The Jason Green series Box Set

by Gordon Wallis

  Chapter Thirteen - A Death in the Afternoon

  I was woken at around 6.30am by the sound of Helen leaving my room and shutting the door. I felt angry with myself. It was unlike me to sleep so late and I could only put it down to the bad dreams. I found a short note she had written and placed on the bed where she had slept. “Darling Jason, you were tossing and turning all night and I was worried about you. I decided to leave you to rest for now and I also have to get back to Ineke. I hope to see you later and if you would like to talk about anything, I am there for you. Helen xxxx.” I tossed the note onto the bedside table. My head was fuzzy and my body felt grimy as if I had been sweating during the night. I got up and took a shower. Afterwards I stood and gazed out of the window drinking water and smoking a cigarette. Finally I was alone and able to formulate a plan. I lay down on the bed and closed my eyes to think. From what I had seen, Richard and Angelique were playing with fire. There was no doubt about it. Was Richard so naive to think that this Carlos character was just some harmless buffoon who liked to sing Frank Sinatra songs and impress his friends with lavish dinner parties? Was it not obvious to him that the man was powerful and clearly dangerous? One only had to look at the strangely named Tintin, the huge perimeter wall, and the armed guards to know that the man was paranoid. It was also plain to see that he was extremely possessive over his wife. Surely Angelique would have told Richard about this? Surely she would have told Richard that her husband had a violent temper and there would be some very serious trouble if he were to find out. After all they had spent the night together in Cape Town. Had she not warned him? I knew that Richard was a persuasive person and by all accounts, quite a womaniser, but she must have told him that it would be a very bad idea to start an affair. And how long had this affair been brewing? I couldn't blame him for falling in love with her, any man would, but even before I had seen the waiter receive the savage beating, I had got a very bad feeling from both Carlos and Tintin. Another thing that worried me was how Carlos afforded such a lifestyle. The house alone was certainly worth millions and Richard's story about him making surfboards and selling bottled water surely couldn’t have paid for it. The sheer size of the place, the location, the marble pools, the statues, the staff. I had no doubt there was a great deal more to Carlos da Costa than met the eye and I would have to find out exactly what. But I was also plagued by feelings of guilt and worry. Guilt because I had screwed up by running into Richard in the first place. Guilt that he had somehow worked his way into my life and that I had broken my golden rule to keep things distant and impersonal. To steer clear of all emotions and treat the job for what it was. A fucking job. Nothing more. Guilt that I had still failed to find anything out about how he afforded his lifestyle.

  Guilt that I had actually grown fond of him, his easy laugh and his carefree attitude to life. Then there was the worry. I was worried for his safety. Perhaps he really couldn't see the wood for the trees? Perhaps he was totally blinded by his love for the woman? Questions. So many questions.

  I got up and, as I dressed, I formulated a plan for the evening. I would need to get into Stone Town to do some shopping so before I left the room I called the taxi driver Hassan. He recognised my number and greeted me enthusiastically. “Hello Mr Jason! How are you today?”

  “Fine thanks Hassan,” I said, “listen I need to get to Stone Town this morning to do some shopping, are you available?”

  “I can be there in thirty minutes, is that ok for you?” he replied.

  “That's perfect, see you then.” I left the room and made my way to the restaurant.

  I could feel the heat of the day starting as I walked. I arrived to find the restaurant empty and was happy about that. I was in no mood for small talk with Helen or Ineke that morning and I still needed to think about what I was going to do when I got back from Stone Town. I ordered a cheese and ham omelette with toast with fruit juice and coffee. Soon after a waiter approached and informed me that the taxi had arrived. I made my out to meet it. Before I got to the car I was approached by the receptionist. “Good morning Mr Green,” he said with a grin, “I have a message for you.”

  “Oh really?” I replied, surprised. “Yes sir, here it is.” He pulled a folded piece of white paper from his breast pocket and handed it to me. I stopped to read it. ‘Morning Jason,’ it read, ‘I came to see you but you were obviously still in your room. Helen perhaps? I hope so! I was wondering if you would like to come scuba diving this afternoon. I have booked a boat for 2pm from the water-sports centre. Don't worry if you don't have a dive licence, there is brilliant snorkelling as well. Would be great if you could come along. Bring the Dutch girls if you like. Hope to see you later, Richard.” I pocketed the note and walked off down the pathway shaking my head. Another fine day with your mate Richard then Green? Hassan was waiting for me near his car. He was his usual cheerful self and as we drove out of the complex on the sandy road, I felt my spirits lift a bit. Even at that early hour it was sweltering hot in the car so we opened all the windows in an effort to catch a breeze. We smoked as we drove up the sun-baked road and then took the left turn towards Stone Town.

  Without going into too much detail about my requirements I told him that I needed to find a market. Somewhere the locals would do their shopping. I didn't need to waste any time browsing the curio and trinket shops the tourists would visit. He told me he had the perfect place that was situated just outside Stone Town in a municipal centre where the locals went. It sounded fine to me and I was sure that I would be able to get what I needed. I felt I had formed a friendship with Hassan. He no longer tried to sell me the regular tourist fare like spice tours and dolphin trips. The jungle around us became thicker as we drove and soon we entered the Jozani Forest once again. This time there were troops of red colobus monkeys leaping through the trees above us. They stared at the car with comical shocked looks on their tiny faces.

  Roughly thirty minutes later and we had reached the semi industrial border of New Town. We drove slowly through dusty, chaotic streets that were crammed with vendors, blaring music, and children playing. Eventually we arrived at a large fenced off factory with no walls. There was a buzzing mass of humanity on the inside. “Mr Jason, this is the market I was telling you about.” said Hassan wiping his brow with a stained rag. “If you cannot find what you are looking for inside there I can take you to Stone Town, hakuna matata.”

  “Thank you, Hassan,” I said, “will you stay here with the car?”

  “Yes I will be waiting here.” he replied. I got out of the car and took the short walk in the sun to the gate of the market complex. Clearly the locals were not used to seeing white people there, and immediately I was surrounded by a bunch of excited kids who shouted “Muzungu! Muzungu!” repeatedly. I knew from reading the Zanzibar travel guide that this was a non-derogatory word for white person. As I arrived at the main gate I was met by an ancient woman with a shrivelled wrinkled face. She was carrying a huge bundle of brightly coloured but strongly made, woven plastic carrier bags. She held one of them out to show me and said something in Swahili. I decided it would be perfect to carry my purchases and bought one for $3. I made my way under the shelter of the huge roof and into the noisy darkened chaos within. Hassan had been right. On offer was everything from skin lighteners and mosquito coils to double beds and fly covered cow’s heads. As I moved, there was confusion and constant shouts of “Jambo! Muzungu!” Had I not been familiar with such scenes, it would have been intimidating. I knew what I was there for so I moved from stall to stall purposefully, until twenty minutes later I emerged with a bag full of supplies.

  As I stepped into the sunshine, the heat of the day hit me like a jet blast. I put my bag into the boot of the waiting car and as I got into the cab I noticed my feet and legs were covered with dust. “Did you manage to get what you were looking for Mr Jason?” asked Hassan in his polite Swahili accent.

  “Yes I did, thanks,” I replied. I looked at my watch. It was 11am. I had some time to kill before ge
tting back to Paje and I was feeling hot and thirsty. “Hassan can you take us somewhere we can get a drink and maybe some food? I said, “I have an hour or so to play with before I have to get back.”

  “Certainly Mr Jason, I will take you to Explorers’. It is very popular and is right on the sea so there is a breeze.”

  “Excellent,” I said, “let’s go.” We took the drive through the littered streets of New Town, past the football field and the dirty five storey blocks of flats. Eventually we arrived at what I assumed were the outskirts of Stone Town. The buildings were obviously ancient and were mostly four stories tall. They were ornate and crammed together tightly with only narrow alley ways between them. On their windows were wooden shutters in typical Zanzibari style and the intricate iron bannisters on each floor were tightly woven and Arabic in style. We turned right and headed down a bustling street that was filled with mini buses, scooters, and cyclists. All around there was the sound of cars hooting, music, and the shouts and laughter of the locals. We carried on through the chaos until we arrived at a T junction. In front, there was a large green building behind which I could see the masts of at least a hundred ships and dhows. To my left was a long street lined with palm trees and the sea to one side.

  “That is the harbour and the fish market Mr Jason,” said Hassan pointing ahead. “To the left is one of the only roads that runs through Stone Town. It goes right around, along the sea front, past the fort, and out the other side. Most of Stone Town is only passable by foot or by scooter. One can get easily lost in there but either way you end up by the sea.” We turned left and drove down the waterfront road. Like everywhere, it was crammed with traffic of all kinds. As we drove I stared out of the window at the buildings to my right. They were beautiful and I found myself wishing I had the time to stop and explore the place. We passed a huge banyan tree which must have had some significance as there were groups of tourists all around taking photographs of it. Slowly we made our way past the grand old dispensary with its set of decorative balconies. Then we passed a very large square-shaped building with several stories. It too was surrounded by tiers of pillars and balconies and topped by a large clock tower.

  Hassan couldn't help being the tour guide.

  “This is the House of Wonders, Mr Jason. It was built in 1883 as a ceremonial palace for Sultan Barghash and was the first building in Zanzibar to have electric lights and a lift. That is why the locals called it ‘beit el ajaib’, the House of Wonders.”

  “Yes I've seen pictures,” I said.

  “Up ahead is the Arab fort,” he said, “it was built between 1698 and 1701 by the Busaidi group of Omani Arabs. A very old building.” As we passed the huge building I gazed at its high dark brown walls and the huge cannons on the outside. The walls were topped by castellated battlements. They reminded me of the big house on the beach in Paje. That too was a fort of sorts. We then passed through an ancient archway and took a sharp right into a shaded taxi rank that was filled with local traders selling their wares to the many tourists. “Explorers restaurant is just ahead on the sea front Mr Jason,” said Hassan as he parked the vehicle.

  “Why don't you come in with me Hassan?” I said, “I'll buy you a coke and something to eat. I'm sure the car will be safe here with the other taxi drivers.” He looked around nervously. It was clear that he was not used to being invited in to places by his customers. “Ahh, ok Mr Jason, thank you very much,” he replied. We locked the vehicle and took the short walk on the cobbled street to the entrance. The interior was dark, packed with tables, and busy with tourists. They sat talking amongst themselves, eating and drinking. On the walls were blackboards showing the choices of meals and drinks.

  Although there were ceiling fans, it was hot and stuffy inside. I pointed towards an exit that lead onto the white sand outside. We walked through and found a sealed off area of beach right on the sea. All around were tables, umbrellas, and comfortable safari-style chairs made from dark wood and cream canvas. We chose an empty table and sat down in the welcome breeze. In front of me was the expanse of the Stone Town harbour. There were Arab style dhows of all sizes, some sailing, some parked for loading. Near where we sat were at least twenty wooden tourist boats with orange canopies for shade. Each one had an amusing name painted on the side. Gladiator, Mr Bean, Promise, Jambo. Out to the right and parked at the port was the large and fast tourist ferry from Dar Es Salaam. Moored far out to sea was a huge ocean going cargo ship. The blue paint of its hull and funnel were rusted and baking in the sun.

  Its decks were deserted save for a few old shipping containers and its tall white bridge had turned a dirty beige colour. Although the immediate area around the tables was guarded by security, young local kids splashed and played in the sea in front of us and wily traders passed by trying to catch the eyes of the tourists. A waiter approached and took our order, he recognised Hassan and was mildly surprised to see him in the restaurant normally reserved for tourists. I ordered some burgers and cokes and we sat quietly in the shade waiting for our order to arrive. The food was good. Afterwards we smoked and chatted about the busy maritime scene that was spread out in front of us.

  “Where do you keep your dhow Hassan?” I asked.

  “It stays near the port over there Mr Jason,” he said pointing to our right. “It has gone to Dar Es Salaam with spices this morning. I hope it will be back later this evening. Sometimes we carry tourists to Prison Island.”

  “Yes, you told me. Where is Prison Island?” I asked.

  “Prison Island is about five kilometres past that big ship,” he replied pointing at the massive cargo vessel I had seen, “but you cannot see the island right now, the ship is blocking our view.” He was right, I hadn’t noticed but the great vessel was only anchored to the front and it had slowly swung round in the wind. The rust and decay I had seen earlier was even more evident now I was seeing its full length from the side. “What is the story with that ship?” I asked. “It seems to be abandoned and it looks like it’s falling apart.”

  “That ship came from China five years ago now,” he replied, “there were some problems with the hull and it was condemned as unfit for Tanzanian waters by the port authority. The insurance company has not paid for any repairs to this day so the cargo was removed and the crew have all left.”

  “So it’s a ghost ship?” I said with a smile. “Haha!” he laughed, “yes, it's a ghost ship. But many people are unhappy. They want it to be removed, but it just stays there.” We sat and smoked another cigarette. I realised it was time to go. I paid the bill and we both made our way out to the car.

  “Thank you very much Mr Jason,” said Hassan with a look of real gratitude on his old wizened face.

  “No problem Hassan,” I replied, “let’s get back to Paje.”

  Driving in the car at that time of the day was like sitting in a steam bath. There was nothing I could do except open all the windows and sit back as we passed the winding alleys, the bustling bazaars, the mosques and the grand Arab houses of Stone Town. As we drove, my thoughts returned to Richard and what I had seen the previous evening. As much as I tried I couldn't get the image of the face of the waiter in the torch light out of my mind. Pathetic, bloodied and broken from the savage beating he had received. Once again, the thought sent alarm bells ringing in my head and the memory of the bad dream where the waiter’s face was replaced by Richard's only served to worry me more. Eventually we made it through the traffic of the waterfront road and took the right turn at the port. I sat in silence for most of the journey through New Town and only started talking to Hassan once we had reached the forest and picked up some speed. Thirty minutes later and we had made it through the two permanent roadblocks and turned right on the coastal road. We were five minutes from Paje in an open bushy area when I noticed a large crowd of locals in the distance on the right hand side of the road.

  There must have been at least a hundred of them, young and old, all crowded together. “What do you think is going on there Hassan?” I asked.


  “Ahh!” he replied leaning forward and screwing up his eyes to see, “I don't know what is going on Mr Jason, maybe some trouble? Maybe some people fighting?” We cruised slowly in third gear towards the crowd until it became apparent. There was indeed some trouble up ahead. A group of older women were trying to restrain a younger one who was clearly very upset. She was screaming in anguish and kept falling to the ground. Her arms flailed about, and as we drew closer I saw the tears running down her cheeks. I had seen this sort of thing many times before during my youth in Africa, usually at funerals. “Ahh! I think maybe someone has died?” Said Hassan in a quiet voice, “I better take you back to your hotel first Mr Jason.”

  “There is no rush Hassan,” I said, “you can stop and find out what is going on if you like.” We passed the group of women slowly and pulled up near a crowd of men and boys who were standing and talking amongst themselves. Hassan leaned out of the window and said something in Swahili to the men. They all responded together and pointed into the bush to our right. There was an exchange of conversation that I didn't understand then Hassan turned and spoke. “Someone has died Mr Jason. Some young boys were hunting for birds in the bush and they have found a dead man. The woman who was screaming was the wife of that man.”