‘Yes - well, this one has to go in two days.’
‘Shit.’
‘You said it. How are you getting on with Bentley’s replacement?’
‘It’s in hand, Captain.’
‘Will he be ready in time?’
‘He needs working on - but I’ll make sure of it.’
‘You’d damn well better.’
Viljoen thought about the croc on the hook, and how satisfying it had felt to pummel the creature to death. There were plenty of people he would enjoy dispensing the same treatment to - and right now the man on the end of the phone was one of them.
The caller began to say something, but Viljoen cut him off. As he did so, he noticed a thin corona of reptile blood trapped beneath the ragged nail of his thumb. He sucked it absently as he entered another number into the cell.
‘Salaam, Abdul,’ he said when it was answered. ‘Sorry to bother you, but I need you to do me a little favour.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Flamingo Creek was forty miles south of Malindi. But as far as Chief Inspector Oliver Mugo was concerned, the Dennis Bentley case, and anything related to it, belonged exclusively to him. He was not about to let the small matter of jurisdiction prise it from his grasp.
For two hours, Jake and Jouma had watched Mugo and a dozen Malindi police officers umm-ing and ahh-ing over the charcoaled remains in the carbonised Chris Craft, standing on the evidence, prodding the bodies with sticks, failing to carry out even the most basic crime-scene protocols. On the north bank a scrum of spectators jostled for position around the remains of the boat. It had begun with just a few quizzical locals, but several had not seen each other for many days and had taken the opportunity to catch up on the latest news. Now there were more than forty of them. There were some half-hearted efforts to shoo them away, but for the most part Mugo and his acolytes seemed more interested in being photographed beside the bodies and impressing on Jouma that they were in charge of the case, even if the Mombasa detective had actually been present at the shooting. Eventually, some low-ranking officer had taken a cursory statement and said they were free to go. They had needed no second bidding.
Now the two men were back on Yellowfin’s flying bridge, heading back upriver towards the boatyard and the inspector’s car.
‘Mugo seems to think that it was attempted robbery,’ Jouma said, no trace of irony in his voice. ‘Apparently, there have been a number of similar unprovoked attacks in the area in recent months. Local gangs targeting tourists.’
‘With Uzis and speedboats? That’s bullshit,’ Jake retorted. He turned his head to get one last look at the barrel-chested Malindi policeman stomping about officiously. ‘I don’t know why our two friends wanted us dead, but it wasn’t for our jewellery. You want my opinion, Inspector? We should be asking her what she thinks. They turned up pretty sharpish once she arrived.’
He pointed down to the cockpit, where Martha Bentley sat alone in the fighting chair, a blanket draped over her shoulders. She was staring down-river to her father’s boatyard, where just a few minutes earlier a team of paramedics in a helicopter had airlifted Harold the pilot to hospital.
‘I don’t know about you, but I don’t believe in coincidences,’ Jake said, his voice low so it did not carry over the sound of Yellowfin’s engines.
Jouma said nothing. He was thinking about the two men in the boat. Men who were now incinerated corpses. Unrecognisable as human beings. Yet, in that split second in which time stands still, he had recognised them. To anyone who knew Mombasa lowlife like Jouma did, they were unmistakable.
He looked at Jake. ‘The driver of the boat was Stanley Sandara,’ he said. ‘The man with the gun was called Joshua Punda. It was me they were trying to kill, Mr Moore. Not Miss Bentley.’
Down in the cockpit, Martha watched her father’s tumbledown boatyard disappear around a bend in the river. In a moment, all that could be seen was a faint swathe of black smoke hanging above the trees on the opposite bank.
Again she fought back tears and again she found herself unable to do so. The Queen Bitch of Manhattan is well and truly history, she thought, and laughed hollowly through her tears.
‘Life’s a big, unfriendly ocean, kid,’ her father had once told her. ‘But you’re a Bentley. Bentleys always beat the current.’
Bentleys always beat the current. It was a maxim she had carried with her like a precious heirloom. But now she had seen it tarnished before her very eyes, in the rusting metal and eroded concrete of the buildings, the warped and coated wood of the dock, and the faded whitewash letters of her father’s name on the roof.
Why hadn’t he told her? Why did she have to find out now, when he was dead? When she could do nothing to help him?
It was this, more than anything, which was the knife through Martha’s heart. There had never been secrets between them. From that very first time they’d gone out together on the water - her father lifting her up on to his knee so that she could steer the boat he named after her - they had shared a unique bond.
She thought back to the last time they’d spoken on the phone, no more than three weeks ago, and how he’d made her laugh as he always did with his sarcastic comments about her Wall Street boyfriends and her high-flying lifestyle, before telling her that he was proud of her and loved her more than anything in the world.
‘I love you too, Daddy,’ she’d said, but then she’d had to go because there was a client she had to see on the other side of the island.
And, on the other side of the world, this is what her father had been reduced to: a desperate last stand on a godforsaken river.
‘Sandara and Punda were hired thugs,’ Jouma said. ‘They worked for a criminal in Mombasa called Michael Kili.’
‘I don’t get the connection.’
‘George Malewe also worked for Michael Kili. When Malewe was reported missing, I went to see Kili. He denied any knowledge of the man.’
Jake emitted a low whistle. ‘Then Kili sends his goons to kill you. Looks like you might have touched a nerve, Inspector.’
‘So it would seem.’
‘And if you’re right, and Malewe was on Martha B, then there’s a link between Dennis Bentley and a Mombasa gangster.’
‘It’s a link that might explain the money in Mr Bentley’s account,’ Jouma said solemnly. ‘Kili’s preferred line of business is prostitution, racketeering, gun-running, illegal alcohol distribution, drugs trafficking . . . anything you can think of, Mr Moore. His empire is worth millions of dollars. But he always needs reliable staff, even if they are contractors. ’
It made sense, Jake thought. Any racketeer was only as good as his runners, and when it came to knowledge of the Kenyan seaboard there were few better operators than Dennis Bentley. A man with Dennis’s expertise could easily charge twenty-five grand for his services, and it sounded like Michael Kili could afford to pay the going rate.
Again he looked down at Martha Bentley, and again he wondered what her connection was in all this. A grieving daughter, come to pay her last respects? Or an associate ensuring that all the loose ends were tied?
This was turning into one hell of a fucking jigsaw.
Chapter Thirty
At the precise moment he was knocked out of his chair by a punch to the jaw, Harry was dreaming about holing the winning putt of the British Open at Carnoustie. It was this, rather than the sustained beating that followed, that annoyed him most. For the last ten years Harry’s dreams, by and large, had involved Juliet and the boys, the big house they had once shared in England and his six-figure salary which damn near became seven once you took into account performance bonuses and annual dividends. They were dreams that began as happy, smiling family snapshots - before inevitably turning into the same relentless nightmare about that dark night when Juliet, driving the boys back from a school play because Harry was working late, was hit head-on by some little prick stoned on cannabis and behind the wheel of his daddy’s expensive sports car on the wrong side of the road.
On
e split-second. Three lives obliterated. Four, if you counted Harry’s.
His disintegration had been swift and spectacular. After less than a year, with the job gone and the house sold, a tide of drink and guilt had washed him up in the one place left in the world where the only memories were good ones. Kenya, where he had lived as a boy with his diplomat parents. It had taken many years but, just recently, Harry had begun to dream about something else.
But the Arab was not known for his consideration. Especially when it came to unpaid debts.
‘Wakey, wakey, Mr Philliskirk!’ he’d crooned as one of his goons set about Harry’s kidneys with steel-capped rigger boots.
‘Is that you, Abdul?’ Harry grunted from the cement floor of the boatyard office. ‘All you had to do was knock.’
‘I did - but you were fast asleep. Snoring like a pig. You should stop drinking so much at lunchtime; it impairs your productivity. Oh, but I forgot - you need diesel fuel to be productive in your line of business. ’
The Arab began humming a lullaby as a boot connected with Harry’s mouth and he felt his bottom lip explode against his teeth. Then he heard the Arab say something and the next thing he knew he was being dragged up from the floor and thrown into his chair. Supernovas exploded against his retinas for a moment, and when they cleared he found that his arms were tied behind his back and the Arab’s sweating face was positioned an inch away from his own.
‘Do you have the money you owe me, Mr Philliskirk?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Harry told him with as much indignation as he could muster. ‘You said I had five days at twelve per cent interest.’
‘Yes. But then I suddenly grew weary of the excuses I would have to endure when five days were up and you still couldn’t pay me. So, I will ask you one more time. Do you have the seventeen thousand dollars you owe me?’
‘No.’
The Arab nodded and straightened. ‘This is what I thought,’ he said.
Harry girded himself for the next flurry of blows, or even the cold caress of a pistol barrel against his forehead. Instead, he opened his eyes to see the Arab planting one oversized buttock on the desk in front of him.
‘I will tell you a story about when I was a young man living in Yemen,’ he began.
Harry groaned. ‘I’d rather you just killed me, Abdul.’
The goon’s meaty paw fizzed through the air and sank into Harry’s solar plexus.
‘I will tell you a story about when I was a young man living in Yemen,’ the Arab repeated over the sound of guttural retching. ‘It involves a cousin of mine called Kareem. Now Kareem owned a number of stalls in the marketplace in Sanaa, selling vegetables and spices. It was a profitable business. It made a comfortable living for him and his family. We were all pleased with him.’
‘Please, Abdul . . . No more.’
‘One day, Kareem came to me and asked if he could borrow my car to visit friends in the next town. “Of course,” I said. “Even though my car is a German-made BMW, you are my cousin, Kareem, and what’s mine is yours.” Sadly, Kareem was involved in an accident - and, although he was unharmed, the car was declared a write-off. Kareem was most apologetic, and promised to pay me back a hundred rials every month until the debt was settled. But I said to him, “Kareem, even if you pay me back a thousand rials a month, it would take years for you to settle the debt.” So you know what I did, Mr Philliskirk?’
‘I’m sure you’re going to tell me.’
‘I took his business and I sold it to his rival. Even though he was my cousin, I did this to Kareem because it taught him a most valuable lesson about the importance of being able to pay one’s debts in full.’
‘I hope you beat him up as well, Abdul,’ Harry said. ‘Just to emphasise the point.’
The Arab smiled. ‘Kareem was family. You, Mr Philliskirk, are not. There is a difference.’
He nodded sharply and the goon standing behind Harry began raining down punches. When he had finished, Harry’s nose was broken and his left eye was all but closed up.
‘Now,’ the Arab continued, ‘to business. You owe me seventeen thousand dollars, yes? Your boat must be worth far more than seventeen thousand dollars. Maybe fifty, even in its advanced state of decrepitude. But I am a reasonable man. I will take your boat, and I will give you ten per cent of anything I can sell it for - minus, of course, the interest you have already accrued on your debt. Agreed?’
‘You can fuck off,’ Harry said.
The Arab wafted his hands. ‘I thought you would say this. But it is already arranged. I have a buyer in Malindi.’
‘Your buyer can fuck off as well. Yellowfin is not for sale.’
Abdul rolled his eyes, like a teacher confronted with a particularly dim pupil. ‘But it is arranged, Mr Philliskirk. I have shaken on the deal and I am a man of my word. Now - I presume your partner Mr Moore is out at sea at the moment. When do you expect him back?’
‘I’ll get the money.’
The Arab tutted. ‘This is what you keep telling me—’
‘I said I’ll get it.’
‘When?’
‘Give me a week.’
‘And then what? “Give me another week”? I am a businessman, Mr Philliskirk. Not a fool. And I have run out of patience.’
‘I’ll get you the bloody money. All of it. Listen - there’s two grand in the floor safe, and the keys to the Land Rover are over there. Think of it as a deposit.’
The Arab glared at him from beneath huge furry eyebrows. ‘This is your last chance, Mr Philliskirk. Be in no doubt that if you do not honour this agreement I will have you killed.’
Chapter Thirty-One
It was getting dark by the time Yellowfin anchored at the boatyard, except on the north shore of the creek where the lights of the new marina complex were jarringly bright. The three of them said little as they climbed into the launch, each of them lost in separate thought about the events of the last few hours.
The lights were off on the jetty and Jake silently cursed Harry as he manoeuvred the launch towards the pilings. He cursed him even more when he saw that the boatyard was in darkness too, and that the door to the workshop was standing wide open. There wasn’t much of value inside, but they needed every last thing they had. His partner had clearly forgotten to lock up before setting off for his liquid lunch with the expat crowd at the Elephant Club. It was just as well Jake had come back: these beanos had a habit of continuing long into the next day.
‘Wait here,’ he said, leaving Jouma and Martha waiting on the jetty as he went across to the workshop. He fumbled blindly for a few moments until his hand brushed the handle of the generator and the garish strip lighting blinked to life overhead. A quick glance told him that nothing appeared to have been stolen, but he noticed that the office door was open. A more thorough examination of the premises would have to wait.
He went outside, where the jetty was now illuminated by the string of bulbs. Jouma and the girl were walking towards the inspector’s car.
‘The Marlin Bay Hotel is not far from here,’ Jouma said. ‘I can drop Miss Bentley off on my way back to Mombasa.’
‘You sure?’
‘It’s fine,’ Martha said. She looked washed out, almost dead on her feet.
‘OK.’ There was an awkward pause, then Jake said, ‘Listen - if it makes any difference at all, I’m really sorry about your dad.’
She nodded. ‘Thank you, Mr Moore. And thank you for what you did today. It was very brave of you.’
She climbed into the passenger seat of the Panda.
‘What now?’ Jake asked Jouma.
The inspector shrugged. ‘I think I had better pay Michael Kili another visit.’
‘You want me to come along?’
‘No. I think this is a matter I can best deal with myself.’
‘Then be careful, Inspector.’
Jake meant it. In the short time he had known Jouma, he had warmed to the diminutive Mombasa detective.
‘I will, Mr M
oore,’ Jouma said, offering his hand. ‘And thank you.’
‘I think after today you can probably call me Jake.’
Jouma smiled. ‘Thank you - Jake.’ Then he gripped the Englishman’s forearm urgently. ‘The pieces will come together,’ he said.
When the Panda’s tail lights had disappeared into the gloom, Jake went back into the workshop. Fatigue washed over him now, and all he wanted was a shower and something to eat. He had hoped Harry would be waiting to give him a lift up to Suki Lo’s, but he was gone and so was the Land Rover. That meant a fucking treacherous walk in the dark and, worse, an even more fucking treacherous walk back.
For Christ’s sake, Harry!
Just then, he heard a noise from the office and in an instant his hand had closed around a foot-long monkey wrench on the workbench beside him. Slowly, he moved forward until he was pressed against the concrete wall beside the door jamb. Then, in a single movement, he burst open the door with his shoulder and hit the light switch.
He was not sure what he was expecting to find, but it was certainly not Harry lying in a bloody heap on the floor beneath the desk.
His partner’s eyes flickered open and he looked up through puffy purple slits.
‘Jake,’ he said. ‘You’re back.’ And a thick gout of scarlet-coloured mucus splashed on to the floor from his ruined mouth.
Chapter Thirty-Two
In the members’ dining room of the Kenyatta Yacht Club, Conrad Getty had enjoyed a convivial luncheon of gulls’ egg soup, followed by terrine of veal and Roquefort, charcoaled mallard with tamarind chutney and a timbale of seared vegetables with guava bark ambrosia, washed down with two bottles of Veuve Cliquot. Now, back at the hotel and with the clock on his office wall showing the time was shortly after seven in the evening, the owner of the Marlin Bay was on his hands and knees retching what was left of it into an empty wastepaper bin under the desk.
Groaning, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and used the corner of the desk to lever himself to his feet. In the porthole mirror on the wall, he checked his shirt, tie and blazer for spatters of vomit.
Bait Page 11