish them with grand beds and folding chairs and decorate them with printed fabric and put down woven rugs. Once the visitors begin to arrive, there is no rest. I carry luggage from their vehicles, fetch hot water for the showers, and after dark, I provide security. At the end of each evening, I guide our guests from the large mess to the individual tents. Even when they’re safely delivered, I remain on duty, parading the track for an hour or two. I don’t resent that time. I like the quiet and the darkness. The stars that I see here are the stars that I see at home. Besides, if I can be of special help, a guest will sometimes give me a few extra dollars, and that all adds to the sum in my bank account.
The night that the Englishwoman died, nothing unusual took place until her body was discovered. She was part of a group that arrived in two Land Cruisers. I recognised the drivers who regularly bring tourists to the camp and who are good men, knowledgeable about the wildlife of the Serengeti. Besides those men who acted as their guides, there were six people in the group: two couples who shared the family name of Brookes and two elderly single ladies. The whole party was British.
It has become my habit to watch each group as it arrives. I like to get a sense of our visitors, even if they only plan to stay for one night. I admit that partly my interest is mercenary—I try to decide how generous each group will be—but partly I watch because I am a curious man. I think it will be important when I guide tourists myself to understand my customers. I have become a good judge of character. I know that the wealthiest people do not always leave the biggest tips. I am always wary of people with loud and confident voices, the ones who claim to have visited Africa many times before. Then there are the guests who expect us to provide the same level of service as the expensive permanent lodges with their elegant restaurants and their swimming pools. They complain if their shower isn’t ready at exactly the time that they want it or if the power unexpectedly fails. However difficult the customer, I try to be polite and helpful; it is good practice for when I will be my own boss.
That evening, when we saw the vehicles drive up from the side of the lake, we all went out to greet them. It is important to make a good first impression. I helped the older ladies climb out of the truck and they told me their names: Valerie and Lavinia. Valerie was pale, like an owl appearing in the dusk, thin and nervous with white hair piled onto her head. I never heard her speak again. Lavinia walked with a stick. She grasped the end that had been carved with a buffalo’s head, and pointed to her luggage with the other. I lifted her bag carefully onto my shoulder so it wouldn’t get dusty, and led her towards her tent. Lavinia had brightly painted nails and wore lipstick to match; she reminded me of a fierce Englishwoman who came to my school to award prizes at speech day. When I set down her bag she gave me a five-dollar bill. I thought she must be a retired lady so I told her it was too much. Perhaps she was reading my thoughts because she said: ‘You keep it. I wouldn’t dream of retiring. I get bored so easily and how could I afford a trip like this on a pension?’
When I returned to the vehicles, only the four Brookes remained there. I studied them as I walked down the track towards them. I thought they must be a family group, parents, a son and daughter-in-law, perhaps. They were of different generations but seemed comfortable in each other’s company. As I got closer, though, I decided that ‘comfortable’ wasn’t a good word
to describe them. The older woman seemed restless and decidedly uncomfortable. They were familiar to each other, but I thought they were not happy.
I was serving drinks at dinner and I watched the family again. It was unusually quiet in the camp that night. There was just one other group—Americans who took dinner early and were almost finished when the Brookes party arrived to eat. The sound of thunder rumbled around Lake Ndutu just as the English people took their seats, and later there was a stab of lightning far brighter than the dim light provided by the solar panels. The family group seemed feverish, excitable, but I have noticed that a storm can affect visitors that way, and I thought nothing of it. The Americans got to their feet and asked to be shown to their tents before the rain came. By the time I returned, the shower had started; water was bouncing off the tarpaulin canopy loud and hard. I didn’t expect it to last long. The rains had come early this year but in brief, sharp showers that were soon over.
I listened to the English people as they lingered over coffee, waiting for the rain to stop. The older Brookes were Caroline and Vincent. Vincent was Caroline’s husband and eager to please. He must have been married before because the younger pair were his children, not a couple at all. They were called Michael and Alice, and I thought they disliked their stepmother, or they were frightened of her. Caroline reminded me of a hyena, watchful, in charge. She had a strong, square jaw and her eyes were expressionless as they moved round the table. They rested on Vincent.
‘Where have you brought us, darling? I do think you could have done better than this?’
Vincent blushed and it was Michael who spoke. ‘I thought you wanted the authentic African experience, Caroline. That was what you said.’
His sister giggled. She had drunk a lot of wine.
The elderly single ladies sat a little apart. They seemed to be travelling independently. Perhaps the drivers had brought them in to make up the numbers. Like me, Lavinia, the lame one, was listening to the Brookeses’ conversation. I could tell she was a curious woman.
The talk moved on to business and I didn’t understand much of what was said. I thought Caroline was asking them to agree to some plan. In the end, Michael said:
‘Oh, why not? What difference does it make now anyway? We know you already make the decisions.’
Then everyone seemed less on edge. Vincent made a joke and they all laughed, even Caroline. At the same time, the rain began to ease.
Vincent and his children decided to have one more drink, but Caroline and the old ladies were ready for bed. The tents were grouped together, though at a little distance from each other, to form a shape like a crescent moon. Valerie and Lavinia had smaller tents at each end of the crescent, and the others were in the middle. I saw the old ladies in first; by then Caroline had unzipped her tent and was safely inside. The canvas flap was rolled up to let in the air and the entrance was covered by thick netting to keep out insects. There was a faint gleam from the solar light hanging from the roof and through the net I saw Caroline’s silhouette. She was standing, raising her hands to her hair, but I saw no other detail.
By the time I returned to the mess, the others had almost finished their drinks. Soon they too were ready to leave. I shone my torch so the beam lit up the path. The rain had made it muddy and I did not want the visitors to slip. The old ladies’ tents were in darkness but Caroline must still have been awake, because her light was on. She must have seen my torch because as we approached she shouted out:
‘Is that you, Vincent? Why don’t you invite Michael and Alice in for a nightcap? There’s still a bit left in that bottle of malt and I don’t feel ready for sleep after all.’
I knew that they would accept her invitation. Caroline would always get exactly what she wanted. Vincent hurried ahead like a dog anxious to do his owner’s bidding and already had the netting unzipped while I was still lighting the path for his children.
‘You go away to your bed, old chap,’ he called out to me. ‘It’s only a few steps to get Mike and Alice to their tents. We’ll make sure we get them there safe and sound.’
But security is my job and I wouldn’t rest until all was quiet and dark, so I just moved a little way down the track. I could still see Vincent and Caroline’s tent and the outlines of the four people inside. By now they were just shadows, but I could picture where they were sitting, on folding canvas chairs around a small wooden table close to the entrance. I had switched off my torch and they could not see me.
I stood, leaning against the trunk of a big acacia tree, lost in thoughts of my own. In my head, I was reckoning the money I already had in my bank account and the cash I still needed to set up my business. I was wondering if my brother, who has a good job with the government in Dar es Salaam, might give me a loan so I wouldn’t need to come back to the Cheetah camp again.
Not much later I saw that the party was breaking up. I saw the swaying of Vincent’s torch as he walked his children to their tents. I watched carefully and I listened. I hadn’t heard a buffalo groaning or an elephant blundering through the scrub. There were sounds—the scuffling of small mammals and the buzzing of insects, now that the rain had stopped—but nothing to concern me. However, it is my duty to make sure our guests get safely to their beds and I started swiftly back to the crescent of tents.
I walk quietly on my feet and I must have startled Vincent. He was standing outside Alice’s tent when he realised that I was there.
‘My God, man,’ he said. ‘You scared me to death. I told you that we could manage.’ He gave a little laugh. ‘But better to be safe than sorry, eh? You see me back and then you’ve done your duty for the night.’
We walked together the short distance back to his tent. I didn’t use my torch because I wanted to save the batteries and there was a small moon. The light inside was very faint—there’d been very little direct sunshine during the day to power the solar panels—and I could barely make out the interior. I watched Vincent go in and then I turned away, ready now for my own bed. Almost immediately I was stopped in my tracks by a scream so loud and piercing that I thought it would wake the whole camp. Vincent Brookes was standing at the mouth of the tent, struggling to get out of the netting, trapped there in his confusion.
At the beginning of the season I had placed woven mats on the bare wooden planks for the comfort of our guests. When it is my turn to prepare the tents for new arrivals, I shake the mats outside in the air until the dust flies away. But I wouldn’t be shaking this mat again. I shone my torch inside and saw Caroline Brookes lying inside with a wound to her head. Blood had soaked into the fibres and I could tell that the stain would never come out.
The next day I was questioned by a police inspector who wore a shining white shirt and a clipped moustache. He accused me of killing Caroline Brookes.
‘All the boys here say that you’re saving to start your own business. You decided on a shortcut, huh? You were searching for money and valuable items and Mrs Brookes surprised you.’
‘But I showed her to her tent. I knew she was there.’ It was clear to me then that this Inspector Peter Raphael was a very stupid man.
He tried a different tack. ‘You were in charge of the camp security. Why didn’t you see anyone? Perhaps you slid away to join your friends for some beer. Or maybe you fell asleep on the job.’
I told him that I’d never fallen asleep on the job, but he’d hit on the question that had already been troubling me. How could Caroline Brookes have been killed without my hearing or seeing? I was there all the time. I’d have seen a stranger approaching. Even if one of the old ladies had left their tents I would have noticed. I only turned my back on the Brookeses’ tent for a short while when I went to join Vincent as he was taking his children home. It would have taken longer than that to kill a strong woman like Caroline, and I would have heard the attack. There would have been a noise of some kind when she was hit and when she fell to the floor. A louder noise th
an the scuffle of small animals and the buzzing of insects and that was all I heard.
When I was at the Tanga High School for Boys, there were books in the library that had been donated by an Englishwoman who had once lived in Tanzania with her diplomat husband. This was the same Englishwoman who came once a year to hand out prizes to the best students. The proudest moment of my school life was when I received an award for my skill in the English language. The woman must have enjoyed mysteries because those were the books that she gave to the school and which I borrowed when we were allowed time for ‘light reading.’
How I loved those novels! I enjoyed particularly the books written by Mr John Dickson Carr. He wrote stories about impossible murders that took place in locked rooms. I told myself that this was a locked tent mystery and I set myself to solve it.
Later that morning Mrs Brookes’ body was carried away to Arusha. Police Inspector Peter Raphael had decided that her death was accidental. The woman’s shoes would have been slippery with mud from the track. She’d probably fallen when my mind was elsewhere—I was known as a dreamer—and she’d knocked her head against the low table. This was nonsense, of course—I thought again what a stupid man this inspector was—but the theory made everyone happy. Timothy, the camp manager, wanted no fuss or scandal surrounding his establishment. One driver took the Brookes family to Arusha to make suitable arrangements for taking Caroline home and the other drove off with Lavinia and Valerie. I assumed the ladies would make their own way back to the UK.
By the middle of the day the camp was quiet and I began my investigation. First I inspected the inside of the Brookeses’ tent to make sure there was no way for a stranger to slip in through the back. But the walls were sewn firmly onto the groundsheet before the wooden planks were placed on top. The killer must have got in through the front, unzipping the netting, and I knew from the way Vincent had become tangled, that this could be a tricky operation in poor light.
Ten Year Stretch Page 6