The Lollipop Flew Away: Detective Mike Sanse # 1 (Mike Sanse series) Page 5

  He perched his trilby hat on his head and walked out. He felt miserable. A colleague had once argued that money is a god. People prayed God for god. They sang and danced purportedly for God but for god. Their showy offerings to God were but a display of their devotion to god. They fought, they killed, they betrayed at god’s alter. They did what the Devil himself would be ashamed of to entertain god.

  They denounced their husbands.

  They did so smiling.

  Money.

  Sanse took the Mazda to a dealer who advised him to try his luck with the scrap metal dealers. He headed straight to Busy Bee where he sat at his customary table and asked for a tube of Medusa. He was on his second glass when Rumu walked through the door.

  “You promised to drink only after work,” Rumu said.

  “It is after work,” Sanse said. “Grace sacked me.”

  “Why?”

  “I didn’t pull a miracle fast enough. You must have known that she has no use for Bob.”

  “She seemed desperate to save him. Again, sitting in that court I felt that something is amiss. Bob lacks the backbone for murder.”

  The two men fell silent.

  “I still think we should sell the land ourselves,” Rumu said.

  “My home is going nowhere.”

  Rumu got on his feet. “A man can only do so much. I am sorry.”

  “You are sorry? Hey, wait a minute!”

  Rumu walked out. Pewa approached Sanse.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Pewa asked.

  “Yes. Mind your own business.”

  Chapter 10

  Sanse woke up at ten to a rambling stomach and a caterpillar driving in his head. Kunta? Damn, it was in his breath. He tried to recollect when or how he got home in vain. He ransacked his pockets. They were all empty. Did he spend all the money? He cleaned up and went to Busy Bee. Pewa handed him his Omex and balance.

  “A hundred and fifty shillings?” Sanse said on counting the money. “I should have taken them seriously when they said you’re a smooth robber.”

  “You bought beer for anyone who looked your way,” Pewa said.

  “So you told them to look my way? No wonder you knocked me out with Kunta! I said no Kunta, didn’t I?”

  “You threatened WW3 if I didn’t...”

  “Pour me a glass!”

  After a quick breakfast at Joy Cafe Sanse visited Gitonga’s lawyers, Omollo Advocates who occupied the third floor on Kathare Farmers SACCO Plaza. He was welcomed by a portly man wearing spectacles with thick lenses. The man had taken the precaution of tethering the glasses around his neck. Excited by the prospect of a new client, he sprang forth with a verbal resume of himself and his firm.

  “Omollo Advocates is the leading law firm in Kathare. I am Andrew Omollo, but I prefer simple Andrew. This is my son Charles. And you are Mr…”

  “Mike Sanse of Genius Investigations.”

  “How can we be of help, Mr. Sanse?”

  Sanse occupied a chair opposite his host. Files were all over; on the shelves on the table and even on the floor. A tidy mess, Sanse thought.

  “My visit concerns one of your clients,” Sanse said. “Emilio Gitonga. Now that his will was destroyed, what happens?”

  “Whose interests are you representing?”

  “Bob,” Sanse said. “I am interrogating the charge against him.”

  “What has it got to do with the will?”

  “Someone’s fortunes will definitely improve with Bob’s exit,” Sanse said.

  Andrew regarded his visitor. “The killer only destroyed a piece of paper.”

  “Are you saying Gitonga changed his will? What are the provisions?”

  Omollo clasped his hands and rested them on the table. He was all smiles. “I cannot share that information. Customer confidentiality.”

  Charles walked past then doubled back like a restless chicken. He was barely thirty.

  “My request is on special ground, sir. Murderers should be punished, not rewarded. More importantly they should never inherit their victims.”

  Andrew removed his specs, fished out a handkerchief and went on to clean them. He perched them on the wide nose bridge, folded the handkerchief neatly and pocketed it.

  “Your argument is educated but I must insist on customer confidentiality. Personally I can’t see the remotest connection between the will and the crime.”

  “When did he write the new will?” Sanse asked.

  “On the day he died.”

  “What time?”

  “Quarter past four.” Andrew struggled to his feet and offered his hand. “It has been a pleasure having you Mr…”

  “Sanse.” He remained seated clicking his knuckles.

  “Oh yes, Sanse.”

  Charles had just walked in when Sanse said, “How come one of the beneficiaries is privy to the will?”

  “Excuse me?”

  Sanse repeated his question. Andrew lost his head.

  “You are making a serious allegation against Omollo Advocates and for your sake I hope you can substantiate it.”

  By now Charles was fidgeting. “Let us see. Bob gets nothing. The beneficiary in question gets…”

  “What? I mean, how…” Andrew checked himself and faced his son. It was all written on the young man’s face.

  “You didn’t give it to her, did you?” Andrew asked his son. “Did you?”

  Sanse hurried out of the office and went home. The vegetable garden had been bothering him for months now. It was small but Betty had never visited the market for onions, spinach, kale, carrots, tomatoes and coriander. But now blackjack, Wandering Jew and kin had taken charge. With his pants rolled up knee-high, a vest, a hoe and a strong resolve he embarked on a task he had last undertaken more than twenty years before. Mambo trailed him meowing. Sanse wondered whether he was egging him on or mocking him.

  Two hours later Sanse collapsed in a wicker chair feeling like he had been at it for years. But he loved what he was seeing. Arrears or no arrears this was his home to keep. He had no idea how he was going to do it but it had to be done.

  Sanse poured himself a glass of Medusa then poured Mambo some milk in a bowl hoping to shut him up. Mambo gobbled the milk, gazed at him then meowed some more as if to say, ‘well done sir but I am not on diet!’ Sanse emptied the milk packet into the bowl.

  What was he going to do to keep his home? He recalled a friend who had threatened suicide when his bank pounced on him. Of course the bloody thieves went about their job like vultures on a carcass. Looking at his machete an idea struck him. He went for a file and embarked on sharpening the machete.

  Chapter 11

  There were over a hundred men in the coffee plantation in different stages of drunkenness. Beer, illicit brew in particular, is a deterrent to proper etiquette. It was back to the Tower of Babel as patrons struggled to communicate in a tongue they had used all their lives. A threadbare man had suddenly discovered he could box and was practically begging for an opponent. A brew-induced preacher was giving the countdown to Armageddon. ‘Two weeks,’ he said gravely.

  Nyutu, the owner of the plantation, had long turned his back on the unrewarding berries for nguru, a local brew made from molasses and yeast. With nguru he didn’t have to wait for months for returns. There was no fat cat sitting in an office to mismanaged and steal his sweat. Nguru cut off the long chain. Law enforcers were by far the biggest challenge. Nyutu did his best to keep them happy but the pigs kept coming for more. His plantation ran down to the seasonal stream and up the other side, a feature that made his the most popular joint because drunkards stood a chance of escape when the police struck. However, eluding the police remained a mirage as most could hardly walk after imbibing nguru. Occasionally they fled only to be ambushed by the police at the river.

  Mwangi imbibed his nguru quietly. A beer would have been better but what the hell, he still got drunk. Better still, faster. Mwangi was bitter about many things in life. He had had no doubt in his childhood t
hat he would become a big shot. However, with time he realised that he lacked the foundation for greatness. He couldn’t get an education yet they said it was the key to greatness. Hell, he barely fed well because he had to compete with his ten siblings for what his parents borrowed from well-wishers. He married at eighteen after his girlfriend fell pregnant. Now, at thirty, he had sired three kids and he was bitter because he could barely feed and educate them. He was bitter because they too would become poor. That is where nguru came in.

  “Laugh all you want,” the doomsday preacher went on. “Your day of reckoning is at hand. I will send you to hell!”

  Mwangi was bitter because he wasn’t among the witnesses in Gitonga case. Being the first rescuer at the scene he deserved some limelight in the witness box, no? Limelight aside, he wanted a stake in sending Bob to the executioner. He owed Gitonga that much. But then they couldn’t trust him to recount what he had seen. He was not that irrelevant, now was he? He could be useless to the police but not that detective. Sanse’s business card had some magic on him. He felt important. He felt needed. He felt as if he had the missing link. His mind was functioning again. Now something was troubling his foggy mind and he tried to think hard. Now he thought he had run into a fleeing person at the gate to Gitonga’s compound on that fatal day. He was almost sure that it was a man. His body jerked as a disturbing thought occurred to him. Could he be losing his mind? Nguru had caused blindness and deaths among other tribulations. An overdose of whatever they mixed with water and things went south. Of course he was losing it. Why would anyone run away when Elizabeth was shouting her soul out for help? Was this a warning that he was about to die from nguru?

  “You watched my televised sermon, didn’t you?” The preacher asked. “It was God’s last message!”

  Mwangi’s body jerked again. The box hairstyle!

  “Christ Almighty!” He said. “Can it be true?”

  “Of course!” The preacher said. “You are doomed!”

  Mwangi searched his wallet frantically for Sanse’s business card. He found it and dashed to the community phone at the bar. His heart was threatening to drill a hole through his chest.

  “Hello?” Sanse’s voice said from the other end.

  “I remembered him!” Mwangi shouted excitedly.

  “Who?”

  “The person I ran into at the gate to Gitonga’s.”

  “Who?”

  “Pastor Peter Munderu.”

  Sanse said nothing.

  “Did you hear me?”

  “I heard you.”

  “His box hairstyle is unmistakable,” Mwangi said. “Why would he run?”

  “You sound drunk.”

  “I am drunk but you should believe me.”

  “I believe you,” Sanse assured him.

  Chapter 12

  Sanse woke up with a terrible headache. He took a cold bath then went to Mediplus Chemists for some painkillers. He nearly brushed the woman at the counter aside as her exchange with the lone attendant stretched on. Why not save the smiles for later now that his head was exploding? The woman turned and wow, it was Prof. Judith Githae! The area Member of Parliament would have blended in more effectively with the hawkers at the bus stop than with a group of parliamentarians. She wore no makeup. Her hair couldn’t have enjoyed the service of anything beyond a comb. Her ankle-length dress reminded Sanse of the Women Guild. This is how you look when you know everything, Sanse told himself. The attendant, a handsome devil himself, thought otherwise as his eyes followed her out.

  Sanse was out in time to see the MP’s black limo pull out. He took a boda boda to Kathare All Miracles Church. He was welcomed by an usher who smiled from ear to ear. Elizabeth’s observation that he smelt like a beer tank rang in his ears as he entered the building. He sat in the second last row feeling out of place. He had last been to church three years back during Jack’s baptismal. Back then the atmosphere had been subdued with the Father and the congregation going through mass like some old, well-oiled cogwheels. But this was different as each moment exploded into the next with electrifying burst of excitement. Two singers on the dais led the congregants in song and dance. The congregants danced their souls out. The music died out as the lead singers surrendered the dais to a beautiful woman who introduced herself as Pastor Wairimu Munderu. She said she was here to invite Senior Pastor Peter Munderu on stage.

  The excitement reached a fever pitch when Pastor Peter Munderu stepped on stage waving in the air. Guitars, the piano, drums, kayamba, claps and ululations joined hands in a thunderous welcome. Munderu’s multi-coloured suit blended in with the plastic flowers, the glass pulpit, and brightly coloured cloths covering the wall behind him. His coat ran to his knees, his pair of milk-white shoes was long and pointed. And yes, he wore his hair box-style.

  “Thank you!” Munderu said. “Thank you! What a wonderful day that the Lord has given unto us! Let’s clap for Him! Today I have a message for my brother who works the hardest yet nobody recognises him. You earned a degree yet they promote less qualified colleagues. I have good tidings for you! Your hour of blessings is here! And to my sister; you’ve been trying to conceive for five years. Your husband no longer loves you. Your in-laws are planning to kick you out. You’ve become a laughing stock. Rejoice because our Father in heaven has heard your cry like Anna’s. I crush the spirit of barrenness. I bless your womb. I prophesise a conception within a month. You will soon have testimony for God’s mercies! Receive your prophecy! Receive your miracle. Receive! Receive! Somebody say amen!”

  Everybody said amen amid the crescendo of the piano. Sanse had assured Mwangi that he believed him but now he wasn’t so sure. He couldn’t picture Munderu running from the crime scene. But then human beings are deceptive animals. There was only one way to find out. He decided to wait outside for a chance to speak to Munderu.

  When the service ended two hours later some congregants lined up at the side exit to greet Munderu who shook hands and gave blessings down the queue.

  “God bless you,” the pastor said shaking the last man in the queue. His eyes widened because Sanse would not let go of his hand. “You were at Gitonga’s compound at the time of his murder.”

  Munderu froze. “Follow me, please.”

  As Sanse followed the pastor to his office he was surprised by the turn of events. He had expected Munderu to laugh it off because it could have been easy to discredit a drunk who took a week to recall what he had seen. Munderu clearly wanted things kept hush-hush. That was all the leverage that Sanse needed.

  Munderu’s office was spacious and well furnished. Sanse occupied a high-back chair facing his host. A girl poured them cups of tea from a thermos.

  “Thank you, Damaris,” Munderu told her. “God bless you.”

  The girl left.

  “Mike Sanse, right?” Munderu said. “Elizabeth mentioned you to me the other day. You are a troubled soul. You have allowed the Devil to rule your heart.”

  Sanse embarked on clicking his knuckles. “For a moment back there I thought of joining you on stage with my eyewitness.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “It is only prudent to give a man a chance before you burst their bubble. By the way, you have a beautiful wife and a huge following.”

  Munderu swallowed hard. “Who is your eyewitness?”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  Munderu consulted his wrist watch. “I have a service in thirty minutes.”

  “Then you better hurry,” Sanse said.

  Munderu lost his cool. “Who do you think you are?”

  “I am the man who wants to know what you were doing in Gitonga’s home on the day he was killed. I also want to know why you ran.”

  Munderu’s breathing was rugged now.

  “I know the Devil’s work when I see it,” Munderu said. “The police have since solved the case and here you are making wild allegations. Just that you should know, many have come and left me standing.”

  “Wow, I never imagined the D
evil’s work could be this fulfilling. As to whether I’ll leave you standing, sitting or lying is entirely up to you.”

  Munderu consulted his watch and cursed. He regarded his visitor and cursed again. “Elizabeth called me at six,” he clasped his hands together. “She was all tears. She beseeched me to come over and minister to her brother who was beside himself. I arrived at Gitonga’s place some minutes past eight.”

  “How many minutes?”

  “I am not sure.”

  “Fifteen minutes?”

  “Thereabouts.”

  “Where were you parked?”

  “I used a taxi because my car had a problem.”

  “Where did you pick the taxi?”

  “In town.”

  “At the taxi rank?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What did you see on arrival?”

  “We knocked on Gitonga’s door close to ten minutes in vain. It was cold and Elizabeth suggested a cup of tea. We were on our way to Gitonga’s house when we heard raised voices.”

  “What did you hear?”

  “There was an argument that concerned a woman,” Munderu said. “Gitonga said that he was the one the woman loved. Bob said that he was the one she had married. Gitonga said that Bob could have the woman’s body but would never have her heart. Bob said Gitonga would never have either because he would be dead within seconds. We heard a loud bang and Elizabeth wailed for help. At this point I left.”

  “Did you see Bob?”

  “No.”

  “And you are positive it was him in the argument?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I wedded Bob and Grace,” Munderu said. “Grace was Gitonga’s immediate lover. Gitonga blessed the marriage but you could read bitterness on his face.”

  “Why did you run?”

  “Nobody likes negative publicity.”

  “You were out to help, right?”

  “The circumstances had just changed,” Munderu said.

  “How so?”