He was going down to the pool early and coming to bed late and she was aware of his hostility when they met. Back home she had other friends to talk to and enough work at the hospital to keep her up a dozen nights yet here she couldn't keep her mind on anything, for though the sea was blue, the pool glittered like a diamond and the palms were lush, she saw nothing but that village in the mountains. Finally, when her conscience could bear inactivity no longer, she returned to the little booth in the corner of the hotel lobby from which she had first phoned her mother.
She dialled fast and spoke with her head bowed.
She explained what she could about Cameron and what Adam had wanted from her and why they had lied; she tried to describe Sinbari, but words failed her; she spoke of their climb and the shock and the fleeing; she mentioned the corpse but did not dwell on it; Hàrélal entered her narrative as 'that patronising shite of a Police chief' and Karmel as a 'possibly the only trained cop – intelligent, cultured, but so astute it chilled you to say a word to him'; and then she spoke of Cameron's watch. Comprehending what her daughter meant at last, the woman gave a hiss of anguished surprise.
'Ma! What on earth shall I do?'
'Go back to the Police; right now!' was the only advice Mrs McMeckan would give; other than urging the girl to come home. Yes, home was where Sara should be, she went on, they would all look out for her and look after her.
But Sara, still tasting the horror she'd felt on seeing those bony fingers protruding from the earth, worms wriggling between ghastly digits, was wishing that she'd confided everything to Detective Karmel before she sent him to that brooding lakeside village.
11
Thahéra's voice woke Karmel at sunrise. She was waiting outside the door for him. He could hear her jocular greetings to other women who passed on their way to gather fodder, seek out herbs and harvest lichen. Rubbing his eyes, he struggled into some clean shorts and opened the door, thankful for her tact in awaiting his response.
Bearing a tin vessel containing tea and a covered container which gave off the smell of hot baking, she would have been a welcome visitor had Karmel not felt so ashamed of his night's exploits; he could not meet her eyes and shuffled around the room tidying his belongings, occasionally casting a shy glance in her direction. She squatted on her heals in a corner and chatted companionably to him about her work that day and what her children were doing. She never made mention of her husband and, having failed to ask her at the beginning of their acquaintance when such questions would have been normal, he now found that he did not have the courage.
'There will be rain soon.' She predicted, sniffing the air. Today she wore a dark blue outfit, threadbare in places but very pretty, with tiny flowers embroidered around the hem of her skirt, which for once was not tucked up. Her head-cloth was silky pearl-grey and matched her eyes. Karmel took all this in as he sipped the scalding tea, flicking his glance towards her when he thought she was not looking. He wanted to respond but found himself tongue-tied. She tried again.
'Did you get your work done yesterday? My nephew tells me that he met you by the lake in the morning but you left suddenly. Clever boys, both of them, but Sonu has been a dreamer since he was a baby. People around here say that he can see visions of what others do not see. Ghosts. We have even taken him to a holy person at the top of the mountain.' she gestured away into the distance and laughed self-deprecatingly as if he might not approve of such superstitious behaviour; her husky laughter forced him to raise his eyes.
'And a doctor? Has he seen one?' She nodded. 'What did the doctor say?' Karmel's tone was more abrupt than he had intended.
'Ah, you know what it's like in these parts. The doctor himself thought that the boy had visions. He told us not to let him go alone in the forest. Otherwise there was nothing wrong with him. He had us send him to school early. He gave us medicine in case of fits.'
'Fits? Is he epileptic?'
'Huh? I don't know what word you used, but he becomes possessed, like by the spirits you know, throws himself around . . . ah, you've finished your tea? Let me take the things.' She stretched out her hand and in a cliché of exciting simplicity his fingers brushed hers at the handing over of the vessel. For a moment she looked disturbed and then hid her emotion by bustling out of the cabin. Vaguely aware of a wish to remain in her company, he called to her to wait. 'I'll be ready in a moment, then I'll accompany you.'
She stood still. Through the doorway he could see her ankles; they disappeared for a moment as he drew on a damp jumper from his pack; he pulled on fresh jeans. He wondered if she would mind doing his washing for him, then felt instantly ashamed again and decided to do it himself.
Doors were open into the feathery dawn air and moisture glistened on roofs and portals. Women murmured greetings to Thahéra, but looked curiously at her companion; an old man came out of one of the huts smoking a pipe and demanded to know his name and his business. They stopped and Karmel explained his story and where he was staying. When told about the soil, the old man looked even more sceptical than Thahéra had, but took Karmel's hand in a friendly gesture and asked him to visit his family before leaving. He talked incessantly about a pain he had developed in his right elbow. Karmel noticed Thahéra getting restive and made his apologies. They proceeded more swiftly after that encounter.
'I'd like to ask your nephews to be my guides for the day, if that wouldn't displease your sister. I'm happy to pay them.' He told her as they walked downwards. He thought she was going to agree but she shook her head vigorously.
'They left before sunrise for school. They won't be back until tomorrow as they'll stay in Malundi tonight. If you need a guide, perhaps old Saahusingh up there? As he has nothing else to do . . . ?' Thinking of the weak old man, Karmel shook his head.
'Let's not trouble him today. In a few days, maybe I'll set it up. Today I'll go alone, if you could give me something to take with me for food?'
'Of course, you need not ask.'
They entered her dwelling and he waited while she wrapped some food for him – the same bland dough-bread and a kind of watery paste made from potatoes, which was all they seemed to eat. She hesitated before giving it to him as if wishing to make an offer but not knowing if it was proper to do so. Sensitive to every expression on her face, Karmel looked at her enquiringly.
'Perhaps tomorrow I might be able to accompany you on your search for soil? My boys will take care of the goats and Maya can do the food alone.' She sounded so tentative he wanted to snatch her hand and reassure her.
'I would be delighted, but won't your children's father mind?' His tone was light, as close to teasing as he dared go, but she didn't answer for so long that he thought she had misinterpreted his question.
'Their father? No.' She replied at last. 'But my father might, if he were here.' A quick bitter smile flashed across her face. 'He is . . . very strict, very hard in his beliefs.'
'I understand.'
'Do you?' She wasn't looking at him and he noticed that her fingers were twisted together into a painful knot.
'He's an old man.' Karmel tried to be diplomatic, knowing how people often complained about their families only to turn angrily on those who offered sympathy. Having none himself, he often found conversations about parents embarrassing. Now he frowned, noting the sweat that shone on Thahéra's upper lip and the tremble in her voice when she spoke.
'But not all old men are like our father. He is . . . how do you say it – unyielding? Rigid? Since our mother died, he has had nothing to do but watch us all.'
She paused, slid a finger along her lower lip, a strangely sensuous gesture and completely unconscious. 'He lives with us but he's gone to Dahu –'
' – to settle a dispute?'
Her lips went white. 'You know him?' Hearing her voice, Karmel felt sure that she was angry, perhaps even frightened; and her entire torso was bristling with tension. He hastened to explain.
'No, no. Your sister's boys told me. I met them before I reached the village
and they spoke of a stern old grandfather, now in Dahu. I guessed the connection.'
'Ahh.' She murmured and fell silent. Anxious that he had made her regret her proposal, he changed the subject.
'Why not come with me today? I could do with the company and you must know this area well. I've got all kinds of questions to ask you.'
'Today I have to gather wood, and leaves for our animals, I’m already late; and I have to visit someone. It'll rain soon and we must get in as much kindling as we can before that. Tomorrow, perhaps.' With that she turned away from him.
They had been standing just inside her cabin and, finding himself thus dismissed, Karmel had nothing left to do but step through the door; this he did, feeling unsettled; although he had gained considerable satisfaction from his conversation with Thahéra, her reaction to his comments about her father had intrigued him and he'd wanted to find out more.
He gave himself over to renewed searching by the river. At first it was difficult work, and his thoughts returned incessantly to the acquaintances he had made in the village.
Each one of them had a strong personality. Thahéra was lonely, her eldest son seemed angry, her sister was a brooding unhappy presence, and the thin woman, the sculptress, was inspired – and seriously ill. Only the youngest children seemed to be happy; and even Sonu had problems, saw visions apparently. Perhaps these problems accounted for the withered look in Thahéra's sister's eyes. Sahusingh was the only adult male he had seen since entering the village. Having met many mountain men from the area in Delhi, he knew that economically these men were often unable to stay in their villages; but he'd never encountered a village with such an unbalanced population. He missed the easy comradeship he was used to in Delhi, aware that he would have been able to ask questions much more confidently if he wasn't so caught up in being polite and suppressing his desire. There. He had articulated it. And now it jolted through him.
Women had held little interest for Karmel in Delhi outside of his official duties. He'd sedulously avoided the advances of a spinster clerk in the records department at the office who, some years ago, had been desperate to escape a match arranged for her by her loving family. Now she was married to some old man from the South and had long ago left the city. He'd attended their wedding but failed to catch a glimpse of the bride's face. He had cursed himself for a while after that, believing that he might have saved her in some way, and then slowly thoughts of her had faded. There was one woman though, the only one who had really interested him, about whom he often thought: he felt a pain in his chest at the memory of her, for she was forbidden fruit.
And now there was Thahéra.
Thahéra. The name stayed on his tongue like honey. Surely her beauty and kindness had won her other admirers over the years. Where were they all now? He stumbled and a ray of sun through the trees illuminated the earth. Thinking about her distracted him. He tried to silence his mind in order to see the ground before him with greater clarity. Nothing. Nothing except moss and stones and leaves which coalesced and separated, imprinting themselves on his tired vision. But five hours later, with rain clouds gathering overhead and a backache that denied description, he forgot his moodiness in the sudden lurch of shock that went though him when, not a hundred metres from his discovery of the shoe on the previous evening, he came upon the buried remains of a decomposing male corpse.
12
Sinbari’s assistant Sadrettin dressed with less than his usual care. Instead of his aristocratic garb, he donned rough jeans, a denim jacket and walking boots. His eyes were blood-shot; he had not been able to sleep. Now he had a weary day ahead of him – a drive into the hills with a team of Antonio's experts.
Any separation from his boss, for however long, was much to be dreaded and this one would last four days, or even a week, depending on how efficient the others were. But this was not the reason for his despondency. What was bothering him had a less personal nature, for during his careless web-surf the previous night, he had discovered something unusual, something rather alarming.
After casually clicking on directories of landfill sites, slums and advertisements for prospective developers, he had idly visited some of the more recent foreign newspapers – he liked to keep abreast of global market news in order to please Antonio. An item in the previous day's Financial Herald caught his eye.
Mainly about the tourist trade in India, with the Randhor-Sinbari chain receiving favourable mention, the article seemed the standard tourist come on. He relaxed, began to smile, and then swore when he read the last paragraph on page eight: Scotland Yard are now treating the disappearance of the young architect, Cameron Croft, of Edinburgh, as a matter for further investigation. Our sources indicate that he was at one time the guest of Mr Antonio Sinbari himself at his New Delhi residence. As no terrorist or anti-government group has made any demands, Sisco Tours, major players in the tourist industry are insisting that the problem is a personal rather than a political one. Such cases do, however, lower India's saleability in a market of ever-increasing competition. With China now opening her borders to tourists . . .
He'd stopped reading and remained deep in thought for half an hour; whatever Sinbari said, the name Cameron Croft linked to theirs in the newspapers was not a good thing and could spell trouble for them. Who had made the connection for these guys between Antonio and the Scottish architect? Probably those bladder mouths Sara and Adam! Foolish softies! Insinuating themselves into Antonio's favour, using their colour to push themselves forward. A shiver ran through him at the memory of Adam's pale hair.
At record speed, for he could type impressively fast when he chose to, Sadrettin had entered Antonio's password – something he did infrequently, but had made a point of learning when he was first employed – and started trawling though old files until he came upon what he wanted, the initiation of contact between Sinbari and Mr. C. Croft of Edinburgh. He read the e-mail correspondence with growing irritation and began to transfer files onto his own external-drive.
By the time dawn arrived, streaked with cloud and evanescent as always in the hot city, Sadrettin had begun to feel a certain amount of anger against his boss. Coldness to himself was one thing and made the man seem even more impenetrable, but an error of judgement? That was a sign of weakness. He sipped on iced water and felt the beginnings of a monstrous headache.
Antonio must have had specific plans when he contacted the young architect and invited him to India. He recollected that Antonio had commissioned Croft to travel into the Himalayas – Annie Pillai, Antonio's feather-brained secretary, had mentioned a sizeable sum in dollars to be paid to a British architect – and Sadrettin had wondered for a few moments why Sinbari was bothering to pay a foreigner when an Indian would have been far cheaper; but the notion that Antonio was buying originality rather than skill had satisfied him. Now he cursed himself. What a fool he had been to miss the connections between his boss's determined pursuit of wealth, his repeated attempts to do a deal with the Indian government – as yet they'd asked far more than he was willing to pay – the recruitment of a foreign architect and the alterations in their recent building programmes. He had allowed personal sentiments to cloud his comprehension.
When those two fucking tourist-babies turned up with their pathetic body story and mentioned Croft as the reason for their trip to the hills, Sadrettin had felt jealous and disgruntled. He had demurred from asking more about the young man or his non-return from whatever mission he had been dispatched to fulfil up amongst those lonely Himalayan peaks. Of course, in his presence no one had even hinted at a connection between the young architect and the supposed corpse stumbled on by the dimwits; none of them even knew that he was officially 'missing' at that point – but surely they'd all been wondering the same thing: what if the British police decided to pursue the investigation and found a connection between the two?
Why the hell had Antonio so rashly and indiscreetly hired Croft? If secrecy was what he desired, Sadrettin knew a dozen ways he could have obtained
it.
But Antonio must have planned some advantage to himself from the acquaintance – which was what he always did. Therefore he, Sadrettin, would have to eat his angst and ensure that his boss's scheme succeeded. For one thing was certain – no whiff of scandal, so reminiscent of the ubiquitous scent of corruption in India – and in Italy for that matter – could ever be allowed to mar the great Antonio Sinbari's reputation in a place where his business motto read 'Transparency in Dark Times'. Thus Sadrettin reasoned, as he began to wipe traces of the apparently official correspondence with Cameron Croft from his boss's inbox and cloud accounts.
Fate, however, was working against him: his computer skills were not sophisticated enough to ensure that the files disappeared from the hidden back-up directory always created on Antonio's laptop; and, worse still, just as Sadrettin had come upon Sinbari's name in the article about the disappearance of the young Briton, Cameron Croft, so too had Mrs Méghé, Hàrélal's overworked and flustered secretary. Hàrélal himself was at that precise moment swearing loudly and shouting 'Bingo, you sisterfucker!' as he thumped a fist against his fleshy thigh.
Morning found both men unrested, preparing for work, but feeling that they were beginning to gain some control over events. Given the events unfolding in Saahitaal, however, neither of them could have been more wrong, for, shaking with fatigue, Karmel had somehow managed to finish his task.
He took photographs from every angle. In his notebook he detailed every particular of the corpse that he could see, for much damage had been done by sun and moisture and earth creatures – too much for him to even begin speculating about what the man had looked like when he died.
The most significant points of his notes he underlined again and again – a flat caved in patch to the skull indicating that the body had received a damaging blow to the head at some point – though whether this was prior to death and had caused death or was post mortem he could not tell. The fact that it had been a man who was killed and a fair-skinned man, possibly not an Indian, were about the only conclusions he allowed himself to feel satisfied by.
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