Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
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
INSPECTOR GHOTE HUNTS THE PEACOCK
H. R. F. Keating
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First published in Great Britain in 1968 by Collins Crime Club.
This eBook edition first published in 2020 by Severn House Digital,
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited.
Copyright © 1968 by H. R. F. Keating.
The right of H. R. F. Keating to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0390-8 (e-book)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
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ONE
Inspector Ganesh Ghote, of the Bombay C.I.D., stepped out of the narrow rubber-lined doorway of the big aircraft on to the platform top of the boarding-steps. He took in a deep breath of cold air.
So this was England. London. He was here, under an English sky. Unexpectedly, almost mysteriously it had seemed at times, but here.
Briefly he considered the situation which a whirlwind of events had plunged him into. It was a new departure in more ways than one. That was certain. Would he be able to carry out what he had to do in the way it ought to be done? There was no doubt about it: the responsibility of it all was as heavy as it could be.
And there were aspects of what lay ahead which he would just not let himself think about at this moment. He would have enough immediate problems in any case, without trying to jump impossibly high fences before he came to them.
He took a rapid look all round.
Above, grey clouds, huge and ragged, but somehow cool and unmenacing as they never were at home, were moving majestically across the low dome of the sky.
At his feet, the immense airfield stretched out, incredibly green. Darkly, damply and sombrely green. But, for all the dank atmosphere, the scene was one of tremendous activity, busy, purposeful activity. Dotted here and there over the huge extent of level grass, other aircraft were loading, unloading, taxi-ing, taking off, already coming in to land when they themselves had hardly touched down. Everywhere animation, precision and orderliness.
So much happening, he thought, so many people coming to this great metropolis, so many people leaving on missions to all the ends of the world. And he was among them, with his task to perform too.
Inside the enormous overcoat in bright green-and-yellow check, which his wife had given him as a parting gift to protect him from the unknown rigours of the English winter, he shivered a little.
Behind, the next passenger nudged him forward. He quickly descended the grey rubber-covered treads of the boarding-steps.
At their foot he cast a quick glance back at the great aircraft. Somewhere inside it still was his suitcase.
He frowned.
But there was nothing he could do but dutifully follow the straggling line of his fellow passengers into the little bus waiting for them beside the plane. He settled himself in a vacant inside place on one of the utilitarian-looking seats and turned to the window.
He wanted to see as much as he could as quickly as he could, to get himself as fully as possible into possession of every aspect of his novel situation before the moment that he would be called on to take steps for himself. Because it was important, he told himself, not to put a single foot wrong if he could possibly help it.
And everything was strange to him. He had had his long-nurtured impressions of what England was like, of course. But they were bound, he knew, not to match up exactly to the realities. The fazed view through the binoculars would need to be rapidly brought into focus.
He smiled a little to himself at the realisation that already one fanciful expectation had been falsified. Somehow, without at all clearly reasoning out how, he had thought he would step from the plane to be immediately confronted with the sight of the history-steeped pinnacles of the Tower of London, with the majestic spread of the mighty Thames rolling before it, with the ancient Houses of Parliament and sonorous Big Ben—heard often on the radio, now actually to be looked at—with Westminster Bridge and all that the poet had seen from it.
And instead there had been this other Britain, this communications centre of the modern world, this place where things were really happening.
And the smile faded from his face. This was the Britain where he had come to play his part. And that part might begin at any moment.
The mini-bus was moving swiftly now across the great green expanse of the airfield, slipping under the wing of a huge BOAC jet painted in proudly regal colours, going straight towards a group of low, cleanly modern-looking, white buildings.
Ghote bit his lower lip.
The bus pulled up, quietly and efficiently, in front of a concrete archway. The more knowing passengers quickly got up and made their way into it. Ghote followed them, keeping his eyes skinned.
Ahead of him people had already begun to queue at the high desks of the immigration officers, their passports at the ready. Ghote dived into the unfamiliar recesses of his enormous coat and located his own brand-new passport. He brought it out and held firmly on to it.
He noted with pleasure the orderliness of the queue in front. This was the England he had expected. No one shouting, no one arguing, no one pushing stridently forward. Everywhere calm, order and dignity. He breathed a great contented sigh.
“Will passengers on Air India Flight 504 from Bombay now go to the Customs Hall. Thank you.”
The voice of the loudspeaker was unflurried, efficient, almost completely audible.
In the scrupulously clean, pleasantly warm Customs Hall, with a long broad bench running all the way down it manned by politely attentive Customs officers, Ghote saw, with an uprush of relieved joy, a big mechanical luggage chute, already clanking quietly away to itself.
So his case, unexpectedly whisked off at a distant, distant Santa Cruz airport at the moment of departure, was to be reunited with him after all.
He went over and stood behind the more thrusting of his fellow passengers who had already assembled at the foot of the chute, looking impatiently upwards. Almost at once a variety of baggage began making the smooth descent towards them.
And abruptly Ghote found himself wishing his case had got lost after all.
<
br /> With a growing feeling of hot shame, he saw that every single piece of luggage that had so far appeared was infinitely more respectable in appearance than the big, light brown, rather cardboardy—no, very cardboardy—suitcase which he had until that moment been so anxious to see again. It had served well enough back at home on their infrequent family holiday trips, and, in fact, it was much better looking than a great deal of the other luggage which had cluttered up the familiar platforms of V.T. Station as they had waited to go to the cool of the hills at Nasik. But in the international atmosphere of the airport here …
But remorselessly it appeared. And it looked worse than he had imagined, even. Standing slap-bang next to an extremely slim, smoothly zipped, special airweight case in an elegant shade of dark green, its hideous orangey-brown colour, masquerading as the tan of leather, stood out like an over-dressed travelling acrobat, garish through the dust-layers, glimpsed momentarily beside the wife of a rich businessman, cool and aloof in immaculate silk sari.
Implacably the two cases slid down cheek by jowl towards the foot of the chute. Ghote glanced round. There were not many other passengers waiting now. If he stood back a little, perhaps everybody else would collect their baggage and he would be able to grab the case after they had moved to the Customs counter.
He turned away and began airily looking round the hall. But there was nothing there which he could reasonably be imagined as devoting more than one instant’s attention to.
He flicked a quick look at the chute. His case had reached the bottom of the incline and had come to rest on the platform there. Luckily its super-elegant neighbour had been claimed by somebody’s porter. But there were still more than a few passengers waiting.
He hit on the notion of feeling in the pockets of his enveloping check overcoat, as if there might be something he wanted to get hold of, his keys perhaps, before going to claim his luggage.
For what seemed minutes he stood conscientiously exploring the many pockets that seemed to be dotted here and there among the immense thicknesses of the new coat. But at last he came to the end of them all and had to look at the foot of the chute once more.
The situation hardly seemed to have changed at all. Baggage was still descending the incline in clumps of two or three items, and passengers and porters were still awaiting its arrival.
And then one of the porters actually seized the hideous orange-brown case and held it high aloft.
“Any gentleman own this?” he shouted. “Any gentleman own this case? Would they kindly take it, please.”
Ghote marched forward.
“I think it is mine, thank you,” he murmured.
But the porter, holding the case above him in two large, meat-red, cupped hands, did not hear. He swung all the way round in a complete circle, looking out over the heads of the surrounding passengers for anyone likely to own such a disreputable object.
Ghote felt through and through the absolute contrast between the case—bulging, knocked about, hideous in colour, pathetic in its attempt to pass itself off as a genuine article—and his surroundings, quietly modern, smoothly efficient, clean beyond belief, warm and well-lit.
“Please,” he said, with something that turned almost into a squeak of agony in his voice, “please, my case.”
“Ah. Very sorry, sir. There all the time, were you? I’ll take it over to the counter for you.”
And the porter—tall, genial, magnificently above petty preoccupations, it seemed to Ghote at that moment—swung the abominable object easily off and laid it, with considerate gentleness, in front of one of the neat, business-like, calm Customs officers.
In the twinkling of an eye the case was examined and had bestowed upon its battered side a swift chalk mark of approval. Ghote lugged it off in the wake of the other passengers, unable to prevent himself comparing the process it had just undergone with the scenes of interminable delay and frustration he had occasionally witnessed down at Ballard Pier in Bombay when a big passenger liner had docked and the white-uniformed Customs officers there had filled in their innumerable forms and held fast to their innumerable rules.
He came out into the Arrivals Hall, a long, glittering, high-roofed, smooth-floored place, alive with clustered groups of passengers and their friends from every country in the world, talking animatedly, moving from place to place, contented and well-dressed.
Ghote stood near the doors through which he had emerged, looking on at everything. Who would have come to meet him, he wondered. They had said he would be contacted on arrival and given full instructions. Who among all these people had come to meet him?
His wandering gaze ran over the neat stacks of luggage left here and there along the huge length of the hall. Totally unguarded. This was the England he had so often dreamed about: the land of law and order, of honesty and respect for private property, of decent standards of living for one and all.
There were no beggars here, crouching by the doorways or propped against the masterful, airy grey stone staircases leading to the upper gallery of the big building. Here there was no continual whining of supplication and entreaty. Instead everywhere in the bright windows of the various little shops, in the clean-swept huge area of the grey-and-white chequered floor, in the poised glittering clusters of lights—there was brightness and order. The brightness of the new and most modern: the order formed out of long years of constant endeavour.
And here he was, in the middle of it all.
He took another long, savouring look all the way up and down the great length of the hall. And then he saw him. Stepping in through one of the heavy glass exit doors, nothing more nor less than a British bobby.
Ghote stood and stared.
The figure in front of him really seemed to be exactly as he would have expected. He was all the pictures he had seen over the years come to life. Tall, loftily calm, helmeted, grave, clad from head to foot in dignified blue, he stood surveying the crowd before him with quiet aloofness.
And he and I are of the same fraternity, Ghote thought. We stand for the same things. He as a member of the legendary British police forces, myself part of a strong branch of that noble stock.
He felt a strong temptation to go up and speak. He could ask him the time, and then go on to mention casually that, for all the simple, inconspicuous, English-style overcoat he wore at this minute, he was a policeman too. He would sink the difference in rank, in the circumstances.
But there was that big, modern-style clock with its hands moving smoothly round, plainly and obviously right to the second. He would have to think of some other opening. And he would have to think quickly. The bobby was moving steadily in his direction. In a moment or two he would have gone inexorably by. And he must have a word or two, if only to see what he was really like.
Could he ask him whether he had seen anyone waiting to meet him? Yes, that would do.
He moistened his lips.
“Is it Ganesh Ghote?”
With a loud blast of sound, a man had burst to the surface immediately in front of him, eyes white and wide in a dark Indian face.
“Yes—”
“At last. At last. At last I have found. She is dead. Dead. You must help. You are the only one who can help us now.”
“But what—”
“Your niece. She is dead. Murdered. Killed. Assaulted.”
Ghote looked down at the face thrusting up at his.
It was solid and fat-packed beneath the white Gandhi cap jammed firmly on the bullet-like skull. The figure beneath it was plumply solid too, with the stomach protruding hard against a skimpy overcoat worn over baggy trousers.
“Who are you?” Ghote asked sharply. “What is this you are saying?”
The mouth in the solidly plump face gulped open.
“But, Cousin,” the man said, “I am Vidur Datta. Your wife’s cousin’s husband, Cousin.”
Ghote remembered. The full extent of his Bengali wife’s family was always something of a mystery to him, but Protima had told him that she
had a cousin in London whose husband had left their native Calcutta to start up a restaurant. She had told him to visit them if he could.
He frowned.
“But what is this about a niece of mine?” he asked.
“Oh, Cousin, she is not your niece. She is my wife’s niece.”
“Well?”
“And, Cousin, she is missing from home.”
“Missing? And did you say dead?”
The blubber-firm shoulders under the tight overcoat shrugged.
“Who can tell, Cousin? All that is certain is that she has been missing from our home. Missing for three whole weeks.”
“I see, I see,” said Ghote calmingly. “I am sorry that we should meet in such circumstances, Cousin.”
But his words had exactly the opposite effect from what he had intended. Instead of being appeased, the solid face in front of him looked thunderstruck.
“Cousin,” Cousin Vidur exclaimed, “you are not going to help?”
“Help? What help can I give?”
An extraordinary suspicion blossomed in Ghote’s mind.
“Listen,” he said, “surely you have told the police here of this?”
“Yes, yes,” Cousin Vidur reassured him. “But what have they done? Nothing.”
“What do you mean ‘Nothing’?” Ghote said sharply.
“But nothing. They have done nothing. If it is Indian involved in any matter, the police here do not care one little fig. Only for the licensing laws do they care.”
At this noisy denunciation, Ghote could not help glancing quickly round to see where the tall, helmeted figure of the bobby was. What if he had heard? What would he think of a fellow officer countenancing such talk? But he seemed safely far away, standing looking calmly round at the various people ranged about the glinting, grey-and-white floor of the long hall.
Ghote brought his attention back to the plump figure in front of him.
“Please tell,” he said, “exactly what action the police took when you reported the matter.”
He had had experience of similar cases himself. They were as tricky as any in the book.
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