‘Who the hell are you?’
‘My name is Daniel Jouma.’ He reached into his pocket and flashed his detective badge. ‘Mombasa police. We met the other night when I brought Miss Bentley back from Flamingo Creek.’
‘Of course.’ Getty’s voice was cracking now, but still he maintained an insouciant façade, no matter how ludicrous their current situation rendered it. ‘How can I help you, Inspector?’
‘This file was inside the caravan. Do you know what is in it?’
‘I have no idea.’
Jouma tossed the file at Getty’s feet. The photographs spilled out and the hotel owner recoiled when he saw them.
‘I assume Mr Viljoen took them for insurance purposes,’ Jouma said. ‘Just in case anybody should suspect him of the murder of Dennis Bentley. Proof that the killer was a Mombasa thief called George Malewe. A neat plan, don’t you think? Especially as George would never be found. It must have caused quite some consternation when the storm washed his body up on Bara Hoyo beach.’
Getty had turned white. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Inspector.’
‘Don’t you? I find that hard to believe.’
‘Now you listen to me. Julius Teshete is a personal friend of mine, and I’m sure everything can be rectified satisfactorily once I speak to him.’
‘I suspect Superintendent Teshete has more pressing matters to attend to. Now - where is Mr Viljoen?’
Getty clutched his chest. For a moment, Jouma thought the hotel owner was having a heart attack.
‘What do you want?’ he said presently. ‘Money? I can get you money.’
Jouma grimaced. Always money. ‘For the time being some answers would be sufficient. If you would—’
With a single swift movement, Getty pulled a Zippo lighter from his breast pocket, flicked open the lid to ignite it, and tossed it against the caravan. The petrol exploded with a whumphh! And as Jouma shielded his eyes from the scorching blast Getty bolted for the maintenance sheds and the yard beyond. Jouma reached for his shoulder holster and grabbed his .38. Having not used his gun for fifteen years, he’d now had it in his hand twice in two days. This was becoming something of a habit, he concluded as he took off in pursuit.
Chapter Sixty-Four
Jake waited until Yellowfin had disappeared around the headland before he made his move. The two African gunmen Viljoen had left with the van didn’t see him coming.
The fist-sized rock smashed the first’s skull with a noise like an egg landing on a stone floor, and he fell to the ground in an unnatural position, his blood leaching into the sand. The second fumbled amateurishly with the action of his Kalashnikov until Jake drove the butt of the downed man’s weapon into his guts.
‘Where are we?’ Jake demanded.
The second man was backed up against the side of the van with his hands in the air and flecks of spittle in the corners of his mouth.
‘Where are we?’
The African gestured frantically at the cab of the van. A roadmap was jammed between the dashboard and the windscreen. Jake grabbed it and held it up to the African’s face.
‘Where, dammit?’
The African extended a quivering finger and pointed to a spot on the map.
Jake nodded. ‘Where has the boat gone?’
‘Meet the big ship,’ the African jabbered, waving at the open sea.
‘What is the name of the ship?’ Jake demanded.
‘I don’t know, Boss. I don’t know!’ the African screamed as Jake pointed the gun at his head.
‘Then from which direction?’
‘South. Always from the south. Mombasa.’ The African brought his hands together in a pathetic entreaty. ‘Please, Boss. Don’t kill me.’
‘Get up,’ Jake snarled at him. ‘Now get your pal and get in the back of the van,’ he said.
The African scrambled to his feet and manhandled his unconscious partner into the Transit. Jake locked the doors after them. The heat of the day was slowly dissipating now, so conditions for the two Africans would not be as bad as they’d been for the little girls. They had buckets to piss and shit in. And there was an air vent that worked intermittently. The cove was a long way from the road, and it would probably take the ambulance a while to find them after Jake made the call. But they’d live. Which was more than they deserved.
He turned and ran back towards Martha’s car.
‘Thank God,’ she said. ‘But you’re hurt.’
Jake looked down and saw spatters of blood on his shirt. Blood that wasn’t his.
‘Have you got mobile reception?’ he asked.
She nodded.
‘Then ring your boyfriend. It’s time to kiss and make up.’
‘Patrick? Why?’
‘Because we’re going to need a boat,’ Jake said, his voice cold. ‘A fast one.’
Chapter Sixty-Five
Whitestone had been toying with the idea of sparing Getty’s life once this latest shipment was complete. After all, with Kanga dead and his supply routes from Tanzania in a consequent state of flux, it didn’t do to be making too many unforced personnel changes to what was after all his most productive cell in this neck of the woods.
But that was before that bitch had left him stranded in Mombasa. And before he had returned to the hotel in a taxi to discover that Getty had decided to make a run for it. Now the hotel owner was going to die. And so was everyone else involved in the Mombasa cell. Not only that, but their deaths would be long and excruciatingly painful. Of that, Whitestone would make sure.
And, after that, maybe he would turn his attentions to dear Martha.
‘Excuse me, Mr Noonan, sir - can I help you?’
Getty’s concierge had entered the office. Whitestone peered at the name on his laminated nametag.
‘Good afternoon, Loftus. I was just waiting for Mr Getty.’
‘Mr Getty has gone out, sir.’
‘So it would appear. Do you know where?’
‘No, sir. But, if you would care to wait for him in reception, I will most certainly inform him that you wish to see him.’
‘Of course.’
But, as he made to leave the office, Whitestone was suddenly gripped by a wave of irrational fury once again. Who the hell were these people to tell him what to do? Didn’t they understand who he was? That he gave orders, not them?
‘Are you all right, sir?’
Just then Whitestone’s cell phone rang. He peered at the name in the display and cursed. Now was not the time for tiresome platitudes between two feuding lovers. For a moment his finger hovered over the disconnect button. But then it struck Whitestone that in the last few hours the self-control he prided himself on had been severely eroded. He needed to calm down, to regain his equilibrium. It was time to do what he did best.
‘Martha!’ Patrick Noonan said. ‘Thank God it’s you.’
Apart from the flyblown crocodile carcass on its hook, the yard behind the sheds was empty. The billowing black smoke from the blazing caravan gave the place an apocalyptic appearance that was entirely in keeping with the whole hellish surroundings. Getty was nowhere to be seen. At the far end of the yard was a narrow passageway between two of the sheds, the only possible way out without retracing one’s steps back towards Viljoen’s caravan. Jouma proceeded along the passageway, the gun held close to his chest, his finger resting lightly on the trigger.
‘Jesus Christ - help!’
The voice came from up ahead. Jouma broke into a run. The passageway ended at the wire perimeter fence, and now the only way forward was to follow a narrow dirt track that ran between the fence and the exterior wall of one of the sheds. This track terminated at a chest-high wooden palisade. Jouma could see marks on the slats where Conrad Getty’s feet had scrabbled for purchase as he scaled it. As he peered over the top of the palisade, Jouma could see what a grievous miscalculation this had been.
Beyond the fence, the ground fell away steeply into one of the man-made crocodile lagoons. Getty, who had t
umbled down fully fifteen feet from the palisade, now stood up to his knees in brown water, his lightweight suit dripping wet and covered with mud and his carefully arranged coiffure hanging limply from his skull.
‘Are you all right, Mr Getty?’ Jouma called down.
‘Oh, my fucking God!’ Getty said.
Off to the right, something sinuous and log-sized slid into the water.
‘The place is crawling with crocs!’ Getty exclaimed, as three more reptiles moved towards him from a mud bank at the far side of the lagoon.
‘Don’t move!’ Jouma shouted, but it was too late. Getty was already wading through the water towards the nearest bank, his flailing feet kicking up the water around him and ensuring that now every other crocodile in the lagoon was alerted to his presence. Terrified, the hotel owner began clawing his way towards the fence, but the steep mud sides of the lagoon were impossible to cling to and he slipped back into the water.
Jouma turned and ran back towards the yard. The thought of what he was about to do next turned his stomach, but he knew that unless he acted now his chief witness would not be around long enough to tell him what he needed to know. Holding his breath, he grappled the croc carcass and heaved it off the gibbet. As he did so, a huge cloud of flies lifted furiously from the rancid flesh, blinding him as he threw the stinking length of meat on to the concrete. Fumbling and cursing, Jouma grabbed the rope that was still tied firmly to the reptile’s tail and pulled the body with all his might towards the compound, praying at the same time that the rotting flesh would not disintegrate under the pressure.
Getty was backed up against the mud bank at the far side of the lagoon, staring with horror at the slowly approaching crocs. He looked up and saw Jouma.
‘For Christ’s sake, do something!’ he screamed.
Jouma did not have the energy left to waste on a reply. Moving the carcass sixty yards from the yard to the lagoon was like lugging a roll of wet carpet. But finally he managed to manoeuvre it to the chain-link access gate that led from the path to the lagoon. With one final exertion, Jouma dragged the remains of the reptile through the gate and let it roll down the mud bank into the water. The splash, and no doubt the smell, caught the attention of two of the crocs heading for Getty and they turned lazily in the water. To make sure the rest of them got the message, Jouma raised his pistol into the air and fired two shots. Slowly, the remaining crocs began to lose interest in Getty and instead started swimming back towards the other side of the lagoon and the carcass, which was floating belly up on the surface.
It was a matter of seconds before the first of the crocs reached it. Jouma watched with horrified fascination as the creature pounced on the slab of rotting meat, tearing a great chunk of flesh loose with a frenetic shake of its jaws. Then the rest of them were upon it, and the dead croc disappeared beneath a writhing mass of bodies that turned the water around them into a thick red scum as they began to attack each other.
Jouma heard a grunt, and looked across to see that Getty had managed to haul himself up one of the banks and was now teetering gingerly around the perimeter of the security fence in search of a way out.
‘Thank you, Inspector,’ Getty said through the mesh, reaching out his hand. ‘Now if you could perhaps help me to get over this—’
He stopped and stared open-mouthed at the barrel of Jouma’s gun.
‘I get the impression those crocodiles have not been fed for some time,’ Jouma said. ‘Once they are finished with the body of their colleague, they will be after more food.’
‘For God’s sake!’ Getty exclaimed, glancing nervously over his shoulder. ‘Get me out of here!’
‘Are you ready to answer my questions?’
‘Yes, yes! Anything!’ Getty said.
At that moment, faced with the prospect of death by crocodile or Whitestone, Getty realised the diminutive detective was by far the best option.
Chapter Sixty-Six
After all those hours on the road, and the distance they had covered to get to the Tanzanian border and back, it transpired the transfer had been made just a few miles north of Kilifi. A few miles further to the south was Flamingo Creek.
A cosy get-together of Suki-Lo’s regulars right on their own doorstep, Jake thought acidly. They could have had themselves a barbie and a few beers on the beach.
Thirty minutes after leaving the cove, he slewed the BMW to a halt in front of the Marlin Bay Hotel and he and Martha ran through the atrium, past the lizards by the pool and down to the marina. Patrick was waiting for them. As they ran towards him, Martha called out his name and it seemed to draw him out of a dark pit of thought.
‘Martha! Jake!’ he exclaimed, blinking behind the lenses of his Ray-Bans. ‘Are you all right? I—’ He saw the AK-47 slung over Jake’s shoulder and his eyes widened. ‘Whoa!’ he said, backing away. ‘What’s going on, man?’
‘Is your boat ready, Patrick?’
‘Yeah, but—’
‘Then let’s go. I’ll explain on the way.’
Patrick seemed to freeze for a moment. Then he nodded. ‘This way.’
Seventeen thousand dollars, Harry thought miserably. Seventeen poxy grand. Back in the day, such an amount would have barely covered his quarterly entertainment and travel expenses.
Now it was going to get him killed.
What the fuck had he done?
He was tied with fishing wire to Yellowfin’s fighting chair. The chair was turned so that it was looking back up the boat towards the cabin. The cabin door was closed and secured shut with rope, which was just as well because Harry didn’t want to see the African girls stowed in there. The very thought of them made him feel physically sick.
Up on the flying bridge, Tug Viljoen was cracking jokes with Sammy, who was piloting the boat out to sea on a southeasterly heading. The bait boy wasn’t laughing. He had seen what had happened and knew that there was nothing to laugh about.
Harry looked down at his swollen wrists and felt his bonds chafing at his exposed sun-reddened skin. He wondered what Jake would think if he knew what he had done. But right now Jake would be on his way back from Mazeras township, sent there on a wild goose chase to an address that did not exist just to keep him out of the way.
‘You all right down there, Harry?’ Viljoen called down cheerily from the flying bridge.
‘Fuck you, Tug.’
‘That’s the spirit!’ Viljoen leaned over the bridge rail. ‘You know it’s funny, Harry. The line people draw between what is acceptable and what isn’t.’
‘If this is a lecture, Tug, I’d rather not hear it.’
‘You read the papers and you turn on the news and everywhere you look there are innocent kids getting shot to shit, or hacked to pieces, or burned alive, all in the name of democracy or some other greater good. Even in fine upstanding countries like this one.’ He gestured down to the locked cabin. ‘Take those kids in there. Where they come from, their lives are no better than a dog’s. Yet, when you try to take them away from all that, what happens? You’re a pervert. A child trafficker. The lowest of the low.’
Harry looked up at the flying deck. Revulsion surged through him. ‘Trust me, there’s a difference.’
‘You agreed to do this,’ Viljoen reminded him.
‘No. I agreed to smuggle drugs.’
Viljoen snickered. ‘Yeah, you did - so don’t get all high and mighty.’
‘Smoking hash isn’t the same as abusing kids.’
‘I don’t remember you playing the concerned citizen when you heard how much you’d be getting paid.’
‘You lied to me, Tug.’
‘Ah, that’s what dear old Dennis said when it was his first time.’
Harry felt like he had been slapped in the face. ‘Dennis? Dennis Bentley?’
‘Oh, yeah. Dennis started off with all the same conscientious objector bullshit as you, but he soon changed his tune when the money started rolling in. Trouble with your business, Harry, is that it’s just a big black hole that eats up
your dollar bills. You don’t need me to tell you, as soon as you get it, it’s gone. But then Dennis decided that he wanted out. Said he couldn’t do it any more. Said he’d rather go bust. Of course, we couldn’t let him do that.’
‘You killed him.’
‘It was business, Harry.’
‘And Tigi? Was that business as well?’
‘The bait boy? Ah, it was a pity about him. I respect loyalty, and that boy sure stood up for his boss. Put up quite a fight. But believe me it was quick. Pop, pop! A couple of taps to the back of the head and over the side. He wouldn’t have felt a thing.’
Beside him on the flying bridge, Sammy turned and stared at Viljoen. The South African noticed and struck the boy across the face.
‘Keep your eyes front and mind your own business, boy!’ Viljoen snapped.
In the fighting chair, it suddenly dawned on Harry that Viljoen had no idea that the boy piloting the boat was Tigi Eruwa’s elder brother.
In the low-slung cockpit of the Sonic, Jake told Patrick everything he knew.
‘I expect they’ll be shipped to Europe,’ Jake said evenly. ‘Most probably Eastern Europe. Russia. The former Soviet states. The Balkans. Sex trafficking is a thriving business over there.’
Patrick looked shocked. ‘Sex? But you said they were just kids.’
‘That’s the selling point for the sickos who buy them up. I’ve heard of kids as young as four years old being bought and sold like cheap meat. They used to say trafficking of women and children into forced prostitution was the third largest source of profits for organised crime after drugs and guns. But that was in my day. Christ only knows what it is now.’
‘But why did your partner get involved?’ Patrick said.
‘Because he’s a damn fool who couldn’t bear to see the business go bust,’ Jake sighed. ‘And because Viljoen needed a replacement for Dennis Bentley.’
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