Elephant Dropping (9781301895199) (4 page)

He opened
Evan’s folder and typed in adjustments to the figures. Then wrote a
quick note to Azizza and stuck it on the monitor, where she would
read it in the morning.

Patel looked at
his watch, time to go. He shut down the computer threw the dust
cover over the equipment and then slid the coffee table to one
side. He pulled up the floorboard where the safe was and counted
out money from a wad of notes, putting these in an envelope, he
shut the safe and put the floorboard back returning the table to
its position.

He spotted a
plastic shopping bag on the filing cabinet and remembered the phone
for Kamau. He took out a box containing the phone, popped it open,
gave it a cursory glance and weighed it in his hand, ‘Nice,’ he
muttered, ‘I must get one myself.’ He put the phone back in its
wrapper, took out a jiffy bag from a cabinet drawer, put the phone
into the bag and filled out the address panel to Kamau at the
Immigration Dept., Nairobi.

He drew up at
the golf club gates at a little after six thirty, waved his pass at
the gatekeeper and parked the small Toyota next to Evan’s Mercedes.
Signing himself in at the reception counter, Patel cast his eye
around for the bank manager, spotting him seated at the bar
chatting to another member.

Selecting an
English newspaper from the rack, Patel’s eye chose an easy chair in
the corner of the veranda.

He nodded
‘hello’s to other patrons he passed on his way to his chosen seat.
He ordered a gin and tonic from the waiter and settling in,
pretended to read the newspaper, waiting for Evans to join him.
Idly flicking through it he saw an advertisement for a London
property on Kensington High Street. Four bedrooms, pocket garden,
£600,000. Outrageous, but still, maybe one day.

At that moment,
Evans pushed his way into the chair. ‘Hello my friend,’ Patel
greeted him, ‘hard day at the office?’

‘Oh, Mondays
are never much fun, how was your day?’ he replied. They kept up
this hearty banter for the benefit of any on-lookers, just regulars
shooting the breeze.

Evans had
arrived glass in hand and once the waiter brought Patel’s order,
they chatted about no particular topic for a while, watching others
coming off the golf course, the setting sun threw a golden glow
across the veranda.

Finally, Patel
broached the topic of their meeting. ‘You feeling better Evans?’ he
asked.

The manager
embarrassed at his earlier panic replied. ‘Yes, but I still have
questions.’

‘Ok, we will
get to those in due course.’ Patel said smoothly. ‘Just listen to
what I have to say then you can ask ok?’

Evans
nodded.

Patel leaned
back in his chair. ‘As you know Golden Palm was set up as a
legitimate financial agency. This Nicholls fellow will not find
anything amiss in our figures. If there are any suspicions at all,
it will be because of the unprecedented lack of loan defaulters,
but this is ‘early days,’ so even that can be explained. Like I
said, we may be able to use this visit of his to our advantage.
Evans scratched his head, listening. ‘But we have to take immediate
precautions to safeguard our product, until Nicholls has been and
gone. You are to stay away from the Golden Palm office and have no
contact with Azizza unless she instigates it.’

Evans frowned,
but remained silent. ‘During these two weeks, you cannot use the
Mercedes. I have brought a small Toyota for you to use during this
period. As far as anyone else is concerned - your wife for example
- the Mercedes is away on a service. You will get it back once the
coast is clear. We don’t want Nicholls raising questions on how you
could afford an eight million shilling motor, do you get me?’

Evans nodded,
looking glum. The car was his pride and joy. Patel reached into his
pocket and handed him the envelope from the office. ‘Put that in
your pocket,’ he advised.

Evans an expert
in currency weights took the packet and smiled. Must be half a
million shillings. ‘Thanks,’ he muttered, brightening.

Patel smiled.
‘That should keep you happy for a while. Now I need you to find out
where Nicholls is staying in Nairobi. Does NNB have company
houses?’

‘Yes, we have a
block of apartments used by senior personnel.’

‘Ok, find out
which apartment he is staying in.’

Evans frowned;
saw the look in Patel’s eye and nodded. ‘Ok, I can find that out,’
he agreed.

Patel went on.
‘I also need you to find out Nicholl’s flight number -if he is
coming by air next Monday - where would someone like him stay here
in Malindi, in a hotel?’

Evans nodded.
‘We have an arrangement with the White Marlin Hotel, they have
serviced apartments we use.’

‘Aha,’ said
Patel, ‘that could be useful. You must keep me informed if there
are any changes to his itinerary. Any enquiries you make must be
discreet, do you understand?’

‘Yes, yes, I
can do that,’ repeated Evans.

‘Good,’ said
Patel satisfied, reaching for the newspaper. He pointed out the
advert for the London home, tapping on it with his index finger.
‘Can you imagine for such a small house! We still have lots of work
to do,’ he giggled. ‘Now do you have any questions?’

Evans took the
paper from him, looked at the advert. ‘No, but what happens, if
despite our precautions, Nicholls finds something, what do we do
then?’

Patel answered,
getting testy. ‘Listen Evans, I have just explained it to you,
there is nothing to find. You are doing your job as a bank manager
- a very good job as far as the bank is concerned.’ He held his
hands up in the air. ‘The only thing that can go wrong is if you
decide to tell Nicholls or anyone else of your involvement in this
project. Then I guess you will go to jail for fraud. Stop
worrying.’

‘Ok,’ but went
on doggedly, ‘and how will we split the money?’

‘As we agreed,
everything is on course. This is no time to start having doubts,’
said Patel with finality.

Evans looked
desperate. ‘What if the plot owners ask questions?’

‘What plot
owners?’ Patel looked at the ceiling, ‘we own the plots. Who will
they ask, you? They cannot miss something they never had,’ he
laughed, ‘come on Evans enough of this crap, get a grip on your
fears!’

Patel got up to
leave. ‘Here are the car keys to the Toyota, do you have any
personal stuff in the Mercedes?’

They exchanged
keys in the car park. Patel drove off; Evans looked on with longing
as his pride and joy disappeared down the driveway in a cloud of
dust.

TWO

From his second
story balcony that evening, Patel watched the moonrise over the
ocean. Its golden light glinted off waves rolling into the crescent
shaped bay of Malindi. He sighed, making a decision; today’s events
had highlighted a looming difficulty he had ignored. It had become
clear, that in order to pull off the Golden Palm project, there
would have to be changes.

Leaving Malindi
was never part of the plan; he had inherited the plastics factory
from his father. Starting out as a wood working shop, his father
had made a living manufacturing furniture; the smell of wood
shavings were etched in Patel’s childhood memories, along with
sharper acid-like smells as the factory adapted to making plastic
utilities for the domestic market. One of the first to use this new
technology, his father had made a good profit securing a large
market share.

The only way
for the factory to survive now, was to cut the profit levels, as
cheap imports from china threatened to drive it under completely.
Patel had always been looking for a way to upgrade the equipment.
Golden Palm had seemed to be that lifeline, a huge injection of
capital putting him back in the lead. Now he could see that was
only a pipe dream. His best bet was to sell the family holdings,
and leave.

Evan’s
behaviour proved he simply could not be trusted. The staggering
amounts of money earned, seemingly so easily, had blinded Patel to
the reality of the theft, and the bank manager’s panic today had
cleared his vision.

Fatima, joined
him on the balcony. ‘You’re quiet this evening,’ she said, ‘is
everything alright?’

Patel smiled.
‘Yes my sugar, I’m just thinking it’s time we moved from
Malindi.’

‘Move, where
to? Why?’

‘To London, the
big city.’

‘Oh, big shot
now,’ she teased. ‘London! Perhaps we could have the queen to tea,
stay at Buckingham palace heh?’

‘I’m serious
Fatima,’ Patel said.

‘Oh Jugdish,
please don’t tease me.’

‘I think it’s
time we sold the factory,’ he said quietly.

‘Sell the
factory and then what? Open a corner shop in Manchester and live in
rented accommodation like my uncle? No wonder you’re quiet, what a
prospect!’

Patel laughed
at the idea, chucking his wife under the chin. ‘Yes dear, you would
make a great shopkeeper. Your beauty would bring us love struck
customers throwing money about, hoping for one glimpse of your
magic smile.’

She blushed.
‘Silly man, Jugdish, you know I have always wanted to live in
England, don’t lie to me, you can be so unkind.’

‘Yes sugar. By
the way, I unkindly bought a present for you today.’ He dangled a
set of car keys in front of her. ‘Why don’t you go and have a
look?’ Fatima took the keys, staring at the logo. ‘What’s this,
have you lost your mind?’

‘Go and look,’
he insisted.

Fatima needed
no second bidding and sped to the back door. She saw the sleek
Mercedes in the moonlight and squealed in delight. ‘Oh, Jugdish! My
favourite colour!

She returned to
the balcony, breathless. ‘How, but how, can we afford this
car?’

Patel told her.
‘I have been working on a lucrative project over the last few
months.’

‘What project,’
she demanded, ‘why don’t I know about it?’

He wagged his
finger. ‘No, it’s better you don’t know. I will tell you when we
move to London,’ he teased, ‘come on let’s try out your new toy, my
sugar?’

Fatima was
torn. She knew better than to nag him and was dying to drive the
new car. Making a decision, she ran off to the bedroom to get
changed, squealing. ‘Oh, I’m so excited!’

Patel smiled in
delight. He loved her innocence; it took the edge off his cynical
mind. If there was any truth and goodness in his life, it was
Fatima. He loved to see the world through her young eyes.

She called out
from the bedroom. ‘We can pick up the kids from my sisters! Oh
won’t they be surprised?’

‘Come on then,’
he shouted back. ‘Hurry up!’

Fatima’s eyes
were like spotlights flashing round the interior of the car in
wonder. Stroking the leather seats in delight, playing with the
electric windows, unable to sit still. ‘Where do I put the key? Oh,
I see it,’ and plunged the key into the ignition. Nothing happened,
taking her aback. Patel laughed at her confusion.

‘It’s an
automatic dear,’ he said, pointing at the unfamiliar T-bar where
the gear lever should be. ‘Oh,’ she looked at the lever and glanced
at the floor pedals, ‘there’s no clutch!’ she exclaimed.

Patel was now
in stitches, Fatima, laughing as well, demanded. ‘How do I drive
it? Come on tell me, tell me, you horrible man.’

This was the
best half a million he had ever spent! He distracted her by
adjusting the electric seats. This brought more peals of laughter
until they got it right for her small frame and at last, with
Fatima at the wheel, tyres spinning they lurched out of the car
park.

Patel was up
early the next morning, on his balcony with a coffee where he
watched small fishing dhows put out to sea, the rising sun catching
on their lateen rigged sails, like so many shark fins on the water,
the sea an indigo blue in the sunlight.

Fatima was
still asleep after a night of passionate love making, Patel had
lied to Azizza about his sex drive. The truth was that he was not
attracted to African women, never had been. Besides, Fatima ten
years younger than him, was an eager lover and he really loved her.
He had no reason to stray from the comfortable confines of his
marital bed.

His thoughts
this morning were far from these pleasantries. The risks he had
taken with Golden Palm now putting him in full predator mode, he
soberly contemplated the prospect of Nicholls bringing the project
crashing down around his ears. He reasoned that if the auditor’s
task was to examine the accounts it was inevitable that his focus
would fall on the Golden Palm. He dismissed the idea of trying to
delay Nicholls arrival, there were too many unknowns, it would be
easier to have him in Malindi within the greatest sphere of his
influence. Patel’s mind examined every angle like a chess player;
he thought out his next move.

Fatima, wearing
only a large T-shirt and still sleepy motioned for him to make room
for her on the seat and cuddled up to her husband. She was the
first to break the silence. ‘Thank you for my present Jugdish, it’s
beautiful.’

‘You are
welcome, my sugar,’ he responded.

‘Are you
serious about selling the factory?’

‘Yes, I
am.’

‘And
London?’

‘Yes,
honey.’

‘But how?’ She
started, sitting up looking directly at him.

‘Don’t worry,
sweets, I have a plan. Today I want you to e-mail your uncle and
get all the necessary papers to apply for entry visas for us and
the boys. I will arrange the tickets.’

‘For when?’

‘Next week, as
soon as possible,’ he replied.

‘It’s so soon!’
She protested, ‘and the car makes no sense?’

‘There are some
bad things happening in Nairobi,’ he intimated. ‘I want you and the
boys out of the country as soon as possible.’ These chilling words,
conjured up the Ugandan experience through Idi Amin for every
Indian in East Africa - a painful reminder that the same economic
meltdown could happen again.