I went in search of one, turning on all the lights in the house as I did. I had some difficulty finding one. As I searched I wondered what it was that had triggered Sundram’s suicide. I no longer had any doubts of his guilt. Perhaps the inspector had somehow indicated that he was on to him. I felt sorry for the old chap. He seemed such a poor thing hanging from the ceiling with his head on his chest. It didn’t seem fair that a man of his age should choose to die in pitch darkness and alone. It had somehow ceased to matter that this same old man had murdered his own daughter to stop her marrying someone who looked a little different from him, and had followed this up with the murder of four strangers. I finally found the knives stashed away in a bottom drawer behind a pile of linen.
“You are taller than me,” D’Cruz whispered as though afraid of waking the dead man. “Get on the table and cut him down.”
I did as instructed and the inspector gently lowered the body to the round.
“Do you know anything about CPR?” he asked. I looked blank and he said in a louder voice, “Cardiopulmonary resuscitation, you idiot.”
I shook my head. “OK. Open his mouth and breath into it when I tell you to.”
I was revolted at the prospect but refusal was impossible. Ozzie positioned himself astride the dead man’s belly and, using the heels of his hands, began rhythmically compressing the centre of Sundram’s chest. When he had done this four times, he asked me to breathe deeply into his mouth. We went on like this for about ten minutes. The inspector was bathed in sweat and my face was smeared with the old man’s saliva.
“I’ve never seen this work but, unless we go through the motions, some smartarse lawyer is just about going to accuse us of murdering the old bugger ourselves.”
“Murdering?”
“Yes. We are dealing with murder, How Kum.” We looked at each other. “You really amaze me, big fella. From gut feeling alone you work out who the killer is, and when the proof of your case jumps up and bites you, you don’t see it.”
“Explain slowly, Ozzie.”
He sat down beside the body and began talking. “This is the kind of fake suicide that only an amateur would try to pull. When a man hangs, he dies either because his neck snaps or because he chokes to death. You will agree there are no signs of strangulation on this old man’s face. So death has to be due to a broken neck.
“If you see a gallows, you will realise that it takes quite a drop to pull apart the ligaments that hold the neck bones together. The drop in this case is nowhere near enough to do that. What is more, once the ligaments have been torn, the neck has to be acutely flexed and the head forced forwards so that a small bone, called the odontoid, pierces the medulla oblongata and produces instant death. The hangman’s knot is what forces the head forward. You will notice that there is no such knot behind this man’s head.”
“If he didn’t strangle and didn’t break his neck, how, in heaven’s name, did he die?”
“I didn’t say he didn’t break his neck. I am saying that it could not have been broken by such a small drop. I am saying that Sundram died in much the same way as the lesbian, Stella Stevens, did. The killer broke the old man’s neck with a full-nelson then strung up the victim to make it look like suicide.
“I am really quite insulted that the bastard thought that I would fall for this kind of rubbish. But murderers, when they reach this stage, become so arrogant that they go on and believe exactly what they want to believe.”
I brooded for a bit. “There’s one thing that you haven’t explained.”
“What?”
“How did Mohan manage to string his father up with the fan going full blast?”
Ozzie’s grin began slowly then widened. “This is where we, the dumb mata-mata, the old-fashioned flat-footed police, come into our own.”
He paused for effect and smiled. “There was a blackout of the whole Orchard Road area when we were at the Mitre. Mohan kills his father just before or during the blackout. When he comes to stringing him up, the fan wasn’t moving. He must have got out of the place before the lights came on, for it would be impossible for even the most arrogant of murderers to think that the stupidest of policemen would believe that a suicide would, or could, string himself up from a hook from which a ceiling-fan was turning. Then our murderer must have turned off all the light switches to heighten the effect of black despair leading to suicide. One of the touches of excessive high drama that seem to be typical of this case. Very Tamil. But he forgot the fan switch.” He paused and scratched his head. “Oh, yes, he left the door open to impress upon me that someone was alive and looking after the house when he left it.”
“What happens now, Ozzie?”
“I’ll call the station and get them to send round the forensic boys and the technicians. Then we’ll sit tight arsed and wait.”
“Don’t you put out APBs, alert all your services and the public that a dangerous criminal is on the loose?”
“You’ve been watching too much television, How Kum.”
He laughed. “OK. As a concession I’ll ask our people to look out for him at the airport and railway station. But the main action will be parking our bums here till he shows up.”
“What makes you so sure that he will show up?”
“He’s an arrogant bastard. A person who thinks he could fool even a child with that fake suicide must be really so arrogant that he’s out of touch with the real world. Our Mohan’s going to breeze in here pretending nothing’s happened.”
“You’re sure he will turn up?”
“As sure as I am that I will move my bowels tomorrow.”
But D’Cruz was wrong. Mohan did not show up. I waited till three, then said that I was tired and was going home.
It was easy enough to get a taxi. As I boarded it, the inspector said. “Contact me immediately if Mohan gets in touch.”
I promised I would, but I didn’t. When Vanita’s murderer did contact me, I discovered that I wanted him all to myself.
“YOU FORGOT ABOUT your Uncle Oscar last night,” Ma said as she poured me my coffee the next morning.
“Oh God, Ma. So many things happened.” I sipped a little coffee before asking, “How did he get back?”
“A nice gentleman called Loga brought him home. Mr Loga said that he had been with all of you at the Mitre Hotel. He said that Oscar introduced him to Inspector D’Cruz, who he had been waiting to meet for several years. He had not thanked Oscar for this and, when he returned to do so, found both your uncle and coach Choo so drunk that he took it upon himself to ferry them home in a taxi. He asked me to thank Oscar for him as he would not be able to do so himself.”
I was glad Ozzie hadn’t arrested the man.
Later that day I went in to the office. I had a vague notion that Mohan would try to contact me. When he did, I would rather that Ma and Oscar were not around. I sat at my desk fiddling with a pile of flight crew reports. I had been there for over three hours and was about to leave when the phone rang.
It was Mohan. “I am glad there was something to take you to the office today. You wouldn’t have been able to talk as freely if you had been at home.” His voice was jolly. “After some self-searching, I concluded that the arrangements of last night would not deceive the inspector. That being the case, it was possible that your home phone would be tapped. I think I have surmised correctly and I am now what is called ‘a fugitive from justice’.” He chuckled merrily.
It was difficult to know what to say to a man who had killed his father and sister and still had room in his heart for laughter.
“Where are you, Mohan?”
“I would rather not divulge my whereabouts for that would only tempt you to betray me to the police.”
I wanted a chat with the man before the inspector and his crew got hold of him. “I need to talk to you, Mohan. I need to know exactly what has been going on.” I needed to reassemble myself, to find all the missing pieces, and this man could help me do so.
“I tried to give you
some indication of the way in which my thinking was leading me. I did this on the morning we cast Vani’s ashes and on the night we had dinner together. You are the one person who would understand my actions and I too need to speak with you. We must meet and talk soon but you must assure me that, whatever you promised them, you will not betray me to the police.”
“How do you know you can trust me?”
“Your word is all the assurance I am asking for, How Kum.”
“All right. I promise I won’t let on to the inspector or his men.” I paused before asking, “Where shall we meet?”
He considered the question for a while. “At the park where you and Vani used to spend your nights.”
“At East Coast Park?” I couldn’t hide my surprise at his choice of rendezvous.
“Yes. It’s as good place as any. And I like open spaces. I can make sure you are alone before I show myself.” He laughed. This time, a little unpleasantly. “Just in case you change your mind about telling the police. I don’t mean to give offence but a man in my position must take all the precautions he can.”
“The park’s a big place. Where exactly in it shall we meet?”
“At the spot where you and my sister used to…get together.”
“Give me a time, Mohan.”
“It’s about four now. Let’s say we meet around six-thirty when it will be cool but still light enough for me to see just how many people I’m meeting.”
I spent the next two hours trying to find things to do in the office, debating all the while whether or not I should get in touch with D’Cruz. If I did, the inspector was sure to want to set a trap for Mohan. I didn’t really care what happened to the man. What I wanted was a chance to talk to him. I feared that, even if D’Cruz allowed me to speak to Mohan, he would be impatient and the trap would be sprung before I had all my questions answered. Despite this, I felt some kind of obligation to the policeman and I reached for the phone several times. Each time I stopped myself before I dialled the inspector’s number.
Mohan had, all along, been straight with me and, though the man was a killer many times over, I felt, perhaps perversely, that I should be likewise with him.
Moreover, if he thought that I was being dishonest, it was unlikely that he would give me the answers to the questions I had. The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that I had no real interest in seeing Mohan punished. All I really wanted was to find out how it came about that the only woman I had ever loved got herself murdered. I knew that Vanita’s ghost would not rest till I had done this. I put down the phone which had, somehow, found itself in my hand. I would go it alone.
The park was beginning to empty when I got there. Teenagers carrying floats, surf boards and other beach things were walking towards the exits. There was an air of disappointment about the place and, despite their sunburns and the music from their transistors, the weekend had not been as good as it could have been to all the young people who were making their way home.
I remembered how Vanita and I were on Sundays: happy, drained of desire but loving each other and the world. It was with difficulty that I put these thoughts out of my mind. I wished to be as unsentimental as possible when I talked to Mohan. I found our old place easily enough. I expected some sense of attachment to the spot where I had known so much joy, and was disappointed on discovering none. It was just another patch of grass sheltered by a few bushes and not popular with the youngsters because it was situated away from the sea. With Vanita gone, nothing remained.
There were few people around. Some late joggers were doing stretching exercises, an elderly couple walked slowly towards the sea, a vagrant who was leaning idly against a tree shot a glance in my direction.
There was no sign of Mohan.
I walked slowly towards the beach. It was beginning to get dark and the tide was in. It was the first night of the lunar month and no moon accompanied the rising waters. Nevertheless, the flecks of foam on the waves would acquire a ghostly phosphorescence as darkness fell. The water was high, but a Sunday evening tide tempted no swimmers. At the far end of the beach, I watched a lone fisherman cast his line. There was nothing optimistic about his action.
I turned and walked back to where I was to wait for Mohan. It was well after six-thirty. Perhaps he thought it was wiser not to come. I couldn’t keep my disappointment from affecting my stride as I began slowly making my way towards the exit. The vagrant who was propping up a tree turned slowly to look more directly at me. Then he raised a hand and began walking in my direction. It wasn’t until I got really close that I recognised him.
Mohan was dressed in a loincloth and had tattered chapals on his feet. The ends of the open slippers were turned up from use. His cotton shirt was threadbare in parts and sweat-stained. What struck me most, however, was the change that had come over his complexion. The Mohan I remembered had a skin that was so clean and smooth that it appeared oiled. It fitted his plump, effeminate body well. The man who stood before me had a complexion that was roughened by dirt and the weather like that of an aboriginal tribesman. On his face and arms were a variety of encrustations made up of a mixture of mud and body secretions. Three days’ growth of beard dappled his chin and, as he got closer, I realised that he smelled strongly.
“Namaste Iyer,” he said, placing palm to palm in traditional Indian greeting. “You are surprised to find me in this condition.” I nodded and he explained, “Things have not been going well with me, old friend, and I have had to make changes in my appearance for the sake of my survival.”
“You must come home with me, Mohan. Have a bath and a meal.”
He looked as though he had not eaten for several days.
“Later. Maybe, later, How Kum. Now let us sit here awhile and let me tell you my story.”
We sat on a patch of grass on which his sister and I once made love.
“Yes, Mohan. I must know everything.”
“I will start at the beginning. First, I will tell you things you want to know about my sister. With Leela in India and father dead, no one else can.” He crossed his legs, then over-crossed them till he was sitting in the lotus position.
“Vani was a sweet child, a warm child, always wanting to show how affectionate she was. Even in her early teens, she began showing her liking for men, first in innocent harmless ways, then in a manner that was less innocent. I took it upon myself to watch over her, to see that no one took advantage of her. I don’t know if that is quite the correct term though. For Vani took what she could from people, not the other way round. I don’t know who her first man was but whoever it was was guilty of statutory rape, for at fourteen Vani was no longer a virgin. I loved my little sister, and I was disturbed by the kind of things she had to do to make her life complete. I spoke to her, told her it would kill father if he found out. I begged her to stop. She was the apple of my father’s eye and, every time she stayed out the night, he aged ten years.”
“This has been going on from the time she was fourteen? For the past six years?” No wonder she was surprised at my being a virgin at twenty-seven.
He nodded. “Till she met you. Then I think it almost stopped.”
“Almost?”
“I think she did go out once or twice, to meet men, but I think these were purely business transactions.”
I remembered Vanita’s own admission on the tape and didn’t push the line of questioning further. “Your father didn’t ask you to stop her…doing what she was doing?”
“He said nothing till you turned up.”
“But I was serious about your sister. I wanted to marry her.”
“That is exactly what bothered him. Our father was sure that whatever Vani did, he could, for a large dowry, get some middle-aged Tamil to marry her. When he found that she was serious about a Chinese called How Kum, he exploded. He shouted at his beloved girl and told her he was going to cut her out of the will in which she was left everything. Vanita said that she wasn’t interested in his wealth. If she needed mone
y, she knew how to make it herself.”
“He was kind to me…”
“Only when he found out from me, after Vani died, that you were not a Chinese at all but technically an Indian, a Malayalee. Then he saved face by thinking of you as the son-in-law that should have been. Our father, you see, was a bigot and a hypocrite. An expert in self deception. A true Hindu does not deceive himself. He has no need to. He sees things as they are and lives for the moment, for the present is the only reality that life offers.”
It was dark now. The lights on ships swinging at anchor became twinkling stars. To the west was the glow of the city. Mohan was a shadow beside me.
“And killing, is that all right too?”
I heard the grass rustle as he moved. “We know only one thing in this world, dharma. One moves from moment to moment, acting as one’s perception of dharma demands, and it is this kind of action that makes each moment of the present complete.”
“So you feel that your sister’s murder was justified?”
“You must try to understand, How Kum. I loved Vani as an elder brother should. But it is proper that the boy in the family inherits. It is contrary to dharma that a girl should come into the family’s wealth. I know that after meeting you, Vani wanted the money. She pretended that she didn’t want anything of the fortune father had amassed, but she began to think about houses and children. She began to do so only after she became serious about you, How Kum.
“I talked to her. I begged her. I told her that the wealth was mine by right of birth. I explained that she was threatening the ways of a thousand years. I said that I had important things that I needed to do with the money. If I was a wealthy man, even if I looked like becoming a wealthy man, I and our group could change the face of Hinduism. We could make it more like the religion it once was and should be today.”
Moonrise, Sunset Page 24