Mackenzie Ford - The Clouds Beneath the Sun

Jack waved to the barman but made directly for the terrace. He stopped, half in and half out of the room, with Natalie at his shoulder. He nodded to one or two people, then grunted: “There’s Frank.”

He moved towards a small, silver-haired man wearing a dark suit and striped tie, who was reading an English newspaper next to a glass of what looked like gin.

Villiers looked up as they approached. He nodded to Jack and put down his paper, but he didn’t smile.

“Frank, good morning. I’m sorry to disturb you. This is Natalie Nelson.”

The other man’s expression softened slightly in her direction.

“Frank is clerk to the court here in Nairobi,” said Jack by way of explanation. “I’m hoping he will be able to tell us if a judge has been assigned yet to the Ndekei case.” He turned back to the other man. “Any news, Frank?”

Villiers was sipping his gin. “Nothing certain, because the prosecution only applied for a date this morning. But if the trial is set for the week I expect, it will be John Tudor.”

“No-o-o!” hissed Jack softly. “Please God, no.”

“What’s wrong?” whispered Natalie.

Jack looked very put out. “About three months ago, Tudor was the judge in the trial of a white security guard in a motor showroom who had killed a burglar, shot him as the man—one of three—tried to steal a vehicle. The burglars were only boys, but because the shooting took place in the course of a robbery, which no one denied, Tudor judged there was no case to answer, and the white security guard went free. He’s one of the most controversial figures in Kenya and exactly the kind of person we don’t want to try this case.” He stared down at Villiers. “What on earth possessed you to assign Tudor?”

Villiers primly folded his newspaper. “Cases are assigned strictly by rotation, Jack. It was Tudor’s turn.” He got up. “I’m going in to lunch.” And he nodded to Natalie.

They both watched him leave.

“So Tudor’s bad news,” Natalie said, still in a whisper, as Villiers disappeared through the bar.

“Terrible,” breathed Jack. “He’s been known to make racist comments from the bench. The governor even tried to have him recalled to London but Tudor has powerful friends in Whitehall and, I’m told, the palace itself.”

He brushed the hair off his face. “Look, I’m afraid there’ll have to be a change of plan, I need to see Maxwell Sandys again.”

“Why? What for? How can a judge be that important?”

“Trust me.” Jack was hardly listening to her. Instead, as she could see from his abstracted expression, he was busy thinking. “Mbante will run you back to the hotel—think you can amuse yourself for the afternoon?”

“Yes, of course, but—”

“Good. Check us both in again. There’ll be no problem, the hotel isn’t busy. I’ll see you at dinner. Same time, same drinks, same table as last night, I should think. We’ll catch up then. I’m just going to tackle Villiers one more time, see what else I can worm out of him, then I’ll get a taxi to Max’s office. Can you remember the way back to reception?”

“Of course—”

But he had gone.

“What’s that French phrase that applies to us?” Jack held the chair for Natalie to sit in. They were about to begin dinner.

“What do you mean?” Natalie sat down and put what was left of her pre-dinner whiskey on the table in front of her.

“Déjà vu , that’s it. Same time, same restaurant, same table as last night, same drinks, you in the same dress and shoes, me in the same shirt and jacket.” He grinned as he sat down opposite her.

“But not the same conversation. Come on now, you wouldn’t discuss it at the bar, you said we had to wait for dinner. What have you been doing all afternoon, why did we have to stay on, what’s the real problem with this Tudor man?”

Jack sat back as their first courses were served, a chilled soup. They had ordered at the bar.

“I hate saying this, Natalie, but John Tudor is a racist. There are quite a few whites like him left here in Kenya, who don’t think the Africans are up to modern life, who think tribal loyalties interfere with democracy, that tribes are the basis for corruption and backwardness and that the South African system—apartheid—is the right way forward. Most of the time, however, Tudor can’t do much damage, traveling the countryside and officiating at black-on-black crime.” Jack tried his soup. “What occurred to me, when I was talking to Frank Villiers, is that, contrary to what he said, Tudor was chosen deliberately for this trial, chosen because of his views, because he’s a vicious white supremacist.”

“But why? Who chooses the judges, anyway?”

“Normally, as Villiers told us, they are selected by rotation. But not always, not in big cases, not in sensitive cases, not in politically relevant cases.”

“So who did you see this afternoon, and what did you find out?”

He wiped his lips with his napkin. “Maxwell Sandys, as I said. He was busy, he is deputy attorney general after all. But I hung around outside his office for an hour and a half and, finally, he had a spare twenty minutes.”

“And—?”

Jack shook his head. “I’ve never known anything like it. Max is a very old friend of my mother. Some say they were more than friends, but I’ve never had the guts to ask and she has never volunteered anything. He’s the godfather to my sister Beth and has always been very friendly to me—I sometimes stay with him when I overnight in Nairobi, that’s how well I know him. I had a drink with him last night, as you know, and he was affable enough.” Jack raised his glass to his lips, then lowered it again without drinking. “But today … today he was … not so much cold as distant … if I didn’t know better I’d say he was positively shifty. He wouldn’t meet my eye, kept drinking from a glass of water, as if his throat were dry, but— and this is what really bothered me—he wouldn’t discuss Tudor’s appointment at all, kept saying it was none of my business, that it was improper even for me to ask.”

“Didn’t he have a point?”

Jack sat back in his chair and let out a sigh. “If this were Britain, maybe. But it isn’t. For the moment, at any rate, it’s colonial Kenya and in Nairobi everyone who’s anyone knows everyone who’s anyone.”

Natalie had finished her soup. “So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying something’s going on, something secretive, something manipulative …” He wiped his lips with his napkin again. “Something political.”

For a moment neither of them spoke.

The waiter arrived and took away the soup plates.

Natalie said, “What can be done? Is there anyone else you can see, anyone else whose advice you can ask?”

Jack shook his head. “I told you—Nairobi is a small place. The judiciary are a small elite, responsible only to themselves and to London.”

“You think London has a hand in this?”

He bit his lip. “I don’t know. I can’t think why London should get involved, but nothing would surprise me.” He shook his head again. “I just don’t know, but I don’t like it.” Another pause, then he looked round. “Well, maybe I do know. They’ve met you now. That’s what this deposition business was partly about, not just to get your evidence down but to see what sort of a person you are, what sort of witness you will make. Now they’ve met you, they know you’re strong willed, very much not a racist, and determined to give evidence. That’s point one.” He gripped the stem of his water glass. “Point two is this: London doesn’t want this trial. The only way it won’t go ahead is if you withdraw your evidence. So … they select the most racist judge in the hope that you will be so appalled and disgusted that you will refuse to play your part.” He drank some water. “That’s what I think.