Kili looked down at Mary Olunbiye and smiled. ‘I have business to attend to now, Mary,’ he said, putting on his sunglasses. ‘But I will be back.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
Jouma hated the ocean. There was something about its sheer incomprehensible size that unnerved him. Down at Kilindini port, the freighters loomed up over the warehouses and oil containers like huge rusting giants, bigger than any building in downtown Mombasa, bigger than anything Jouma had ever seen; yet compared to the ocean beyond the harbour they were just specks of insignificance. The sea could swallow them up in an instant and no one would be any the wiser. Even now, chugging along Flamingo Creek, a benign shallow channel of muddy water no more than half a mile across, the inspector felt vulnerable. The only thing that belonged in the water, he concluded, were fish.
‘So what’s this all about, Inspector?’ Jake said presently. They were out of sight of the boatyard now, and Jake figured that now was the time for whatever it was Jouma had to say. ‘You’re working the Bentley case all of a sudden?’
Jouma pursed his lips. ‘Not in an official capacity, ’ he said. ‘But there are aspects which interest me.’
‘Your friend from Malindi police is telling anyone who’ll listen that it’s solved. It was all a terrible accident, apparently.’
‘That would be Chief Inspector Mugo,’ Jouma said, nodding. ‘Well, if he says the case is solved, then it most certainly is.’
Jake chuckled. ‘I take it you don’t subscribe to his theory.’
‘There is nothing wrong with the theory, Mr Moore,’ Jouma said diplomatically. ‘But perhaps I am a little uncomfortable at the speed with which it has been accepted as fact.’
There was silence between them for a few moments, then Jake said, ‘OK. I’ll bite. If you don’t think it was an accident, what do you think?’
‘I don’t know what to think,’ Jouma admitted.
‘Me neither,’ Jake said. His gaze was fixed on the river ahead, his thoughts racing behind his impassive expression.
Dennis Bentley’s boatyard was situated on a shallow inlet at the mouth of Flamingo Creek. As Yellowfin anchored up, Jake stared across at the peeling wooden superstructure of the workshop, the cheap slabs of scabby breezeblock that made up the office and the scattered fuel drums and empty provisions boxes littering the ground outside.
‘There it is, Inspector.’
Jouma scratched the side of his nose thoughtfully. ‘Thank you, Mr Moore.’
Jake could tell from the tone of his voice that, like himself, the Mombasa detective could smell decay on the thick bug-laden air. DENNIS BENTLEY FISHING had once been painted in proud two-foot-high letters on the corrugated-iron roof of the workshop; now the legend, like the rest of the premises, had faded to obscurity. Even from a distance, it was clear that the cancerous recession eating into the livelihoods of all the independent skippers had reached a terminal stage here.
Yet both men knew the evidence suggested otherwise.
Just six weeks ago, Jake had informed the detective, Dennis had spent ten grand in cash on a new set of fuel lines for Martha B. In return Jouma revealed that four cash deposits of twenty-five thousand dollars had been made into the Kenyan skipper’s bank account in the last eight months. Astonishingly, on the day he disappeared, Dennis Bentley was sitting on over ninety grand - and with that sort of money he could have afforded a new boatyard and a hefty down-payment on a new boat.
Jake was stunned. But Jouma had further revelations for him, about a petty thief from Mombasa called George Malewe whose mangled body had been spat up on Bara Hoyo beach the previous day. How all the pathology suggested that Malewe had been on Martha B when it blew up - despite the fact that the only other person supposed to be on Dennis Bentley’s boat that day was a thirteen-year-old bait boy called Tigi Eruwa.
‘I see pieces of a puzzle, Mr Moore,’ the detective said. ‘But I don’t know where to begin fitting them together.’
‘I’ll get the launch ready,’ Jake said. ‘Let’s see what we can find.’
On an average month, Jouma’s detective’s wage was enough to pay the rent on his flat in Mombasa and provide his wife Winifred with housekeeping so that they could eat. He knew that he could easily treble it with backhanders and sweeteners, and he knew that there were those at Mama Ngina Drive who regarded him with suspicion because he didn’t. The fact was, Jouma didn’t care for money. As far as he was concerned, it was simply a necessary evil. Allow it to dictate the way you lived your life, and your life would no longer be worth living.
What part had money played in the life and death of Dennis Bentley? Now there was a question. Wandering around the decrepit boatyard, Jouma thought about the pile of bank statements he had meticulously examined the previous evening, and the bald columns of dwindling numbers that described more vividly than words how Bentley’s business was heading for oblivion - until eight months ago, that is, when it had suddenly risen from the dead with an injection of twenty-five thousand dollars in cash. Twenty-five thousand that soon became fifty, then a hundred.
The money was the key to everything. But, maddeningly, there was no indication of where it had come from.
For the best part of an hour, Jouma and Jake systematically turned Bentley’s office and workshop upside down looking for log books, customer receipts, bookings ledgers - anything that might lead them to the missing skipper’s mystery benefactor.
But even as they did so it was clear they were too late.
‘Everything’s gone,’ Jake said, kicking over a chair in exasperation. ‘There’s not even a diesel receipt.’
‘It is as I expected, Mr Moore. I was afraid our trip may have been a wasted one.’
‘Mugo?’
‘He has been more thorough than I thought.’
‘Can’t you request the paperwork from him? Aren’t there official channels? How does it work in Kenya?’
‘Not like England,’ Jouma said sadly. ‘Mugo will regard this investigation as a personal triumph. If he has Mr Bentley’s paperwork, he will be guarding it as if it was gold bullion, just in case someone tries to steal his glory.’
‘There must be something.’
Had it been Nyami, Jouma would indeed have told him to check again. But he trusted Jake’s thoroughness. More importantly, he knew the Englishman was just as frustrated as he was. They had shared information, but the puzzle remained out of their reach. Yet, in the short time it had taken to travel to the mouth of Flamingo Creek, solving it had hooked them both like marlin on a line.
‘I’m going to take another look in the workshop,’ Jake said.
Jouma did not mind admitting that Jake Moore fascinated him. Until the baby-snatching incident in Mombasa, he had not been aware of any English skippers operating out of Flamingo Creek - and certainly none whose file contained a commendation from the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police in London. Perhaps that was why the duty officer at the British consulate in Mombasa had been less than cooperative when Jouma had asked for Moore’s details to be faxed across. It was most irregular, he had said, with a tone that suggested that he regarded any official request from the Kenyan police as a damn cheek.
In typically obtuse official language, the commendation told the story of a promising career stopped abruptly by a bullet. Moore was twenty-nine, a detective sergeant in the Flying Squad. The commendation described a botched armed robbery in some London suburb that Jouma had never heard of, and how the young officer had been shot in the line of duty. It went on to state how his selfless actions and bravery had helped prevent more bloodshed and, eventually, put a gang of criminals behind bars. But the detail was tantalisingly sketchy. There was no indication of Moore’s motives for quitting the police six months later. No suggestion of why he should withdraw his pension and his life savings and jump on a plane to Kenya. All Jouma knew of Moore’s life afterwards was what he had been able to piece together from the wearying compendium of game-fishing licences, registration documents, banking deta
ils and insurance certificates contained in his consulate file. In other words, nothing of any significance whatsoever other than the fact that the finances of Britannia Fishing Trips Ltd were as bad as Dennis Bentley Fishing’s had been before its mysterious cash injections.
Jouma sat down in a grubby office chair and rested his elbows on Dennis Bentley’s desk. There was a notice board on the wall in front of him, but even this had been stripped. All that remained were some grimy squares where Bentley had once collected - what? Invoices? Reminders? Photographs of loved ones? It struck him then that everything that Dennis Bentley had ever been had been ruthlessly erased. The day he disappeared was the day he had ceased to ever exist.
Mugo did not do this, he thought to himself. Mugo would never have been so thorough.
‘Inspector.’ Jake was in the doorway of the office. ‘We’ve got company.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
Tug Viljoen took a long pull from a tarnished silver hip flask, belched effusively and said, ‘One thing you must always remember about crocs, Harry: there are twenty-three species, they’re all bastards, and every single one of them can outrun you.’
Harry Philliskirk peered through a wire-mesh fence into the murk of a freshwater lagoon and raised an eyebrow. He could see a dozen or so reptiles either wallowing in the brown water or basking peacefully on flat protruding rocks. ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ he said.
‘Another thing worth remembering is that the bastards don’t care,’ Viljoen added, raising his arm so that the pallid scar tissue on his tanned skin stood out like fat on a joint of beef. ‘They’ll have fights and tear each other’s limbs and tails off, but they don’t care. They go off and sulk for a while and then they come back. I’ve seen ’em fighting with their jaws ripped off. They just don’t care. Maybe that’s why they’ve lasted sixty-five million years.’
Viljoen certainly talked a good game, Harry conceded. But, from what he’d seen so far of Croc World, the biggest danger to any unsuspecting visitor to the South African’s reptile park was death through boredom. There were two man-made lagoons, and maybe twenty turdlike crocs playing statues in the water. The only other entertainment as far as he could see was a decrepit children’s play area and a boarded-up wooden concession stand with a chalkboard menu that included Croc Burgers, Croc Ice and Croc-a-Cola.
Not for the first time, he wondered why Viljoen had arranged this meeting. More to the point, why he had agreed to it. The South African was the kind of person you wouldn’t care to meet in a sunlit meadow let alone a swamp filled with man-eating reptiles. The fact that Viljoen had insisted on secrecy just made Harry’s sense of dangerous isolation even more acute. He was beginning to regret not telling Jake the truth about where he was going now. The fucking Elephant Club? What sort of bullshit excuse was that? The Elephant Club had rescinded his membership six months ago for non-payment of subs.
‘Just want to test the water, Harry,’ Viljoen had said, cornering him in the toilets at Suki Lo’s the previous night. ‘A little business deal that could be mutually beneficial for all concerned.’
Well, Harry wasn’t above a mutually beneficial business deal, especially in his current financial predicament. But the longer he stayed here, the uneasier he felt.
‘You get many visitors, Tug?’
‘Average about a hundred a day - although obviously it’s close-season at the moment,’ Viljoen said breezily and, Harry surmised, untruthfully.
‘That’s good.’
‘Yeah, well - it’s early days. There’s plenty of scope for expansion.’
The park was situated about five miles south of Flamingo Creek, accessed from the highway by a dirt track which zigzagged through an oppressive mangrove swamp in the direction of the coast. It was set in a man-made clearing surrounded by a wire perimeter fence, and consisted of the lagoons and a concrete yard and a collection of ugly asphalt maintenance sheds in one corner of the compound. It had all the appeal of a concentration camp.
Tug took another swill from his flask. Enthusiast that he was, even Harry could tell that Viljoen had been giving it some hammer. Even if you couldn’t smell the booze that oozed from his pores, the pouched red eyes and sallow skin were a dead give-away.
‘Over there I’m building a visitor centre,’ he boasted, pointing with a thick finger to where a JCB digger sat marooned in half-dug foundations. ‘You’ll be able to see slide shows, buy souvenirs . . .’
‘Shoes and handbags?’
Viljoen looked at him through narrowed eyes, then smiled and clapped him on the back. ‘I like you, Harry. I like your English sense of humour.’
To prove the point, he handed him the hip flask. Harry felt the roar of cheap rum against the back of his throat.
‘Why crocs, Tug?’
‘Crocs. Fish. It’s all fucking business at the end of the day. What counts is what you make of it. This might not look much to you, Harry, but, I’m telling you, one of these days it’s going to make big buckaroos. ’
At that moment it dawned on Harry what this was all about. Tug was looking for money! A big fat cash injection to kick new life into Croc World! He actually thought Harry might have a nest egg squirrelled away. He cursed himself for not realising sooner, and hoped that Tug would understand that circumstances had changed. Actually, Tug, old man, I literally don’t’t have two beans to rub together. In fact, if Jake and I don’t get our own cash injection pronto, we’re going to have to fold the business and sell the boat.
But Tug did not launch into a sales pitch. Instead, he lifted the hip flask to his lips and took a deep swallow.
‘I heard you had a run-in with the Arab the other day.’
Harry was not surprised that the news was out. The Arab had a mouth like Mombasa harbour. He shrugged and took a contemplative drag on the fat reefer that he had brought with him from the boatyard.
‘A little misunderstanding, Tug, old man. It will be rectified, as these things always are. We just have to indulge the Arab his tiresome period of gloating, that’s all.’
They had now moved to what Viljoen called his site office, but what was in fact a salvaged caravan parked up by the maintenance sheds. Viljoen stretched his skinny legs along a length of banquette and began peevishly picking at the foam rubber that spilled from its frayed upholstery.
‘You know what pisses me off about oil?’ he said. ‘Those greasy Arab fucks own ninety per cent of it.’
‘It does seem to be something of a bone of contention with the rest of the world,’ Harry agreed.
He wondered where this was leading. He’d been here an hour and Tug had still given no explanation for the meeting. But he didn’t like to push the matter; the South African seemed highly strung as it was.
‘Of all the fucking people, the most valuable resource in the world goes to the ones who still stone their wives and wipe their arses with their bare hands. You’re an educated man, Harry - if it wasn’t for their oil, who would give a shit about them?’
‘Fair point.’
Tug’s eyes were blazing as he warmed to his theme. In his increasingly energised state, it seemed to Harry as if they might pop out of his head at any moment.
‘I mean, what have they ever given the world apart from fucking grief?’ Tug was saying now. ‘Look at poor Dennis Bentley. Twenty-five years he works his balls off to earn a decent retirement, only to get fucked over by the Arabs. First they frighten off all his customers by flying planes into the World Trade Center, then, just when he’s getting back on an even keel, they put up the oil prices so he can’t afford to buy fuel for his boat without cutting back on servicing costs. Result? Well, we both know the fucking result, Harry. And he won’t be the last, mark my words. Don’t tell me you and Jake aren’t feeling the pinch.’
‘I don’t intend going up in a blue flame just yet, Tug,’ Harry said.
‘No - you’ll be out of business long before then, my friend.’
Viljoen snatched the joint from Harry’s fingers and inhaled sharply.
For a moment the effect of the strong weed seemed to knock the wind out of his sails, like a tranquilliser dart fired at a frenzied rhino.
‘You know, there is a way we can help each other, Harry,’ he said presently.
Here it comes. ‘If you’re asking for investors, Tug—’
‘Nah - I’m not talking about this fucking place. Croc World is a work in progress. I’m talking about a way to make fast bucks. And lots of them.’
Harry raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, you know me, Tug. Game for anything.’
‘Are you, Harry? Are you really?’
‘It depends what it is, of course.’
‘One job. And I won’t lie to you, it ain’t pretty. But put it this way - if you get a taste for it, you won’t be beholden to fucks like the Arab any more.’
‘I owe it to Jake to get us out of the shit we’re in,’ Harry admitted. ‘What sort of money are we talking about?’
‘Twenty-five thousand dollars.’
‘Holy shit!’ Harry said, but, despite the cheap rum and the dope, he knew immediately that a sum so obscenely large could only involve some sort of illegal activity. Still, there was no harm in playing along. ‘Tell me more.’
‘Can’t do that, Harry. Not until you’re one hundred per cent sure you want in.’
‘You could tell me but you’d have to kill me, right?’ Harry said conspiratorially, reclaiming the spliff then taking a deep draw of its harsh smoke.
Tug looked at him strangely. ‘Something like that, Harry. Something like that.’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
As the twin-turbo Fountain speedboat scudded north towards Flamingo Creek, Martha found the journey helped take her mind off things. A frustrating morning trying to get paperwork sent through from her father’s accountant in Mombasa, for one. The oleaginous Conrad Getty for another. It seemed that, wherever she turned in the hotel since her arrival, its owner was over her like a rash.
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