Jake and Jouma 01; Bait! Read online

  He was forty-two years old, but age meant nothing to the tall Londoner with the crisp Home Counties accent. As far as Harry was concerned, he simply existed – and, if you wanted to demarcate that existence into years, that was your concern. In any case, Harry was one of those people who defied any sort of pigeonholing. He stood six feet four inches in his sandals – Harry rarely wore shoes – and the shapeless clothes that hung from it exaggerated his spare frame. His usual choice of attire was a grubby vest and ancient army camouflage pants, a combination which was not helped by the grimy lime-green I RAN THE 1ST LONDON MARATHON baseball cap that he had worn with pride for over a quarter of a century. Unruly sprigs of greying greasy hair sprouted from under the cap, framing a narrow, almost morose face dominated by a large bony nose.

  “There you are, you see!” Harry exclaimed triumphantly. “Always trust in the system!”

  He waved a piece of paper between his forefinger and thumb like Chamberlain returning from Munich.

  “What is it?”

  “An invoice for seventeen thousand dollars’ worth of diesel fuel.”

  Jake felt a knot tighten in his stomach. “What about it?”

  “I told the Arab that we had paid it. He said we hadn’t. This would appear to prove that he was right and I was wrong.”

  “Oh shit.”

  “Hmm,” Harry said. He sat down on the corner of the desk and stared out of the office’s single exterior window at the twinkling lights of the smart new marina complex that had been built on the other side of the creek. “Still – not to worry.”

  “We don’t even have seventeen hundred dollars, Harry,” Jake reminded him.

  “No.” Harry grinned, wagging his finger. “But we’ve got the Arab’s fuel.”

  “Yes. And the Arab has got associates with guns.”

  “Don’t you worry about the Arab, old boy,” Harry said. “Business will pick up. I can feel it in my water.”

  Jake drained his beer and tossed the bottle through the office door and into an old oil drum in the workshop. “Jesus Christ, Harry.”

  He went to the window. Through the thickening gloom, it was still possible to make out the crisp modern angles of the brick and smoked-glass boat-houses, clubs and diving schools which had sprung up seemingly overnight on the opposite bank. Their own premises were like an outhouse by comparison. Jake could imagine the blazered clubmen and their wives staring across from the veranda of the Flamingo Creek Yacht Club and wondering when the developers’ bulldozers were scheduled to obliterate the squalor that gave such a sour taste to their gin and tonics.

  “How were the Ernies?” Harry asked breezily. “They were from Detroit, weren’t they?”

  It was Harry who had coined the term ‘Ernies’ to describe the pale-skinned tourists who came to Kenya in search of big fish. Jake didn’t pretend to know about literature, but Harry assured him that every one of them, whether from the USA or the Ukraine, imagined themselves to be Ernest Hemingway, and that every puny baitfish they heaved aboard would have become a two-hundred-pound marlin by the time they returned home. Jake wasn’t about to argue. Harry was an educated man. As long as the Ernies paid, Jake didn’t care what he called them.

  He reached into a pocket of his shorts and dropped a wad of bills on the desk. “They paid up in full and in cash.”

  Harry rubbed his hands and placed the cash in a tin box. “God bless America.”

  He put the box in a floor safe, then stood and rubbed the base of his crackling spine. Jake watched him closely. Ever since he’d got back, there’d been something about his partner that didn’t seem quite right. The good humour and the bravado were in place, but then those were Harry’s default settings. Jake had known Harry long enough to tell when he was hiding something.

  “What is it, Harry?”

  “Eh?”

  “Out with it.”

  There was a moment when Harry debated keeping up the pretence, but then it passed and his long face fell into an expression of weary resignation. “Oh, Christ, Jake. I was hoping you might have already heard.”

  “Harry…” Any number of apocalyptic scenarios suddenly flashed across Jake’s mind. Had there been a bombing? Was the country about to erupt into bloodshed once again? Had the government in Nairobi imposed martial law and ordered all foreign nationals to get the hell out?

  Harry slumped down behind his desk and removed his cap. “It’s Dennis Bentley.”

  Jake almost laughed with relief. “Dennis? What about him?”

  Harry nodded in the direction of a ship-to-shore wireless positioned by the door. “It’s been on the radio all day.”

  Jake scowled. “Well, since Yellowfin’s radio is still in bits, you can assume I’m in the dark. What’s happened to Dennis, Harry?”

  “Well, that rather does seem to be the point, old man.” Harry shrugged. “Nobody appears to know.”

  Three

  From the elevated third tee of Monte Julia golf course, Norrie Barclay could see for more than thirty miles beyond the scalped, arid foothills of the Serr de Ronda mountains to the hazy blue smudge of the Mediterranean sea. On a clear day, it was possible to see even further to the jutting black tooth of Gibraltar nearly fifty miles to the south.

  Norrie couldn’t care less. The only view that concerned him was down into the steep-sided ravine that separated the tee from the handkerchief-sized green 219 yards away. This unforgiving bastard had already swallowed three top-of-the-range Titleists and wrecked his scorecard. Anyone else would have cut their losses and walked away – but not Norrie Barclay. There was the small matter of pride to consider. After careful deliberation, he selected a six iron from his golf bag, removed another gleaming Titleist from the ball sleeve and approached the tee-box.

  “Come on, Norrie! This time!”

  Norrie turned and smiled grimly at his playing partner lounging in the shade of the golf buggy.

  “I’m going to whip its arse, mate,” he said confidently.

  His playing partner swigged from a bottle of San Miguel he had plucked from an ice-box attached to the back of the buggy. He was slim built, and Norrie guessed maybe in his early thirties. He wore pressed slacks and a maroon golf shirt. Norrie Barclay knew him as Whitestone, but what he didn’t know was that Whitestone had many names.

  “Here’s to fourth time lucky,” Whitestone said, and raised the bottle in a toast.

  Arrogant prick, Norrie thought as he dug the point of his tee into the bone-hard earth. Just because his guest had fluked a drive to within five feet of the pin he thought he was Tiger fucking Woods. But just as quickly Norrie reprimanded himself. There was no need to be like that. All in all Whitestone was a decent bloke. Strange fellow, admittedly. A bit intense at times – and even now Norrie still couldn’t place that accent of his. Was it European? Was there a touch of Kraut in there? It was hard to tell. Anyway, it didn’t matter where he was from. What mattered was they’d done some good business since he’d flown in this morning. They could do with a few more like him on the Costa. And, it had to be said, Whitestone’s merchandise was top class. Everyone thought so – which was why Norrie was making a healthy little earner for himself by reselling Whitestone’s goods to his associates in the Balkans. All right, it wasn’t strictly kosher business protocol, but you got nowhere in this world unless you were prepared to bend a few rules.

  “Nice and easy, Norrie,” Whitestone said.

  Norrie took a deep breath, exhaled slowly. Backswing, hold, downswing…Thwapp! The contact was fat and healthy and echoed satisfyingly from the steep sides of the ravine.

  “You’re the man!”

  With mounting excitement, Norrie shaded his eyes from the sun and attempted to get a bead on his ball. There! A speck of iridescent white against the blue sky, soaring high and handsome and on a perfect trajectory. Christ – maybe he was the man! The ball pitched ten yards on to the green, bounced once and then?

  “Hold up! Hold up!” Norrie wailed. “Nooo!”

  The ball
bit into the turf and spun backwards, gathering speed as it approached the lip of the ravine. For a moment it seemed as if it might catch on the unruly tuft of marron grass that fringed the green, but instead the ball bobbled once and dropped over the edge, bouncing crazily on the rocky outcrops as it plunged into the abyss.

  “Bad luck, Norrie,” said Whitestone, as he stepped from the buggy and made his way to the tee-box.

  Norrie leaned on his golf club like a bent old man. “I do not fucking believe what I have just seen. I never get backspin. Never!”

  “Of course, it could be worse,” Whitestone said.

  “I don’t see how.” Norrie shrugged, staring bale-fully down into the crevasse.

  In a single fluid movement that would have graced anybody’s golf game, Whitestone swung a Big Bertha War Bird with nine-degree loft into the side of Nome’s head. Norrie staggered across the tee-box, blood pumping from a two-inch gash, then fell on his backside on the artificial grass.

  “What did I tell you about business etiquette, Norrie?” Whitestone said calmly, the club resting on his shoulder like a parasol. “About doing deals behind my back with my merchandise?”

  “Wha?” Norrie said, his eyes spinning in their sockets.

  “Now maybe you people here think it’s acceptable to do that. Maybe you think it’s all part of the rough and tumble. But it’s not how I do business, Norrie. So as of now our arrangement is terminated. Do you hear me?”

  Norrie attempted to swipe the blood from his eyes but succeeded only in overbalancing and slumping over on to his side.

  “Terminated.”

  Whitestone broadened his stance and drove the club head into Nome’s face. Three more swings, and what was left of the Englishman’s skull had turned to pulp.

  Whitestone scooped up the inert body with a single easy movement and dumped it behind the wheel of the golf buggy. After wiping the blood from the clubface with a towel, he replaced it in the bag tied to the rear of the buggy and then jammed the gear lever into the forward position. By standing on the running board, Whitestone was able to direct the vehicle to the lip of the ravine. As its fat front wheels went over the edge, and the buggy and its single passenger plunged two hundred feet on to the unforgiving rocks below, he noted with irritation that there was a single spot of fresh blood on his brand-new $300 golf shoes.

  Four

  Suki Lo’s skull-face cracked open as Jake and Harry walked into the bar and her Nike-tick eyes all but disappeared in the harsh creases of skin.

  “Hey, boys – how you doin’?” she called out in a shrill voice that some of her regulars said could cut through fog better than the siren at Galana Point.

  “A bottle of Mr Daniel’s finest, Suki, my pet,” Harry said. “And two large glasses.”

  Suki smiled again. Her teeth were mottled and crooked; as long as they’d known her, she’d insisted that one day she was going back to Malaysia to get them replaced because dental work across there was dirt cheap compared to Kenya, and a million times safer. She claimed to know a dentist in Penang who would, for just one hundred US dollars, pull those rotten pegs right out of her head and replace them with gleaming white porcelain tombstones. Jake didn’t know how gleaming white porcelain tombstones would, look in her mouth. Suki Lo had the kind of lived-in face that suited the teeth she’d got.

  She placed a bottle of bourbon on the bar and skimmed across two half-pint glasses.

  “God bless you, my darling,” Harry said, tipping two large measures into the glasses.

  Suki Lo’s bar was three hundred yards along the dirt track from the boatyard and blended in perfectly with the rest of the ramshackle buildings on the south side of the creek. It was a rudimentary drinking den with nicotine-brown walls and bare wooden floors eroded by cigarette butts and spilled liquor. Along the length of the bar, shallow grooves and nicks had been carved by the elbows and gutting knives of Suki’s regulars, mostly game-boat skippers and mechanics, a few of whom now sat in dark corners hunched protectively over their bottles of hooch. Normally they talked about money and women. Tonight they were talking about one thing and one thing only.

  “Terrible ‘bout Dennis,” Suki said in a low voice. “Fuckin’ uh-believable.”

  “We heard,” Harry said, nodding. “Shocking business.”

  “Fuckin’ uh-believable.” She shook her head and, muttering to herself, wandered into the kitchen.

  Yes, Jake thought, sucking back a mouthful of bourbon. Fuckin’ uh-believable just about summed it up.

  Dennis Bentley was a white Kenyan who ran a game boat called Martha B out of a yard up near the mouth of the creek. He had a reputation as a loner and a cantankerous bastard, but then who didn’t round here? Like most of the longtime independent operators in this part of Kenya, Dennis was more concerned with keeping his shoestring outfit solvent than affecting pleasantries. Jake remembered him as a tall, rugged-looking man in his mid-fifties who occasionally dropped into Suki’s for a shot of rum.

  According to Harry, Dennis had set out shortly before dawn that morning to pick up some Ernies from one of the all-inclusive hotels at Watamu beach, thirty miles to the north of Flamingo Creek. It was a routine job – the punters wanted to see some humpbacked whales – but Martha B had never arrived. After an hour waiting for him to show, the Ernies predictably kicked up hell; and it was this, rather than any concern for Dennis’s welfare, that had persuaded the hotel owner to contact the coastguard. By then, however, a sugar freighter bound for Mombasa had already sighted oil and debris on the water around twelve miles east of Watamu. Fishing boats in the area had picked up the chatter on their radios and immediately switched course – but after six hours trawling the open sea they had found nothing.

  And all the while Yellowfin had been blithely chugging along with a boatload of Ernies and a radio that didn ‘t work.

  “You OK, Jake?” Harry asked.

  He nodded, but in reality he felt sick to his stomach – because as far as he was concerned there was an extra repugnant twist to Dennis Bentley’s apparent demise. The Kenyan skipper’s bait boy was a thirteen-year-old kid called Tigi Eruwa who lived with his mother and his elder brother Sammy at Jalawi Inlet.

  The same Sammy who that afternoon had been amusing the Ernies with his swimming prowess, unaware that his kid brother was missing, presumed dead.

  “Fuckin’ hell,” Suki said, lighting a menthol cigarette and blowing the smoke in the direction of a long-defunct ceiling fan. “How the hell does a boat just blow up?”

  Harry shrugged. “Who knows?”

  “We don’t know for sure that’s what happened,” Jake said, but his words were greeted by a harsh cackle of cynical laughter from the other end of the bar.

  A man in a khaki shirt and a greasy Peugeot cycling cap sat nursing an open rum bottle.

  “Martha B was a fine boat – but she was fifty years old,” the man said in clipped South African tones.

  “Good evening, Tug,” Harry said without conviction. “Are you well?”

  “As well as can be expected, Harry,” the man said, splashing three fingers of liquor into his glass and raising it in salute. “To absent friends, eh? Absent fucking friends.”

  Tug Viljoen could have been anywhere between forty and sixty, but his deeply etched, leathered face made it difficult to tell. Behind his back Suki’s regulars reckoned he looked like one of the mouldy old crocodiles he kept in his reptile park up near the Mombasa highway, but he always reminded Jake of the Tasmanian Devil cartoon character of his youth – a squat, powerful torso supported by unfeasibly spindly legs, and with a similarly wild look in his eyes.

  “Yeah, Martha B was a bloody fine boat in her day,” Viljoen growled. “But, when Dennis bought her, she was rotting away in a dry dock. I kept telling him he should get a new boat, but he treated her like a vintage car.” He drained the glass and immediately refilled it. “Trouble is, vintage cars aren’t as robust as new ones. Martha B was designed for rich piss-artists to go cruising up and d
own the coast, not for belting the shit out of for fifteen, twenty hours a day chasing marlin. The parts get old, they get worn. Pipes can start to leak. All it takes is a spark, or some drunken fuck to drop his cigarette end between the boards and…kaboom!”

  “Aren’t you a ray of fucking sunshine?” Jake said.

  Viljoen swiped his mouth with the back of his hand, revealing an ugly stitchwork of scar tissue on the underside of his arm.

  “Just being realistic, son,” he said. “Used to happen regular round here. Long before you pair of English conquistadors arrived. Speaking of which, how old is that bucket of yours?”

  “Fifteen years.”

  “Hah! Then you want to think about getting a new one before it’s too late.”

  “We’d need to think about robbing a bank first,” Harry admitted.

  Viljoen stared at him for a moment, then laughed gruffly and turned back to the already half-empty rum bottle.

  “Anyway,” Harry continued, “as Jake said, we still don’t know what’s happened to Dennis. And, knowing that old bastard, there’s still every chance he might be found drifting on a plank of wood.”

  “You really think that?” Viljoen said sceptically.

  “Always look on the bright side, Tug.”

  “Bright side?” Viljoen said. “I don’t recall seeing one of them round here recently.”

  ∨ Bait! ∧

  Day Two

  Five

  The reward for professional diligence, Detective Inspector Daniel Jouma of the Coast Province CID reflected, was a sore head from bashing it against brick walls. And, right now, he had a splitting headache that was not being helped by Detective Sergeant Nyami’s tea.

  “How did you make this?” Jouma demanded, pointing at the insipid white liquid in the cup on his desk.

  Nyami glanced up from the sports pages of The Daily Nation and furrowed his brow. “With a teabag.”