Jake & Jouma 02; Burn Read online

  And right now, Jake thought, he was about to land one with a tuna line.

  They would never believe it at Suki Los bar back at Flamingo Creek.

  “Sammy – get ready.”

  But the boy had already scampered back down to the cockpit and was bent over the stern rail, extending the canvas landing stretcher that was used to secure the really big fish until they were either tagged or else transported back to shore for the glamorous photo session on the dock.

  The shark was almost touching distance from the boat now, on its side, staring at Jake with one coal-black eye. “Smile, you sonqfabitch!” he said.

  It was the only line in Jaws he’d ever wanted to say.

  And it was right then that the line snapped; and Jake, suddenly pulling against thin air, fell on to his backside with the rod still gripped in both hands.

  “You lost it.”

  He looked up to see the Ernie staring disbeliev-ingly out to sea. Behind him, like a grey-faced wraith, his prospective son-in-law clung to the frame of the cabin door. There was drying vomit down the front of his safari shirt.

  “He lost it!” the Ernie said. The Ernie was right. Jake had lost the fish. And there was a time when a humiliation like this would have put him in a bad mood for the rest of the day. But, as he picked himself up from the deck, Jake felt only a strange inner calm. It was just a bloody fish after all. Nobody had died. And, after everything he had been through recently, that made a pleasant change.

  ∨ Burn ∧

  7

  The hippies arrived at Flamingo Creek mid-afternoon, bumping along the dirt road from the Mombasa highway in a battered American schoolbus painted every colour of the rainbow. There were two dozen of them, and their leader was a white Kenyan in her late twenties. Her name was Evie Simenon, a name which struck Harry Philliskirk as strangely alluring and exotic – even if her appearance, all tie-dyed cotton and lank-looking dreadlocks, was not. She wanted directions to a place called Jalawi village, and in return she and her people had some rather potent grass they were more than willing to share – which was why Harry, dozing in the sun outside the workshop of Britannia Fishing Trips Ltd, was more than happy to help.

  Trouble was, they were on the wrong side of the river, he told them. Jalawi was on the north bank, near the mouth of the creek. And, apart from a handful of mud huts, a few hundred people and maybe twice as many goats and stray dogs, there wasn’t much else to see. Were they sure it was Jalawi they wanted? If they were looking for Zen enlightenment they wouldn’t find it round there.

  “We’re not here for Zen enlightenment,” Evie Simenon said sharply. “We’re here to stop Spurling Developments building a hotel.”

  “Ah,” Harry said, as suddenly it all made sense. They were not hippies after all. He should have guessed just from Evie’s appearance that she was nothing less than a fully-fledged eco-warrior. Any residual allure evaporated like morning mist.

  “Spurling Developments is systematically implementing a slash and burn policy all along the eastern seaboard of Kenya,” she told him. “Jalawi village is next on the list. They plan to build another five-star hotel – as if the coast isn’t choked with them already.”

  Her followers – mostly gormless-looking kids of student age – nodded in agreement, then looked to Harry for his response. And, as he lounged in his faded canvas director’s chair with a king-sized joint between his lips, it was hard not to feel like some wizened old guru from the acid-soaked 1960s, dispensing wisdom to a new generation of dropouts. It was a curious sensation, because back in the days when he commanded a six-figure basic salary in the City of London it was accepted wisdom among the stock-market speculators and hedge-fund managers that anyone who sang Bob Dylan songs in Underground stations or marched for peace or hugged trees was an indolent shirker in need of delousing and a damn good haircut.

  He gestured across the water at the gleaming edifice of the Flamingo Creek Yacht Club, its plate-glass windows glaring disapprovingly at the ramshackle boatyard opposite.

  “As you can see, Spurling Developments already has influential friends on the planning committee. I suspect if they want to build a hotel then they will go ahead and build one.”

  “That’s why someone has to stand up to them,” Evie retorted. “Think of the people who will lose their homes and their livelihoods if this hotel is built on their land.”

  Harry drew the acrid smoke deep into his lungs and tried not to cough. “Is this what you do, Evie?” he said. “Drive from building site to building site in that bus of yours?”

  “We can’t just sit back and let rich white developers turn Kenya into one big hotel complex.”

  “Bravo. That’s the spirit.”

  “Why don’t you come with us?”

  Harry smiled indulgently. “I’m a bit old to be lying down in front of bulldozers, my dear.”

  Through a cloud of pungent hash smoke he was aware of Evie sizing him up.

  “Thank you for the directions,” she said. “But we should go now.”

  Harry gestured woozily at the bus. “Then watch your suspension,” he said. “There are potholes on that Jalawi road that you might never get out of again.”

  ♦

  When they had gone Harry heaved himself unsteadily out of his chair and plodded back towards the workshop.

  It must be nice, he reflected, to be so damned idealistic. One of the great regrets of age was the inevitable discovery of how little difference you made to anything without money and power. Spurling Developments had both – which was why Evie Simenon had absolutely no chance of stopping the development at Jalawi or the bulldozers rumbling along the north bank of Flamingo Creek like a Panzer division across France. Like all Spurling Developments shareholders – and Harry had been one since his days in the City – he had seen the plans, knew all about the five-star hotel and knew that Jalawi village was doomed. It was simply a fact of life. And as far as he was concerned it was better to embrace the inevitable and benefit from it than to gain nothing by standing in its way. After all, a hotel on the doorstep could only be good for business.

  It was almost four o’clock now and Jake was due back at Flamingo Creek. The little interlude with Evie Simenon had been fun, but now it was time for the managing directors of Britannia Fishing Trips Ltd to discuss the burning issues of the day over a few beers and a bowl of Suki Lo’s chilli noodles.

  And a healthy dose of man-talk was just what Jake required in Harry’s opinion. Ever since he’d met up with Martha Bentley, the big galoot had been mooning over her like some spotty adolescent with a crush. Now Martha was a pleasant girl all right, and what she planned to do with her old man’s insurance money was like a gift from the gods as far as the business was concerned. But a line had to be drawn. Harry wanted his partner back.

  Just then his attention was diverted by the sight of a two-man helicopter buzzing overhead on its way downriver. Such aircraft were not uncommon around Flamingo Creek – they were a quicker and safer alternative to using the roads, and one day Harry vowed he was going to have one himself instead of the twenty-year-old Land Rover that was his present mode of transport.

  But as he watched, the chopper reared up in midair and hovered over the creek like a dragonfly considering its next move. Then, to his surprise, it suddenly banked sharply on itself and landed beside the workshop, casting out a stinging cloud of dust. The passenger door opened and two white men in dark suits climbed out. Covering their faces with their sleeves they ran across to where Harry was ducked down on the jetty.

  “Are you Jake Moore?” one of the men shouted into Harry’s ear over the waning din of the rotors. He was mid-fifties with buzz-cut greying hair and a full moustache. The accent was American.

  Harry opened his mouth to speak, but it was instantly filled with dust. He shook his head instead.

  “Is this where Jake Moore lives?”

  Harry nodded.

  “My name is FBI Special Agent Clarence Bryson,” the American bawled. He gestur
ed to the other man, who was perhaps twenty years younger and with the physique of someone who worked out regularly. “This is Special Agent McCrickerd. Let’s go inside, shall we? We need to talk.”

  ∨ Burn ∧

  8

  Heading north on the Mombasa – Malindi highway, Jouma had also noticed the small helicopter as it swept low overhead. And, like Harry, he too had regarded it with a certain amount of envy as the engine of his ancient Fiat Panda clanked ominously, the way it always did when the speedometer went over forty mph.

  “Did you know, Mwangi, that it takes less than twenty minutes to fly from Mombasa to Malindi in a helicopter? Think of the man hours that would save.”

  Detective Constable David Mwangi was twenty-four years old and six foot three inches tall. In order to fit into the passenger seat of Jouma’s Panda he’d almost had to fold himself in half.

  “A helicopter would be most beneficial, sir,” he said with heartfelt sincerity.

  Jouma smiled to himself. Mwangi had been his new junior officer for less than a week, but he liked him already. He was enthusiastic, sharp and respectful – everything, in other words, that his predecessor, Sergeant Nyami, was not. He was also Oxford-educated and green as a palm leaf. But he clearly had promise, otherwise he would not have been among the dozen or so rising stars that Simba had brought with her from Nairobi.

  They crossed the bridge over Flamingo Creek, then turned off the highway and followed the north bank of the broad river. This road was metalled and freshly asphalted, as befitted one of the coast’s wealthiest enclaves. There were imposing granite walls to keep prying eyes from the homes beyond, and gates manned by uniformed askari from private security firms.

  “I wonder how much it costs to live here?” Mwangi said, gazing out of the window.

  “Start saving, Constable. On CID wages it will only take you three hundred years to afford a down-payment.”

  After a mile or so the gated community abruptly ended and the smooth road disintegrated again into a rutted track leading through a dense forest of casuarina, flame and mbatnbakqfi trees. From the smell of woodsmoke, they were approaching the village now. Jouma tentatively manoeuvred his car around stupid goats and excited children while villagers stood and stared with grim suspicion at the vehicle and its two occupants.

  “What are they looking at?” asked Mwangi.

  “Two Africans in suits, Constable. It is not a common sight in these parts.”

  The road ended at an open patch of wasteground, where dogs picked at the rubbish heaps, women washed clothes in a brackish stream and the men, inevitably, just sat around smoking and playing cards. Beyond was a ramshackle collection of wooden shacks leading down to the river, where a handful of wooden outriggers were lashed together at anchor. As the two detectives got out of the car they could hear the distant crump of the waves where the creek emptied into the ocean beyond the headland.

  “Let’s make this as quick and painless as possible, shall we?” Jouma said. “And keep your cool, Mwangi. Brother Willem can be a tricky customer.”

  The inspector led the way through the village to a whitewashed wooden church built on a spit of land overlooking a shallow cove. It was sturdily built in a four-square, European style. A cross had been fixed to its tar-paper roof and, above the door in foot-high painted letters, were the words: Redeemed Apostolic Gospel Church.

  “I am not familiar with this particular order,” Mwangi said.

  Jouma nodded. “Until Sister Gudrun disappeared, neither was I.”

  The door to the church opened and a thin, bearded man in his mid-thirties strode into the sunlight. He wore a long white and red robe with a thick rime of dust around its hem. He appeared startled by the appearance of the two detectives.

  “Inspector Jouma.”

  Jouma took his outstretched hand. “Brother Willem.”

  “I was not expecting you,” the priest said, his blue eyes darting behind steel-rimmed spectacles. “Have you found her?”

  Willem spoke with the nervous, distracted manner of a man who had other, more pressing concerns than the welfare of a seventy-five-year-old nun. In fact, he looked like a man who was hiding something, Jouma thought, just as he had forty-eight hours earlier when he had first paid a visit to Jalawi village.

  “I’m afraid not,” Jouma said smoothly. “Brother Willem, this is Detective Constable Mwangi. He has recently joined my department from Nairobi CID.”

  The priest nodded absently and shook hands with Mwangi out of politeness; but there was barely any eye contact and once the formalities were over he impatiently returned his attention to Jouma. “If there is no news, then why are you here, Inspector?”

  “Perhaps this is not the best place to talk,” Jouma said.

  Inside the church two dozen metal and plastic chairs were arranged in rows on either side of the dirt floor. They faced a wooden altar table and pulpit. A particularly mournful-looking Christ hung from a cross on the wall behind, next to an amateurish, hand-painted mural depicting scenes from the Gospels.

  Willem sat on the front row, agitatedly picking at the skin around his thumbnail, and Jouma drew breath, knowing that the purpose of the visit could no longer be put off.

  “I am here to inform you that I have been assigned to a different case by my superior officer,” he said. “Detective Constable Mwangi will be taking over the investigation from me.”

  Usually, when people were told that their case was being fobbed off on to a junior officer, the reaction was one of furious indignation. But Willem merely blinked like some sort of reptile. “What does that mean?” he said.

  “In terms of the investigation, nothing,” Jouma insisted. “I can categorically assure you that finding Sister Gudrun remains our highest priority.” Yet even as he launched into a vigorous defence of Mwangi’s abilities, he found himself unnerved by the blank expression on the priest’s face. “Detective Constable Mwangi is an extremely capable officer and I have every confidence in his ability,” he concluded, his voice trailing off. “The sooner you tell him everything you know about the missing lady –”

  “Again?” Willem exclaimed. The outburst was sudden and unexpected, and Mwangi flinched.

  “Yes,” Jouma said firmly. “Again. And now, if you will kindly excuse me, I think I will go outside and stretch my legs. The potholes on the road are very bad for my joints. Mwangi – take over.”

  As Jouma walked away, he noted with a certain amount of sadistic pleasure that Mwangi had the same beseeching expression as a dog whose owner has just left him in kennels for the first time.

  ∨ Burn ∧

  9

  American Airlines flight 368 from New York touched down at Moi International Airport three minutes ahead of schedule – but it would be at least another hour before the first of the passengers cleared immigration control and collected their luggage from the carousels. By then the occupant of seat 3B was already in the back of a taxi heading towards a five-star hotel north of Mombasa island. Such were the advantages of travelling first class and with hand luggage only, Martha Bentley’s killer thought.

  The name on the airline manifest was eastern European in origin. The face in the passport photograph was lean and unsmiling. The colour of the AmEx charge card was impressive enough to warrant the finest suite in the hotel and a personal welcome from the general manager.

  “If there is anything we can do to make your stay more comfortable, please do not hesitate to ask,” he said.

  “I appreciate your hospitality,” the killer said. “I’m sure I’ll have a wonderful stay.” As the esteemed guest poured a large Scotch from the minibar and stepped into a hot bath, Harry listened with disbelief as FBI Special Agent Clarence Bryson described how, twenty-four hours earlier, Martha Bentley had been murdered in her apartment in New York’s Upper East Side.

  “It was a professional hit,” Bryson said. He described how the assassin had slipped a stiletto blade between the cervical vertebrae of Martha’s spine and into her spinal
cord, killing her instantly.

  “But…why?” Harry said. He was slumped in his chair in the office of Britannia Fishing Trips Ltd as if he’d just been felled. “Why would anyone want to kill her?”

  “Because of her boyfriend,” Agent McCrickerd said. “Patrick Noonan.”

  “Noonan?”

  “Alias John Whitestone, Donald Ridgeway, Peter Miller, Salvatore Bruni, Karl Mayerling, Jean-Pierre Coutin – the list is as long as your arm, Mr Philliskirk. The only thing we know for certain about that bastard is that he’s dead.”

  Bryson, the senior man, leaned forward in his chair. “We believe Noonan was a key player in an organisation responsible for the illegal trafficking of thousands of innocent kids across the world. The Bureau has been on the trail of this organisation for months, but without a sniff – until Noonan’s east Africa operation was blown wide open.”

  “We think they’re running scared,” McCrickerd said. “Tying up any loose ends they can.”

  “Loose ends like Martha Bentley,” Harry said sombrely. Bryson nodded. “They couldn’t take the chance that she might know something, that Noonan let something slip while they were together.”

  Harry’s eyes widened as a sudden, blood-chilling thought occurred to him. He jabbed his finger at them. “You think the killer is coming for Jake and me now, right?”

  Bryson smiled. “Relax, Harry. No offence, but I think you and Jake are pretty low down on the list of priorities for these people.”

  Harry did not seem convinced. “So why are you here?”

  “Because one of Noonan’s key African operatives is still very much alive here in Mombasa – and we aim to keep him that way until we can get him Stateside.”

  It took Harry a few moments to register just who the American agent was talking about.

  “Conrad Getty?”

  Getty was a coast hotel owner who also happened to be Noonan’s logistics man and whose wealth and prestige had been built on procuring young girls from across east Africa for greedy European clients.