I parked the car in front of the small gate, and the two of us stepped out. We had no idea what to expect. Sara led the way in, and I followed uncertainly.
She rang the bell and we waited.
I glanced around.
The house was a drab urban construction. There was a heavily grilled patio in front but no garden, not even a parking space. I noticed that all the windows were closed. There was probably no one at home, which was unfortunate.
I caught a faint smell. It was familiar but I just couldn’t place it.
Sara rang the bell again and also banged on the door hard with her fist. After several moments, there was a shuffling sound from inside and we heard soft footsteps approaching. The person fiddled with the latch for a bit before opening the door a crack.
The smell hit me like a slap on the face, and I had no difficulty identifying it now. Marijuana, but it was mixed with odours of other stronger substances.
The face that peered out at us was of a woman, a foreigner. Not European but Middle-Eastern—probably Israeli. Her hair was in disarray and her face was streaked with make-up. It was obvious from her glassy eyes that she was doped out.
She gave us an unpleasant look. ‘What the hell do you want?’
Sara stepped forward. ‘Look…we are here to talk to you about a friend of ours…’
‘I don’t know any friend of yours. Go away.’
I put my foot in before she could close the door. ‘One minute. Her name was Rachel. Rachel Fernandes.’ I paused. ‘She committed suicide…’
There was a flicker of recognition in her eyes; and something else—fear.
She took a step back and pulled open the door. ‘I suppose you better come in.’
9
Sara
‘My name is Zoe.’
The woman’s voice was deep and gravelly. She was about our age. Her face had been beautiful once but was now ravaged by drug abuse and God knows what else. She was wearing orange harem pants and a white tank top that had rucked up to reveal a tanned midriff and the underside of her large breasts. I could sense Omar staring but she seemed quite oblivious.
We were sitting in a surprisingly well-furnished room, with leather sofas, wooden flooring and a huge bar displaying an impressive collection of wines and spirits. Rather irrelevantly, I made a mental note to get a bar area made at the villa soon. My drinks trolley had become passé.
I asked, ‘When did you meet Rachel?’
Zoe lit a cigarette and took a long pull. She was more sober than we had initially thought. ‘It was…maybe three weeks ago. She was sitting exactly where you’re sitting right now.’
It was eerie to hear that.
Omar said, ‘So what was she here for?’
‘She said she was interested in the death of Anna Grishin. You might have read about that?’
Anna Grishin! Why did that name sound so familiar? I tried to think hard. Nowadays I forget things so easily, it scares me.
Zoe continued. ‘She was murdered here in Goa some months ago. A young Russian girl, not yet seventeen years old.’ Her voice quavered.
Of course! Anna Grishin. Her story had been front page news for weeks in the local papers. It had even been reported in the national media.
Anna Grishin had been found on Baga beach, the early morning waves lapping at her lifeless naked body. It had been dumped there during the night before but there were no witnesses, at least none that had agreed to come up. She had been stabbed fourteen times. There were signs of sexual intercourse but the evidence suggested consensual sex, not rape.
It was the most heinous crime in Goa for as long as anyone could remember.
Anna had been living in Goa for six months and though just a teenager, she led a wild life of drugs, sex and parties. The prime suspect was a shack owner who had been Anna’s last known boyfriend. He was a dubious character, who had started off as a waiter and then graduated to peddling drugs, before gaining some respectability by buying out the same shack he used to work at. A British woman had once brought a molestation charge against him but dropped it later, disgusted with the judicial red tape it entailed.
However, the man stoutly proclaimed his innocence in Anna’s killing. He said that Anna was never his girlfriend and that she was anyway sleeping with multiple men at any point of time. The post-mortem report and other evidence ruled out his involvement in the crime, and the police were no closer to solving the case.
There was talk in the press of a conspiracy. An unnamed political leader was dragged into the story as having had sex with Anna, and then getting her disposed of when she threatened to spill the beans. It was suggested that a major cover-up operation was underway, tying the hands of the police.
Eventually, Anna Grishin became old news and the media forgot about her. The pressure on everyone eased off. The investigation continued but there were no new leads to go on. It appeared that her killer had gotten away with the crime.
Omar was saying something. ‘…know Anna Grishin?’
Zoe’s eyes were moist. ‘Anna…My darling Anna…She didn’t deserve such a terrible death. I don’t know…’ she stopped.
I asked, ‘Were you related?’
She looked at me defiantly. ‘She was…my lover.’
My God, this Anna Grishin really was something else! I looked at Zoe in a new light, and so did Omar, I could tell.
I’ve always wondered what it would be like to make out with another woman. I’m firmly heterosexual but I know I’m not the only one to have imagined swinging the other way. There was this one incident with a senior girl in school, when I was fourteen, which still sends a tingle through me sometimes.
Zoe was speaking again. ‘I first saw Anna at a shack in Anjuna. She was sitting with a large group of people, all Russians. Her hair was long and blonde, and her face was so…beautiful. Our eyes met a couple of times, and she knew I was staring at her. I next saw her at a private rave, where we were introduced.
‘You know, despite all that was written about Anna, she rarely did drugs. And then only hashish, nothing stronger. Sex was her drug. It was just sex and more sex…never enough for her. I couldn’t have her all to myself but she was closer to me than to any of the men she fucked.’
I realised that despite her strange voice and strong accent, Zoe’s English was excellent. ‘When did you last see her?’
‘I don’t remember exactly but perhaps a week before she died. She had come over and spent the night here, something she rarely did. I was happy, of course. She was excited for some other reason, though. I think it was a new man she had met, someone she really liked for a change. She didn’t tell me who it was. I guess she thought I would be jealous.’
‘Or maybe he didn’t want her to reveal his identity?’
Zoe thought for a moment and said, ‘I suppose that’s possible. She often went out with married men or rich Indian businessmen who liked white skin. She never took money but preferred to get expensive clothes and gifts from them. Someone even bought her a car, although she was too young to have a driver’s license.’
Omar said a little impatiently, ‘So what did you discuss with Rachel?’
‘Your friend was a journalist, right? She told me she was doing a story on Anna’s murder. I don’t know if there’s anything left to write about it but she seemed to be very keen on knowing everything I could tell her about Anna.
‘I had nothing more to say beyond what I had told the police already. They questioned me three times. But I liked your friend Rachel. She seemed nice and sincere. And I thought, who knows? Maybe she will succeed in finding the bastard who killed Anna, where the police have failed so miserably.’ She threw her hands up. ‘I had no idea death would follow her so soon.’
I asked, ‘Do you think what happened to Rachel could be related in some way to Anna’s murder?’
‘I don’t know.
You tell me…’ Zoe looked puzzled. ‘But you said she committed suicide, right?’
Omar and I looked at each other. Neither of us said anything.
Zoe lit another cigarette. ‘All I can say is that whoever murdered Anna is crazy; a psychopath who needs to be in an asylum.’
A chill went through me. I remembered hearing exactly the same words twelve years ago.
10
Omar
We asked Zoe a few more questions but she became increasingly reluctant to talk and finally asked us to leave. Although she had not provided any new information about Anna Grishin’s death, we learnt something very important from the visit.
Rachel was investigating a high-profile murder when she died.
We got into the car and drove off, our minds racing with unspoken thoughts. Sara finally broke the silence. ‘I’m sure the police were unaware of this while probing her suicide, Omar. Otherwise they wouldn’t have closed the case so quickly.’
I didn’t respond. My eyes were on the rear-view mirror—there was a Xylo about fifty metres behind us, and I had been noticing it for some time now.
‘Sara, I think we’re being followed.’
She looked back. ‘The black SUV?’
‘Yes. I noticed it soon after we got out of Panjim. It’s been on our tail since then. When we stopped at that petrol pump, that car stopped too and waited while we tanked up.’
She said grimly, ‘Step on it, Omar. Let’s see what he does.’
The road was fairly empty and I accelerated sharply. It had only two lanes but the asphalt surface was smooth. We were passing through a stretch of open countryside, emerald fields dotted with palm trees and the occasional buffalo.
The Xylo not only kept up but began to gain on us. It was probably going at a hundred and twenty, I reckoned. There was no further doubt about his intentions.
Sara shouted, ‘Watch out!’
In a sudden burst of speed, our pursuer had overtaken us and cut across our path. I veered sharply to the left and braked simultaneously. I felt the tyres losing traction as we careened on the rough shoulder of the road. Miraculously, the Innova came to a stop just a few inches short of the steep bank that fell away to the adjoining patch of cultivated land.
The Xylo sped away.
I thought I could actually hear the furious beating of my heart. After a few seconds, I managed to turn towards Sara. ‘Are you okay?’
Her face had gone white. ‘Yeah, I guess so.’
‘The bastards deliberately tried to push us off the road!’
Sara slowly looked out on the left. ‘If we had fallen down there, it would have been curtains.’
My head was still buzzing with adrenaline but I started the Innova and carefully got it back on the road. We made it to the villa without further incident. Neel opened the door, a pint of beer in his hand. It was obviously not his first of the morning but seeing our faces, his expression sobered. ‘What happened? You both look all shook up.’
I quickly told him everything.
‘My God, you guys had a narrow escape!’
Sara held up her iPhone. ‘I’ve noted down the number of the Xylo. We’ll find out who they were.’
It was already late afternoon and we went in for lunch. The caretaker of the villa also doubled up as the cook. He was a cantankerous old man and had been living on the property for decades, seeing it change hands thrice. Sara kept bitching about how difficult he was but she also couldn’t dream of managing without him, and I have to say he was brilliant in the kitchen.
The showstopper on the day’s menu was pepper garlic crab. The old man explained how the giant crabs had to be boiled alive in salt water until they turned from a dull grey to the distinctive red-orange colour. My sympathy for the crustaceans quickly disappeared when I put the first delicious piece of white meat into my mouth. None of us spoke until our respective plates were piled high with shells; cracked, chewed and sucked until the last morsel of flesh had been extracted.
Neel chuckled. ‘The events of the morning don’t seem to have affected your appetites.’
Sara put a mangled claw down on her plate and glared at him. ‘Don’t joke, Neel. I can’t tell you how scary it was. And whoever it was may try to kill us again.’
He stopped smiling and looked thoughtful. ‘Isn’t it too much of a coincidence that this happened right after you met Zoe?’ He paused. ‘Maybe she was lying to you.’
I reflected. ‘Someone is definitely sending us a warning but I don’t think it’s Zoe.’
I had caught a fleeting glimpse of a face in the open rear window of the Xylo. In that briefest of moments, I had registered a lined forehead, a bald dome of a head, thin lips and red-rimmed eyes filled with madness.
It was a face of pure evil.
11
Neel
I wondered if what Zoe had told Omar and Sara was true. It certainly deepened the mystery surrounding Rachel’s death. It was now entirely possible that she had gotten uncomfortably close to whoever had killed Anna Grishin. And paid for it with her life. But what had drawn Rachel into such a sordid story in the first place? She was a sports journalist, for God’s sake. This was way out of her usual beat.
Omar happened to know the editor of the magazine she used to work for. It was a woman, of course. He gave her a call. She said she had no idea that Rachel was working on any such story. However, she added that Rachel had taken a month off from work just before she died. All she had said at the time was that it was to take care of some personal stuff.
I wondered if there really was something personal in her investigation.
So far, we had steered clear of discussing the subject that loomed like a spectre over us. Waiting for someone to look up and stare it in the face.
Roy.
His full name was Delmar Roy. He was the product of a Bengali father and a German mother. Everyone simply called him Roy.
Roy had inherited the best physical features of his parents. Thick wavy hair and the black, brooding eyes of his father. The ruddy complexion and Teutonic robustness from his mother. He turned heads whenever he entered a room. Admiring women and envious men.
Early in his childhood, his mother decided abruptly not to return from her annual trip to her native Dusseldorf. There were many theories but I think she was simply tired of life in India.
Roy’s father remarried soon. A fiery Punjabi woman this time. It was a tumultuous relationship from the start. There were frequent arguments. Even the occasional violence. He began to drink heavily. For some reason, his new step-mother hated Roy. She often hit him and would regularly lock him up in a room.
Even as the young boy was coping with all these traumatic changes in his life, his father died of a sudden heart attack.
It should have sent Roy over the edge. Luckily, his grandmother stepped in and took the boy away to live with her in Dehradun. She was a formidable Bengali matriarch. And highly disapproving of her son’s marital choices.
It was a turning point for Roy. Under his thamma’s loving care, he began to overcome the trauma of losing both his parents in quick succession. One was dead. The other had apparently forgotten him. Every week, his mother wrote him a long letter from Germany. But his grandmother ensured that the airmail envelopes never reached him.
The physical abuse by his step-mother would, however, stay with him. The unfairness of it and his inability to defend himself created a deep rage. Which would burn inside him forever. No one could have predicted back then how that would find expression in his actions much later.
After a couple of years, with a heavy heart, Roy’s grandmother decided to send him to boarding school. She was nudging eighty. If something happened to her, there would be no one to look after the boy. He protested strongly. Just when he was settled into a new life, everything was going to turn topsy-turvy again.
It proved
to be a fortuitous move. Within three months of Roy moving out, his grandmother passed away in her sleep.
Roy was grief-stricken. Once again. However, he was stronger now. His troubled childhood had made him mature beyond his years. He realised that he had no real family left. And would have to quickly get used to being independent.
He would soon find friends, though.
For Roy was the fifth member of our group.
12
Sara
I took my cup of coffee and went out into the garden, watching the red orb of the sun sink into the Arabian Sea. I could never tire of the cosmic beauty of a sunset over water. The only other place that comes close is the Grand Canyon, which lights up a luminous orange in the dying rays of the sun. It’s one of the few memories I still cherish from my honeymoon.
I was desperate to know how much Rachel had found out.
Clearly, Zoe was unlikely to have been the first contact in her investigation. She was just one small player in the extended public drama that had been played out over Anna Grishin’s death. The question was who or what had led Rachel to Zoe.
I tried to put myself in Rachel’s shoes. For some reason, she was interested in this particular crime. That unknown reason was another mystery we would have to solve soon enough but for the moment, I thought about how Rachel would have proceeded. I doubt she would have gone to the police because in a case like this, they would be tight-lipped about the evidence and resent any intrusion. In fact, they might have even been suspicious of her.
However, there was a lot of information already in the public domain, including many names linked to the case, which Rachel would have researched well, I was sure. I tried to recall the press coverage from over two months ago—the haunting image of Anna’s tearful mother speaking on television was still imprinted on my mind.
It suddenly struck me—the press, of course! Rachel was a journalist herself and what better place for her to start than within her own profession. She would definitely have had friends in the community, especially here in Goa. It was a fact that reporters often knew much more than they were allowed to write about.
Second Lives Page 3