It would be kept until it was ready to be revealed.
24
1967
Delhi
SHIVA RAI WALKED DOWN THE STEPS OF THE BRITISH CONSULATE offices at the High Commission and toward his waiting car. He nodded to the driver who held the door open for him and climbed inside. He was tired, weary of the whole business and he laid his head back against the leather seat, closing his eyes. He had found what he wanted, found Brigadier John Bennet, found where the baby would be, if, and only if it had survived.
“Where to, Shivaji?” The driver looked back at him.
“To my solicitor,” he answered, without opening his eyes. “In the old quarter.” He felt in his top pocket for the papers. They were all there and he sighed with relief. He had left everything to his cousin, what remained anyway, along with the debts. Now he had to lodge the papers, put them away, not to be opened until his death. He patted the pocket again, superstitiously.
He was too old to do it, he didn’t have the energy now but his cousin, a greedy, malicious man, he would do it, he would complete the cycle, finish the job. Shiva was certain of it, that was why he had chosen him. He would do it. Finally.
He opened his eyes and looked out at the wide streets of New Delhi, the monuments, the state buildings and he smiled. It was the thought that he could the peacefully and respectfully that cheered him. That he could the knowing he had laid the course.
And oh, what a course!
He saw the streets narrow, the buildings increase and the people on the pavements suddenly start to appear as they entered the old quarter of Delhi. This was his India, old India, the India of honor and dishonor, of justice and revenge. The India he knew hadn’t died, he had simply laid it to rest until the right time. He had taken care of the future, and he had made sure, quite, quite sure, that he had buried it in the past.
Part III
25
June 1989
Bombay
JIMMY STONE WALKED INTO THE EXECUTIVE LOUNGE IN THE SEA Rock Hotel and gave his name to the waiter on the door. He was directed to a table and asked to wait—his contact had not arrived yet. Sitting, he ordered a large gin and tonic, crossed his legs and glanced down at his new shoes, handmade and paid for by the advance on this deal, crocodile-skin loafers with a gold buckle. He bent and wiped his handkerchief over them, removing a faint smear on the glossy black surface, then he sat back, smug and content, and looked around the room.
His contact saw Jimmy from the door. He smiled. Jimmy Stone had taken a while to find but seeing him now, the Indian realized that he was perfect: good-looking, charming, an expert liar and dispensable. He walked forward and joined him at the table.
“Jimmy.”
“Yes, that’s right!” Jimmy stood up, grinned and offered his hand. The Indian shook it briefly, distastefully, then dropped it, taking a seat. He clicked for the waiter, ordered himself a drink, then placed his briefcase on his lap and took out an envelope.
“Everything that we discussed is in here,” he said, handing it over. Jimmy took it and went to open it. “Please,” he placed a restraining hand on Jimmy’s arm. “Open it in private.” Jimmy nodded and, folding it in half, he slipped the envelope inside the top pocket of his jacket, tailormade in light gray wool, also paid for by the deal.
“So, all I have to do is sign and you get all the bills, is that right?” He smiled and popped a peanut confidently into his mouth. “Whatever I spend?”
“That is correct.” The Indian glanced away. Stone was an arrogant fool, the worst kind. He looked back. “You must do what it takes,” he said. “We have complete confidence in you.”
Jimmy continued to smile. “And the final payment?”
“When you return to India, as we agreed.” The Indian stirred the drink that had just been placed in front of him. He held it up.
“To a successful trip,” he said.
Jimmy clinked his glass against the other man’s. “Yeah,” he answered. “And all that lovely money.”
June 1989
Sussex
John Bennet poured boiling water into two mugs of instant coffee, added milk, then sugar and reached for the biscuit tin in the cupboard. He laid the biscuits out on a plate and placed all the coffee things onto a tray, leaving it on the side while he went outside. He walked out of the back door into the garden, down along through the roses, just coming into bloom, and across to the new potting shed he’d had built next to his old one. He knocked on the door.
“Indi! Coffee’s ready!” He waited. It was drizzling, a damp, chilly, summer day, and he wanted to get back inside. He knocked again, this time loudly and impatiently. “Indi!”
The door flew open.
“Hi, Gramps!” Indu Bennet stood blocking the door, smudges of dirt on her face, her hands thick with soil. She wiped them on her jeans and John tutted; he did the laundry.
“What are you doing in there?” he grouched, digging his hands in his pockets. She had become very secretive of late and it was beginning to annoy him.
Indi smiled. “Nothing.” Then she laughed. “Don’t be such a grump, you’ll know soon enough!” She came out into the drizzle and hooked her arm through his. “Did I hear the word coffee?”
“Hmmmm.” John peered around her into the shed.
“Grandpa! Don’t!” Indi slammed the door shut. “It’s a surprise! Don’t spoil it for me.” She narrowed her eyes and smiled. “You’re a wily old bugger sometimes.”
John burst out laughing. “Less of the old, Indu Bennet.” She was outrageous but her energy, her wit and intelligence never failed to inspire him. “Coffee’s ready inside,” he said. “Come on.” He turned back toward the house and patted Indi’s hand. “I’m stuck on the crossword,” he remarked as they walked on in. “Perhaps you’d like to have a look at it?”
“Yup, no problem!” Indi was a crossword fiend. “It’s the quick one, is it, Gramps?” And she laughed at the look of horror that crossed John’s face.
The sitting-room had faded over the years, the colors of the chintz roses were muted, the velvet had paled and worn but the wood was still highly polished, the rugs in perfect condition, the grate swept and the fire relaid every morning. Caroline Bennet had been dead ten years and John ran the house with military precision.
As she plumped down into the sofa and put her feet up on the stool, Indi watched John carefully place the tray on the side table and reach for the biscuit plate, offering it across. He was a good-looking man, her grandfather, he didn’t look his seventy-two years, he was fit and capable, strong still, with an active life. Indi adored him.
She took a biscuit and crunched, still looking at him, still thinking and absent-mindedly dropped crumbs on the floor. “Sorry.” She bent to scoop them up.
John shook his head, then smiled. Silently, he handed her a plate.
“Thanks.”
He sat opposite her, crossing his long legs, relaxing back with his coffee. He looked at Indi. “So,” he said, “what are you going to do with your summer vacation?” He drank, then placed the mug on a mat, on the table at his side. “You have to do something, Indi, you can’t just sit around in Sussex and waste the opportunity. Once you start your internship you might never see the light of day again, maybe not for months…” He smiled. “Years perhaps.”
Indi smiled back. She pulled her legs up under her, long and slim, like John’s, like her mother’s and nursed the mug of coffee, silent for a few minutes. “To be perfectly honest,” she replied, “I don’t know what to do.” She swirled the brown liquid round and round in the cup. “I’m quite happy here,” she said, glancing up, “I’ve got the choir, the garden.” She grinned. “I’ve got you, Gramps. What more do I need?”
John said nothing. Indi Bennet was twenty-three years old, she had just passed her medical exam and would start at St. Thomas’s Hospital in September. For as long as he could remember, she had done nothing but study: science, maths, medicine. She sang with the Bach Choir in London and she
had a passion for roses but that was as far as it went No boyfriends, no rebellions, no fashion, a pair of precious faded Levi’s and a collection of John’s old shirts, no makeup, no hairstyles, just her crop of dark brown curls and her clear, honey-colored skin. She had a small circle of close friends, all girls, and she read the Spectator, Private Eye and the British Medical Journal.
John took up his coffee and finished it before he spoke. He didn’t want to push Indi into anything, he loved her company, loved having her around, but he worried that she hadn’t seen enough of life, that she was too naïve. He wanted her to go away, to Florence maybe or Venice, he wanted her to travel Europe, to do something, anything, before she ended up working sixteen hours a day in an NHS Hospital.
“Had you thought about staying with the Frasers in Tuscany at all, Indi?” A couple from John’s regiment had retired to Italy. “You know they’d love to have you and you’d be free to do what you wanted; they have a nice studio apartment in their farmhouse which you could have.” He smiled reassuringly but saw that Indi wasn’t looking at him, she was fingering the petals on a rose in the bowl behind her.
“Is this the Binton Silver Medal rose?” she asked, turning back.
John sighed heavily. “Yes, Indi,” he said, “you know damn well it is.”
“Lovely perfume.” She rubbed the petal she pulled off between her fingers and then sniffed. “Almost peppery.” She smiled across at her grandfather. “That’s one of your best I think, Gramps, don’t you?”
John shook his head but he couldn’t help grinning. She was headstrong and fiercely determined but she was never unpleasant, never rude, she never had been.
“All right, Indi, conversation closed,” he said. “Aunt Clare is coming on Sunday for lunch, perhaps she’ll persuade you.”
Indi pulled a face. The only thing Aunt Clare had ever convinced her of was that shopping was a jungle. She shopped like an animal stalking its prey. Indi stood and drained her mug.
“Don’t bank on it.” She stepped around the table and leaned down to kiss John’s cheek. “Please don’t worry about me, Grandpa, I like it here, I always have.”
“I know; that’s why I worry.”
“You’d worry more if I ran around London with a ring through my nose, unemployed and changing boyfriends more often than I change my knickers.”
“Indu!”
“Well, it’s true!” She smiled. “Count your blessings, Gramps.”
John reached for her hand. “I do,” he said, squeezing it, “I do.”
26
INDI STRETCHED HER HANDS BEHIND HER BACK, TWISTED TO the right, dipped her shoulder and finally caught hold of the zip. She yanked hard, it gave way and the back of her dress opened up.
“Jeeze! Thank God for that!” She wriggled out of the sleeves and let it drop to the floor, stepping out of it and bending to pick it up.
“If you insist on wearing the same dress you’ve worn since you left school, Indi,” her friend Mary said, “it’s hardly surprising it feels tight.”
“Tight! I can only just reach top C in it!”
Mary smiled and shook her head. “Here.” She took the long black dress and zipped it back up, slipping a hanger inside while Indi pulled on her jeans and a striped shirt. She threw a big wool jumper over her head and slipped her loafers on, then turned to Mary and took the dress, stuffing it into a carrier bag.
“You going straight home, Mary?” she asked.
Mary, her dress neatly wrapped in cellophane and hung over her arm, stood watching Indi with exasperation. “Yes, I am,” she answered. She tutted, then turned toward the coat-rack. How Indu Bennet managed to turn up at concerts with a crumpled dress, no makeup and hair that had a mind of its own, and get away with it, she had no idea. Mary hung her dress on the rack while she put on her raincoat, fastened all the buttons and belted it tightly around her waist. She took her dress and again hung it over her arm, smoothing it as she did so.
“See you at practice on Wednesday, then?”
Indi nodded. She was struggling to get a comb through her hair and glanced up briefly. “Yup, see you then!” she called, her eyes watering. “Have a good weekend, Mary.”
Mary smiled. “Thanks, Indi, and you.” And leaving Indi alone in the dressing-room, the last, as always, to get changed, she made her way along to the stage door and went out into the clear night air.
Indi called good night to Fred the doorman and opened the stage door, putting up her umbrella before she stepped out into the drizzle. She pulled the sleeves of her sweater down over her hands and shivered in the chill, damp night. Turning toward the main road, she jumped over a puddle and started to hum what she had been singing that night, quietly, imitating the conductor and dodging the puddles as she went.
“Hello? Erm? Hello?”
The shout came from behind her. Indi turned.
“Hello! Yes, you! Hello, wait!”
She was at the corner of the street, where it met the main road and locking back she saw a figure hurrying toward her from the other end of it. She narrowed her eyes and wondered whether to ignore it. Too late. The figure was a fit agile young man and had reached her before she had the chance to make up her mind.
“Hello! Gosh, I thought I’d missed you. I’ve been waiting at the wrong door, you see, and when you didn’t come out I asked and they told me this one was here so I legged it all the way and well…” The young man stopped and quickly drew breath. “I caught you, just in time!” He smiled “Lucky eh?” He stood, breathless in front of her, his face wet from the rain, his curly blond hair covered in drops that glistened under the street lights. He dug his hands inside his raincoat and pulled out a dried rose, bound with silk thread, the petals smelling of faded summers. He held it out.
“For you,” he said. “From a fan.”
Indi took the flower. She blushed terribly and looked away. She didn’t know what to say.
“I’ve seen you sing three times now,” the young man went on, “I think you sing beautifully, I can tell your voice, I can tell it apart from all the others. You have a perfect contralto voice, don’t you?”
Indi smiled. “Not perfect, no.”
“I knew it, I told you I could pick it out!” He smiled back. “I think it’s perfect”
Indi laughed, she couldn’t help it. “It’s very kind of you to say so, but obviously you’re not a music buff.”
The young man smiled. “I’ve only just started going to concerts,” he said earnestly, “I’m doing a course, correspondence, teach yourself classical music…” He stopped. “You’re laughing at me,” he said.
Indi put her hand out and touched his arm. “No, not at all!” She looked at him. “Everyone has to start somewhere, I think it’s admirable that you’re interested enough to find out about it.”
“I suppose you know everything there is to know about classical music.”
Again Indi laughed. “I know what I sing, but that’s about it, I’m afraid.” She smelted the rose, gently fragrant still. “Now roses, there’s a subject I do know everything about.”
This time the young man laughed. “Roses?”
“Yes! Roses! I grow roses, with my grandfather, at home in Sussex. We enter competitions, we’ve won quite a few actually. We often… “ Indi broke off. The young man was staring at her and it made her uneasy. “Anyway,” she said quickly, “I must be off; it’s late, and I have to get the last train back.”
The young man shook his head, as if breaking a trance. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I was staring, wasn’t I?”
“Yes.” Indi looked toward the main road, avoiding his eye.
“I don’t mean to, it’s just that you’re so pretty, that’s all.”
Indi turned back to him. She knew lots of men from medical college, she knew all the lines and how to ignore them but there was something strangely honest about this young man, something rather naïve and appealing. She smiled and he grinned back, the skin around his eyes crinkling and a small dimple appea
ring on both cheeks. It was a boyish smile, uncomplicated, attractive.
“Are you singing next weekend, at this festival thing in Westminster Cathedral?” Indi nodded. “Would you like to have a coffee with me before the performance?”
She hesitated. She never, ever went on dates, never. “I don’t know, I… “
“It’d be brilliant if you could, you could maybe tell me something about the piece you’re singing.” He looked at her questioningly. “It would do wonders for my street cred.”
Finally Indi smiled. “Yes, all right then,” she said. “Thanks.”
He grinned. “Shall I meet you outside?”
“Yes, early though, I have to get ready in plenty of time for the performance.”
“What time then?”
“Six?”
“Brilliant! Six it is.” The young man dug his hands in the pockets of his raincoat. “Thanks, Indu, I’ll really look forward to that.”
Indi looked at him, puzzled. “How did you know my name?”
He shrugged. “I told you, I’m a fan.” Then he glanced up the street and seeing a free taxi, jumped off the curb and waved it down. “You’ll miss your train otherwise,” he said, walking toward it. “What station?”
“Victoria.”
“Victoria Station, mate,” he said to the cabbie and handed over a tenner. “Keep the change.”
“Please don’t!” Indi protested. “I can get the tube, honestly!”
“It’s late,” he said, shrugging, “and I don’t want you to miss your train.” He opened the door of the cab and waited for Indi to climb in.
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