He leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. ‘We were not investigating a murder then.’
‘And now you are?’ she asked, her breath growing shallow.
He looked at her pointedly. ‘Three deaths on a street, within the year, not such cut-and-dry deaths either, you know, so I'm just looking at the possibilities. It feels like too much of a coincidence.’
It struck her like a physical blow then, just that one word.
Coincidence.
The wine, the verses from Rubáiyát... especially the verses from Rubáiyát. The inspector did not know of the one Vidisha had shown her and it could mean nothing, but what if it did? Could the deaths actually have been murders? Could they be connected to her aunt in some way? Or was she reading too much into it?
And as if to add to her disquiet, the inspector said sombrely—
‘Things are not what they seem. Call it a policeman's instinct.’
Darya stood outside the police station and called her father. He listened without comment save for the occasional groan or expletive. Finally, he said what she'd been dreading—
‘I'm coming there as soon as I can.’
‘There's no need. I'm managing everything,’ Darya said quickly.
He ignored her. ‘I have a doctor's check-up in three days, so I can plan to travel after that. I don't think I want to stay in Sea Swept though. Always hated the place since you know... I'll book myself in a hotel nearby.’
‘You don't have to come, Pa. I'll register an FIR if you want,’ Darya said.
‘Young women don't do such things,’ her father said sternly. ‘I also need to see all this... evidence... myself. And talk to Joel.’ He muttered tiredly, ‘I always knew things were not quite right.’ Then after a brief, pensive silence he said, ‘I'll be there in a few days. Meanwhile, can you send over the documents?’
‘You're coming anyway,’ Darya said sulkily.
But he was less than indulgent of her moods today.
‘Send them over. This is not a party. I don't want to waste any more time,’ he said.
It was either the silence of the evening marked by an absence of bird cries or the shadows of the looming trees, but she knew something was amiss as soon as she entered Heliconia Lane. She stepped out of the jeep and felt the unease grow around her, like a bodily presence.
Her pulse quickened.
She walked in long strides, through the garden, up the steps, across the balcao, and to the main door.
‘Shit,’ she cursed. ‘What the hell!’
The lock on the main door was broken. Pushing through, she ran inside.
She went to the bedroom first. The door was wide open. She entered and her feet struck a pile of clothes. She stumbled, fell to the floor and cried out in surprise. Then in pain.
Down on all fours now, she glanced around the room in horror. Loose papers were scattered all over as if blown off by the wind. The bedside table was turned upside down, its drawers pulled out and emptied. The clothes on the floor were her own. She saw her upturned yellow Samsonite a few feet away. The files she had been sorting for the past few days lay open and spread next to it. Torn magazines and newspapers were heaped on the bed.
She swore, crawling out of the dress that was stuck to her knee. Sweeping aside the clothes getting in the way, she started to rummage through the mess.
Shit, shit, shit.
She sat cross-legged on the floor and gathered the papers.
This is there... this is fine... okay, this one too... so, what's missing? Someone had gone through these, looking for something. But who? And what had he been looking for?
She continued to arrange the papers in a frenzy, placing in separate piles the newspaper, photographs, bills, letters, brochures, and books. Her hands were trembling, but she worked more efficiently than she had in the last two days and soon there were eight uniform heaps against the wall. She moved back a few inches and appraised them, wishing she had listened to her father and kept an inventory of things; she had little idea of what was missing.
Then it struck her, and she glanced around—where was it? She sat up straight.
The photo album, where was it?
She looked around. It wasn't on the bed, or under the table or in the mess of her clothes in the corner. It was nowhere in the room. She ran to the courtyard and looked around. Looked in the other rooms. But only the bedroom had been tampered with.
Why? Why would anyone take the photo album?
Anything of value in the house, she had already sent home. She'd been carrying her wallet, and she had no jewellery; there was nothing left to be stolen. Had the thief taken the album because he hadn't found anything else? As a reward for all his effort, no matter how pointless? No, that didn't make any sense.
And then there was another thing, the thought of which made her blood run cold.
The thief had smashed the lock on the front door, which was new, but the door's original rim lock itself was unharmed. Which would mean... the intruder had a key to the front door.
Her body trembling, Darya fell to the floor.
What was happening?
In the fog that had overtaken her brain, she thought of the two things she had to do first thing tomorrow.
Call the inspector to report the break-in. Ask for protection if possible.
And get hold of a carpenter to secure all the doors and windows.
A Cloak Of Smiles
Darya slept restlessly, twisting, turning and waking up several times to check if the door was locked and the windows hadn't unclasped in the wind. She'd kept the light on all night.
At what she assumed was a respectable hour, she dialled Inspector Nourahno. He did not pick up. Next, she tried Filip. Nothing there too.
She called up Francis.
‘What's up?’ he said, his voice groggy from sleep.
She told him about the break in.
‘This is bad,’ he murmured.
‘Yeah.’ The sound of concern in his voice brought tears to her eyes. She'd been pretty frightened last night.
‘Do you want me to come over?’ he asked.
‘I'm okay now,’ she murmured. ‘Tired and worried but okay otherwise.’
‘You have to tell that inspector you met,’ Francis said.
‘Inspector Nourahno? I've been trying to call him. Left him a message,’ Darya replied.
‘I can get a locksmith to take a look at the doors,’ Francis offered. ‘Do you need anything else? Darya, really, do you want me to come over? I can, you know. It's fine. You don't need to be so brave.’
Darya chewed on a nail and considered this.
She certainly felt uneasy now, and anxious also, to stay in the house after what had happened but... but a strange sort of stubbornness was overtaking her. Something sinister was happening around her and she had to find out what. And why. She had to find resolution before moving on. She wasn't going to give up now. And she was certain the answer was at Sea Swept. Or at Heliconia Lane. She had to be there to find out.
‘No,’ she said finally. ‘I'll be fine.’
‘Are you sure?' Francis asked. ‘Or why don't you shift to a hotel,’ he suggested.
‘The closest decent hotel is a good twenty kilometres away,’ she said. Anyway, her father was going to be in Goa soon. She could shift in with him at his hotel if she changed her mind.
‘Well... think about it.’ Francis said. ‘By the way, what did the inspector want to talk about yesterday?’
Darya gave him a summary of the conversation, skipping the details. She omitted the account of the Salgaonkar deaths altogether. Francis didn't know them and wouldn't be interested.
‘Have you told your dad yet?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘About the break in?’ Francis asked.
‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘It'd worry him terribly and he's not totally fine.’
‘Yeah, makes sense,’ Francis said. After a moment's silence, ‘I'm sorry I didn't go with you to meet with
the inspector.’
‘That's alright,’ Darya said.
‘When do we meet again?’ he asked, sounding hopeful. ‘I want to make it up to you.’
‘How?’ Darya asked, her voice sharper than she'd intended. Her mind was highly-strung. She wanted to take a nap, give her thoughts a rest.
‘Darya, let's meet for lunch at Panjim,’ he said. ‘We can think of what to do next. Why don't you—’
‘Yeah, okay,’ she said, cutting him short. ‘I'll call you tomorrow.’
‘Darya, wait a second,’ he started but she cut the call. She was going to pout for a while.
She spent the morning sorting and boxing the papers from the piles she had created from the night before. She called the courier company and asked them to pick up the boxes from the house in the evening. Francis called her a few times, but she ignored him. She was trying to sort her thoughts too and did not want to be disturbed.
And... a vague idea was surfacing at the back of her mind... only a fuzzy image for now... an idea triggered by an article she'd read many years ago. She needed to think about it some more. She needed time.
She looked down at the newspapers now, separated in two piles: one with news on Aunt Farideh and the other dated a few years later but with no apparent purpose. She tucked the second set under the mattress, hoping to get to it later.
As she picked up the first to box them, Darya realized the sheaves of one newspaper felt thicker than normal. It felt bulky in the middle, as if there was something inside.
She picked it up. Unfolded it. Spread it out on the floor. Turned the pages.
There it was—in the middle—a thick wad of papers she hadn't seen before. About ten of them stuck together.
She pried the pages out, careful not to rip anything and separated them. Either human sweat or humidity or a combination of both had caused them to fuse together.
Her fingers moved through the pages: typewritten advertisements, personal tax returns between 1999 and 2004, the jeep's expired insurance papers, distribution contracts for fish...
Then just as Darya was nearing the end of the pile, her interest waning, she came upon them: a stack of stiff typewritten pages. She picked them up and read, her eyes moving rapidly, skin tingling in anticipation.
The first was addressed to the inspector-in-charge of the Panjim police station. January 1990.
Dear Chief Inspector Waze
We have been mourning the disappearance of Farideh Nandkarni for over six months now but haven't received any satisfactory closure in the case. Paritosh, her grieving husband, refuses to believe she is dead and is convinced she has been kidnapped for a nefarious purpose. She was seen with another man who we believe is holding her against her will and we think she is still alive. I understand from my acquaintances in the police force that this case has been put in the back burner because you are convinced, she is dead. We request you to put all your resources into this and solve this puzzling and distressing occurrence once and for all, so that my good friend can get his peace of mind back. Trust you will do what's best in this situation.
Yours truly,
Filip Castelino
Deputy Director
Goa Tourism Board
The second letter was a short reply from the Chief Inspector.
Dear Filip
The case remains open. A capable inspector in my team is looking into it and the investigation is ongoing but you have to know we have little hope. As you must be aware, we followed all possible leads regarding the sightings you mention but those have led to nothing. We strongly believe that Farideh Nandkarni will not be found alive at this stage, but I cannot firmly state this in an official capacity. Please let her husband know if you so deem fit.
Sincerely yours,
Chief Inspector Victor Waze
Panjim Police Station
The chief inspector had probably made the effort to write back only because he was dealing with another high-ranking government official, Darya surmised. But the letters revealed to her something interesting: her uncle had believed, until the very end, that his wife was alive. He never gave up hope.
That vague idea sprang again. Like pixels at the back of her head.
What if... Darya breathed in deeply and stared ahead. Her mind raced... what if Farideh was indeed alive? Or she was dead, but someone somewhere knew what happened to her and he was alive?
Darya couldn't deny this probability hadn't crossed her or her family's minds over the years, but they'd swept it aside, afraid to raise hope, trying to let bygones be bygones. They'd looked for her for a long while and then they stopped. If she was alive, she would've been back, wouldn't she?
But... what if the verses found with her uncle's body and in the Salgaonkar house actually meant something? What if the deaths were actually murders as the inspector suspected and connected... and... what if they'd been murdered by the same man who'd killed Aunt Farideh? Darya's mind reeled with possibilities, the implications. Was she reading too much into it? She had only the inspector's suspicions and a few stray verses to steer her, but something told her she wasn't totally wrong.
She looked down at the sheaf of papers in her hands, realizing she hadn't read through everything yet. There was another letter at the bottom, handwritten on yellowed notepad paper. She looked for a name or signature; there was none.
She read through the letter and her confusion grew. She couldn't understand it.
Pari,
I've been trying to get in touch with you. You haven't been home for many days. Please meet me immediately. I understand your reluctance to move ahead in the matter but remember I have always been with you in everything. I stood with you after Farideh died, after the accident, after the tax raids, everything. We cannot have differences now. Gaurav has come up with an interesting proposition, we must at least consider. We stand to make a lot of money. Don't be stubborn about it. Kindly meet me when you are back.
Darya turned the page over. No name. No date. The letter mentioned Gaurav, so it had to be fairly recent. Had Varun Uncle written it? But what was he referring to? What proposition was he was talking about? She couldn't make head or tail of it.
She pursed her lips together and read through the papers again.
After a while, and with some reluctance, she put the papers in the box earmarked letters and sealed it. Her father could decide what to do with them. Meanwhile, she'd try asking Zabel about the unsigned letter addressed to her uncle, as subtly as she could, and see what she had to say.
An hour later, Darya wandered outside. She'd been hoping to catch a run on the beach, but when she saw Zabel out in her garden, changed her mind.
Zabel was rocking on the hammock and chatting with Aaron who was leaning over the fence. Darya hoped she could shake him off and get to talk to Zabel alone.
‘Bookstore closed today?’ Darya asked, as she walked past him.
‘We open at twelve for a few weeks,’ he replied. ‘Francis must've told you.’
The hint of scorn in the words did not miss her. She tried one of her own. ‘Very busy at home, are we? Cleaning up, chatting with the neighbours...’
Unperturbed, he replied, ‘It's low season. And I'm working on another project that is taking up my time.’
‘Ah, the literary festival,’ Darya murmured.
Aaron raised his eyebrows. ‘Francis told you about that, I see.’
Zabel came to her rescue when she called out, ‘Myna.’
‘Coming there, Aunty,’ Darya replied. She raised a hand at Aaron to say goodbye and turned away quickly before he could respond. Opening the gate to Primavera, she walked inside.
‘Good to see you are up and about,’ she said. ‘Are you feeling better?’
Zabel smiled, her face breaking into creases, like a parched land. She only had three bandages now: two on her face and the one on her chest. The rest of the bruises had scabbed and seemed to be healing well.
She confirmed Darya's prognosis.
‘I'm bette
r, darling,’ she said. ‘It's healing well.’
‘Good to hear,’ Darya said.
‘What you did this morning?’ Zabel asked.
‘Finished the last of the packing,’ Darya said.
‘I was going to tell you to come and meet me,’ Zabel said. ‘I wanted to talk to somebody. Your uncle is hardly bothered about these things.’
‘What things?’ Darya asked, puzzled.
‘You have not heard or what?’
‘What?’
‘About Vidisha,’ Zabel said. Leaning forward, she flashed Darya a meaningful look.
Darya stared back, uncomprehending. ‘What about her?’ she asked and glanced at Constellation. ‘Is she back?’
‘No, No,’ Zabel said impatiently. Getting to her feet, she motioned for Darya to follow her. ‘Come inside,’ she said. ‘This hammock is my saviour, I tell you, but this heat is too much. We'll be having a thunderstorm very soon, it seems.’
‘A thunderstorm in May?’ Darya said perfunctorily. Distractedly.
‘Sometimes when it gets too hot, the skies open up to give peace to our souls,’ Zabel murmured, opening the door and leading the way.
Once inside, Zabel sat herself down on a sofa, all beige and flowers. Darya sat on the matching armchair next to it.
And waited.
Zabel adjusted her dress.
‘What about Vidisha?’ Darya prompted.
Zabel primped her tiny bun.
Darya sighed inwardly. Tension before the big reveal. The old woman's little pleasures.
‘Tell me, Aunty,’ Darya said, her voice insistent, ‘Don't keep me waiting.’
‘She's getting a divorce,’ Zabel announced, a gleeful gleam in her eyes. Darya was sure she would've clapped if she hadn't thought it too improper.
‘Huh?’ Darya said. ‘Are you sure? Vidisha?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Zabel said. ‘We always knew things weren't going so good between husband and wife but never thought they would divorce.’
Her dirty secret.
Gaurav had said Vidisha did not want their parents to know her dirty secret. Was this it? But was this reason enough to kill?
The Darya Nandkarni Misadventures Omnibus: Books 1-3 Page 16