‘I fear she’s indisposed.’ Roman paused. ‘Bad tummy – awful bore.’
Songhera’s voice struck Major Payne as peculiarly familiar. He frowned, then it came to him. Golly, he sounds like me, almost. I wouldn’t say ‘indisposed’, though, would I? Only as a joke. I’ll never say ‘awful bore’ again, as long as I live. Songhera seems to have a mynah’s ear for accents . . . Am I being a crashing snob?
‘Oh, what a shame.’ Mrs Depleche tut-tutted. ‘I’d been so looking forward to meeting her. Never mind. I hope she’ll be better soon.’
Roman asked them if they were having a good time – did they have everything they wanted? If they didn’t, they only needed to tell him. He informed them that he was considering buying two peacocks for the garden, then suggested that they try the ice cream – apparently there was a thirty-ninth flavour on offer now – a jelabis ice cream – gorgeous sticky golden balls dripping with rose-water syrup. Couldn’t he tempt them? It was awfully good. They could have jelabis ice cream with hot wafers. A dish fit to lure Zeus away from Olympus, Payne murmured, but he declined nevertheless.
‘How about Eton mess? My chef makes perfect Eton mess.’
‘I went to Harrow, actually,’ said Payne.
‘I am not allowed any pudding,’ Mrs Depleche said. ‘Something to do with my sugar levels.’
‘Such wet blankets!’ Roman shook his head in mock despair. He then said he wanted to propose a toast. Shooting out his cuffs, he picked up a cocktail glass from a tray and held it aloft. ‘Sorry, Charlotte, I should have done this earlier. Terribly remiss of me. Welcome to Coconut Grove. I hope it will be as good a home to you as it has been to me.’
Mrs Depleche laughed. ‘Not so fast, Roman. It’s a splendid place but I haven’t said yes yet, you know.’
‘I am sure it is only a question of time before you do. Major Payne, I am thinking of organizing a polo tournament here. The trouble is that my chaps don’t quite know the ropes. I understand that you are a seasoned polo player and I very much hope you would be able to advise me.’
‘I’d be happy to, my dear fellow,’ Payne responded in part. ‘I can hardly wait to see your stables.’ His enthusiasm on this count was unfeigned – he liked horses. ‘Perhaps you could instruct one of your grooms to show them to me?’
‘I will show you my stables personally.’
‘You are too kind. I look forward to it.’
‘The pleasure will be entirely mine.’
‘What about your crocs? When will you show us your crocs? As far as I am concerned, crocs come before horses,’ Mrs Depleche declared extravagantly. ‘Roman’s got a croc farm a stone’s throw from here,’ she explained to Payne.
‘How terribly amusing,’ Payne said. A croc farm was one of the most grotesque things he could imagine. I could kick this young man in twenty-one different positions and still feel half-starved, he thought.
‘Apparently the muggers disport themselves in a decorative lake of sorts. They become snappy at feeding time,’ Mrs Depleche explained with relish. ‘The spectacle can take on apocalyptic overtones when, in the general excitement, a servant falls into the lake – or is pushed in, isn’t that what you said, Roman?’
‘We do that kind of thing only as a special treat for VIP visitors.’ Roman gave a bow. Payne’s eyes narrowed. A jolly tasteless sort of joke – still, the fellow seemed to have a sense of humour of sorts – or could he be serious?
‘When are we going then?’
‘Tomorrow morning after breakfast?’
‘I can’t wait. I’ve been mad about crocs ever since I got my first alligator-skin pumps,’ Mrs Depleche said. ‘What time is the firework display tonight?’
Their host didn’t answer. He was staring down at his cufflinks as though in dismay. Payne was put in mind of the mother in the poem whose face takes on a ‘distressing error in form’. Well, Songhera’s cufflinks were wrong all right – they didn’t match his tiepin – they should have been platinum, not gold. Songhera was clearly the kind of chap who minded terribly about perpetrating a sartorial faux pas.
‘Do excuse me, such a bore.’ Roman took out his mobile phone as a buzzing sound was heard. He seemed to have received a message. He stood stock-still, reading it, his lower lip stuck out. He scowled. He went pale . . .
There was a pause. Something jolly unsettling seemed to have happened. Major Payne struck a match and put it to his pipe. Was Interpol after him? Or had Songhera’s English girlfriend run off with his main rival perhaps, if indeed he had a rival? Payne remembered his thought earlier on about being an extra in someone else’s play.
What was Songhera’s play?
13
Witness for the Prosecution
RS’s kingdom is the kind of place where anything can happen.
RS presents an interesting study. Histrionic, vain as a peacock, given to bombastic declarations, busy playing the grand seigneur. He is treated like a god – one of those capricious, rather wilful Indian gods. He seems to expect it. A preening, pouting solipsist, he cuts a ridiculous figure, but he is in fact a dangerous bully. He punched one of the waiters last night because the poor boy had been looking at him ‘insolently’.
Antonia found that she couldn’t concentrate on her diary.
Her eyes kept straying towards the man who had sat on the bench opposite her. A tall, gaunt Englishman in his sixties – his left shoulder slightly higher than the right – he couldn’t be anything but English. He was dressed in a light grey suit that had seen better days, and wearing a white panama, not unlike the one her husband had on at this very moment, only grubbier. The man’s face was unevenly tanned. He held his left hand clenched in a fist, so tight that his knuckles had gone white. He seemed in the grip of some powerful emotion. The panama was pulled down on his forehead and he wore large dark glasses. (Was he trying to conceal his face?) He was holding a notebook, kept twisting it between his fingers. The notebook was bound in soft reddish-brown leather and brought to mind an old-fashioned Boy Scout’s diary – it had the picture of a sword on the cover. Was it really a diary?
A fellow diarist. Antonia was naturally drawn to people who kept diaries. She watched the man open the notebook and start writing in it. She felt the irresistible urge to know what it was he was writing. A totally irrational urge. None of her business. It might not even be a diary . . .
His hand shook. He wrote as though his life depended on it. He was using capital letters, she could tell from the way his hand moved. It seemed to her he didn’t trust himself to use joined-up writing. The tip of his tongue protruded between his lips. Drops of sweat glistened on his face, which was mottled, with an unhealthy greenish pallor about it. The man’s lips trembled and he started muttering to himself.
He had joined Antonia in the folly some five minutes previously. She had nodded to him but he had hardly taken any notice of her. He had a dazed air about him. Like a man who’d had a bad shock? Was she imagining it? It might be the heat – or he might have had too much to drink. Or, Antonia decided, he might be in the early stages of Huntington’s disease. (She was fascinated by multiple possibilities.) There was the twitching mouth, the spasmodic movements of the arms, the sweating. It was a genetic disorder that started mysteriously in mid-life and progressed to insanity. The man seemed the right age. She had done research on Huntington’s disease for a novel. She might be wrong of course.
They were playing ‘Killing Me Softly’ now. (With your smile?) She cast a glance towards the terrace. Roman Songhera was standing not far from her husband and Mrs Depleche, talking urgently to a man the size of a wardrobe – one of his minders, no doubt. She saw that her fellow diarist (if indeed that was a diary) was gazing in the same direction and she was startled by his expression. It was a blend of – of great distress, acute misery, loathing and fear. Antonia thought she could read people’s faces correctly. She might be mistaken. Well, if one had to make a fool of oneself, one might as well do it inside the folly, as Hugh was likely to say. She mus
tn’t stare. Terribly ill-mannered!
She bent her head over her diary once more, but now she found it impossible to concentrate.
‘Excuse me,’ she heard her fellow diarist’s tentative voice. (Why did she keep calling him ‘her fellow diarist’? The reddish book was probably not a diary at all.)
Antonia smiled, her polite social smile. ‘Yes?’
‘I – I’m sorry to bother you like this . . .’
A very English voice. Somewhat breathless. ‘No bother at all,’ she said brightly.
‘You’re not a friend of Roman Songhera’s, are you?’
‘What if I am? Actually no, I am not. I hardly know him.’
He swallowed. ‘What – what about the others? The old lady and the man. They are English, aren’t they?’
‘Yes. Well, the man’s my husband. He is most certainly not Roman’s friend –’
‘Roman Songhera is an extremely dangerous individual. He is a psychopath. He –’ The man broke off. ‘This is a matter of life and death. I need to talk to you.’ He rose abruptly. ‘May I sit next to you?’
Was he mad? Why did they always meet people like that? Antonia drew back slightly, but she decided to risk it. She was curious. ‘If you like.’
The man still held his left hand in a fist. His wristwatch appeared to have stopped at one o’clock.
‘Something happened earlier today. It was – horrible! I’ve been trailing Roman Songhera’s English girlfriend. Her name is Marigold, but everybody calls her Ria. Her father’s asked me to trail her.’ The man spoke haltingly, breathlessly. ‘I haven’t heard from him for some time – he lives in England – no one answers their phone, but I’ve been going on with the job – he commissioned me.’
‘Commissioned you?’
‘Yes. My name is Julian Knight. I am a policeman – used to be. You look as though you don’t believe me! You think I’m mad, don’t you?’
‘I do believe you,’ Antonia reassured him.
‘I’m – a bit drunk. I needed to – to steady my nerves – after what I saw. It was horrible. I was sick. You must believe me. You are my only chance. They might come for me any moment!’
‘Who might come for you?’
He looked round and lowered his voice. ‘Songhera’s men. It would be no good talking to the police. The local police are all in Roman Songhera’s pocket. They’d do anything he said. Anything. They are corrupt – same as the local politicians – too scared of him. Roman specializes in contract killings. His men are everywhere. He gets his men to do all sorts of things. But this was completely different. This time he did it himself –’
‘What did he do? ’
‘He killed Ria. I saw him. I was there when it happened.’
This is a trick, Antonia thought. I am being set up. Hugh and Mrs Depleche are behind it. Mrs Depleche doesn’t like me. She suggested it because of the kind of story I write and Hugh went along with the plan. She wants to make me look a fool. This is an actor specially hired for the purpose –
The man was speaking. ‘There’d be a cover-up. Or the body’d just disappear. Perhaps it’s disappeared already. They can make it look as though the death never happened. Or as though it were some sort of accident. I’m telling you, he – Roman Songhera – can do anything. I won’t be able to hide or run away. They’ll get me – he’s got his spies everywhere.’ The man was becoming quite breathless. ‘There’s nowhere for me to hide here. It was madness, coming here, into the lair of the beast, but I heard there’d be someone from the British High Commission – from Delhi. I thought they might be able to help me – have the matter properly investigated – give me protection. D’you know when they are coming?’
‘I have no idea,’ Antonia said. ‘I don’t know about anyone from the High Commission. Can’t you phone them?’
‘I tried, but didn’t get a connection. The line was down – that sort of thing happens all the time here—or maybe it was Roman Songhera who made it happen!’ Suddenly the man reached out and clutched at her arm. ‘Would you help me? Please.’ His voice quavered. It seemed as though he was about to burst into tears.
‘What do you want me to do?’
No, he wasn’t an actor. His distress was quite genuine. His face glistened with sweat. There was a whitish stripe across his forehead. His lips were trembling. His hands were pale pink, like monkey’s paws. The long hand of his watch had moved to five past one. So his watch hadn’t stopped after all. And his left hand continued to be clenched in a fist. The silly things she noticed! He was shaking. Poor man. What a terrible situation!
‘I am in great danger. You must believe me. If Roman knew there’d been a witness – that I saw him kill his girlfriend – he’d kill me too! He wouldn’t hesitate a moment. They were having an argument – shouting at each other. She – she’d done something she shouldn’t. I think he saw her with another man, or it was reported to him. I didn’t get the exact details. He is extremely jealous. Suddenly he flipped – went mad. It was dreadful. I keep seeing it – what he did.’
‘What did he do?’
As though on cue, a blood-red balloon floated into the folly and lodged itself near the ceiling. Antonia and the man looked up at it at the same time. She saw him shudder.
‘Was there . . .?’
‘No, not much,’ he whispered. ‘Just a trickle from her mouth. But that was later – when it was all over. It looked like a scarlet ribbon . . . She shouldn’t have made him angry. He went for her – like a raging bull. He gripped her by the throat. He banged her head against the wooden bed-post – it was a four-poster bed. There was a crack.’ The man pressed his knuckles against his mouth. ‘I wanted to intervene, but I was scared – paralysed – scared out of my wits. I’ll never forgive myself. I keep hearing that crack. She didn’t utter a sound. Her body went limp. When he let go of her, she fell across the bed.’
‘Are you sure she was dead?’ Antonia asked after a moment’s pause.
‘I am sure. I’ve seen dead people. I know. I think he broke her neck. Must have. I saw her eyes. She lay very still – her eyes open – staring. He then reached out – closed them – that’s when blood came out of her mouth. He started crying – howling – it suddenly hit him, I think. Then – then his mobile phone rang. He got up – ran out – didn’t look back.’
Antonia frowned. ‘Where did all this happen?’
‘At Ria’s bungalow. In the bedroom. I was – outside. Looking through the bedroom window.’
‘What were you doing there?’
‘I’ve been following her. I told you. Her father’s been paying me. I’ve been writing reports for him. He – Lord Justice Leighton – wanted to know everything. What she did, where she went, the people she met. Old Leighton wanted to know everything about her relationship with Roman Songhera. He loved her very much. He was extremely worried. She did things she shouldn’t.’ The next moment the man groaned. ‘Oh God. Is that “Love for Sale”?’ He meant the tune that was being played.
‘I think so. Yes.’ She looked at him curiously. ‘That’s not what she did, is it?’
He gave a little nod. His lips trembled. He dabbed at his forehead with a tissue. Something like a sob escaped his lips and he covered his mouth. He leant forward. Antonia thought he looked on the verge of collapse.
A voice came from the direction of the terrace. ‘Mr Knight? Julian Knight? Is there anyone called Julian Knight here? Mr Julian Knight is wanted on the telephone.’
It was one of the young waiters who was calling. The man dropped the tissue and sat very still.
‘They are calling you,’ Antonia said.
‘Yes.’
‘Mr Knight? A phone call for Mr Knight.’
‘There couldn’t be a phone call for me,’ he whispered. ‘No one knows that I am here.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure. I told no one I was coming to Coconut Grove. There’s no one to tell.’
‘You have no family – friends?’
/> ‘No. No one here.’
The waiter had walked down the few stone steps that led from the terrace to the lawn and was approaching them. The man leant towards Antonia once more. ‘I gate-crashed. I bribed one of the guards, that’s how I got my pass. If Roman Songhera knew, he’d –’ He broke off. ‘Perhaps he does know!’
‘Mr Julian Knight?’ They heard the waiter’s voice again.
‘I don’t even know your name,’ the man said.
‘Antonia. Antonia Darcy.’
He seemed to come to a decision. ‘Take this,’ he said, pushing the reddish-brown notebook into her hands. His fingers came into momentary contact with hers; they felt cold and clammy. ‘You look like a wise and decent woman. Take good care of it, would you? I wrote it all down. What I saw.’
4.Little Victim Page 8