Elephant Dropping (9781301895199) (16 page)

‘I see,’ Brian
paused.

‘So captain,
what do you want to do?’

‘Go ahead. What
would a new battery add to the bill?’

‘Probably
another 5,000.’

‘Alright, next
question. When can I have the car?’

‘Hmmm not till
tomorrow, say by 10 a.m.,’ Doug replied.

‘I really need
the car to be ready by then,’ Brian said.

‘Right captain,
can you drop off a deposit, say about 7,000 shillings? I don’t want
to incur expenses on your behalf.’

‘Are you open
over lunch?’ Brian asked.

‘Yes, got a
rush job on a Range Rover,’ teased Doug.

‘Ok, I will see
you at around one,’ Brian laughed.

Returning to
his work he brought up the training scheme on the computer. His
absence from the project had given him a clearer perspective, and
he had to admit it was impressive, no wonder Njenga was
enthusiastic. If all went according to plan, it would indeed put
NNB ahead of its rivals. Brian, setting his misgivings aside,
buried himself in his work for the rest of the morning.

He was alarmed
when he saw his car, up on jacks all four wheels removed, the
bonnet propped up against the workshop wall. A figure up ended
inside the engine bay and another under the car. There was yelling
and banging coming from somewhere near the front. As he got nearer,
he could hear Doug’s voice. ‘Bastard, pull harder, come on you
bitch! Ahhhh fuck it, hold the - you
jinga
!’

Another voice
yelled back. ‘
Imeteleza
!It slipped!’

‘Jesus, god
give me strength,’ yelled Doug. Bang! ‘Ohhhh, fuck!’

He scrambled
out from under the car. The veins standing out on his face,
breathing hard, he clutched a large spanner. There was a mixture of
blood and oil streaming down his wrist. He rushed towards the
up-ended figure, spanner raised to strike, shouting. ‘You useless,
bastard, slipped? I’ll show you slipped!’ He stopped when he
spotted Brian, and tried to hide his loss of temper.

‘Ahh, hello
mate,’ he said a little too loudly. The other figure, Juma wriggled
backwards out of the engine bay. Doug held out his bleeding hand.
‘See this? It’s real blood, you clown!’ Juma pulled a face, but
otherwise remained silent, returning Doug’s glare. Doug dropped the
spanner with a clatter, and headed for the sink in the workshop,
muttering under his breath. He held his thumb under a stream of tap
water. Half the nail was sticking up at right angles, the blood
poured out from under it - it looked painful. He exhaled repeatedly
a hissing noise over pursed lips.

‘Hey Brian,
give me a hand will you, there’s a first aid kit in the cupboard
beside the door. I need a pair of scissors.’ Brian found the kit
and held out the scissors.

‘No mate, I
can’t cut with my left you will have to help. Just cut the nail
where it’s sticking up.’ Bracing his hand on the sink, thumb
raised, ‘just along there.’ Doug pointed with his other hand.

Brian stood
back, holding the scissors, nervously opening and shutting them.
‘Ummm, not sure I can do this.’

‘Sure you can,
just snip it across where it’s sticking up. What’s the matter,
afraid of the blood?’ Doug challenged, Brian could not hold his
eye. ‘Hey Juma, get your arse in here,’ Doug called his
assistant.

Brian stepped
forward. ‘No, it’s ok, I can do it,’ and in one movement expertly
held Doug’s thumb in a firm confident grip and neatly sliced off
the protruding nail.

Doug surprised
at Brian’s swiftness, looked at the thumb. ‘Nice cut,’ he muttered,
‘thanks. That damn shock mounting rusted to hell. Going to have to
cut it off,’ Doug decided, still running his thumb under the tap,
the blood flow a thinning stream. ‘Think I have a spare one I can
weld on. Hand me that towel would you?’

Juma was now
standing in the workshop looking on. ‘What are you looking at?’
Doug demanded. ‘Think this is a TV show or what?’ covering his hand
in the towel, not waiting for a reply he went on. ‘Find a spare
shock mounting and get out the welding machine while you’re at
it.’

Juma said
equably. ‘We have no Range Rover mountings.’

‘That’s true,
but we have Land Rover mountings on that old chassis round the
back, and we can modify that one.’ Juma trundled out the welding
machine. Doug yelled out. ‘The front mounting!’

‘
Sawa
,’
came the reply.

‘Been working
with me for years, got nine kids. Can you imagine, and now he’s
thinking of getting a second wife. He named the last kid
“Carbuleta”, says he’s going to be a mechanic.’ Doug grinned. He
dried off the thumb with the towel, squirted ointment on it from a
tube and wrapped it expertly in a gauze bandage while Brian
watched. Holding the end of the length of gauze he said. ‘Cut that
off would you mate?’ Doug then did the same with sticking plaster,
covering the thumb completely. When he had finished, he flexed his
hand experimentally. ‘Hmmm, can still ride, but it’s going to hurt
like a bugger for a few days.’ He leaned on the sink holding his
injured hand up and looked at Brian. ‘Sorry about all the shouting,
I’m passionate about my job,’ he explained.

Brian said.
‘Yes, I see you have a certain flare. I brought you the money.’ He
put the wad of notes on the table.

‘Good, I won’t
charge you for the thumb.’ Doug responded. ‘Want a pair of
overalls, I don’t pay much, but life isn’t dull?’

Brian smiled.
‘No thanks, got stuff to do this afternoon.’ He took off his
jacket, undid his tie, rolled up his shirtsleeves and slung the
jacket over one shoulder. ‘See you tomorrow,’ he called out, as he
made his way to a nearby
matatu
stage.

Brian boarded
one of the multi coloured mini buses heading towards the city
centre, alighting outside a convenient pavement café, he had a
sandwich and a coke. He then made his way on foot in the general
direction of the parliament buildings, asking directions from
passers-by for the Company Registrar’s office, which he knew was
somewhere in the area. He found it after being misdirected twice to
the map office. The registrar’s was tucked away in a nearby square.
As he entered the building, people three deep were leaning over a
long counter clamouring for attention, the noise of an open-air
market. In the background, paper files, packed in untidily on
rickety shelves lined the walls up to the ceiling, while more sat
waist high on the floor. Blue-coated workers moved ladders and
shifted files, while shouting back to customers in the crowd. A
pickpockets haven, he stepped outside discouraged, how could anyone
make sense of that mess?

‘Hey,
mzungu
,’ a man hailed him; ‘you want to buy a company. I
have one for sale cheap, buy even two?’

‘No, thanks,’
Brian replied, moving away from the crush.

‘You need an
agent?’ The hawker persisted, following him.

‘What kind of
agent?’ Asked Brian, stopping to look back at the man following
him; a plump moon faced African in a shiny dark blue suit, two
sizes too small.

‘You need name
search? You want to register a company?’ He asked pointing back at
the door.

‘Yes I needed
some information but, it looks like one could wait all day to get
served in there,’ Brian replied.

‘Which company?
You tell me, my name is Duke.’

‘It’s called
Golden Palm. I want details of the directors.’

‘No problem,’
Duke replied, ‘cost you one thousand for a search,’ he said
confidently.

Brian studied
his face. Probably a back door out of the place. He had already
seen a notice in the main hall listing the search price. ‘It says
two hundred in there, for a search,’ he challenged.

Duke agreed.
‘Yes officially, but if you want service it’s four hundred, and
then there’s something for me.’

‘How long do
you think it will take you?’ Brian dubious.

‘About half an
hour.’

‘Ok Duke, I
will give you 500, if you succeed, the other five, ok?’

‘Write down the
details on this.’ Duke handed Brian a slip of printed paper. Brian
filled out the form and handed it back.

‘Just wait
here,’ Duke said and walked into the building.

Brian sat down
on a crumbling wall that looked like it was once a decorative
flower surround.

A short time
later, Duke was back. ‘I have the information you need, the names
of the two directors of Golden Palm are: Jugdish Yusuf Patel and
Azizza Fatima Mustafa. The company is a land buying company and was
formed on December second last year two thousand and five. It is
registered to P.O. box 626, Malindi, Coast Province.’ Duke held out
a piece of paper.

Brian took it
and exchanged it for the money. ‘No telephone number? You’re sure
these are the only directors of Golden Palm?’

‘Yes, that is
all that was on the file.’

‘Are you always
here? I might need more information later on.’

‘Yes,’ Duke
said, ‘you can always find me here, this is my mobile number,’ he
handed Brian a card.

Brian thanked
him and took a taxi back to his apartment. He took out his diagram
and studied it, adding the names of the directors of Golden Palm
and his new contact at the registrar’s office. It was clearer now,
that the police in Malindi were involved somehow in the
disappearance of his passport, but how could they have known that
he had it in his briefcase? He had only used it at the airport. Had
someone unnoticed, followed him on the plane down to Malindi? The
very idea chilled him.

Wanting to
check on the NGO he looked through an out of date telephone
directory in vain for the Danish embassy then picked up the
landline and tried the operator’s number.

It rang for a
long time, a sleepy voice mumbled. ‘Hello,
sema
.’

‘Is that the
operator?’

‘Yes, it is
he.’

‘Can I have the
number for directory enquires please?’

‘Nine one
four,’ the voice mumbled and hung up. He dialled the number.
Surprisingly it was answered promptly.

‘Yes, how may I
help you?’

Brian asked for
the number of the Danish Embassy. There was silence and the sound
of rustling paper. He could hear people chatting in the background,
the receiver put down with a thump that startled him - the line
still connected - more chatting and the receiver was picked up
again. ‘Hallo? The number is, seven five six, one one five one, or
seven five six, one five two, or seven five six, one five three or
seven five six, one five four.’ Brian just managed to decipher the
last number before the phone went dead.

He was getting
used to this. ‘Jesus,’ he muttered, ‘what a system.’

Armed with a
number, he paused to formulate what he was going to say when he
rang the embassy.

He made the
call, and asked if he could speak to head of the NGO organisation
working out of Malindi. He was politely informed they do not
divulge information like that over the phone. Brian asked. ‘Could I
have the physical address of the embassy?’

He sat in front
of his diagram; he had to conclude that Evans or someone in his
bank was involved in the passport incident, the motive to prevent
Brian looking through the banks records. He went back to the
telephone directory and idly flicked through it, thwarted on all
fronts, feeling lonely and frustrated. He thought about calling up
one of his casual girlfriends, but was in no mood for frivolities.
Whoever was targeting him could organise car accidents. How did he
know if his seemingly innocent encounters weren’t also being
monitored? He realised, this sort of thinking would make it
impossible for him to return to Malindi.

He reached for
the phone and rang his sister Sally in England, he needed to hear a
familiar and trusting voice, only to be thwarted by her answer
machine. He left a brief, loving message and promised to try and
call her later.

SEVEN

Evans, excited
by the news Azizza had just given him, rang his wife to tell her
about the car, he had not expected to get it back without a fight.
Obviously, Patel was getting worried. This event, he decided,
needed a few beers to celebrate.

Telling
Florence he was going out on business, he made his way to a small
anonymous bar just off the old town square. The unwashed half
curtains contributed to the atmosphere, there was only one other
patron at the counter. Evans, nodding a hello, slid onto a barstool
and ordered a cold tusker from the barmaid. He had a view of the
square from where he sitting and idly watched the traffic as he
nursed his beer, daydreaming about the Mercedes.

‘Have you got a
match?’ the other patron slurred at him.

‘No, I don’t
smoke, sorry.’

The drinker
peered myopically at Evans, holding a cigarette in his fist. ‘Don’t
I know you, you look familiar?’

‘I don’t think
so, I don’t come in this bar much.’

The man
transferred the cigarette to his mouth, patting his pockets,
hunting for a light. ‘Yes the bank, you work at the bank.’

‘Actually I’m
the manager, and you, where do you work?’

‘Land office,
here in Malindi.’

Evans stared.
‘How did you know I work at the bank?’

The man pointed
out of the window. ‘See that chicka?’ Evans swivelled round to see
Azizza, emerging from Patel’s white Landcruiser. ‘She gives me lots
of money, says it comes from you!’ He cackled loudly, his laugh
spluttering into a smoker’s cough.

Evans moved to
a barstool behind him to hide, while watching Azizza. But she
locked the car and walked out of sight. Intrigued he asked. ‘So why
does she give you money?’

‘Title deeds.
I’m a corrupt thief, selling out to an Arab woman, who won’t fuck
me,’ he burst out laughing, quite clearly drunk.