The Darya Nandkarni Misadventures Omnibus: Books 1-3

by Smita Bhattacharya

  Darya raised her eyebrows. She remembered the curl of blonde hair that had escaped the anonymity of the clumsily worn black veil; the skinny girl exiting from the toilet at Matangi who had seemed oddly familiar.

  ‘It was her first samavah,’ explained Veda. ‘An official Matangi gathering.’

  ‘Where’s Max?’

  ‘Sharon directed him to leave the villa that night after Max left us to go to his room. He had been threatened. Beaten up. He’s back in Poland now,’ said Veda. ‘When Debbie approached Kyra with the clip of Max and her, Kyra was unfazed but interested in what Debbie had to offer. Foreigners can charge crazy amounts at the club and she was a model to boot. She joined Matangi of her own accord, on a contract for two years, and promised Max wasn’t going to be a problem. But he was. Sharon was furious.’ She gave a dry chuckle. ‘Though not as furious as when you went to the club, Darya. Sharon came to us spewing venom, asking if we were involved and what you were doing over there. I had no clue! But it was obvious your life was in danger. We had to do something.’

  ‘We?’ Darya asked breathlessly. She hadn’t realized Jasmine had been in on it too.

  Veda explained. ‘Jasmine and I got to know each other well in Kamothe. Her only objective was to get into Matangi, into Sharon’s good books, to understand what happened to Eileen. Sharon fed her a pile of garbage she readily believed. That Eileen’s client had killed her and not Matangi. That what Matangi did was sacred; it was going to give her life purpose, help support her mother. I was collateral damage in the process, which she said she regretted.

  That was also why she spoke to you so openly when you went to her house after Eileen was found. Jasmine said a part of her wanted to be found out, to be told what she was doing was wrong. So, when I told her we had to save you, she was more than willing. She wanted to make up for what she’d done to me. Jasmine had special privileges. She could use my phone every now and then. She could ask to come home.’

  ‘Because Sharon was planning to replace Debbie with Jasmine at Chapel Road?’ Darya guessed. That was the reason Debbie had passed her the note asking for help. She must have guessed they were on their way out and wanted someone to expose Sharon.

  Veda nodded. ‘You know more than I thought you did.’

  ‘I should’ve realized many of them earlier,’ Darya murmured. ‘I had no idea Sharon was involved until I went to their old apartment complex at Kamothe. And it wasn’t while I was talking to her, but later when I was in the taxi, on my way home, that I realized where I’d seen her before. The eyes… I remembered the striking eyes, her bangles, the way she stood… all that, from the old photograph at the villa. The rest of her had aged considerably. Afterwards, I recalled another anomaly which should’ve struck me earlier. I’d asked the men at the medical shop about Debbie, and Farookh had acquiesced. But Parthiv had come to Chapel Road looking for Sharon, and not Debbie. After all, Debbie was right there, at the villa.’

  ‘What a sad little family,’ Aaron muttered. ‘And now the Mascarenhas will rot in jail for no fault of theirs.’

  ‘They’re not so innocent,’ Veda commented. ‘They helped in the kidnappings and trapped the women in a web of blackmail.’

  ‘They were coerced into doing so,’ Darya countered. ‘Bad circumstances. Bad parents.’

  ‘Parthiv had guessed about them too,’ Veda said. ‘He caught hold of Jasmine. Told her his suspicions about Sharon. But she wanted to do things her way.’

  ‘Who killed him?’ Aaron asked.

  ‘It was probably one of Sharon’s henchmen,’ Darya answered. ‘I can guess that Sharon… or the so-called Chief… didn’t want to kill him at first but he had grown to be dangerous. Parthiv was looking for Sharon’s new location, to avenge Eileen’s death. He had been looking for her for weeks. That was why he’d come to Chapel Road in the first place, knowing this was where it had all started. The only thing is… after he was killed, Sharon planted the knife in the villa. I saw Debbie holding it, the night you went missing, Veda… and misunderstood.’ She hadn’t yet figured out how she’d seen the knife in her dream. It hadn’t been the knife Debbie had held in her hand—the one that was used to kill Parthiv—but it had been a knife, nonetheless. Seeing it in her dream had then either been a premonition or a creepy coincidence. Or she’d been sleepwalking and did see some of the things she remembered. She’d never know.

  ‘Why didn’t Debbie just throw the knife away?’ Aaron asked. ‘If it was going to incriminate Viktor and her?’

  Darya shrugged. ‘I’m guessing she tried, but Rajesh put it right back. This time in the hidden room. Or Debbie didn’t know what that knife was for and did it herself inadvertently. Probably didn’t see the bag lying under the table either or that was planted too. We’ll never know.’ She paused, remembering something else. ‘Who sent me Parthiv’s picture? Was it Jasmine? And those messages?’

  ‘I did,’ Veda murmured. ‘I got to use my phone for brief moments when Jasmine wasn’t around. The photo was already on the phone. Rajesh had taken Jasmine to the morgue with him, used the phone to take a picture and forgotten to delete it.’

  ‘So… what happened tonight?’ Aaron asked. ‘How did you guys get to Jasmine’s house?’

  Veda answered, ‘Rajesh brought Darya there. Sharon came to Kamothe, to talk to us. A lucky break. We told Sharon you were interested in joining Matangi. That you had come to the club looking for us. The three of us would make a good addition to her group, because…’ Veda exhaled softly before her next words. ‘She’d lost Eileen. She’d lost Arohi… you know her as Sapna. She was kept at the villa temporarily only because Rajesh had taken a liking to her. Her training was to begin later. But she tried to escape. Rajesh caught her at Dadar station, the only long-distance train station in the city she was familiar with, also where he’d picked her up from originally. He brought her back to the villa. Then the whole fracas with Parthiv took place at the villa, you remember? I think she’d tried to run again. We don’t know exactly what happened next. Only that her body is never going to be found, unlike Eileen’s, whose staged death was to be a warning to the other girls at Matangi.’

  Darya nodded, her heart contracting painfully. It was worse than she’d thought. They’d all had a narrow escape.

  Aaron cleared his throat. ‘So is Sharon the Angel Killer?’ he asked Darya.

  Darya chuckled. ‘I suspect Viktor meant his family was into making “goddesses” rather than “angels” when he talked to the reporter,’ she said. ‘And yes, that makes Sharon the Angel Killer, although, to my knowledge, it was only Eileen and Sapna…’ She didn’t want to say it. ‘She’s a dangerous woman. Today could’ve gone all wrong.’

  ‘Did you get everything?’ Aaron asked, pointing to Darya’s watch.

  ‘I hope so.’ Darya took the watch out and handed it over to Aaron. ‘Let’s transfer it to a computer and check.’

  Veda’s eyes moved from Aaron to Darya, then to the watch. When she grasped what Darya had done, her face broke into a smile.

  ‘You know it won’t stand up in court,’ Aaron said.

  Darya nodded. ‘But it will help,’ she said. ‘And we have a witness.’ She glanced at Veda who nodded back.

  Aaron placed the watch in his pocket. ‘I’ll go meet Gawde after this.’

  ‘About that,’ Darya said slowly. ‘We asked him to talk to the SP directly, but do you know if he’ll toe the line?’

  ‘He promised to, although he’s still not very convinced.’ Aaron shrugged.

  ‘Wish we had a confession on tape. A name for him.’

  ‘We have to find some other way,’ Darya muttered.

  ‘What are you two talking about?’ Veda asked, sounding bewildered. Then, with glittering eyes, she said excitedly, ‘The chief. You know who he is!’

  Darya nodded sombrely. ‘Or I think I do.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘You don’t know?’ asked Darya. ‘Never heard a mention?’

  ‘No,’ Veda said impatiently.
‘Who is it?’

  ‘Well, I’m only guessing…’

  ‘Who, Darya?’

  With an exhale, Darya said, ‘SSP Makrand Desai. Also known as Mak. Not perhaps the leader of Matangi, but he’s surely a part of the top echelon. Or he knows who they are and is protecting them.’

  ‘The investigating officer in the Angel Killer case,’ Veda whispered. Her face had paled. ‘He was given a promotion during the investigation. I remember reading about it.’

  Darya nodded. ‘My father had that detail wrong. When Makrand made SSP it made news because he was one of the youngest in Mumbai police history to be so. Since then he was always put in charge of any developments that came up in the case. Not just any development from Chapel Road, but also elsewhere in Mumbai where girls were taken from. I checked up on him on the internet. He was known to be a missing person’s specialist—in particular, missing girls. He caught some, couldn’t others, but was always first on the scene. And his rise in the police force has been dramatic.’ Darya rubbed her eyes tiredly. What a night it had been. She continued, ‘And when I went to the club, I heard him address Rajesh. He’d shortened his name, like I’d heard him do earlier. Add to that, his familiarity with Rajesh and his reluctance to probe him… that was really odd too. Also, when I met Sharon at Kamothe, she lied to me about Parthiv coming to talk to her there, to throw me off track. But she seemed to know details of the police investigation, about Viktor attacking a constable. I don’t think that was public knowledge.’

  ‘But we don’t know Makrand is involved for sure?’ Veda asked, raising an eyebrow.

  Darya shook her head. ‘No,’ she muttered. ‘We haven’t talked to the police about it either. But, Veda…’ She stared at her pointedly. ‘I’m hoping you can help.’

  Veda understood. ‘By talking to people at Mumbai Dost.’

  ‘If that’s okay,’ Darya said quickly. ‘After what happened.’

  Veda gave a dry chortle. ‘I still have friends. Several, in fact, who are sympathetic.’

  A pensive silence fell over the group. Darya’s neck was crusted with dried blood, but she hardly felt any pain. Only a tad weak. The blood had clotted already. The cut hadn’t been very deep.

  What a day! So much had happened since her return to Mumbai; what had started as a short stay at a quaint little lane in Bandra had turned into the bust of a high-class prostitution ring.

  Disasters chase me.

  Veda interrupted her thoughts.

  ‘Though, Darya…’

  ‘Hmmm?’

  ‘There’s something else,’ Veda said slowly.

  Their eyes met. Veda hesitated.

  ‘What is it?’ Darya asked. Her chest tightened, even before the words were said.

  ‘About your father.’

  And as Veda spoke, Darya’s insides grew cold.

  WHO THREW DRACO DOWN THE CHIMNEY?

  Preface

  I spent the autumn of 2019 in the folds of the Carpathian Mountains in Romania. A beautiful country in East Central Europe, Romania is filled with enigmatic people and the most outrageous legends. Bram Stoker’s wickedly famous tale of the mythical Dracula was inspired from here. Therefore, it seemed the perfect setting for my accidental detective Darya Nandkarni to land up in as well, as she fled the demons in her life.

  Just as I landed up there for a sabbatical.

  In Romania, I spent most of my time in Sibiu, where this tale is set. While in Sibiu, I constantly marvelled at its existence. It is a city in Transylvania, central Romania, surrounded by medieval walls and fortifications, along the Cibin River. Its stone-paved streets, old alleyways, iron bridges, Gothic buildings and pastel-hued homes make it a magical place. After being designated the European Capital of Culture in 2007, Sibiu has seen an explosion in tourism, yet has managed to retain most of its original charm. Every stone in the city is a cause for inspiration, and each turn of the road leads to a story.

  This novel wrote itself.

  All the places, people, myths, and legends in the book are imaginary and entirely fictitious, with no relationship to people living or dead in Sibiu.

  Well … almost not!

  Prologue

  On the outskirts of Sibiu, Romania, in 1947

  A sweet smile flitted across Andrea’s narrow face every now and then. Like dusk’s shadows, it was temperamental. Her peach summer dress flopped about as she moved, her skin flushed with the effort of work. Her scrawny arms moved rapidly, trying to pat the picnic mat down. The wind was strong, unrelenting.

  ‘Pass me a stone,’ she yelled to Mihai. Without meaning to, she locked eyes with him.

  Her smile wavered.

  Mihai surveyed the ground to find her the perfect stone. She watched as he assessed the few in front of him—debating in his head, she was sure—which one to pick. She could ask him to do anything and he would do it, no questions asked. He loved her entirely.

  He’d be a perfect husband for you, her father had said.

  Really, tată? she’d replied, miffed. Because her father always claimed to know what was best for her, even if she didn’t agree.

  He’s the only one who can handle your temper, he’d replied, giving her ribbon a playful pull.

  Mine or yours? Andrea had wanted to retort. You should marry him; she’d told him instead. You spend more time with him than I do. And want to.

  Her father had smiled at her indulgently. He never got angry with her. Mihai’s a good kid, he’d concluded. He’s who you’ll marry.

  He was to repeat that several times over the next few years, much to Andrea’s frustration. Her father loved shaping people’s lives; in fact, he revelled in it. He’d taken it upon himself to mould Mihai, and the boy had submitted without a complaint. He followed the man like a faithful dog and did whatever was asked.

  Just like he did with Andrea.

  Ten minutes later, the mat was laid to Andrea’s satisfaction. Wiping her arms on a wad of tissue, she opened the picnic basket and spread the fried pork, eggs, bread and steamed potatoes around. To her delight, her mother had also packed two bags of fried cheese doughnuts and a bottle of freshly squeezed orange juice.

  They sat down cross-legged and without uttering a word, began their feast.

  After they’d finished the first round of doughnuts, without looking at him and keeping her tone casual, ‘Are the mushrooms good in the forest, Mihai?’ Andrea asked. She pretended to be distracted by the crumbs on her dress as she waited for his answer.

  Mihai’s hand halted mid-way to another piece of bread. He withdrew it, and looked at her, confused.

  ‘You were here with tată last weekend. He told me you both were out picking mushrooms,’ she said, unable to keep the jealousy out of her voice.

  She suspected her father was grooming Mihai to take over and manage their businesses after he was gone. Considering Mihai instead of her. Is that also why her father wanted her to marry him?

  ‘We didn’t come to the forest,’ Mihai replied defensively.

  ‘What were you doing then?’ Andrea persisted.

  ‘We were talking,’ Mihai replied, avoiding her eyes.

  ‘About?’

  ‘This and that.’

  ‘If you were not in the forest with him, were you at his office?’ she asked.

  He nodded slowly.

  ‘Doing what?’ she demanded.

  He wrung his hands and his face twisted in the agony of concocting a lie.

  ‘Well?’ Andrea prodded. When he didn’t respond, ‘Okay, fine, don’t tell me,’ she pouted, which was worse for Mihai because he knew she wasn’t going to speak to him for hours, or days, until he begged her to.

  Or he could use her father to get her to reconcile.

  But that had to be the last resort. He wouldn’t want to use that favour too many times.

  Thirty minutes later, lulled by the afternoon sun and Andrea’s persistent silence (she refused to conclude the picnic, letting him know acidly one time: ‘I told mamă we were going to be ou
t for three hours’), Mihai dropped to a fitful sleep.

  Giving his slender sleeping figure a baleful glance, Andrea pushed herself up from the mat. She brushed the mud away from her dress. Her legs were tingling from sitting in one position for too long. She needed to move, to get the blood flowing.

  She walked.

  She knew the forest well; she used to come here often with her father … until Mihai replaced her.

  She was ten years old, but everyone said she acted wiser than her age. Mihai was three years younger, and a dunce. She was sure of that, although no one ever said it. She could see the pity in their eyes. So, what if he was a sweet, nice boy? He couldn’t do simple Math, his Romanian letters were unreadable, his spoken English was poor. Sometimes his words came out garbled. Why did her father love him more than he loved her?

  Only because he was a boy.

  She had walked half a mile already.

  She knew it, because in front of her loomed her family’s abandoned summer house.

  The house stood isolated amidst the trees, like a neglected pet, waiting to be loved again. Its walls had once been flaming red but were faded now. The gambrel-style hip roof, originally made of tin, had been replaced by wooden shingles a few years ago, to make it look grander, her father had said. Corrugated pipes ran along the walls and gave it character, or so Andrea thought. The large multi-panelled windows and rococo cornices were impressive even in their decrepitude. And while the fence around the house was splattered with unimpressive graffiti, the house walls were thankfully free of it. The garden comprised overgrown bushes and trees, a slushy pond, fallen twigs, leftover shingles.

  Andrea knew she was not allowed to be there. The land belonged to her family; her great grandfather had built this house almost a century ago. The family had grown vegetables and kept pigs and poultry then; caretakers looked after them through the year, ensuring everything was well-maintained. At one time, during the summer months, the family spent almost every weekend in the farmhouse. In the evenings, they gathered around the koi pond, filled with vibrant fish and aquatic plants, singing songs and eating the delicious meat they’d hunted for themselves.