‘Listen - you’re an equal partner of three. Harry and I can still outvote you.’
‘Harry’s in jail. He doesn’t count.’
‘Four months is just a rap on the knuckles.’
‘He’s lucky they didn’t throw away the key,’ Martha said.
Jake couldn’t disagree. When Conrad Getty was looking at life in a high-security prison, Harry had indeed been fortunate that the judge had seen fit to hand him a nominal sentence. It was the first time he had ever heard of well-intentioned stupidity coming into the equation for the defence.
But then maybe Harry was due some luck. Maybe they both were.
‘Your business clearly needs someone who knows what the hell they’re doing,’ Martha had told him. ‘Think of me as your silent partner in New York.’
‘But your dad—’
‘He wouldn’t have wanted his insurance money to buy a loft apartment in Manhattan or a condo in Palm Beach.’
‘Why don’t you stay?’ Jake had asked her. ‘God knows we could use another skipper.’
‘New York’s my home now,’ Martha said. ‘Besides, it’s nice to know I can always take the wheel of Yellowfin whenever I want.’
So it was that Britannia Fishing Trips Ltd had a new investor. And, when Dennis Bentley’s insurance money came through, they might just have enough clout to be able to take on the big boys.
The only person disappointed by developments was Jouma.
‘Mombasa police could use a man of your experience, Jake,’ the detective had told him. ‘Especially now.’
‘No thank you, Inspector. My day has been and gone.’
‘I understand. But you won’t mind if I occasionally call upon you? For advice?’
That had made Jake laugh. ‘The man who cracked Mombasa’s biggest corruption case wants my advice? I’m flattered.’
‘Jake!’
Martha was shouting at him from the flying bridge.
‘What is it?
‘We’ve got a bite.’
Jake looked across at the outriggers and saw that one of the rods was vibrating and twisting in its holder. He went across to the stanchion and with a single movement whipped out the rod and tossed it over the side.
‘I’ve got a confession,’ he said. ‘I never did learn how to fish.’
Chapter Sixty-Eight
In the basement morgue of Mombasa Hospital, Mr Christie arranged his knives and saws on a silver tray, prodded the cadaver lying on the metal autopsy table and shook his head.
‘The thing I don’t understand about this whole saga, Jouma, is just who this fellow was,’ he said.
Jouma shrugged. ‘Nobody seems to know. The Federal Bureau of Investigation, the Central Intelligence Agency, Interpol . . .’
‘It seems quite incredible in this day and age that someone can exist without existing, if you get my meaning.’
‘On the contrary, Mr Christie. I would have thought that it was very easy. After all, you and I only exist because we obey the law and have social security numbers and driving licences and birth certificates and identity cards in our name. This man had dozens of identities.’
Christie selected a scalpel and scored a line down the centre of the cadaver’s chest. ‘I suppose you’re right. Mind you, I don’t think I could live on the margins like that. In fact, the state of my memory, I’m pretty sure I’d forget who I was supposed to be.’
The pathologist cracked open the rib cage and dipped his hand into the cavity. Then he paused and looked across the tiled room at Jouma, who stood in his usual place by the door.
‘I take it Conrad Getty is who he claims to be,’ he said, a note of consternation in his voice.
Jouma nodded. ‘Oh, yes. Of that there is no doubt.’
‘Thank goodness for that. That old rogue still owes me money from the last poker night at the yacht club.’
‘You may have to wait some time before he pays up. I expect he will be in Rumuturi jail for several years.’
Christie shook his head again. ‘Sex trafficking! Who would have thought old Conrad would have been involved in something like that, eh? Viljoen, I can understand. The man was mentally unhinged. But Conrad?’
‘Getty was enticed by the prospect of money, but in the end he found he could not escape from its clutches. The same was true of Viljoen, of Dennis Bentley, of Harry Philliskirk. Money was the bait that lured them to their downfall.’
‘The root of all evil, eh?’
‘More than I ever would have believed.’
Jouma watched as the pathologist removed a shapeless lump of purple flesh from the cadaver’s abdomen and dropped it into a set of scales.
‘Anyway, what about you, Jouma, old man?’ Christie said, and above his mask his eyes twinkled mischievously. ‘You certainly stirred up a hornet’s nest. Half of bloody Mombasa indicted, and the ones who aren’t up for investigation have jumped over the border.’
‘I cannot say I am proud,’ Jouma said quietly.
‘Well, you should be. At this rate you’ll be Chief of Police. There’s no one else left!’
‘As a matter of fact, I was thinking of taking Winifred to Ghana to see her brother.’
‘God forbid, Jouma - don’t tell me you’re treating the poor woman to a holiday after all these years?’
‘He owns a farmstead near Kumasi. We thought we might stay for a while. Maybe longer.’
Christie straightened. ‘Well, I think that’s a damn good idea,’ he said presently. ‘And, although you might not believe this, I shall miss you.’
Then he returned to his work and for a while the only sound was Christie humming as he stitched together the cadaver’s chest with thick black twine.
‘There we are,’ he said. ‘All done.’
‘Well?’
‘The body has been bashed about a bit as you might expect: there are significant internal injuries and as you can see a substantial area of the occipital lobe has been damaged. Propeller damage I should say. Not to mention the standard evidence of prolonged exposure to marine conditions. Where was it picked up, did you say?’
‘It was spotted in the water by a Russian freighter.’
The pathologist removed his mask. ‘Well, to keep things simple for your paperwork, I’d say the cause of death was drowning. The lungs were flooded with aspirated sea water.’
‘Drowning.’
‘You sound disappointed, Jouma.’
‘When I was a boy, a friend of mine was nearly drowned out at sea. When I asked him what it was like, he said it was like ascending to heaven.’
Christie snapped off his gloves and threw them into a plastic container. ‘Well, dead’s dead in my book, no matter how it happens. And good riddance to bad rubbish. What name do you want me to put in the report?’
Jouma went across to the table and stared down at the cadaver’s scarred and pitted face.
‘Identity unknown,’ he said.
Table of Contents
Dedication
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgements
Day One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Day Two
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Day Three
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Day Four
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Day Five
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Day Six
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Day Seven
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Day Twelve
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight