Payne drew her attention to a photograph in a frame – a wedding group. The date was written out under it: May 1982. A broadly smiling bride and a bashful-looking groom. Was that Julian Knight? Antonia peered. Impossible to tell. She imagined she detected a resemblance in the curve of the mouth, but of course she couldn’t swear to it. The fresh-faced young man in the morning coat and the topper couldn’t have looked more different from the sweating twitching creature in the grubby panama and dark glasses who had buttonholed her in the folly. Old Zebra Face. Why had Hugh called him that? Because of the white stripe on his forehead? Julian Knight had been a bad colour. Mottled complexion. He had kept mopping his face. With a little shudder Antonia recalled the stained tissue Julian Knight had dropped inside the folly . . .
Payne had walked across to a small rickety writing table and opened a drawer. Antonia smiled at Tang who was standing in the doorway, smoking in an absorbed manner. ‘So hot, isn’t it?’ she said.
‘Very good tobacco.’ Tang nodded. ‘Madam smoke?’
‘No, I don’t. What’s that?’ She raised her hand towards a thick blackish smudge on the ceiling, which was almost four feet in length and immediately above the narrow bed in the corner.
‘Smoke stain. Opium. No, not Mr Knight. Mr Knight no smoke. My cousin. My cousin live in flat before Mr Knight. My cousin philosopher. What is Infinity? My cousin always ask. Always. Can you explain Infinity? Can you reach Infinity? My cousin want to know. Madam know?’
‘Infinity? Goodness.’ Antonia frowned. ‘Um. They draw it as an 8 that was so tired, it simply had to lie down and take a nap, don’t they? It’s where parallel lines meet, or so they say – isn’t it? What a strange sight that would be,’ she murmured thoughtfully.
‘If we ever were to reach Infinity,’ Payne said, ‘all the numbers would be abolished, but then it must mean that Time will be abolished as well and no one will ever use the expression “in years to come” and there’ll be no need for Multiplication Tables, nor for Addition, Subtraction or Division either, and there’ll be no breakfasts, dinners or teas, and – ‘
‘And nobody will grow old but stay the same age?’
‘Which will be fine if you are thirty-something but not so fine if you are eighty-something.’
‘Wife finish husband sentence,’ Tang said approvingly. ‘My wife never finish my sentence. My wife difficult and stupid woman, but she cook well. Madam like flat?’
‘It’s comfortable enough, but it looks a bit mournful,’ said Antonia diplomatically. ‘Not a single bright colour!’
Tang pointed to his eyes. ‘Blind. Attention. Madam not to move. Mouse.’ He now pointed towards Antonia’s feet. With a little cry she drew back. She watched in horror as Tang, without taking the pipe out of his mouth, grabbed a roll of newspapers and killed the mouse with a crisp sickening thwack.
Tang laughed. ‘Madam like mice?’
‘No!’ It took Antonia a moment to recover her poise. ‘What did you mean, “blind”?’
‘Mr Knight blind. See no colour. Mr Knight tell me, Mr Tang, beauty of world lost on me!’
‘Oh, you mean colour-blind? Really?’ With the corner of her eye Antonia thought she saw Hugh take something out of the desk drawer and put it into in his pocket.
‘Yes. Blind. See no colour. Madam have children?’
‘Yes.’
‘How many?’
‘I have a son.’
‘I have fifteen son.’
‘Thanks so much for letting us see Knight’s flat.’ Major Payne joined them. ‘Cosy little place. Could do with lick of paint and a spot of spring cleaning, though.’
‘You bring more tobacco tomorrow morning, yes?’
‘Absolutely, my dear fellow. Either in person or I’ll employ the services of one of our tame Turks. Incidentally, Mr Tang, which of Knight’s shoulders is higher, the right or the left?’
‘Right,’ Tang answered promptly.
‘You sure it’s the right?’
‘Yes. Right. You call your cousin by second name?’ Tang gave a sly smile.
‘Sometimes I do. We are not terribly close,’ Payne explained, unperturbed.
Soon after they went down the staircase, which creaked ominously, and out into the street.
‘An observant old bird,’ declared Payne. ‘Am I right in thinking Monsignor Knox ruled against Chinamen? I mean in his famous Decalogue. No self-respecting detective story writer should include sinister Chinamen among the suspects and so on?’
‘Tang is not a suspect.’
‘How do you know? I had the distinct impression he was seething with sinister intentions.’
‘He killed a mouse most adroitly,’ Antonia said in a thoughtful voice.
‘There you are. Tang is a merciless killer. Monsignor Knox meant the Fu Manchu type of course,’ Payne went on ruminatively. ‘Tall, lean and feline, with a brow as wide as Shakespeare’s and a face like Satan’s, close-shaven skull and long magnetic eyes of the true cat green and embodying the cruel cunning of the entire Easten race.’
‘You shouldn’t be saying things like that. What did you take from the desk?’
‘Nothing much. A photo of Ria and her papa. Would be useful to know what she looked like. Want to see it?’ Payne’s hand went to his trouser pocket.
Antonia stood examining the photograph. ‘How can you be sure it’s Ria and her father?’
‘It says so at the bottom – ML and OL.’
‘So it does. Marigold Leighton. OL? Oh. Old Leighton . . . Marigold looks bold and beautiful – wasn’t that the title of that dreadful American soap opera your aunt raves about?’
‘Ah. The Bold and the Beautiful. Aunt Nellie has seen thirty-eight episodes – and it is far from over, apparently. Ria’s got oodles of SA,’ Payne murmured. ‘Oodles and oodles and oodles of SA. Don’t look so disapproving. Old Leighton gives me the jitters. Something nightmarish about him.’
‘He doesn’t look very happy.’
‘He looks the epitome of the petulant tyrant. Observe the proprietorial manner in which he clutches his daughter’s arm. I imagine he loved Ria beyond reason, beyond rectitude and beyond pity. Perhaps he was a little in love with her . . . I do have a way with words, you must admit.’
‘Pipe-smoking nuns risking the birch! Really, Hugh, that was the most idiotic thing I’d ever heard.’ Antonia shook her head. ‘You have given Tang a terribly distorted idea of what life at an English convent is like.’
Payne sighed. ‘I keep thinking of Songhera’s crocs, my love. I know it’s awfully silly of me, but I can’t help it. When I was a young boy I always felt great sympathy for poor Captain Hook. Now I know how he must have felt.’
‘Roman wouldn’t dare throw us to his crocs, would he?’
‘He would certainly do so if he thought we were conspiring to get him, I have little doubt. Charlotte, too – and it would serve her right. Killing Ria might have tipped him straight into the mouth of madness. Ah, there’s a taxi at last.’ Payne held up his hand. ‘Songhera could always claim he never laid eyes on us. The police station,’ he told the taxi driver.
Antonia frowned. ‘What was that thing about Julian Knight’s right shoulder?’
20
A Man Lay Dead
The police station was small and even dingier than Julian Knight’s abode. Major Payne wished the policeman behind the desk a good evening. ‘Do you speak English?’
‘I speak English.’ The policeman smiled at them in a friendly enough manner.
‘I am terribly worried about my cousin. A Mr Julian Knight. He resides in Kilhar but he seems to have vanished into thin air.’
‘Your cousin is English?’
‘Yes. He lives at 203 Vindia Street. We’ve been to all the hospitals and now we’d like to report him missing.’
‘All hospitals?’ The policeman laughed. ‘Only one hospital in Kilhar! When did gentleman disappear?’
‘Can’t say exactly,’ Payne proceeded with caution. ‘He doesn’t answer his
mobile phone. He hasn’t been seen by his landlord. We fear he might have been involved in some accident.’
‘Accident? Many accidents happen here. Many, many accidents. This is very nice place, very nice beaches, but we have many accidents.’ The policeman had opened a large black book and was looking through it. ‘Today is . . . fourteenth of February. Your cousin drive car?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Payne looked at Antonia who shrugged.
‘We have three car crashes today, two fatal, and one man died later at hospital. Lady fell under train – cut in two. This is bad, very bad. Your cousin is lady?’
‘No. A man.’
‘We have four dead bodies today. Three ladies, one gentleman. One gas poisoning, probably suicide, one decapitation, one fatal stabbing. Gentleman hit by car.’ The policeman made a slashing gesture across his forehead. ‘Not very nice. We find card in pocket.’ The policeman held up the card. ‘Mr – Julio Kugtilo – this your cousin?’
‘No.’
The policeman laughed. ‘I make a mistake. Sorry. Light is bad. It is Mr Julian Knight, of . . . of Knightsbridge Investigating Agency. Your cousin is private investigator?’ ‘Yes . . . Oh, my God.’
‘And his name is Julian Knight? This is very, very bad news. I am sorry, sir, but your cousin is dead. You want to see body?’
Payne felt blood rushing to his head. Dead! So they did get him after all. Why did he feel so shocked? Hadn’t they already written Knight off as one already lost to this world? Antonia had gone very pale. Knight had talked to her. Poor darling. She must be feeling responsible, guilty, though what the hell could she have done? The way Knight had staggered across the lawn. All those hospital romances. Poor blighter. Rotten business. One body had turned up, the other was waiting to be discovered. Was Ria in the deep freeze at Coconut Grove? If they were to discover her there, what would they do? As pretty a tangle as any fellow ever stumbled into, as Richard Hannay put it. At least Knight hadn’t been fed to the crocs. Thank God for small mercies.
Payne heard Antonia ask where the body was.
‘Over there – you see that door?’ The policeman pointed matter-of-factly with his thumb. ‘Wait. I tell someone to take you. Please note that your cousin has head injuries. Not too bad but not nice.’
* * *
‘Oh, my God,’ Antonia said. A great nauseous shiver had gone through her. She had been holding her handkerchief against her nose. The room was pervaded by a terrible foul smell. She was sure she could hear the buzzing of flies, though it might be her imagination. She was afraid she would be sick.
The body lay on a tin platform on wheels. It had been pulled out of what looked like an enormous gimcrack cupboard.
‘This is Mr Knight, madam?’
‘I don’t know. I – I think so.’
She couldn’t say for sure it was Julian Knight and yet it must be him. The light in the room was poor. Its source was a single electric bulb in a socket above the door, through which they had entered. Well, the dead man looked like Julian Knight. He wore the same jacket, or something very similar. What would be the point of a stranger’s dead body being passed off as that of Julian Knight? She couldn’t think of any reason. No, that wasn’t true – she could think of a number of reasons, but this was neither the time nor the place for fanciful speculation. Antonia held her hand firmly cupped over her mouth. She hoped she wouldn’t disgrace herself.
She tried to think rationally. This was Julian Knight. Julian Knight had been witness to murder and now he too had been killed. He had been silenced. Cause and effect. If they – Roman and his henchmen – knew that he’d given her his diary, which contained his eyewitness account of the murder, then she would be in danger – Hugh as well. Actually, she couldn’t swear that the dead man lying in the tin tray before her was Julian Knight. Julian Knight, when she had met him, had worn a hat with a slouching brim and dark glasses. She hadn’t been able to see his face properly. Still, who else could this man possibly be? Of course it was Julian Knight. When people died, they always looked different. Shrunken. Diminished. The dead man looked smaller than the one who had joined her in the folly, but death did diminish people . . .
There was a horrible livid indentation across his forehead. A tyre mark? Julian Knight’s cheeks were covered in dirt. Didn’t they wash corpses? Julian Knight’s short grey hair was sticky with congealed blood. The eyes were wide open. The left eye looked damaged – as though it had – Antonia glanced away quickly. The eye couldn’t have fallen out, could it? Julian Knight’s mouth was gaping pathetically, like that of a dead fish. The lips were blue. The face had in life been deep brown but was the colour of lead now. Julian Knight’s hands lay limply beside his body, palm upwards. She looked at them curiously. No, nothing inside either of them. Both hands were empty. What was it he had held in his left hand? Was the object in his killers’ possession now?
Payne touched her hand. ‘Shall we go?’
She jumped. ‘Yes!’
‘Is there going to be an investigation?’ Payne asked when they stood beside the desk once more.
‘Investigation? What investigation?’ The policeman on duty seemed greatly surprised by the suggestion. ‘No, no investigation. This is accident.’
‘Have you managed to catch the driver of the car that hit Julian?’ Antonia asked.
‘No catching. No one saw number plate. Lots of people in street, but everybody looking at the sun, you see. No sun this morning. The sun disappear. Very interesting.’
Payne nodded. ‘The partial solar eclipse. Yes. It didn’t last longer than five minutes.’
For some reason the policeman reacted as though he had been rebuked. ‘Not enough policemen for investigation!’ He waved his hand to emphasize the empty space around him.
‘Where did the accident take place?’ Payne persisted.
‘In town. In main street. Your cousin cross street, then – boum!’ The policeman beat his fist against the palm of his left hand.
‘Was anyone with him, do you know?’
‘No. Yes. Woman. Local woman. She is walking with your cousin when accident happened.’ The policeman spread his hand across his face. ‘Her face covered. She wears veil. Tall woman. She runs away.’
‘She ran away? Really? A local woman, did you say? Somebody saw her?’
‘Yes, madam. One man saw her. She is tall and she wear veil.’
‘Aren’t you looking for her?’ Payne asked.
‘No. Why look? She is not his wife. Wife doesn’t run away when husband die,’ the policeman said sententiously and he made a dismissive gesture. ‘Not important.’
‘What happens if no one claims a dead body here?’ Antonia asked.
The policeman shrugged. ‘We bury dead bodies. Very high temperatures – very hot. Not nice. English people? Yes, English people too. This is law. Law is very strict.’
‘Is it?’ Payne cocked an eyebrow.
‘If no one says, this is my husband or my father or my brother or my cousin, we bury them. Why keep bodies, if no one want them? We have power cuts. Blackout. Electricity is very expensive. We can’t keep bodies. Not nice . . . Now you take your cousin with you, yes?’
‘We most certainly shall, but not at this very moment.’
‘You bury your cousin in England?’
‘We’ll be back. Um. We need to get a car,’ Payne reassured him.
This was a blatant lie and for a moment he felt guilty, but then he reflected that Knight was past caring. Poor lonely blighter. What difference did it make where they buried him? The earth is the earth is the earth. There was a poem about it. Some people had funny ideas about burials. At one time Charlotte had wanted her dead body to be thrown to the dogs at a meet. And didn’t the actress Sarah Miles have her playwright husband buried in her back garden? No, it didn’t matter a hang where one’s mortal remains were laid to rest. All flesh is grass. It was where the soul went that counted. Had Knight had any religious beliefs? The statuette of the Virgin and the Child had been wedge
d between two of those tatty hospital romances. Knight’s former colleagues at Scotland Yard would probably never know he had died. Or his former wife. (Who was the woman who’d run away? Had she had any reason to run away?) Did Knight have any children? Would anyone care he’d died and been buried in Goa?
4.Little Victim Page 13