Elephant Dropping (9781301895199) (25 page)

Titus
grudgingly took out two more sodas and handed them over. ‘So what
happens here?’

The cop with
the swagger stick took a swig of his soda and studied Titus. ‘You
don’t know what the plan is?’

Titus frowned.
‘No I’m not even supposed to be here.’

‘We leave the
range rover here and drive to Malindi.’

Titus looked at
him uncomprehendingly. ‘Why?’

‘Sergeant
Njuguna. Show this great shooter why we are leaving the car here,’
he instructed the other policeman.

‘Come with me,’
the sergeant said and walked off towards the river. Titus followed,
they reached the edge of the water. The rushing noise got
louder.

‘This is a
popular spot with visitors to the park. They come to see the
falls,’ Njuguna explained. He pointed down the river and continued
to walk along its edge towards the roaring sound. ‘They come here
with cameras to take photos,’ he called out, now, having to shout
above the noise.

Titus was
intrigued, the water in the river was now moving very fast. A
little farther and the river disappeared into a chasm from where
the roar emanated. Clouds of water vapour obscured the drop. ‘Over
here,’ shouted the policeman, ‘you can see better.’ Titus joined
him on a small ledge to one side of the falls. As he stepped up and
looked over, the cop pushed him in. His scream was hardly
discernible, as he plummeted into the depths. The sergeant finished
his soda burped with satisfaction, and tossed the empty bottle into
the thundering gap. ‘Cheers,’ he said. Njuguna walked back to the
car. ‘He is gone sir.’

‘Ok let’s go. I
forgot to tell him his boss said he was fired,’ and the two of them
laughed. The senior cop called Joe Rubia telling him they were
leaving for Malindi and all had been taken care of.

Rubia thanked
them and then put a call through to Kamau at immigration. ‘Ok, you
can send that report to the papers,’ he said. ‘I also need a photo
of the
mzungu
- you must have one on the files. Can you get
me a copy? Good, let’s meet up tomorrow, the usual spot anytime
after six.’

He tried Lodas
number for the fifth time. What the hell was that idiot doing? He
didn’t trust him to be left on his own to find Nicholls. He made a
decision and sent a backup team to Voi headed by his best man
Cyrus, to join in the hunt. ‘Once you locate the
mzungu
, you
must eliminate him immediately - Loda knows what he looks
like.’

*

Brian rode
cautiously, adjusting to the weight of Doug as pillion. He tried to
clear his mind of endless questions, while concentrating on the
ride. Doug tucked his head in the slipstream of Brian’s helmet,
hiding from the buffeting wind.

About fifty
miles from Mombasa, Doug called out for Brian to pull over. He got
off the bike, took out his new mobile and called Gem. ‘How are you
doing hon?’ he asked. ‘Good, you’re on the bus. My head’s ok.
Listen love, we are going to go out of mobile coverage for a while,
so don’t be alarmed and I will call you when I can. I love you
too,’ and rang off.

Brian took off
his helmet. The strain of the past few hours showed on his face.
‘How is your head?’ he asked Doug.

‘It’s throbbing
a bit, but I will survive. I think we need to eat. I’m going to
find somewhere, get some food then we can discuss what to do next.’
They swapped places on the bike. After a few miles, Doug pulled off
at a small roadside village, curious youngsters instantly
surrounded the machine. Doug spoke in Kiswahili, and they were
directed to a low mud and wattle shack, smoke wafting from the
thatched roof. He parked round the back out of sight of the highway
and the two of them went inside. He ordered for the both of them,
as they sat on rough wooden benches opposite a cracked linoleum
covered table.

‘It’s beans
only I’m afraid - and sweet tea,’ he told Brian.

Brian said.
‘I’m not that hungry,’ appalled at their surroundings. The flies,
dirt floor, chickens scratching, and smoke filled atmosphere, all
added up to his idea of an instant case of dysentery.

Doug tucked
into a tin plate of red beans. ‘No time to be fussy, you need to
eat to keep your strength up.’

Brian tried the
tea. It wasn’t bad, too sweet for his taste. Gingerly, he took a
spoonful of beans; they were lukewarm and had no flavour. He chewed
without enthusiasm.

‘Who knew you
were driving down to Malindi today?’

‘Anyone in the
bank,’ Brian answered.

‘You were
expected to go through the park. Those two guys who carjacked us,
knew what they were doing, a professional hit team. Normally, they
would have shot us on the spot, but their plans were messed up,
that’s why they made the mistake of not checking if I was armed,’
Doug stated.

‘I had no idea
you had a gun, is that legal?’

‘Yes, I’m a
police reservist, and licensed to carry a gun, something those two
didn’t know. Do you have any idea why they wanted the car?’

Brian shook his
head, and took another spoonful of beans. ‘What is a police
reservist?’

‘Kenya is made
up of multiracial communities. I belong to a watchdog organisation
that works together with the police. Occasionally we are asked to
make a citizens arrest if required. But mainly we are a passive
force, keeping an eye out for suspicious characters within our
respective communities.’

‘You said the
man you shot was a policeman?’

‘That’s what
was on his ID card. He was an undercover cop, so whoever is after
you, there is big money involved. Those guys don’t come cheap, and
my guess is it’s definitely something to do with your bank.’ He
sipped his tea.

Brian frowned
angrily; this whole thing was getting beyond him. Here he was,
sitting in some roadside shack in the middle of nowhere, listening
to a man he hardly knew, talk about his life like he was in a
gangster movie. He swore aloud. ‘This is all too fucked up for me!’
Pushing the plate of beans away angrily, he wanted his life back,
as it was this morning. How did he know if Doug was telling him the
truth? His car was missing and someone had been murdered by this
stranger, who was now telling him what to do.

Doug said
evenly, reading Brian’s face. ‘Bugger you mister. I can get on my
bike right now and leave you here. In fact I don’t know why I don’t
do just that.’

‘Go ahead,’
Brian, stared back at Doug, challenging him.

Doug looked
away and sighed. ‘Have you ever used a gun?’

‘No, I’m an
arsehole bank auditor.’ The tension between them was palpable, as
they stared each other down.

Doug gave in
with ill grace. ‘I guess I’m stuck with you but there’s more to you
than meets the eye Mr. Nicholls. It’s a serious question. Do you
know how to use a gun?’

Brian leaned
back. ‘Yes I do.’

Doug reached
into the back of his waistband and pulled out Lodas pistol. The
children, who were watching, yelled out and ran away. ‘Seven still
in the clip, no other ammo.’

Brian took the
gun wordlessly and checking the safety was on, tucked it into his
waistband. ‘I think we should get out of here,’ as a curious crowd
began to gather around them.

Doug tossed
some coins on the table, and got up. ‘We are going to be riding on
some dirt tracks, and the blade’s not too stable on loose stuff, so
try not to wriggle about.’

‘Ok dad,’ said
Brian sarcastically, ‘and where are you taking us?’

‘Some back
roads.’ Doug ignored the taunt, firing up the bike. They rejoined
the highway, leaving a crowd of excited villagers behind them. A
few miles later, Doug slowed and turned off the highway onto a dirt
track. The track meandered through the bush, the ruts in the road
evidence of heavy lorries. ‘We are following the park boundary,’ he
called out, pointing at the barbwire fence that ran alongside the
road. In places Brian had to get off as Doug negotiated a
particular rough part of the track. ‘This is black cotton,’ he said
as they rode through deeply rutted areas, now dried rock hard. The
track worsened as they got further into the bush, with frequent
detours. It was hot, and the bike ridden slowly, began to overheat.
Doug pulled up in the shade of a thorn tree. ‘Let’s rest a while,’
he announced, ‘the bike’s hot and my shoulders are killing me.’

They squatted
in the shade beside the motorbike, the silence broken only by the
pinging from the overheated metal. Doug picked up a stick and idly
began to draw a map in the dust. ‘This is the highway we have
left,’ he indicated a straight line, ‘Mombasa is here.’ He flipped
a fallen leaf into position on the map. ‘Malindi over here,’
another leaf, and stabbing a wiggly line, ‘we are here. We need to
cut down to the Mombasa-Malindi highway,’ he pushed the stick
along. ‘If we continue on this road, we will end up outside the
eastern park gates, where there is a road direct to Malindi. But I
don’t fancy riding in the dark on that road, so we will try to find
the track that joins the Malindi-Mombasa highway. Trouble is, I
haven’t been on this road for twenty years, so I’m not sure where
the turn off is.’

Brian offered.
‘Let me ride, you’re tired and can better see the way ahead as a
passenger. What’s the plan, once we are in Malindi?’

‘We can hide
out at my uncle’s place. He used to be with the police, he will
know what to do. It’s a small ranch alongside the Sabaki River,
miles from Malindi, quiet and secluded.’

ELEVEN

A goat herder
wandered along the dirt track singing a little ditty. Catapult in
hand he scanned the trees for pigeons or doves. He already had two
birds on a belt around his waist. The goats up ahead of him had
stopped and were staring at something in the bush, stamping their
feet and snorting in alarm. He hoped it wasn’t a lion. Cautiously
sliding his panga out of his belt, he moved closer and saw a man
lying on his back in the grass. A drunk he wondered and called out.
There was no response and as he moved closer, he could hear the
buzzing of flies. Eyes wide in alarm he studied the lifeless
body.

He knelt down
and removed Loda’s shoes and tried them on, pleased they fitted.
Whistling to his goats, he continued down the road singing happily.
He would hide the shoes before he got to his village and then
report the dead man to the chief.

*

Detective
Katana from Voi police station squatted down beside Loda's dead
body. ‘He was shot at least three times,’ he told the other
policeman with him. Although the goats had obscured most of the
prints on the track, he could still see where a small car -
probably a saloon - had turned round in the road. ‘Brought here and
shot in the chest twice and then once under the jaw probably as he
was lying down, this was not done by a professional,’ he added and
stood up. ‘Search the surrounding area,’ he told his companion,
‘see if you can find his shoes,’ and addressing the village chief,
‘I want to interview the man who found the body.’

Katana went
through Loda’s pockets and found only two pieces of chewing gum and
a few
miraa
sticks. He took a blanket out of the police car
and covered the body. There was a shout from the bushes. ‘I’ve
found a mobile phone,’ the other policeman said, waving it in the
air triumphantly.

Katana said.
’Oh very good corporal, now we can take your fingerprints for
analysis, can’t we?’

The corporal
looked embarrassed. ‘Oh I didn’t think sir.’

‘Bring it
here.’ He switched it on, several text messages beeped though. They
were all from the same number urging the owner to call back. The
phone rang with loud rap music. Taking a moment, the detective
composed himself and then pressed answer.

‘Hello, hello,’
the caller said, ‘can you hear me?’

‘Yo,’ the
detective answered.

‘Where the hell
are you, and why was your phone switched off?’ The voice
demanded.

‘This is police
detective Katana, your man is in a lot of trouble.’

‘What! Who?
Where is Loda? I want to talk to him.’

‘And who are
you?’ asked the detective.

‘I’m a friend
of his. Why do you have his mobile?’

‘He is in
custody, and refuses to talk to us. His name is Loda, you said?’
The phone went dead. He addressed the blanketed body, ‘Loda is your
name it seems and Cyrus is trying to find you.’

‘Put the body
in the car,’ he instructed the corporal and the chief. ‘We need to
get it to the mortuary and get those bullets out.’ The phone rang
again as the car made its way onto the highway. A different caller
under the name Bosstard. ‘I wonder who this joker, is. Yo?’ he
answered.

‘Hello Loda?’ a
voice asked.

‘Loda is not
available who is this?’

‘This is Chief
Inspector Joe Rubia from the special crimes division. Who am I
talking to?’ the deep honeyed voice asked.

‘This is
Detective Katana from the ordinary crimes division.’

There was a
pause. ‘Ah, inspector,’ the pleasant voice went on, ‘I hear you are
holding one of my detectives in custody?’

‘How do you
know that?’ asked Katana.

‘One of my
junior operatives Cyrus called this number and apparently this is
what you told him.’

‘Your operative
did not introduce himself, but yes, we have a man in custody. I
don’t know if it’s the man you’re looking for, he won’t talk to
us.’

‘Listen the
man’s name is Loda he is working on a very sensitive undercover
case for me and this would explain his reluctance to talk. What
charge are you holding him on?’

‘He was
involved in an accident and attempted to escape.’

There was a
pause. ‘I can vouch for the man. I need you to release him as soon
as possible. We can address the accident issue at a later date. I
will not allow him to evade justice, you understand, but he has
urgent information that is vital to this operation. Was he hurt, is
he in any pain?’ Rubia asked.