The Dead Came Calling , livre ebook
126
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English
Ebooks
2018
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126
pages
English
Ebook
2018
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Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne En savoir plus
Publié par
Date de parution
20 décembre 2018
Nombre de lectures
0
EAN13
9789966565983
Langue
English
Poids de l'ouvrage
2 Mo
The only way to get to the bottom of this is to dig deep into Mehta’s business dealings and the secrecy surrounding the Mehtas. It is a murder case that will take him all the way to Texas, USA, and back in search of the killer or killers. In the process, he exposes major international sex-trafficking ring, prostitution and corruption here and abroad. Jack is determined to find out who killed Mehta, a quest that puts his life in danger. Can he solve the case before they get him?
Publié par
Date de parution
20 décembre 2018
Nombre de lectures
0
EAN13
9789966565983
Langue
English
Poids de l'ouvrage
2 Mo
The Dead Came Calling
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48. A Place of No Return Mervill Powell
49. The Verdict of Death Onduko bw’Atebe
50. The Spurt of Flames Okelo Nyandong
51. The Unbroken Spirit Wanjiru Waithaka
52. Tower of Terror Macharia Magu
53. The Nest of my Heart Florence Mbaya
54. Nairobi Heat Mũkoma wa Ngũgĩ
55. City Murders Ndũcũ wa Ngũgĩ
56. Rafiki Man Guitar Meja Mwangi
57. The Gold Rush Samuel Wachira
58. Seasons of Love and Despair Tee Ngũgĩ
59. The Fall of Saints Wanjikũ wa Ngũgĩ
60. The Dead Came Calling Ndũcũ wa Ngũgĩ
The Dead Came Calling
Ndũcũ wa Ngũgĩ
Published by
East African Educational Publishers Ltd.
Elgeyo Marakwet Close, off Elgeyo Marakwet Road,
Kilimani, Nairobi
P.O. Box 45314, Nairobi - 00100, KENYA
Tel: +254 20 2324760
Mobile: +254 722 205661 / 722 207216 / 733 677716 / 734 652012
Email: eaep@eastafricanpublishers.com
Website: www.eastafricanpublishers.com
East African Educational Publishers also has offices or is represented in the following countries: Uganda, Tanzania, Rwanda, Malawi, Zambia, Botswana and South Sudan.
© Ndũcũ wa Ngũgi, 2018
All rights reserved
First published 2018
ISBN 978-9966-56-227-2
Dedication
This book is dedicated to the victims and survivors of human trafficking, and to all those fighting against this evil trade.
Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Acknowledgements
Thank you to my wife, Grace Gathũngũ, and our daughter, Nyambura wa Ndũcũ, for your love and words of encouragement as I toiled through writing The Dead Came Calling .
Thank you to my father, Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o, for your immense support and thoughtful feedback during the writing this novel.
Thank you to my step mother, Njeri wa Ngũgĩ, my sisters, Ngĩna, Wanjikũ, Njoki, Mũmbi and brothers, Tee, Kim, Mũkoma, Bjorn, TK, for lending me your ears and your time.
Thank you to Lucas Wafula for staying the course patiently with me, to Cikũ Kĩmani-Mwanĩki for always challenging me to write more.
Thank you Wanjikũ, Beverly, James Atwater, Kĩmarũ wa Maitho, Terry Jenkins, George Mĩano, and Lynn Maloley for your friendship and support.
Chapter One
“My husband is dead.”
I looked at the time: six in the morning. I sat up on my bed – legs hanging to the side, my long toes touching the floor. I rubbed the darkness from my eyes with the back of my right hand.
“Hello!” my voice crackled again, not sure what to make of this early morning intrusion.
“My husband is dead!” She repeated and broke into a sob.
Her accent told me she was Indian. It was the first call I had ever received from an Indian – any Indian, at any time – let alone so goddamn early. I pulled the phone from my ear and looked at the caller ID – restricted.
“Who is this?” I listened in again.
She continued sobbing quietly but after a few sniffles, she composed herself.
“Jack Chidi, right?” she asked.
“Yeah, who is this…?”
“Anarupa Mehta.”
My mind was racing. I did not know her. How did she know me by name and how did she get my number?
“He is dead,” she added in a near whisper.
I waited for her to elaborate but she didn’t. I stood up and tagged at my underwear, which had creased up and ridden up my crotch. I turned on the light on my nightstand, an old three – legged stool, covered with a white cloth, embroidered with roses. Then I sat down again, resting my feet on the bed railing, elbows on my knees.
“Ok, I am sorry to hear about your husband, ma’am,” I said.“What’s his name?”
I heard her take a deep breath before she answered.
“Vishal Mehta.”
I did not know any one called Vishal or even Mehta – well, except the Shekhar Mehta, a Ugandan-born Kenyan safari rally driver who had captured my imagination with his skills behind the wheel a few decades ago.
“Um, there must be a mistake,” I said apologetically, shaking my head, as if she could see me.
She was quiet, for a while. Did I come across as too unfeeling? She had lost her husband after all.
“Have you called the police?” I added as if that was of any help.
“Yes, Tigoni Police.”
“What did they say?”
“They’re investigating – looking for clues and asking questions, I guess.”
It did not make any sense – a stranger calling me to tell me that her husband was dead. She had to be confused. After all, she had already reported the matter to the police. What she needed to do now was call the office of the Daily Grind , where I worked as an investigative reporter, and ask them to place a death announcement in the next edition.
“Mrs. Mehta, I am not sure why you called me – but I think it’s best if you just sit tight and let the police do their work.”
What she said next, however, completely caught my fullest attention.
“He asked me to call you,” she whispered conspiratorially.
“Who asked you to call me?”
“My husband did.”
“When did he do that?” I whispered back, skeptically, for how could a dead man have asked anything.
“A few days ago,” she went on. “He said should anything happen to him, I should call you.”
I thought about this for a minute and then asked, “Did he tell you why?”
“He just said that you would know what to do.”
She stopped and I knew she was going to start crying again.
A part of me did not want anything to do with this mystery – but she had pricked my interest nonetheless.
“What is your address?” I asked.
She told me and I hang up the phone. I looked at the time again. Seven minutes past six! It was too damn early for this.
The cigarette, dangling from my lips, sent smoke up my nostrils and into my eyes. Tears came fast and a quick rub with the back of my right hand eased the stinging pain. I put the stub out begrudgingly and threw myself back on the bed. Then I picked up my note pad. Vishal Mehta…Dead husband...Wife calls…Tigoni Police…Husband asked that she call me should anything happen to him …Why?
That was all I had – so much for note – taking.
I pulled the covers over my head and tried to catch a few winks but nothing came and I gave up. I willed myself to the shower and after I was dressed I sat down for a hurried breakfast: tea and toast as I looked over my scanty notes again. I called Bulldog, my Boss at the Daily Grind , to let him know that I was on my way to Tigoni – that the dead had come a – calling.
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