by Irene Black
“What does your friend do here?”
“Salman? He’s assistant professor. Biochemistry. Here, we’ve arrived.”
The building was cool and dark. A staircase faced them as they entered. They made their way up it to the first floor. A wide gallery opened on the left onto a central garden with a lawn and several coconut palms. Hannah could have leaned over and touched them. The laboratories, behind tall, dark wooden doors, led off at intervals from the right. Ashok pushed open the end door and entered. Hannah squeezed into the narrow space behind him. There seemed hardly room to move. Most of the floor space was taken up with heavy wooden benches, seemingly cluttered with scientific equipment of all types. Fumes from chemicals pervaded Hannah’s nostrils. Three or four people were engrossed in whatever experiment they were cooking up on their patch of bench. Among them were two young women, one in a sari, the other in a shalwar kameez and a long matching dupatta. This, and the loose pallu end of the sari, trailed dangerously close to the equipment they were using. Hannah winced.
“Salman—meet Hannah.”
A portly young man greeted them, grinning broadly.
“I have not checked mail,” he said. “That I have left for you.”
He took them to his office at the far end of the laboratory, where there were two computers, and switched one on.
Within minutes he had printed out Duncan’s email.
Have verified existence of person stalking you. Think he has followed you to India, tracking you via my answer-phone, so do not leave any messages on it. Contact me through email only.
The man’s name is Terry Bull. Does this mean anything to you?
Bannerman’s taking out an injunction. Any connection, do you think?
Sorry to have doubted you. Be careful.
Duncan
Hannah mailed him back.
Name means nothing to me. Please go to the police and tell them what you know. Perhaps it is an alias. A connection with Bannerman? Your guess is as good as mine.
Also check again with police whether Mark Salers has been released. I will check mail again later today.
Hannah.
P.S. How did you find out about Terry Bull?
“Come on, we’ll go for a walk,” Ashok said.
They ambled through the campus grounds, mulling over the contents of Duncan’s email.
“Let’s consider all possible alternatives,” Ashok said. “Supposing the Mark Salers lead is a dead end. Then what?”
“I’m totally stumped,” Hannah said. “It’s got to be a false name. I’ve never heard of anyone or any agency called Bull.”
“But you’ve made plenty of enemies through your books. Who’s this Bannerman?”
“I exposed him in my latest book, Fair Game. It’s a long story. It did cross my mind at the start of all this that he might be involved, but then I decided it was too absurd.”
“Why?”
“Bannerman’s far too sophisticated to stoop to this sort of thing.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure. He’s a crafty blighter, whoever he is.”
“So what now?”
“We should check out all possible individuals or organizations that crop up in your books. Starting with Fair Game and A Small Life.”
“I can’t possibly remember them all. We’ll have to get hold of the books.”
“There are plenty of good bookshops in town. We’ll try Asian Books. Now, tell me about Fair Game.”
At the campus gate, they turned out onto the main road, mechanically sidestepping the potholes in the uneven paving slabs, ignoring the speeding traffic and the exhaust fumes, engrossed in their deliberations.
“I’ve had another thought,” Hannah said. “You got a good look at the man on the train without his glasses, didn’t you?”
“I did.”
“And you remarked on his eyes.”
“Poached eggs.”
“Well, now I know why it rang a bell. Salers had pale, watery, evil eyes. I remember the way he stared at me at the trial.” She grimaced.
“If it is Salers, that explains why he didn’t want you to get hold of the photos. If you have snapped him accidentally, you might have recognized him.”
“Yes, and that explains what he was doing in my room at the Pandava—looking for my camera. But I had it with me at the time. Though he did outwit us in the end. However…” She grinned. “We might still have the last laugh.”
“Meaning?”
“There are photos of Mark Salers in A Small Life. If we can get hold of it at the bookshop, you might be able to get a positive ID.”
“Brilliant. Let’s go.”
Ashok hailed a passing autorickshaw that was cruising the road in search of clients. He pulled Hannah in beside him.
Asian Books, on Mahatma Gandhi Road, seemed to harbor everything and anything that had ever been written. It had three floors of books, cards, calendars, and posters.
“This is the Garden of Eden,” Hannah said as they browsed through the general book section on the second floor. “I could quite happily lose myself to temptation in all these shelves of literature.”
“Yes, well, don’t forget the purpose of our visit. What’s your publisher called?”
“Hamilton and Forbes. Duncan is Duncan Forbes. But surely they won’t have my books here?”
She was wrong. They managed to find copies of Fair Game and Crying Shame.
“They haven’t got A Small Life, though,” Hannah said.
The young shop assistant heard her comment.
“One copy only we have left, Madam. I myself saw it earlier today.” She walked over to the bookshelf where Hannah’s other books were displayed. “Oh. Sorry, Madam, it appears to have gone.”
* * * *
After his night in the garden room, Duncan returned to the house in the hope that the previous day’s events had been a hoax by a malevolent sandman. However, the sight of Felicity in the kitchen, brewing up coffee, dumped him straight back into the land of reality. She looked shattered and ill. There were dark rings under her eyes. Her hair was disheveled. She winced each time she moved.
“I missed you!” she said. “Why didn’t you come to bed?”
“Had to do some thinking,” he said quietly.
“Any conclusions?”
He shook his head. He certainly wasn’t going to tell Felicity about the email link with Hannah.
They drank coffee in silence.
“What are you going to do?” Felicity said.
“Nothing—yet.”
“Do you still want me to stay?” She seemed ill at ease. Was there something else that she wasn’t telling him? “I’ll go if you like.”
“No,” Duncan said, pushing his doubts to the back of his mind. “Stay. We’re in this together now.”
He went back to the garden room. An email from Hannah. His heart sank when he read her request.
Please go to the police and tell them what you know.
Also check again with police whether Mark Salers has been released.
Mark Salers? Why on earth does she suspect him? Utter twaddle. He was put away for fifteen years. Anyway, Hannah had already checked out Salers right at the start, when the so-called stalking had first happened.
Or had she? Now it all came back to him. They’d discussed it, but he’d said he’d do it, and later he assured her that he had, although he’d not in fact followed it up. He had been so sure that no stalker existed.
Now what? They’d know if he’d escaped. Still, better do as she asked and make sure. As for telling the police what he knew—how on earth could he explain Felicity? What a bloody mess. Still, he had to do something. At least he could pursue the Salers lead without revealing the source of his sudden interest in the matter. With a heavy heart, and without letting Felicity know that he’d gone, Duncan took himself off to the local police station.
The constable on duty recognized him.
“Hallo, Sir. How’s Miss Petersen? Been a bit quiet lately. Sorted o
ut her problems, has she?”
“Not altogether,” he said. “In fact, I’m beginning to wonder if there’s something in what she says.”
“Oh yes? And what makes you say that, Sir?”
“I’m not sure. I’ve been thinking about some of the people who’d have a grudge against her. There are a couple of shady characters who might just resort to this kind of thing.”
“I wish you’d mentioned this earlier, Sir.”
“Neither of them seemed likely candidates at the time. One of them, Mark Salers, assaulted his wife some five years back. Miss Petersen wrote a book about the case. He went down for fifteen years, so I still think it’s a bit of a non-starter, but Miss Petersen asked me to chase it up. Can you check it out?”
The constable frowned and looked skeptical.
Nevertheless, he disappeared into the back office. When he returned some five minutes later, he had a puzzled expression.
“Well, Sir, it seems your man was released on parole about a year ago. We didn’t connect him with the stalker at the time because he was so ill—TB—caught it in the nick and didn’t seem to respond to treatment. Now it seems he’s done a runner. We don’t know where he is.”
So Salers was on the loose, as well as Bannerman. Somehow, Duncan couldn’t dismiss the idea that Bannerman was involved.
“We’ll investigate the matter, of course, Sir,” the constable said. “You said there were a couple of likely suspects?”
“Yes, the other’s an American psychiatrist, name of Elliott Bannerman. I discounted him at first because my firm’s American lawyer thought it was ridiculous. But now Bannerman’s trying to stop the US publication of Miss Petersen’s latest book. He seems to have disappeared, too.”
Duncan filled the constable in on the insurance scam. The constable made notes.
“Could you ask Miss Petersen to call in at the station, Sir? We really need to get her version of all this.”
“Can’t do that. She’s in…” he began, but stopped himself. No, he wouldn’t tell the police where she was. Not yet. What if Felicity was right? What if the police were involved? But then, they’d know where she was in any case, wouldn’t they? Nevertheless, this needed thinking through. Better not to say anything I might regret. “She’s away at the moment. Not sure when she’ll be back. She’ll let me know.”
“Oh, I see. Well, when she does get back, be sure to tell her, won’t you, Sir.”
“Of course.”
“Right you are, Sir. Meanwhile, we’ll work on what you’ve given us. Thanks for your help.”
With a heavy heart, Duncan made his way back home, wondering if his visit to the police had done anything to help Hannah. He’d kept back vital information. Hannah was in India. So was Terry Bull, according to Felicity. At least Hannah was aware of that now. But was he right to mistrust the police? Had he placed Hannah in greater danger?
* * * *
“One other email has come,” Salman said when Hannah and Ashok staggered back into the laboratory. He handed them a printed sheet. “Is okay. I have not looked.”
Hannah read:
Have been to the police. Very helpful for once! Mark Salers released early on compassionate grounds—contracted TB in prison. Could be Terry Bull. Will make further inquiries.
I’ll mail again later if I get more info.
For God’s sake take care.
Duncan
Hannah handed the printout to Ashok.
“I don’t follow this at all,” she muttered, shaking her head. “Duncan said he checked on Salers months back.”
Ashok folded the sheet and slipped it into his shirt pocket. With a brief wave of thanks to Salman, he took Hannah’s arm and led her out of the laboratory.
He took her to a garden, set deep within the green arboretum of the campus. It had once been beautiful, but now its shrubbery had acquired a neglected air, like an old master lurking unsuspected in a museum storeroom.
Neither of them had spoken since they left the laboratory with Duncan’s email tucked in Ashok’s pocket.
They found a bench and brushed it clear of fallen hibiscus blossoms from an overhanging shrub.
Ashok broke the silence again. “Well. Where do we begin?”
“Let’s have another look at the email.”
They pored over it for some minutes before Ashok spoke.
“Either your friend Duncan didn’t check that time when he said he had or the police messed up. No point in losing sleep over it.”
“What on earth made Duncan suddenly decide to believe me? I asked him, but he hasn’t said.”
“Never mind that now. Let’s concentrate on what to do next.”
She nodded. “Well, now I know why I didn’t suspect Salers—if that’s who it is. If he’s got TB it’s not surprising he’s changed so much. He was built like an ox in those days. And no wonder he kept his eyes hidden. Those I’d have recognized. I could never forget the way he stared at me across the courtroom—so much malice.” She turned to face Ashok. “You realize that he must know who you are, too.”
Ashok shook his head. “No. I never saw him then. By the time I met Maighréad, he was locked up, don’t forget. Unless...you didn’t mention me in the book, did you?”
“Give me some credit. I’m not a tabloid journalist.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s all beginning to make sense to me now,” Hannah said.
“What is?”
“We’ve been wondering how the stalker managed to keep such close tabs on me.”
“Yes?”
“Well, he had a bit of head start, didn’t he?”
“How?”
“Because he was born and brought up here.”
“What? I didn’t know that!”
“Not here. In Pondicherry. He’s from an old French colonial family on his father’s side. He was christened Marc Salers. Mother’s family came from England and settled in Madras. Mark’s family stayed on after independence. When Mark was fourteen, his father deserted them for an Indian woman—a doctor.”
“Maighréad never told me that he had an Indian connection.”
“She didn’t want you to know. You may have jumped to conclusions.”
“What are you saying?”
“Mark never forgave his father. His mother took him and his younger sister to live in England.”
“And where do I fit into this?”
“I think this is what attracted her to you in the first place. For Maighréad, you represented an unconscious way of getting at Mark.”
“I don’t believe you. That’s horrible!”
“I did say to start with. After a while, it was obvious that her feelings for you went much deeper.” Her hand found his. She squeezed it. He did not respond. “Maighréad would have died in that hospital if there had been any other doctor looking after her. She didn’t want to go on. You gave her the will to fight.”
“She died anyway.”
“But she had those wonderful months with you before...”
“I wonder if there’s anything she didn’t tell you.”
“Like I said on the train, Ashok. I hardly saw her once you’d come on the scene. As far as I was concerned, it was over. I was happy for her. I didn’t know she’d die; none of us did. I wanted to let her get on with her life. And I wanted to get on with writing up her story. But as you know, she wouldn’t let go. So she wrote to me. A lot. I have all her letters at home. Maybe you’ll read them one day. She dreamt of going to India with you, you know. She thought that she’d find something here…some kind of fulfillment perhaps.”
“Is that why you decided to come to India, too? When you were running away? Perhaps you thought you would find fulfillment here, also. Just as Maighréad did.”
“I’ve told you. I wasn’t running away. I had an assignment.”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean it like that.”
“You did. You still think I ran away.”
“Hannah, being afraid is nothing to be ashamed
of. Stop being so defensive. This is me you’re talking to, not your public who expect you to be superwoman.” His hand tightened on hers.
She stiffened. “I didn’t run away. And as for being defensive, you’d better take a good look at yourself before you start accusing me.”
Ashok laughed, in a small, tired way. “Don’t, Hannah. I can’t take this at the moment.”
She drew away, isolated once more in her nightmare.
Ashok covered his eyes with his hands and started muttering to himself, to her. “Hannah, Maighréad, Salers, Duncan Forbes...me. Where does it all begin? How does it fit together? What is it all about?”
* * * *
When he returned home from the police station, Duncan found Felicity back in bed, her face as gray as the sky outside.
“What on earth’s the matter?”
She was incoherent. He caught the occasional word. “Pain...my head.”
“Felicity.” Duncan cupped her face in his hands and tried to make her look at him. Her eyes wouldn’t focus.
“Have you taken anything?”
“Distalgesics...four.” By now, her voice was a whisper, and her eyes were closing.
“Four Distalgesics?” Bloody hell, he thought. He picked up the phone and dialed the local medical center. “Just keep an eye on her,” the anonymous voice said, “Let her sleep it off. If you suspect any deterioration, get her round to casualty at once.”
Duncan put down the phone, feeling uneasy. He would have expected an immediate home visit. What the hell was wrong with doctors these days? This one sounded Indian. Perhaps he hadn’t understood. Not that he had anything against Indians, of course, and the man seemed confident in his advice. Duncan shrugged off his doubts.
He went back to the garden room and emailed Hannah.
A couple of hours later, he shook Felicity awake. He carried her to the bathroom and turned the cold shower onto her. Then he wrapped her in a bathrobe, took her downstairs, and made her a cup of black coffee.
“How’s your head?”
“Better,” she replied, “but not good. It’s where you banged it on the wall yesterday.”