Her phone rang and she picked it up.
She heard a sharp intake of breath and knew at once who it was. Talk of the devil! That silly young fool – how had he managed to get hold of her phone number? Suddenly she panicked – could Roman have had the phone tapped? Could Roman, or one of his men, be listening in? He wouldn’t go as far as that, would he?
‘I told you not to call, didn’t I,’ she whispered.
‘Ria – please –’
‘It was a mistake, I told you. A big mistake. I don’t want to see you again. Not as long as I live.’
‘Please – can I come and –? I want to give you something. It’s St Valentine’s Day – I must see you!’
‘No.’
‘I will come –’
‘Don’t you dare!’
She slammed down the receiver. Her heart was once more beating fast. She felt as though she were walking on the edge of a precipice. She hoped Roman would never know about it. Roman would kill him if he knew – she had no doubt about it. He’d kill her.
The love-lorn puppy! But what a sweet smile. She rather liked the way he talked. He was not a real waiter. Ria believed she was the only one who knew his secret. She admitted to herself she was flattered by his ardour. She should never have done it. Never. Valentine’s Day. For some reason she thought of the massacre rather than of roses and violets and love. She was sick and tired of love. Ciao Amore. Nothing but trouble. She hoped Roman would never know about ‘Bond’ either. She had been a naughty girl. She needed to start behaving. ‘Bond’ had been nothing but a whim – she hadn’t even fancied him that much – she had been in his taxi – she had been extremely bored, it had also amused her, that was the only reason she had invited him in.
That dream . . . Meeting her father on the beach . . . She still felt shaken up by it.
It was some twenty minutes later that she heard her front door bell ring. She put down her cup of coffee. Who could it be? She looked through the window.
There was a stranger standing there. A man.
9
The Mysterious Commission
Julian Knight tried not to drink on the morning of the fourteenth but found it difficult. He knew perfectly well what would happen and he dreaded it. By nine o’clock his hands would start shaking. Sweat would break out all over his body and that would be followed by a creepy-crawly kind of sensation. Withdrawal symptoms – it happened every time he failed to have his usual ‘intake’. He invariably started the day with a Kingfisher, the cheap local beer, for which he had acquired a taste – his fridge was stacked with Kingfisher bottles. He went on to drink whisky, then moved on to brandy, then back to Kingfisher, then –
Not today. Today he had to make a good impression.
The phone call had come late the night before, only moments after he had finished the bottle of Napoleon brandy. The voice had been loud and clear. A woman’s voice. A very English voice. As it happened, Julian had been in a morbidly mawkish mood – it always happened on the eve of St Valentine’s. Bloody St Valentine’s – how it brought back memories. He’d been thinking of Carolyn, his former wife. When he heard the woman’s voice, his heart missed a beat. For a wild moment he imagined it was his wife who was ringing him from England. He thought she might have undergone a change of heart, that she wanted them to get back together again, that she had decided to give him another chance.
It was five years since they’d got divorced. Five years. How time flew. His wife had said she was leaving him because of his drink problem while he was convinced he had started drinking because of his suspicion that she was preparing to leave him for another man. A suspicion that had proved only too correct. Now, which one had come first? Which was the truth? He couldn’t say. The past was fast becoming a blur.
The woman had told him who she was and then explained why she was phoning. His mind had been a complete blank. Her name had meant nothing to him. Her tone was superior, peremptory; he didn’t like it at all. What was she talking about? He shouldn’t have drunk so much. Eventually her words had sunk in and at the same time he recognized the name. So that was who she was. Fancy now. He had never had any dealings with her before. At first he thought she was employing the royal ‘we’, but then she told him they were both in Goa. That surprised him, though of course it was none of his business where they went or what they did. The only thing that mattered was that he was going to be paid for his services. As soon as she mentioned money, he had pulled himself together and concentrated. It was a simple enough request. Of course, madam, he said. No problem, madam. I would be delighted to be of service.
She phoned again at eight o’clock in the morning. Where was he? They were waiting for him. She sounded impatient, cross. He might have been her servant. Was he on his way? Yes, yes, he said – coming – sorry – will be with you in five minutes. He had already got out of bed, bleary-eyed, his face like that of a drowned man, if his cracked mirror was to be trusted. He didn’t feel like going anywhere. He felt like slipping back into bed, curling up and resuming his sleep. Still, they were paying him – and action was better than inaction. A commission provided him with a purpose. It gave his day a structure. It made him try not to drink.
He reached for his notebook. It was bound in soft reddish-brown leather and had a picture of an Arthurian sword on the front cover. He had written his name inside the sword, vertically: KNIGHT. His little joke. That was some time ago. Quite some time. He no longer made jokes.
The notebook contained all his reports. He leafed through it. Funny requests, some of his clients had. No, he didn’t think he could kill anyone, no matter how high the fee. For one thing, he wouldn’t be able to do it properly – he couldn’t shoot, stab or strangle anybody – his hands shook too much. (He had already refused to release a poisonous snake into a bedroom.)
Would he commit perjury for a fee? Not even if the money was good? No – never. He might have been a much richer man if he’d had been less scrupulous. One might not think it of him, but he had his principles. Knight by name, knight by nature. He went on turning the pages of his diary. He used capital letters because his hand was so often unsteady, he couldn’t decipher his own handwriting. A paper cutting fluttered out from between the notebook’s pages. He caught it before it reached the floor and saw it was a three year-old Times article.
If there is a problem group, it is lone men aged fifty-plus, who are more likely to suffer health problems such as alcoholism, panic attacks, suicidal thoughts and depression.
Well, yes. All correct. Lonely, boozy, emotionally volatile and, when he wasn’t drinking, more than faintly depressed, desperate in fact, that was him to a T. He drank to allay his sadness and fear of life. Still, he managed to do his job properly. His clients were happy with his services. So far only Madame Scarpetta had been difficult. She’d refused to believe her husband was having an affair with an Englishwoman and said he’d got it all wrong. Mrs Agrawal on the other hand had had no problem accepting the outlandish nature of her husband’s passion and had started filing for divorce.
Actually, he needed no reminders of the kind of person he had become, so he crumpled up the paper cutting and dropped it on the floor. The floor was covered with things he no longer needed. He wished his hands didn’t shake so! He went into the bathroom. Was there a cure for him? He had attended a service at the local Catholic church the previous Sunday and prayed for a miracle. He had felt encouraged by the sermon, but his optimism had lasted only a short time, and been replaced by his usual dark despair. What was else was there? Alcoholics Anonymous – rehab? The point was he couldn’t be bothered to seek treatment. He’d have to return to England. Although he found Goa isolated and backward, he felt reluctant to leave it. No. England would be worse. He would rather stay here till he died. How about suicide?
He paused, the razor gleaming in his hand. His face in the bathroom mirror was deeply tanned, yet pale.
‘Hello. My name is Julian Knight,’ he said to his reflection. ‘And who are you?’<
br />
Sometimes he talked to his reflection as to a stranger. Was he losing his mind?
There was something on his chin – dark drops – blood? Yes. Must have cut himself while shaving. He knew the colour of blood was red but of course he could neither see nor recognize red. He gave a twisted smile. He was denied the beauty of rubies, roses and rainbows. He was born that way – colour-blind – well, that was the least of his troubles!
One of the worst features of his nervous breakdown had been the conviction, coming in flashes every now and then, that he was not real any longer; that his body and his inner self had moved apart, the first walking or talking in everyday life like an articulate dummy, while the brain remained in another place. Sometimes he felt as though he were dead already and seeing his body move . . .
Julian Knight put on his panama and his dark glasses. En avant, he murmured. He went out. Eight thirty and already so hot. There was going to be a solar eclipse at about eleven, that’s what they said on the news – a partial one – it would only last five minutes. He felt vague stirrings of anxiety. He didn’t like the idea of darkness at such an hour. He knew he wouldn’t be able to bring himself to look up at the sky. His anxiety spells were becoming worse; they were particularly bad in the early hours of morning. He felt cold and clammy and started mopping his face with his handkerchief. He was dying for a drink, that was the trouble, but he knew that would have to wait. Business first.
Out in the street he bumped into his Chinese landlord who said something to him, but Julian didn’t respond. He was concentrating on his feet. Left right, left right. He wanted to make sure he was walking in the right direction. He carried his left shoulder slightly lower than the right and glided somewhat. He was a familiar figure in the streets of Kilhar. Some people smiled when they saw him, others tut-tutted and shook their heads.
Left right.
He had no idea he was on his way to a murder.
After he left them, Julian Knight walked fast down Fernandez Avenue and bought two bottles of Kingfisher beer from the kiosk at the corner. Well, now he could drink. He finished the first in six seconds. His eyes shut and he gave a deep sigh, his enjoyment was so intense. He opened the second bottle. Drinking more slowly, he made his way to the beach. The beggars didn’t bother to approach him – they knew he’d have no time for them. The ocean looked smooth. There were several fishing boats in the distance. Shakeel’s Sea Shack was only a minute away. Reaching it, he bought two more Kingfishers and a small bottle of Portuguese rum. He sat down at one of the little wooden tables and opened his third Kingfisher.
His mobile phone rang half an hour later. By now he was feeling extremely mellow, the way he liked it. It was her again. Another request. He thought she sounded odd. He was ready to swear someone was sobbing in the background. Would he be able to . . . He listened dispassionately and said he would try. The money they were offering was good – much better than any of the rates he charged for his services. Again, cash on delivery – that suited him down to the ground too – cashing cheques in Kilhar could be extremely tricky.
He managed to obtain a pass to Roman Songhera’s party with comparative ease and comparatively cheaply, by bribing one of the guards. That, he had discovered, was the manner in which most difficulties were resolved in India. There was always a way round every seeming impossibility. He also contrived to learn details of the gathering.
The gathering – a ‘garden party’ in the English style – was going to take place at Coconut Grove at five o’clock in the evening. Roman Songhera would be there in person. Roman Songhera was entertaining some high-ranking English visitors. An Honourable lady, a Mrs Depleche, and her friends, a married couple of the name of Pyne or Payne. It was the head waiter at Coconut Grove who provided Julian Knight with the guest list; it cost Julian a further five thousand rupees. He reflected that Roman Songhera, powerful as he was, had in fact feet of clay. Roman instilled terror but not the tiniest drop of loyalty. Feared, loathed and despised, yes, respected, no – not in the least. One of these days, like Humpty Dumpty, Roman Songhera was going to have a great fall.
Julian wondered about the kind of drinks they’d be serving at the Coconut Grove party. He had heard the head waiter refer to cocktails with rather exotic names. Ice-cold cocktails. Julian’s mouth started watering. He felt his hand rummaging inside his pocket, scooping up change.
He bought another bottle of Kingfisher.
10
The Garden Party
‘Terrorism and cricket, that’s right.’
‘I said tourism – not terrorism.’ Major Payne raised his voice. Mrs Depleche, he suspected, was a bit deaf. ‘Tourism and cricket.’
‘So you did, Hugh. I am being naughty,’ Mrs Depleche confessed with a cackle. ‘One shouldn’t say such things, I know. The locals might kick me out or have me beheaded or something. I quite agree with you. Their only salvation. Yes. Yes. Poor benighted country. Lovely house and all that, but things aren’t much different from when I was here last all those years ago, really. Still, they can’t all be waiters and cricketers, can they? Or can they? I suppose some of them could be rent boys – don’t you think? We seem to have got the finest specimens here.’ She meant the waiters.
‘Perhaps some of them are – in their off-hours,’ Major Payne said.
The waiters were hurrying about on the sun-drenched terrace, handing round drinks. They all sported toast-golden tans and wore red boots with upturned toes, black baggy trousers and green and highly ornate tunics, bearing name tags. They had the grace of dancers. Ganymede himself couldn’t foot it more featly, Payne thought. They tended to overdo the prancing a bit, though. Judging by their names – Manolo, Marcello, Faustino, Felicio and so on – they were all of Portuguese extraction.
‘Love is the sweetest thing,’ Mrs Depleche hummed. ‘You don’t fancy any of them?’
‘No. I know it’s extremely boring of me, but one either does,’ Major Payne said, ‘or one doesn’t.’
‘How interesting . . .’
‘There’s more to life than sex, Charlotte.’
‘Is there?’
Mrs Depleche was tall, with a ramrod back, and she was dressed in a long dress of pale blue silk, with two strings of pearls at her throat and some more wound round her left wrist in a chunky tangle. In addition she wore a sola topi , whose brim almost touched the bridge of her beaky nose. She had a pair of diamond-encrusted opera glasses hanging round her neck. Major Payne saw her raise the glasses to her eyes and subject the waiters to a hawk-like scrutiny.
He looked round. Coconut Grove, frequently described as a ‘jewel of a house’, was built on a cliff overlooking the ocean, with terraced gardens hanging as in a theatre set. There were baskets of red roses everywhere, their heavy scent wafting through the heat-laden air. Heart-shaped balloons in all the colours of the rainbow and streamers fashioned as Cupid’s darts fluttered above their heads in the light breeze.
The song that was being transmitted through the loudspeakers was ‘Love is the Sweetest Thing’. Earlier on they had been treated to ‘Les Yeux d’Amour’, which of course was the French version of ‘The Look of Love’. (Major Payne and Mrs Depleche hadn’t been able to agree which James Bond film it came from.) The welcome party given in their honour had a St Valentine’s theme. It had been their host’s idea. At nine o’clock in the evening they were going to be treated to a ‘spectacular’ firework display on the beach below. Mysteriously, their host hadn’t appeared yet . . .
‘I do feel the stirrings of romance . . . Such poppets . . . I know I am being deliriously silly. Shall I tell you what they remind me of? I don’t think you’d ever guess.’
‘The genie from Aladdin? Sans the yatagan.’
‘Yes! How clever of you! Would they fulfil all my wishes?’
‘If you paid them, they might.’ I shouldn’t give her ideas, Payne thought at once.
‘Would have been dangerous if they did have yatagans. Nervous guests might not like it.’
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bsp; ‘Would have interfered with their waiting too. Actually, their garb has nothing to do with Goa or India. They are dressed up like Turks at the time of the Ottoman Empire.’ Major Payne’s head might have started feeling as light and inconsequential as one of these ridiculous balloons, but his sense of reality and knowledge of history – for which he had got a first at Oxford – hadn’t abandoned him yet.
‘Dear Roman has a penchant for the picturesque, if not for the carnivalesque, have you noticed?’
‘I have noticed. I never imagined historical accuracy was his strong suit.’
She adored the balloons, Mrs Depleche went on. And the cocktails had such splendidly seductive names. Perhaps there were too many colours? The colours made her feel a little dizzy. She wasn’t drinking too much, was she? Hugh must tell her if he thought she was. Stanbury insisted she drank like a fish, but she had grave doubts about Stanbury’s judgement. Now she had rather a weakness for Roman, she couldn’t quite say why. Had Hugh seen Roman’s signature? So splendidly baroque – a calligraphic chef d’oeuvre, really – all curlicues, loops and flourishes!
4.Little Victim Page 6