Even Patrick assumed she was suffering from some sort of post-traumatic shock, and that her grief needed coaxing out.
‘It’s OK, honey,’ he had soothed her on the morning of her long-haul flight to Nairobi, as they lay together in the bedroom of her apartment on the Upper East Side. ‘Let it go.’
But the truth was, there was nothing to let go. Even as she stared down at the Tarmac from her seat in First Class, waiting for the flight to depart JFK, she felt only a pragmatic lawyerish need to put her father’s affairs in order. It was only after the 747 took off and climbed away from the mainland that Martha felt the cold talons of Manhattan gradually loosening their grip. Eighteen hours later, when she stepped out of the aircraft and breathed in Kenya’s warm thick air, she knew she was home, and that she was destined to have her heart broken in the very country where it still belonged.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Conrad Getty’s imported Porsche Cayenne swept regally up to the reception of the Marlin Bay Hotel. Almost before it had come to a halt, a uniformed porter sprang forward to open the driver’s side door. Getty eased his spare frame out of the seat and jumped down from the vehicle without acknowledgement. He was about to make his way into the hotel when he noticed something hanging from the bull bars. He grimaced as he saw what looked like blood spatters and fragments of skin and flesh adhered to the chromium.
Fucking wild dogs, he thought angrily, vaguely recalling bumping something on the highway as he changed the disc in the CD player.
‘Get that cleaned up,’ he barked at the porter, who nodded eagerly and with barely concealed fear.
Getty strode through the smoked-glass doors and into the reception atrium. ‘Is the lady here?’ he snapped at the duty concierge.
‘She is in the cocktail lounge, Mr Getty,’ Loftus said.
‘Have you taken her bags to her suite?’
‘Yessir,’ Loftus said.
Getty peered round the doorframe into the open-plan bar, and grunted with approval at what he saw. The new arrival was petite and blonde, her lightly tanned skin contrasting pleasingly with the crisp white linen of her outfit. She fitted in perfectly and elegantly with her surroundings, reminding him of some sophisticated debutante from the colonial 1920s.
Getty paused in front of a wall mirror in order to smooth his augmented silver hair across his skull and liberally spray his tongue with peppermint breath-freshener. Then, straightening the pockets of his tropical jacket, he smiled and entered the bar.
‘Conrad Getty,’ he said smoothly, extending a hand and fixing his eyes greedily on the girl. ‘I’m the owner of the Marlin Bay. So sorry I couldn’t be here to greet you in person, Miss Bentley.’
The girl sat forward attentively. ‘That’s perfectly all right,’ she smiled. ‘And please - call me Martha.’
An unusual accent: mid-Atlantic, but with the slightest detectible residue of Kenyan, perhaps? Not unpleasant. Indeed strangely alluring. In fact, her voice, and the way she took his hand with such a delicate touch, sent a delicious shiver down Getty’s spine. What was she? Early twenties? Dennis Bentley’s daughter, he concluded, really was quite exquisite.
‘I do hope you haven’t been waiting long,’ he said.
‘Not at all.’
‘And your flight from New York?’
‘I slept most of the way.’
‘Good. Good.’ With that, Getty switched instantly and effortlessly into concerned patrician mode. ‘On behalf of myself and all of the staff here at the Marlin Bay, may I offer my sincere condolences on your tragic loss.’
‘Thank you.’
‘If there is anything, anything that I can do ...’
‘You’ve been more than kind by putting me up at such short notice, Mr Getty.’
‘The very least I could do. And please - call me Conrad.’ He placed a hand on Martha’s elbow and left it there. ‘I’m sure you’d like to freshen up after your long journey. Let me show you to your suite.’
They walked through the air-conditioned atrium and out into the hotel grounds. To their right a dozen or so guests lay sunbathing around the Olympic pool. To the left, the Indian Ocean smashed against a low restraining wall, sending gouts of spray and seaweed high into the air. A fresh breeze scudded in off the sea and through the leaves of the palm trees with a noise like radio static.
‘I heard about everything that’s been happening here,’ Martha said. ‘It must have been terrifying.’
Getty shrugged. ‘Oh, that! Just a little local difficulty, that’s all.’
Martha looked up at him. ‘But I read that hundreds of people were killed. One story I saw said that thirty men, women and children were burned to death in a church. That doesn’t sound like a little local difficulty to me, Mr Getty.’
It was a stinging blow, but Getty recovered like a prizefighter. ‘Oh, of course, across in Nairobi and the Rift Valley things were dreadful, simply terrifying,’ he said. ‘I thought you meant here, in Mombasa. There were one or two minor disturbances, but all in all we got away pretty lightly. Thank heavens.’
Martha said nothing and they walked on, past the pool, in the direction of the suites.
‘Did you know my father, Mr Getty?’ she asked suddenly.
This time Getty was prepared for the question. He smiled winsomely. ‘Dennis? Everybody knew Dennis. He was a legend round these parts. A real gentleman. We were great friends. Lord only knows how such a tragedy could have occurred. It’s shocking. Truly shocking.’
‘The man from the embassy said the police were working on the theory it might have been a faulty fuel line that caused the explosion.’
‘I fear we may never know the truth,’ Getty said. ‘How long do you think you might be staying?’
‘That depends on Kenyan bureaucracy,’ Martha said archly. ‘If the wheels turn as slowly as they do in New York, then I could be here for a while.’
‘It’s a painful business,’ Getty nodded. ‘Rest assured we are at your service for as long as it takes.’
‘That’s nice of you to say so,’ Martha said. She paused and looked out to sea. ‘I understand his boatyard was at a place called Flamingo Creek. Is that far from here?’
‘North of here,’ Getty told her. ‘Five, ten miles as the crow flies.’
‘Where can I hire a car?’
The hotel owner looked aghast. ‘Kenya is not the kind of place a young lady should be driving alone. In any case, it will be far quicker by boat. Just let me know when you wish to go and one of the Marlin Bay fleet will be waiting at your convenience.’
She began to protest, but Getty waved her away magnanimously. ‘At a time like this, it is the very least I can do.’
Martha watched from the window of her suite as Getty stalked back across the pool area towards the main building. She always prided herself on the accuracy of her first impressions, and her first impression of the owner of the Marlin Bay made her skin crawl. Conrad Getty was from the same blue-print as every other white hotelier she had ever met in Africa, right down to the buffed fingernails, nylon rug and the ill-concealed waft of hard liquor on his breath.
In other words, a first-class asshole.
But at least his hotel had all the right amenities. She had the feeling that her stay in Kenya was going to involve the sort of bureaucratic nightmare that would require some five-star pampering in return. She slipped out of her clothes and stepped into the stone-flagged shower; the jet was powerful and deliciously lukewarm, and in an instant she could feel the grime of her journey from New York being blasted from her pores.
Wrapping a towel around herself, she padded back into the sitting room and unzipped one of her cases. She removed her clothes and transferred them to hangers in the bedroom wardrobe. Then she took her cell phone from her handbag and tapped in an auto-dial number. She heard the beeps and twangs of the long-distance connection, then a voice answered.
‘Hi, it’s me,’ she said.
‘What time is it?’ the voice said blearily.
> ‘Just after eleven.’
‘Christ - it’s four a.m. here.’
‘I love you too.’
Laughter. ‘I’m sorry, babe. You know what a pain in the ass I am when I’m woken up in the middle of the night. Where are you?’
‘At the hotel.’
‘How is it?’
‘It’s OK - but the boss is even more of a pain in the ass than you are.’
More laughter. Then the voice said, ‘Just abuse the facilities, honey. It’ll make you feel better.’
‘I intend to.’
‘You OK?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You sound tired.’
‘I’m OK. I miss you, though.’
‘Yeah, I miss you too.’
‘Is Chico missing me?’
‘Chico’s a cat, honey. Cats don’t give a shit.’
‘Chico does.’
‘Then maybe Chico’s about to have an unfortunate run-in with a New York City garbage disposal truck.’
Martha gasped. ‘Don’t you dare, you bastard!’
‘These things happen, baby. But don’t worry. I know a great pet cemetery out in Jersey where—’
‘Patrick, you son of a bitch.’
‘You know I’m only joking. Chico will dine on smoked salmon tonight while I make do with pizza. They give you a nice room?’
She looked around and smiled. ‘It would be better if you were here.’
‘I could get a flight.’
‘No - I’m just being stupid. I can get this done quicker by myself.’
‘You sure? How long do you think it will take?’
‘That depends on Kenyan red tape.’
‘See you next January, then.’
‘Don’t joke about it.’
‘I love you, baby.’
‘I love you too.’
The connection went dead. Martha threw the phone on the bed and went to the window again. Outside, the ocean thrashed and boiled against the sea wall, generating a fine mist of salt spray that hung almost invisibly in the air. Beyond, on the ocean itself, a fleet of flimsy lateens bobbed up and down like seagulls on the swell, and for the first time Martha felt the first terrible pangs of sorrow, as she knew she would.
What happened out there, Daddy? What terrible thing could have possibly happened to you?
Chapter Twenty-Three
Jake was alerted by the sound of Harry shouting from the jetty, and gratefully heaved himself out of a deck service hatch that accessed a crawl space inch-deep with bilge water and sump oil. His vest and shorts were black and sodden, and there were small lacerations on his arms and knees where they had bumped up against jagged metal in the darkness. As he closed the hatch, he concluded that Walton Meredith was worth his weight in gold - even if it amounted to a little over eight stone.
But beggars could not be choosers. He might not be as thin as Walton, but at least he could still squeeze under Yellowfin’s deck. And, in terms of personal vanity, his trim waistline was a vast improvement on the belly he’d brought over from England. Back then, puffed up on a diet of best bitter and junk food, crawling around in Yellowfin’s bowels would have been a physical impossibility. But his midriff was not the only difference in his appearance. His pallid London-sky skin had turned a deep chestnut brown, the sun had bleached his short mousy hair and there was definition in the flaccid muscles of his upper body that he’d not seen since he was a teenager. He often fantasised about walking back into the lounge bar of the Cheapside Club, the favoured watering hole of the Flying Squad, just to see if any of the old lags would recognise him.
‘Jake!’
He swung up to the flying bridge to check the fluid gauges.
‘Jake! You stuck in there? We’ve got company.’
‘Coming, for Christ’s sake!’
He looked across to the bank where a dust-streaked Fiat Panda was parked on the roadside near the workshop. Next to it stood Harry, and beside him a diminutive African wearing an ill-fitting three-piece suit.
Jouma?
He jumped down into the launch and crossed the narrow channel of water to the jetty.
‘Ah, Jake,’ Harry said. ‘Good of you to join us.’ He smiled wolfishly. ‘I told the inspector that I haven’t let you out of my sight since your little adventure the other day - but it seems he’s not interested in you this time.’
Jake wiped his oily hands on a rag. ‘What’s up?’
Jouma opened his mouth to speak, but Harry interrupted. ‘He’s trying to get to Dennis Bentley’s place.’
The Mombasa policeman nodded sheepishly.
‘I fully appreciate if you are busy, Mr Moore,’ he said quickly.
Harry wafted his arms. ‘No, we’re not busy.’
Jake glared at him, but knew he was right. For a third day running, the bookings ledger was empty.
‘I’d take you myself, Inspector, except I’ve got an appointment this afternoon.’
Jake looked at Harry suspiciously. ‘You didn’t mention anything about an appointment.’
‘Extraordinary General Meeting of the Elephant Club,’ Harry explained. ‘The knotty problem of women members has raised its ugly head once again.’
Jouma glanced from one to the other, bewilderment on his face.
‘Then I suppose the hydraulics will have to wait,’ Jake said.
Chapter Twenty-Four
In a part of Mombasa’s Old Town that the tourist guidebooks do not mention, a sixteen-year-old girl called Mary Olunbiye was about to have her throat cut. Later her body, weighed down with chains, would be dumped fifty miles out to sea from the side of a Panamanian-registered freighter that was due to leave Kilindini port with a cargo of peanut oil later that night.
For now, though, Mary was doing what she knew best: performing fellatio on the man who planned shortly to end her life.
Mary’s crime - the reason she had to die - was straightforward. Two nights before in a nearby alleyway, she had done the same thing to an American backpacker called Todd Fellowes. Todd, who was nineteen and taking a year out of college in order to broaden his mind, came in Mary’s mouth then zippered up his jeans and gave her ten bucks. It was eight dollars more than the fee they had agreed on the street, but the American suddenly felt a pang of guilt about what he had done. He wished her good luck and left hurriedly.
At that moment, Todd was in a three-dollar-a-night hostel in Nairobi, sweating and worrying himself sick about the AIDS virus. Mary, meanwhile, was about to die because, instead of handing over the American’s money to Michael Kili, she had kept three dollars for herself in order to buy food and clothing for her mother and her six-month-old daughter.
That Mary had to die was a shame, Kili reflected, because she still had many good years left in her. For her, though, it would be a blessing - because even Ugandan sailors wouldn’t fuck whores with slashed faces and amputated hands, the traditional punishment for girls who did not pay their dues to the Mombasa gangster.
No, Kili thought as he gazed down on her small bobbing head, he would be doing Mary a favour by killing her. And, just to show that there were no hard feelings, he would even give her mother a few dollars out of his own pocket. Just so she and the child didn’t go short.
That was the thing few people knew about Michael Kili: beneath the necessarily ruthless exterior, he was capable of great acts of mercy. It was, he always thought, what set him apart from his rivals, what made him such a great man. He could demand obedience while at the same time cultivating loyalty.
‘That’s good, Mary,’ he grunted.
And she was good. One of the best in Mombasa. Which made it doubly unfortunate she had to die. But, Kili consoled himself, by teaching her a lesson he taught them all a lesson. And business was business.
He reached into the lining of his leather jacket and removed a short-bladed kukri knife. He was approaching climax now, the moment when he would yank Mary’s head backwards and slash her exposed throat - but then the cell phone in his pocket began to trill th
e theme from Rocky. Cursing, the moment fading, he pocketed the knife, pushed Mary further into his crotch, and answered the phone.
‘Jouma is at Flamingo Creek.’
The voice was so quiet that it took him a moment to realise that it belonged to Jacob Omu.
‘Jouma? Why?’
‘He is on his way to Dennis Bentley’s boatyard,’ Omu informed him.
‘Who?’
‘The fishing-boat skipper.’
Kili shook his head irritably. ‘Why?’
‘Because of George Malewe. Because he has a suspicious mind.’
‘Dah! Jouma knows nothing.’
‘Perhaps not. But it may be wise to act now, before he does know something.’
‘What are you saying, Jacob?’
‘It would be very easy to have him taken off the Malewe case. It could be done very discreetly. It could be done today with one telephone call.’
Kili could feel his cock wilting in Mary Olunbiye’s mouth, in direct contrast to his rising temper.
‘Then do it, Jacob!’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s what I pay you for, isn’t it?’
‘Very well, Michael.’
Scowling, Kili put away his phone. ‘Very well, Michael.’ There was something about Omu’s deference that irritated the gangster beyond measure. Everything had to be so discreet, so smooth. The man could walk on sand without leaving footprints. And yet there was something in that quietly spoken manner that was ever so slightly condescending, as if Omu privately regarded him as some sort of idiot. What he failed to understand was that Michael Kili had created his Mombasa empire long before Omu had come along. And he had done it the hard way, with brute force and fear, not by whispering in people’s ears and sliding envelopes full of American dollars into their pockets.
Kili felt another pulse of fury and retrieved the knife from his pocket. Then, after a moment’s reflection, he put the blade away again. On second thoughts, perhaps he should not be so hasty. Mary was undeniably skilled, and to kill her . . . No, he decided, withdrawing his flaccid member and shoving it into his tracksuit bottoms, perhaps a beating would suffice this time. But later. For now it was time to show Jacob Omu just who was the boss. There would be no discreet phone calls. Kili had always subscribed to the idea that, if a wasp was annoying you, you crushed it. You didn’t open a window and hope it would simply fly away.
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