Evil in the Land Without

by Colin Cotterill

  A familiar ache took hold of his heart. It was the grief he felt on all his cases, in all the instances when kids were hurt. But as he looked at these boys, an anger inflamed the grief. What type of person could kill in the pursuit of pleasure? What type of monster was Aldy to openly boast of what he'd done; to turn up at a showing of his crime?

  John leaned against a desk, his blood pumping fast. He took his mind back to the day of the arrests. He walked through the scene at the house and paused whenever Aldy appeared. He replayed the man's expressions in the slide presentation. There was a certain arrogance, a pride that John had interpreted at the time as conceit. Now he could see it as bragging. Aldy, The Paw was laughing at him. And at that moment was born a hatred that would cloud John's judgement and lead to errors.

  What was previously a paedophile inquiry had now become a homicide investigation.

  6

  “Yes. What can I do for you?"

  "Is that Major Muthoga?"

  "It certainly is."

  "Your English is very good."

  "So it should be, my dear sir. I've been using it for 56 years."

  "I see."

  "Inspector Jessel, I assume. . . . It has already taken you quite some time to get your call transferred to this office. I also assume you don't have an unlimited international phone budget."

  "Or in other words, get to the point. Right. I have suspicions that an English paedophile has murdered at least one Kenyan child, perhaps more."

  There were a few seconds of silence from the African end.

  "That's a very serious allegation."

  John knew what was coming next.

  "Do you have any evidence to support it?"

  "I've sent you copies of photos by international courier. They should be there this afternoon sometime." As he described his findings to the major, he realized the limitations of his evidence. He didn't know at all whether the children were Kenyan, or indeed if they were dead. Aldy's postcard could easily have been a spoiler, a trick to send him off on a wild goose chase halfway around the world. But he had no other leads to go on. Once he’d given Muthoga everything he had, there was that same pause from Nairobi. . . .

  "Very well, Inspector Jessel. I appreciate you sharing your hunch with me. I look forward to seeing the photographs, or not, as the case may be. Leave me your number and I'll get back to you as soon as I can."

  John fell back onto the bed and wondered how much of his salary he had just spent. He couldn't phone from the office, not without filing a full report and bringing in the murder squad and Scotland Yard and Interbloodypol and the UN peacekeeping forces and whoever-God-knows else. He'd discussed his theory with the CPU of course. They'd gone through those slides a thousand times.

  Reactions had been mixed. They obviously couldn't be sure the boys were dead, and with no real leads there was nowhere to go with it. Homicide had told them there could be no murder inquiry without a victim. With Aldy missing, there was nothing official a Southern English police unit could do. It was left to John to find them connections . . . and bodies, on his own time.

  He had one body of his own curled up on the couch in his little living room. For almost three weeks Mick had crashed at John's. 'Crash' was the optimum word for Mick's stay. It hadn't been an easy time for either of them. Of course, John knew he could expect chaos for a while. He'd worked in D and A for a spell and had been on many rocket rides with kids coming out of their respective addictions. But in those days he could leave his problems at the office. This one was waiting for him when he came home. John didn't know whether to expect a gourmet sandwich or a bloodied bread knife. It didn't help his nerves any.

  But there, purring on the couch in his Teletubbies T-shirt, he was just another adolescent. If only there were a way to keep him unconscious 22 hours a day the relationship would improve no end.

  When they talked, when Mick was down and clear, they talked as friends. He was a tender boy with feelings of concern for the world, for people, for other street children: "They just want to be heard, John. Like me. If someone had listened . . . if someone had been interested about what my stepdad was doing, I wouldn't have run out on Mum."

  But when he was off his head, he was nasty: "You think I'm fucking stupid? You think I don't know why you got me here, you fat-arsed faggot."

  John picked up the phone again and called Aunt Maud.

  A gruff, permanently annoyed voice answered. "C. S. Maudling."

  "’Lo, Maud. It's Jessel."

  Aunt Maud was neither an aunt nor a Maud. But it had stuck as Chief Superintendent Maudling's codename while he was still in active service on the force; ever since he set up the CPU in the late eighties.

  "Now what do you want, Jessel?"

  "I was hoping to speak to my sister if it's no trouble."

  "I'm afraid I have her spread-eagled and tied to the bed posts with her stockings right now. Could you call back a little later? This isn't a good time."

  John clearly heard the sound of an open palm slap against a bald head, and Susan came to the phone.

  "Sorry, Johno. He got me confused with his inflatable again."

  "’Lo, Chick. How's it going?"

  "Are we safe to come back to civilization yet? We're getting far too comfortable here."

  Aunt Maud's large cottage was deep in the Cotswolds. It was a setting common on birthday cards that seventy-year-olds send one another. It was exquisitely thatched and surrounded by assorted greens of grasses and greys of pasty skies. It wasn't so much built as kneaded into a shape that best suited the scenery. For Eddo it was an environment of unlimited action adventure; of potential broken ankles, death by sheep goring, random lightning strikes, and abduction by passing village idiots. But Susan being the type of mother she was, let him at it, and trusted his Jessel common sense. There was little could restrain him anyway, so it was better to have faith in his judgement and avoid heart failure.

  As his mother spoke, he was standing on the well wall heaving up the bucket by hand.

  "How's Eddo?"

  Susan watched her son through the window. "He's just about to fall down a forty-foot well."

  "He can swim, can't he?"

  "Yuh, but I haven't taught him to fly yet."

  "It'll do him good. How's John?"

  "I won't tell you again. We aren't calling my fetus 'John'."

  "Not even if it's a boy?"

  "And have all his school friends believe his mother has no imagination?"

  "You always worried too much about what ten-year-old boys think about you. Is Maud treating you both all right?"

  "Like royalty. Did we catch the baddy yet?"

  John briefly considered making her feel better by lying to her. It passed. ''No. I've got no more idea now than I did before you left."

  "Do we stay here forever?"

  "Perhaps. Is that a problem?"

  "Johno, I know you wouldn't make me and Eddo go through this if you weren't afraid for us. I'll do whatever you say, of course. But if you don't catch this bloke. . . ."

  "I know, Chick. I'm asking a lot. But I'm not going to send you home 'til I find out how this bugger knows about Eddo. And if I don't find out. . . ." He hesitated, not for effect but because the reality had just occurred to him. "You may have to move permanently."

  "You know something you aren't telling me."

  "Yeah. He kills kids. I don't have proof, but I'm certain of it. He kills cold-bloodedly." Now, John really had no idea what reaction he could expect. His sister was silent for a moment.

  "Chick?"

  "Wales sounds nice." There was a tremble in her voice.

  "Eh?"

  "Wales. I fancy a little terraced place in a disused mining village. Women in tall hats called Gwyneth. I mean the women are called Gwyneth, not the hats. Eleven and a half months of rain a year. I could make elderberry wine and be pickled by lunchtime."

  "Chick, you're the tops. Really."

  "I'm lucky to have a big brother who looks after me."r />
  "If it weren't for me and my bloody job, you two wouldn't be in this mess at all."

  "Oh, do shut up. You're starting to sound like mother. We're proud of what you do. I want to be part of your life. Eddo can write a bestseller about it when he grows up."

  "You're really weird, sis, but I love you."

  "I know you do, sweetie. Now leave me alone and go catch the bum. I have to phone my present husband and break the news to him that we're moving house again.”

  When she tried to hang up the phone, Susan's hand was shaking so badly she could barely find the cradle. Like John, she had developed the bad habit of hiding her true feelings. She used humour like a weapon to keep people away. She cracked jokes to deceive. She laughed when she should have cried.

  The fear was building in her with every phone call, but she presented herself to those in her shrinking world like a court jester. It should have occurred to her that her unborn child was living inside her tension. It should have occurred to her that her four-year-old wasn't old enough to be fooled by words. Only Aunt Maud believed she was “a really strong girl.” In fact she wasn't strong at all.

  *

  Two days later, John was in the middle of de-briefing a new team member when he was called to the phone. It took him a moment to realize who he was talking to. Major Muthoga was more animated than he had been during their previous conversation.

  "Inspector Jessel, how have you been?

  "Well thanks, Major. I take it you have something for me."

  "Unfortunately I have a lot. Tell me. Do you have any vacation time coming up soon?"

  7

  The Ethiopian Airlines flight landed at Nairobi International Airport at 10:00 a.m. It was the cheapest ticket John could get at a day's notice, so he was foolish to be expecting legroom. The Economy-Class syndrome had made him irritable. The free booze had made him hung-over. He made the mistake of writing “meeting” on his entry form, and the large Immigration officer at tossed his passport back at him.

  "Visa. Over there. Fifty dollars."

  "But I'm British."

  "So what?"

  "Well, it clearly states here in my Lonely Planet guide that British citizens don’t need a visa for Kenya."

  "I don't work for Lonely Planet . . . sir. I work for the Kenyan Immigration Authority, and they say you need a visa if you're here for a meeting."

  "What if I'm not here for a meeting?"

  "But you are."

  "Well, let's just imagine I'm not, for the next time."

  A Scotsman way back in the queue was getting irritated. "What ye daein' up there? Get a move on will ye?”

  The officer shot him a look that turned him to salt, but took it out on John.

  "Look, mister. You aren't here as a tourist, so get over there to the Visa-on-Arrival counter, pay your fifty dollars, and let these other people go through. Right?"

  "Yes, ma'm."

  For no other reason than sheer bloody-mindedness, under the gaze of the officer and the Scot, he marched over to the Visa-on-Arrival desk and asked for another entry form. He filled it out, this time writing “safari,” and tore up the old form. When he was sure the first officer wasn't paying attention, he joined a distant queue and got through for nothing.

  "Have a good vacation, sir."

  "Thank you."

  So it was with a sense of victory that he arrived in the station-like arrivals lounge. The uniformed police delegation looked beyond him as he shuffled out with his cricket bag. He walked directly up to the ranking officer who was as tall as an NBA centre, but the man continued to look over John's head. He was probably expecting somebody more James Bond. When Inspector Jessel introduced himself, the man reluctantly looked down at the plump, unshaven specimen, took his bag, and walked off towards the car. The men on either side however, saluted, smiled, and made John feel most welcome. As it turned out, the fellow with all the badges was the driver.

  It was about forty minutes to the police station. The country was surprisingly cool, and he'd left all his warm clothes at home. The grass verges were brown, and the long road into Nairobi was dusty. The people he saw all seemed somewhat depressed. At the traffic lights, street urchins came rushing up to all the cars but theirs, and worked their scams to get money for glue.

  "They're annoying little bastards."

  John looked at the sergeant who'd made the comment so nonchalantly.

  "Whose annoying little bastards are they?"

  ''They're from the slums mostly. We're always running them to Juvenile Justice for this or that."

  "Why aren't they in school?"

  Both officers laughed. "That isn't so easy, sir. You'll notice we have one or two structural weaknesses in our country."

  The driver came to life. He was obviously pissed off about the structural weaknesses. "The place has been run to the dogs. There aren't enough hospitals to look after the sick. There aren't enough police to catch the criminals. There aren't enough teachers or schools for the children." He ran over the toes of a group of people who'd thought they might cross the road, as the light was red. None of the policemen reacted.

  The driver continued, still glaring at John in the rear mirror as if it were all his fault. "These kids are on the street because three million primary-school-age children can't get into school. We don't even start to count secondary level." He braked heavily to avoid running into a bus.

  John was impressed by his fire, but could see why he hadn't made it beyond driver. "Three million? You fellows shouldn't be arresting the kids. You should be running in some of the criminals up in Parliament House."

  The driver laughed for the first and last time. "You aren't wrong boss. You aren't wrong."

  *

  At the nondescript building they told him was Police HQ, they marched him up the steps like a suspect and deposited him in front of a large grey door. He knocked.

  A familiar voice yelled out, "Yes. Come in."

  Muthoga, an Idi Amin look-alike, had the same disappointed first impression look as the driver, but he quickly got over it. He rose from his desk and offered a hand. John shook it gladly.

  "Inspector Jessel." The solidly built policeman gestured for him to take a seat. "I assume you do a fair bit of undercover work."

  "I get the feeling I should’ve worn my tall and respectable disguise today."

  "You're in a place where show is often more important than substance. But all that glitters is not gold."

  "So I've heard."

  "Tell me, Inspector. Are you here on holiday?"

  "Yup."

  "So, you're paying for this trip yourself?"

  "We had a whip-round at the office."

  "Your colleagues must have a lot of faith in your judgement. Do I also get the impression that you are personally involved?"

  "I am, sir."

  "Then we should waste no more time. Your hunch was correct. After looking at your unpleasant slides, I sent feelers out to the morgues. I also had our filing chappy go on a hunt."

  Muthoga pushed one of the two glasses of milky tea on the desk towards John. He picked up the other himself, tasted it, added two heaped spoonfuls of sugar, tasted it again, and leaned back in his chair. The whole performance took a lot longer than John was prepared to wait.

  "And. . . ?"

  "Well, the first news came back very quickly. My lad at the Mombassa butchers shop recognized the brand straight away. There was only one victim at that stage: a boy found in the beach area. We compared the autopsy photos and there's a ninety percent chance he's one of yours."

  "Only ninety percent?"

  "The body was badly decomposed by the time it got to the morgue."

  "Where did they find it?"

  "It had been buried deep in the garden of a holiday home. If the owner hadn't decided to install a pool while the place was empty, we would probably never have found it at all."

  "Do you know anything about the boy?"

  "Not a thing. Mombassa has as many beachboys as we
have street children in Nairobi. Mothers don't report them missing unless they rely on them for income. A lot of them have been out on their own since they were six or seven. They're lost and unwanted." Muthoga said it in such a way as to suggest he didn't want them either.

  John picked up on something else the chief had said. "But since then, you've had another case. You said 'one victim at that stage.'"

  "Ah, a real policeman." Muthoga smiled and sipped at his tea. It was a gesture that was as at home in the room as the slightly brown photographs and the cluttered bookshelves. John had seen them before, these in-built senior officers who’d been so long behind a desk their bodies took on the appearance and the hue of their environments. They longed to be back where the excitement was, but first promotion, then lethargy had stood in their way. Now, like Muthoga, they couldn't leave those offices if they wanted to.

  Still looking at John, the major put down his cup where he knew there'd be an empty space, and reached into an open drawer. He handed a folder to John, who opened it to see a familiar scene in an unfamiliar photograph: a naked boy, face down with the words The Paw tattooed across his backside.

  "My filing chappy had this on his desk even as my memo reached him."

  The date on the photo was two days prior.

  "How long had he been dead?"

  "He was fresh: a few hours at the most."

  The implication hit John like a bull. "That was one hell of a coincidence. That would put the time of death just after my call to you."

  Muthoga smiled his affirmation. "It was just one of three devilish coincidences, Inspector Jessel."

  "Tell me." John already had that increasingly familiar feeling of discomfort.

  The Kenyan once again reached into the drawer without looking and pulled out a sheet of paper. He put it on the desk before John. "Beside the body there was a postcard. That is now evidence, and I'm afraid I can't show you the original. But this is a copy of the text. It strikes me as rather corny, but I assume we should take it seriously."