‘Things like what?’ Payne sat up. ‘Do read it out. I’d like to hear all about the squalid amours. ’
‘Some pages are stained. Julian Knight seems to have spilled something.’ Antonia’s face twisted squeamishly as she sniffed at a page. ‘Wine.’
‘How fascinating.’ Payne sounded annoyed. ‘Red or white? Or is it pink champagne?’
‘Twelve, no, thirteen pages are devoted to Ria and her exploits . . . Ria, 24, leaves home after quarrel with father. Shanghai – Dubai – Goa. She was first spotted in RS’s company on the sixteenth of November. She met Roman in Dubai – introduced to him by someone called “Mihail” – info provided by RS’s personal valet – four thousand rupees. Old Leighton rather coy about exact nature of Ria’s exotic perambulations, but valet’s account leaves nothing to the imagination. Valet claims RS picked her up in foyer of the Balmoral Hotel in Dubai City, where LON congregate –’
‘What’s LON? No, don’t tell me. Ladies of the night?’
‘Notorious picking ground. Any taste catered for. Shall I race ahead?’
‘I’d rather you slowed down, actually. This is getting interesting.’
‘Oh, here it is! He’s dated it. 14th February. I may be dead when you are reading this. Please do something. This morning I witnessed the brutal killing of Marigold Leighton. You will find the body at 19 Fernandez Avenue –’
‘19 Fernandez Avenue?’ Payne wrote the address down on a pad.
‘If something happens to me, let it be known that Roman Songhera is a killer . . . Well, that’s it.’ Antonia looked up. ‘He has signed it JK. He uses big block capitals throughout.’ She put the diary down. ‘What shall we do?’
There was a pause. ‘You are determined that we should do something? Well, as it happens, so am I.’ Payne stroked his jaw. ‘This is the course of action I propose. Pay a visit to 19 Fernandez Avenue and check if there’s really a body there. My guess is that there won’t be. Have a word with Camillo about his strange experience earlier today, though that can wait. Try to find Julian Knight. He might not be dead. It’s possible that he’s gone into hiding. Do we know where he lives?’
‘His name and address are on page one . . . 203Vindia Street, Kilhar.’ Antonia paused as Payne wrote the address down. ‘What’s the time now?’
‘Half past seven. It’s got dark.’
‘That’s good. We won’t be attracting attention.’ Antonia slipped out of bed.
‘We’ll get a cab. I wonder if all local taxi drivers are Songhera’s agents.’
‘There’ll be fireworks on the beach at nine.’
‘I hate fireworks,’ Payne said.
‘The whole thing is totally mad. Sometimes I wonder if there’s something wrong with us. We keep getting involved in bizarre situations.’ Antonia put on her shoes, then stood in front of the mirror and patted her hair. She reached out for the bottle of Penhaligon’s Bluebell, which she had brought with her from London. It was her favourite scent.
Payne asked her if she was nervous.
‘Of course I am nervous. Is my face too red?’
Payne had put on his jacket. He kissed her. ‘Not at all. Your headache gone?’
‘I never had a headache. You did.’
‘Look here, old thing – we must be careful,’ Payne said.
Antonia suddenly sat back on the edge of the bed. ‘Roman wouldn’t like it if he caught us trying to prove he was a murderer. What shall we do if we do find Ria’s body? Or, for that matter, Julian Knight’s body?’
‘We’d be in something of a fix. We could try reporting the matter to the police, though chances are we’d be shopped to Songhera straight away. I don’t know. We’ll have to play it by ear. We could try to get in touch with the High Commission in Delhi, I suppose. Delhi’s miles from here. God knows if our mobiles will work. The last time I checked, there was no network.’
‘There’s an internet room downstairs,’ Antonia said.
‘The internet was not working this morning, at least that’s what the boy said. We seem to be completely cut off. Didn’t Knight tell you he couldn’t get through to the British High Commission?’
‘He did. The line was down, apparently.’
‘He had no mobile phone?’
‘I have no idea. I didn’t see a mobile. They wouldn’t have rung up Coconut Grove and asked for him if he did have a mobile, would they?’
Major Payne said, ‘The more I think about that phone call, the less I like it.’
17
Journey into Fear
They managed to leave the house without attracting too much attention. Antonia feared they might bump into Mrs Depleche but that lady was nowhere to be seen. Nor was their host. The bearded concierge sat behind his highly polished mahogany desk and he wished them a resounding, ‘Good evening, sir. Good evening, madam! Kindly remember – fireworks at nine. It will be a spectacle you will not want to miss.’
Outside, the party was going on. Music and laughter and the popping of champagne corks came from the terrace and the garden, both of which were now illuminated by a profusion of Chinese lanterns and flickering firefly lights. English voices –
‘Brown’s, as in Dover Street in London. It does look like the real thing, yes. That’s where English visitors usually congregate – unless they’ve decided to go native. It overlooks the sea – spectacular view – sometimes we go there for tea.’
It was a woman who had spoken. The adulterous Mrs Gilmour? Other English people seemed to have turned up for the firework party. How large exactly was the expat colony in Kilhar?
‘There are some new arrivals. An ornithologist and a couple that had Home Counties written all over them. Quite respectable-looking. The husband was in a dreadful state – he was accusing his wife of cheating on him, that’s what it sounded like. It was you. You lied to me! She was very much the pas devant type – trying to put her hand over his mouth. Actually, I’m not sure they were husband and wife –’
‘The place is riddled with superannuated hippies, simply riddled,’ a man was saying. ‘Some of these chaps have been here since – you wouldn’t believe this – 1967! One keeps bumping into them on the beach. They stagger about in headgear twisted and broken by long use, straw sticking from fraying rims, suitable only for donkeys to wear – like mad kings in Shakespeare’s plays! Peace, man –’
Arm-in- arm, the Paynes walked briskly down the dimly lit drive. Coconut trees grew on both sides of it. The air was heavy with the heady aroma of mimosa and some other flowers Antonia did not recognize. Hugh’s left hand was clenched into a fist, she noticed – as though he anticipated some form of attack. Neither of them spoke. Julian Knight had been holding something in his left hand – so tight that his knuckles had turned white. What was it? She would never rest till she found out. She looked up. The moon was out – full moon – enormous – blood-red – sinister.
She consulted her watch. It took them exactly a minute to reach the electronically operated gates. Antonia glanced over her shoulder once, then a second time. She had imagined the bearded servant’s hand had moved towards the phone on the desk. Had he informed his master or the chief of security that they had left the building? Well, nobody was following them. There was a guard standing by the gates, a powerfully built Indian in a white short-sleeved shirt and black, carefully pressed trousers. He gave them a good-natured smile and waved them through. Thank God! She sighed with relief. She had been convinced they would be intercepted, frog-marched back and put under house arrest.
They saw several cabs further down the street, their drivers standing about, smoking and talking.
They got into the first one. ‘Fernandez Avenue,’ Payne said. ‘You know it?’
‘Yes, sir,’ the young driver replied in English. He had long raven-black hair, which he wore in a pony tail. ‘Fernandez Avenue is very near. Very nice street. Very nice peoples.’
‘Do many English people live there?’
‘Rich peoples. Some English ladies and gentle
men live in Fernandez Avenue. Yes. Some Portuguese peoples too. Very nice clean place. Very nice houses. Real class. Very safe place.’
They had been plunged into total darkness and were driving at a breakneck speed along an extremely bumpy road. There wasn’t another car following them, was there? No. The driver took a turn – they felt the helpless swing of the skid – then another bump! Antonia clutched at her husband’s hand.
Major Payne cleared his throat. ‘A bit too fast, old chap?’
‘I like speed. Speed is good. I like fast cars!’ The driver laughed. ‘James Bond!’
‘Have you been frightfully busy this afternoon?’
‘Busy, sir? Yes. I am very busy today. Not all time, no.’ He glanced at Payne over his shoulder, causing Antonia to wince.
‘Watch out!’ she cried as the car leapt upwards.
The driver laughed again. ‘James Bond,’ he said again. ‘James Bond has new car every time. Every time. I want to write letter to James Bond.’
‘You can’t. He’s a fictional character,’ Payne said.
‘I can write in English!’ Once more the driver glanced over his shoulder.
‘Hugh,’ Antonia said warningly.
‘James Bond most famous English gentleman in the world!’
‘You think so? Not David Beckam? Well, you are right. David Beckam is one of nature’s gentlemen, but hardly what you’d call “the real thing” . . . I suppose you could send your letter to James Bond care of the Pinewood Studios in London. There’s bound to be somebody there who’ll answer it. They may even have a specially designated employee who takes care of that sort of thing –’
‘Hugh.’
Payne asked if by any chance the driver had seen an English gentleman walk out of Coconut Grove. ‘About – um – an hour and a half ago?’
The driver waved his hand. ‘I see many English gentle-mans today. On the beach, on the market and on nice restaurants. Goa is a very popular place.’ Suddenly the car slowed down. ‘This is Fernandez Avenue. What number, sir?’
‘Number 19.’
‘Ah, number 19.’
‘You know it?’ Antonia asked.
‘I know number 19. I go sometimes, yes. A very nice English lady live at number 19. Very young, very beautiful. No, not today. Today I go other places. James Bond has new girlfriend every time.’ The driver sighed. ‘Every time.’
‘Bond girls tend to get killed, don’t they?’
Hugh should stop provoking him, Antonia thought, but the driver laughed. ‘I like killing!’
‘You do?’
Fernandez Avenue had some street lamps, but they only emitted the palest of glows. A ghostly road . . .
‘The English lady at number 19 is Roman Songhera’s girlfriend, isn’t she?’
‘Yes, sir,’ the driver said after a pause.
‘You know Roman Songhera?’
‘Everybody know Mr Songhera.’
‘Did Roman Songhera come to number 19 today, do you happen to know?’
‘No, sir.’
‘You mean he didn’t or that you don’t know?’
‘No, sir.’
‘What car does Roman Songhera drive?’ Payne persisted.
‘Two car. BMW M6 Coupe. Aston Martin DB9. And he has a Suzuki Bandit 1200S motorbike . . . This is number 19.’ The driver pointed.
‘You don’t happen to know which of the James Bonds “The Look of Love” is from, old boy, do you? A friend of mine and I were having an argument about it,’ Major Payne said as he was paying him. ‘You know the one?’ He hummed a couple of bars.
‘Casino Royale,’ the driver said.
‘Of course. That silly old one – not the new one. Thank you so much. I don’t suppose you approve of a blond Bond? You strike me as a purist.’
‘Hugh,’ Antonia warned again.
‘Le Chiffre and that infamous torture scene. Must tell Charlotte,’ Major Payne murmured as he helped Antonia out of the cab.
He thought the fee the cab driver asked quite exorbitant. ‘Notice how monosyllabic and subdued the chap became the moment I brought Songhera into the conversation?’
18
The Mirror Cracked
They stood looking at number 19. ‘Not exactly what one imagines a courtesan’s casa to be,’ Payne said. ‘But then what does a courtesan’s casa look like?’
‘We might be in Bognor Regis.’
‘Or in good old Broadstairs.’
It was a neat white bungalow, indeed of the kind one saw at the English seaside – highly respectable – freshly painted – green shutters – a pleasant little garden in front – a trim beech tree – no unruly palms. At the moment all the windows were lit and had been left open – thin silk curtains fluttered in the light evening breeze. Lively music was coming from inside. An Italian song. It struck the only exotic note. ‘Una Lacrima Sul Viso’.
‘Is that Bobby Solo?’ Payne murmured. As they walked up the path towards the front door, he observed that everything seemed to be fine. Ria seemed to be entertaining. She seemed to have recovered from her bad tummy.
‘She is supposed to be at Coconut Grove, Hugh. You said Roman looked very worried. This doesn’t make sense,’ Antonia said.
‘It doesn’t, you are right. This is rather spooky, actually.’
They rang the front door bell several times, then knocked. When they got no reply, Payne tried the handle. The door opened and they entered. The music became louder. ‘Hello!’ Payne called out. ‘Miss Leighton?’
No answer came. They stood and looked round.
The hall was brightly illuminated. They saw open doors and caught a glimpse of the rooms behind them. There appeared to be four rooms. Only one door was closed. Antonia’s eyes fixed on it. The bedroom? She was aware of her heart starting to beat fast. Everything was white – the floors, the walls, the furniture, the rugs, the chest beside the bedroom door. The whiteness created an impression of spaciousness and light. It also made the air feel cooler somehow.
Payne wondered whether the choice of white held any special meaning. The obvious association was with ‘coolness’ . . . A cool girl . . . There was also the Snow Queen . . . Was Ria trying to strike a balance between being a lust object and an ice maiden? Or perhaps she intended it as an ironic statement – white also stood for innocence and purity.
Antonia was sniffing the air. A scent? Something old-fashioned and stately – not what one would have associated with a young girl of Ria’s persuasion, but then Ria might have got a kick out of playing different parts.
‘Badly pulverized petits fours.’ Payne had picked up a red, black and gold box from the floor. It looked as though someone’s heavy foot had trodden on the box and caused it to burst open and spill out its contents. ‘Madame Landru, Geneva. The best quality chocolate, marzipan, almonds and nougat,’ he read out.
‘Camillo’s Valentine gift?’
‘Yes. Must be. What was it he saw?’ Payne placed the squashed box on a side table.
‘The mirror – somebody’s broken the mirror.’ Antonia pointed.
The hall mirror had hung on the wall opposite the closed door, but it now lay on the floor. There was a crack running across it.
‘Camillo might have pushed it off the wall as he fled from whatever horrors he witnessed. Or it may have fallen off of its own accord. Mirrors sometimes do, inexplicably. According to the ancient superstition, when that happens a seven-year curse follows.’
‘The hook’s here.’ Antonia was standing beside the wall. She tried the hook with her forefinger. ‘There’s something caught on it. What’s this? Looks like white hairs.’
‘Ria might have been visited by some malignant old crone,’ Payne said. ‘The Wicked Witch of the East? Or she might have had a fight with some client of venerable age. She might have found his demands too much on the outré side.’
Antonia shook her head. ‘Don’t you ever get tired of saying silly things?’
Payne stood peering at the hairs. ‘These are not human hairs.
It is some animal. A goat? This is getting stranger by the minute.’ Turning round, he bent over the white rug in the middle of the hall. He ran his hand over its surface. ‘No, this is too short.’
They looked into each room in turn. Sitting room, dining room, kitchen – all gleaming white, spotlessly clean and in perfect order. Only the radio in the sitting room was blaring away – some Italian station, by the sound of it – Buona sera, signorina, buona sera –
Payne turned it off.
4.Little Victim Page 11