26
Tanya's English was faultless and her telephone manners were impeccable. The British deputy attaché was more than willing to help. She confided to Tanya that she was having great trouble over the disappearance of young Cameron Croft. No ransom demands had been made and Mr. Sinbari – yes, the Mr. Sinbari – who was now claiming to have employed him on some mission into the hills had not, as he seemed to be suggesting, contacted her on any prior occasion. If he had been so concerned about his missing employee, she grumbled, why hadn't he been in touch with them much sooner instead of leaving it in the hands of the Indian police? Tanya murmured soothingly; the woman remembered that her listener too had said she was with the police, appeared to grow by degrees both embarrassed and flustered, and then hung up.
The airlines were less obliging. It took Tanya nearly an hour to get through to someone who could help her and once she did, she was given unwilling service. Nevertheless, she ascertained dates of entry for both Sara Ann McMeckan and Adam Loach who flew into the country separately in June.
'So they haven't left the country yet?’
'All I can tell you, madam is that these two travellers have not utilised the return portion of their flights with us. It could be that they purchased tickets from another air-line to return to their country or that they have since flown elsewhere. Why don't you try the Immigration bureau?' It was useful advice.
Apparently neither of them had registered with the Ministry of the Interior or with the police. Neither of them had been in any trouble during their stay or reported any difficulties apart from the single complaint they'd files with her father. There was little else she could ask.
However, she discovered, a young man of the name of Cameron Carver Croft had applied for a permit to work as a consultant; yes, he had given his place of residence as a hotel in central New Delhi. What was he a consultant of? Well, clearly architecture, on examination of his degree photocopies. The date on his application was . . . yes, early March. Had he ever been back to check on its progress? Why no. He had not. That was strange, as his case was very strong and . . ..
Tanya was excited. The unfriendly man on the phone stopped speaking quite suddenly. Then he put her on hold. When he came back on the line there was even more doubt and disapproval in his voice.
'Who did you say you were again?'
'I'm with the police. With the C.I.D.'
'May I know your badge number and also the number of the case you are working on?'
'Sure.' She gave him the case number for the enquiry Adam and Sara had logged and the badge number her father had manufactured just for her, several years ago when she insisted that she should be able to flash it at will on her night-time jaunts. Illegal as hell and she knew her father must have dreaded the day she flashed it at a cop – but then, she'd been a terrible spoilt brat in those days and she hadn't cared for his restraining will.
The man made a big deal of reading the numbers back to her then said he'd call her back. She thanked him and replaced the receiver.
Tanya had prepared well for her enquiry. She had tried not to dwell on her past or her future and had thrown herself into unravelling her father's complicated Saahitaal case. All night long while her parents slept their first proper sleep for weeks, she had read through her father's papers.
Kailash Karmel, her father's 'pet', had made meticulous notes while interviewing the foreigners. Although she did not have his report before her, they pointed up many inaccuracies in Adam and Sara's testimony – unanswered questions, slight details in which they contradicted each other – but, as he'd had no reason to suspect their integrity and had been dispatched to the North almost at once, there was no sign of a check having been made with the airlines to verify their dates of arrival. Then there was his letter to her father, requesting that an unofficial tab be kept on Antonio Sinbari – how prescient this young man was. Could he ever be wrong?
Her dark eyes shone. She hoped that a report from him would arrive soon with further information.
Until then, she was determined to pursue the case.
No one was going to be allowed to smear her father and get away with it. He was not the sort of man to make the kind of errors Sinbari was accusing him of. She was also counting on him to prevent her mother searching out some vile bridegroom as a father for the baby.
She slept at four and rose at ten, refreshed and conscious that the baby had shifted its position in the night. By noon she had confirmed that lies had been told.
It seemed that no one could inform her exactly when or where the young foreigners had purchased their tickets to travel to the hills; then, after hours of calls to guest-houses and hotels, she spoke to a clerk at the Randhor-Sinbari in Connaught Plaza who confirmed that two British travellers – S. McMeckan and A. Loach – had stayed there in June.
Tanya's pen slowed as she heard the clerk clicking on computer keys. She was aware that in phoning one of Sinbari's own hotels she was treading on thin ice. Suppose he had warned his people not to co-operate with the police? At the moment she wouldn't put anything past him.
Her mother waddled into the room on bunioned feet and offered her a glass of coconut water just as the clerk started speaking again. Impatiently, she waved her mother away.
'I'm sorry. What was that?’
'Ma'am, yes, we can confirm dates for young lady as being June sixteenth to June twenty-ninth and for young man as being June fourth to June fifteenth.'
'So they never stayed with you together? Can you check that?
'Separate rooms, ma'am.'
'Did they give a forwarding address? Did any messages arrive for them?'
'Ma'am, already told you. No other entries. No address. Ma'am?'
'Thank you so much for your help.'
'Not at all, ma'am. We hope you find them in time to tell them about the prize.'
'Oh, I'm sure we will, Mr … what did you say your name was?'
'Mr. Ghote. Ma'am. Okay ma'am, please stay with us some time, our motto is –'
'Er, Mr Ghote?'
'Yes, ma'am?'
'Could you tell me who paid their bills?'
'Bills? Must be the parties themselves.'
'Uh huh. Could you just check that for me? Please. Mr. Ghote?'
'Just a moment, ma'am.' Tanya heard the line click as he put her on hold but no muzak came on; she was grateful for the silence.
Her mother was hovering in the doorway making signs to her.
She felt sweat begin to trickle down her back and resisted the urge to turn on the air conditioner. Outside the window, she could see storm clouds gathering. It was likely that they'd burst over Delhi some time soon.
'This is very strange, very unusual', her informant was back, breathless and less glib than before. 'It appears that both parties stayed on the house. ON THE HOUSE. Do you know what that means?'
'Oh yes, Mr. Ghote, I do.' Tanya whispered, turning to take the brimming glass from her mother's hand as she cut the connection.
Meanwhile, in his mansion just across the park and entirely unaware of Tanya's quest, Antonio Sinbari frowned as he scanned the last of the contracts he had to sign. He'd been working all day, attending meetings, visiting construction sites, shaking hands with people whose faces he barely registered. One of his plans – to divest Gautham Vohra, a tedious small-scale industrialist, of a piece of illegally acquired land to which the man could not find the title – was progressing well. Vohra had sent an emissary to offer him cash for an out of court settlement. The land no more belonged to Sinbari than it did to Vohra but he was offering to pay the government for it and to convert it into a water park for foreign visitors – and Vohra wasn't. In court, he knew his side would win. He'd laughed in the emissary's face.
He sat back in his chair and felt the tension crack in his neck. He needed exercise, but for the first time in two years he'd found himself reluctant to go for a jog that morning; perhaps he was missing company. He had a vision of Adam's narrow torso and his fine silky h
air; then one of Sadrettin's liquid eyes and long lashes. Boys. They came and went – he had never missed them before. More likely he was just under the weather. Didn't everyone say you have to be careful what you ate in the monsoon? And he'd been dining out a lot lately. Briefly he allowed himself to think of Elisa’s home cooking. She made pesto like a goddess. He must fly home for a week-end soon or risk her father’s wrath.
The silence from his team in the hills had not yet begun to bother him, but he found himself waiting with impatience for their return. His village at Truth Lake would be the envy of every hotelier in the world!
*
Before the sky was quite tinted with the colours of dawn, Thahéra's sister left her cabin carrying a cumbersome bundle and climbed warily towards the lake.
She had woken prematurely that night to find her youngest son writhing in the clutches of a monstrous fever. Before dawn, she had sponged his thin arms, murmuring to him and trying to calm the shaking of his limbs. Once during the night she had nodded off and been woken from some bitter dream by the high-pitched sound of Sonu's voice.
'What is it, son, my child?'
'Don't leave us, mother.' She had looked around her then, fearful and alert, for Sonu was looking directly at the door as he spoke.
'Why do you say that? You know I'll not leave you.'
'But he's saying your name, mother, beyond the lake, below the trees, he says your name.'
The boy was full of nonsense. Visions and dreams. Always had been.
'Shhh. I won't leave.'
The boys' father had left eight years ago.
'Why does he call you, mother? Tell him to go away!'
The children were so frightened of their grandfather that they would sleep with the animals rather than in the cabin when he was present.
'I'll tell him, Sonu. You hush now, baby. Try to sleep. There's work to do tomorrow.'
Life was constant drudgery, a dull, cobwebbed thing, not worth living but for her sons. All hope and excitement were doomed to turn and bite, like snakes, leaving in one's blood and on one's tongue the aftertaste of poison.
'Mother.'
'Hush, my child.'
Sonu dropped into a restless slumber and Thahéra's sister moved silently out of her cabin. From the shed below the steps, where the animals stayed, she collected her load, well prepared the night before. Hefting it onto her shoulders she set out upon her journey. The climb was arduous and slow.
When she reached the lake she was gasping with effort, her clothing saturated with rain and sweat. She skirted wood and stones along the periphery to reach an overhanging rock she'd known for years. The water below her was invisible, wreathed in mist; even raindrops fell softly on its surface.
Then a tremendous splash assaulted the dawn stillness and unseen waves rippled out across the startled lake.
*
It was a sound so insubstantial that anyone could have missed it. A whisper of cloth, perhaps, but it woke Karmel immediately. The pearly light filtering through cracks in his dwelling made the interior darkness seem all the more profound.
Was there someone in his cabin? Hadn't he wedged the door closed? His window wasn't big enough to allow anyone access.
It came again, an eerie munching sound, so soft that it seemed not to exist at all. Where was the rain? Stopped temporarily, or more clement now. Surely the noise wasn't inside the room. He heaved his aching body off the cot.
His bare feet shrank from the freezing stone floor but he forced himself to proceed. His head was throbbing. He moved to the door and kicked aside the wedge he had inserted beneath to prevent it from opening quietly.
The light that flooded in was weak and gloomy but still enough to confirm he was alone. He stretched his neck to look around the door-way and there it was – a tiny goat nibbling at the vegetation bordering his cabin: as it ate, shoots sprang back against the wall of the cabin with rhythmic thwacks – louder now that he was outside. Giddiness seized him. Feeling the clumps of dried blood in his hair and wincing at the pain, he crept back to his cot and slept again.
Noon found Karmel down by the now swollen river, scrubbing his clothes and muttering softly under his breath. Then he washed himself, seeing brown streaks of blood and dirt mingle with the stream; and shaved as best he could without a mirror, taking care not to lean too far across the swirling water. It was raining, but less violently than in the night.
When he returned to his cabin with the wet clothes, he found Chand sitting in the shelter of the doorway, goats feeding nearby. The boy grinned with pleasure when he saw Karmel but his expression turned abruptly to concern.
'You look rough, sir! Did you catch the fever too?'
'You mean I don't look like a film star from Bombay?' He attempted a grin.
'Hah, more like a g-goat!' the boy sputtered and started to laugh then stopped abruptly when he saw Karmel's expression. 'What's the matter, sir? Are you ill?'
Karmel grimaced; pain ricocheted around inside his head and across his shoulder blades. 'Have you got any food?'
'Milk?' The boy removed a small bowl from inside the bundle he always carried.
'Yes, yes anything!'
'Will you get it, sir, or shall I?'
'Oh you do it. You do it! I have to do some other work.' Karmel held up the dripping bag of clothes and stepped into the cabin. He removed his bedding from the string cot and moved its frame closer to the square pit where the fire had been the previous night. Piling on wood from a corner, he spent an annoying few minutes trying to kindle the damp scraps.
When Chand appeared with a bowl of milk he drank it greedily and allowed the boy to blow and chide the wispy flames. At last they had a blaze going and squatted beside each other warming their hands. The clothes started to give off steam and the room smelt like a laundry; it was an oddly comforting odour.
'Where's your brother today?'
'Oh', the boy's face tensed, 'he's got fever. I told you.' He hadn't actually said so, but Karmel let it pass.
'And your cousins?'
'Maya was here with me. Now she's gone to the lake. The others … are wandering somewhere – the last of the wood has to be collected … see. The rain.' He stopped, apparently perturbed.
'What's the matter?'
'Are you going to stay here long?'
'A few more days, maybe, why?'
'But look! You have no wood! Only those pathetic bits and they will finish by this evening. Come on', he jumped up. 'Let's go and collect some for you.' Karmel felt nauseous and exhausted, but he acquiesced and followed Chand out of the cabin.
They gathered fallen branches, Karmel's heavy breathing the only sound above the breaking crunch of sodden wood and the plip-plop of rain. Once they were hefting their bundles of branches back towards the cabin, Karmel decided that he had to speak. It would be too late if he waited any longer. Others might join them and he might never have a chance to question the boy without his brother's inhibiting presence. But in order to gain his trust, he realised, he was going to have to give him trust in return, to hope for his allegiance in a village where kinship and community formed a claustrophobic bubble around every individual.
'Son, I really appreciate your help! How would a stranger like me have found these twigs otherwise?'
'Oh that's good! Then you will call me to Delhi to work for you?' Karmel was nonplussed by the boy's candid reply. He chose his words with care.
'Is that what you want?'
'Oh yes! I do! Above everything. My father may be there, they say.'
'Who says that?'
'My mother says. My aunt says.'
‘But could you bear to leave your family?'
'Everyone leaves their family sometime.'
'Could you bear to leave your brother?'
The boy was silent for a moment and replied, rather sadly, 'It is for my brother that I want to go. He's very ill I think. He sees things. He spits a lot like this.' Chand grimaced and froth gathered on his lips. 'He needs much more help than
he can get around here. Maybe if I go to Delhi and earn some money, then I can . . . ' His voice trailed off.
Karmel had an idea. 'What if I could help your brother – would you be prepared to help me?'
'Oh Sir! Oh Sir! I'd do anything. Will you take him down with you?' The boy stopped climbing, almost blinding Karmel with his bundle of twigs.
'I can't take him away from your family, but I could find a doctor and pay him to visit Bhukta. Maybe you could bring your brother down there. Would your mother agree?'
'You, sir? You'd pay for it?' Feeling guilty about the implicit bribe, Karmel nodded.
'Then you can ask me to do whatever you want. Do you need an assistant for your soil-work? I'll do it!' Was there nothing the boy wouldn't agree to for love of his brother?
'What I need Chand, is an assistant, yes. But not for my "soil-work".'
They were approaching his cabin and he could see village women ahead of them, carrying similar bundles on their heads, hips swaying gently. Goats were meandering along the muddy pathway and making progress difficult. Chand clutched at Karmel's arm. 'Then sir, then what is it? Tell me!'
Their breath was coming in gasps; the rain was icy cold and Karmel noted with concern that the boy's feet were bare. He spoke before he had time to reconsider.
'I need you to help me catch a murderer.'
27
What if he had been murdered? What if he was lying dead somewhere with no one to bury him? Nearly three full weeks had passed and there was no sign of him. No sign of the gorgeous young man who made her empty life feel full and exciting. Karmel's landlady had picked the bones of her curiosity and found nothing more to chew. Idly watching passers-by from her window, she decided that it was time she did something about her lodger's disappearance.
Truth Lake Page 18