4.Little Victim

by R. T. Raichev

  Payne was feeling light-headed. Dizzy and quite upset, actually. A tight knot in his throat. Too long in the sun. Too much to drink. Bloody cocktails. Never again. Dog tired. Then this business. Rotting flesh. Nasty pong. All too much! And it was not over yet. They needed to find Ria. They were about to put their theory to the test – check the deep freeze at Coconut Grove. What if they were caught red-handed and Songhera turned nasty? The crocs! Payne dabbed at his forehead with his handkerchief.

  They walked out into the night. It was still very warm, yet Antonia started shivering. Payne put his arm around her. Neither of them spoke. They heard distant explosions and the sky was suddenly ablaze with crimson – like a splash of blood – several splashes of blood – then golden yellow.

  It was five minutes past nine o’clock and the firework display at Coconut Grove had started.

  21

  Murder as a Fine Art

  ‘A riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma. Churchill actually said that about Soviet Russia. What I mean, my love, is that it is all a little bit too much. It’s not the complexities I object to, actually, but the roller-coaster rate at which things have been happening. Hardly any time for stock-taking, wouldn’t you agree?’

  A roller-coaster, yes. Antonia admitted to feeling disoriented as well as a little nauseous.

  ‘I am sure that if this were one of your books, you’d want to pace things better, wouldn’t you? ‘

  ‘My editor might suggest it. I may also decide to revise the scene in the police station.’ Antonia scrunched up her face. ‘Do morgues at Goan police stations really resemble vile-smelling Third World butcher’s shops?’

  ‘That one did . . . This is the Third World.’

  ‘I think most people enjoy fast-moving plots, no matter how improbable. Even the most sophisticated reader likes things to happen. Most readers prefer action to, say, discourses on the nature of evil or intricate descriptions of the weather. What else is there to write about? Do readers like analyses of the investigators’ tortured love lives?’

  ‘Some crime writers do go off at incredible tangents, I’ve noticed, describing in meticulous detail things that have nothing to do with the murder plot. I must say I have little patience with self-indulgent bores. Self-indulgent bores should be on the High Executioner’s Little List.’ Payne held up his forefinger. ‘Those who ramble on about gourmet food, the Book of Common Prayer, cats and dogs, opera, church architecture and so on. Talking of tortured love lives, did Dalgliesh marry Emma in the end?’

  ‘I have no idea. I always thought that such an unlikely sort of romance. So much to-ing and fro-ing. And it’s all so ponderous and gloomy.’

  ‘The trouble with certain grandes dames is that they would insist on being taken au grand sérieux. Being considered capable purveyors of escapist entertainment is simply not enough for them.’

  ‘If I were writing this up, I would have Ria alive rather than dead,’ Antonia said suddenly.

  Payne looked at her. ‘You would? How very interesting. Ria is not in the deep freeze at CG?’

  ‘No. That – that would be too obvious. The assumption about Ria’s being dead would turn out to be entirely fallacious. I rather like the idea of the amateur tecs getting it all wrong. The amateur tecs have been goaded into a trap. Julian Knight has lied about witnessing Ria’s murder. He has had a good reason for it.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Julian Knight’s intention was to implicate Roman Songhera. He saw Roman as his rival –’

  ‘Rival? Do you mean Knight was in love with Ria?’

  ‘Yes. Madly in love. Julian Knight had been stalking Ria as part of his job – he had been observing her closely – recording her every move – noting down the way she dressed, the scent she wore and so on – and he became obsessed with her. He decided he couldn’t live without her.’

  ‘Enchanted and enchained, eh? Like the chap in Vertigo?’

  ‘This is what happens. Julian Knight pays Ria a visit. He turns up on her doorstep and declares his love for her. She stares at him. She has actually noticed him following her. A pathetic Wurzel Gummidge of a man. Not at all dangerous-looking. Actually the whole thing is an incredible hoot. She bites her lip. She is amused. She likes men to fall in love with her. She takes a perverse pleasure in leading men on. She is rotten to the heart. She is in a particularly skittish mood that day. She says she is greatly flattered. She invites him in. She offers him a drink. She pretends to reciprocate his ardour –’

  ‘She allows him to crush his mouth to hers?’ Payne suggested.

  ‘Possibly. She then suggests they meet again. Tells him to feel free to call on her again, very soon. Julian Knight takes her at her word. He arrives at the bungalow the very next day. He’s brought her a bunch of flowers – but now she stares at him blankly. She is annoyed – bored with the whole thing – no, she’s forgotten who he is! He is unkempt, looks incredibly wrinkled and reeks of drink. His leer repels her. She doesn’t let him in. She pushes him away. When he reminds her of his feelings for her and of her promises, she laughs. She lets him know what she really thinks of him. In the end she admits it was all a game. He’d better scram, she says, or he’d be a dead man if Roman came and found him here. He knows who Roman Songhera is, of course? She then slams the door. Julian Knight staggers back. He is stunned – mortified – distraught –’

  ‘The episode unhinges him somewhat?’

  ‘It does. It unhinges him considerably. Julian Knight is a troubled man and now his first urge is to kill himself, but then – then he finds himself planning Ria’s murder. He does it with the utmost care and the most scrupulous attention to detail. He is an ex-policeman-turned-private-detective, so he knows how to set about it. The murder will be pinned on Roman Songhera – his love rival! He himself will play the part of the witness to the murder. After he kills Ria, he will disappear, perhaps make it look as though he has committed suicide? But he needs someone who will listen to him first, someone who will take his allegation seriously. He gatecrashes Roman Songhera’s garden party and settles on me –’ Antonia broke off. ‘Does any of this make sense?’

  Major Payne nodded. ‘It was a friend of Knight’s who phoned CG and asked to speak to him. Knight had put him up to it. All part of the plan. Or Knight paid one of the locals to make the call . . . So Knight told you he had witnessed the murder before he actually went on to commit it?’

  ‘That’s correct. After he left Coconut Grove, he went to Ria’s bungalow. He managed to sneak in. Either Ria had forgotten to lock the front door or he had a skeleton key in his pocket.’ Antonia’s eyes narrowed. ‘He finds Ria in the bedroom. He pushes her on the bed – holds her down – grips her legs with his knees – puts his hands around her throat – starts strangling her. Ria struggles – as it happens, she is stronger than him – she claws his eyes. As he screams and pulls back, she reaches out and picks up something heavy from her bedside table.’

  ‘An ormolu clock? An onyx vase? A copper candlestick?’

  ‘Some such object, yes. She hits him across the temple with it. Then she hits him a second time. He goes limp. She pushes him off the bed. He falls on the floor and lies motionless. There is no blood. She prods him with her foot. He doesn’t move. She checks his pulse and doesn’t find it. He is dead. She has killed him. She is not particularly perturbed. She picks up the phone – Dear me, Hugh, this is terrible!’

  ‘I don’t see anything wrong with indulging our wild and vivid imaginations in a gallop over wholly speculative courses, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘You don’t think it is irresponsible and childish of us?’

  ‘Not really. Shall I go on?’ Payne pulled at his lip. ‘Ria calls two of Roman’s henchmen – tells them to come at once. When they do, she orders them to take away Julian Knight’s body. They put the bedroom carpet to good use. They ask no questions. They load the body into the boot of their car and later dump it in the street. They make the death look like an accident. Perhaps, for good measu
re, they run their own car over the body. Then they pay someone to give the police an eyewitness account, to say that Knight was pushed under a speeding car by a veiled woman.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Where’s Ria now?’ Antonia said.

  ‘Hiding somewhere. Apparently Songhera has luxury villas all over the place. Or she may have left Goa. She may have gone to Europe where she will lie doggo till things calm down. She may be in Rome or in Paris. She may be shopping in the Place Vendôme at this very moment . . . So Knight is the one and only all-important victim, eh? His is the only murder worth investigating? This is awfully good.’

  ‘What was it Camillo saw at the bungalow that shocked him so much?’

  ‘Maybe – maybe he witnessed the struggle in the bedroom? Sorry, old thing.’ Payne had yawned. ‘It’s been a long haul . . . What’s the time in England now? Are we five hours ahead or five hours behind?’

  ‘Five hours ahead. If we’d been in England, we’d be sitting in the garden, having tea. No, not in the garden – in England it would be freezing –’ The next moment Antonia clutched at his arm. ‘Hugh, I do believe this is important!’

  ‘What is important? Having tea or the freezing English weather?’

  ‘Five hours ahead. Ten minutes ago I imagined that the policeman said something, which suggested – no, proved beyond doubt that Julian Knight’s death was all wrong.’

  ‘Proved beyond doubt?’ He stared at her. ‘What did the policeman say?’

  ‘I haven’t got the obscurest of inklings. Now I am talking like you!’

  ‘I am sure I never say things like “obscurest of inklings”.’

  ‘You do. You often talk like a character in a book.’

  ‘I think we might be having a joint nightmare,’ Payne said. ‘We should never have left Hampstead. Aunt Nellie had no business recommending us to the Honourable Charlotte. No business at all. To think that we might actually end up in a decorative lake full of crocodiles. This is most definitely not my idea of a pleasant holiday.’

  ‘You can say that again.’

  ‘What was it you imagined? Think back. The policeman mentioned a veiled one. Is that it? A woman was seen with Knight at the time of the accident. A tall woman who might have been . . . a man? The veil that covers a multitude of sins,’ Major Payne murmured. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘I don’t know. A moment ago I thought I had it, but it’s gone now. It may be nothing but a wild fancy. For some reason I keep thinking of the Carpenters record in Julian Knight’s room. This Masquerade. I don’t think it’s got anything to do with the veiled woman. Or perhaps it has.’ Antonia sighed. ‘Well, as Charlotte said, I am the sort of woman who lets her imagination run riot.’

  ‘I am sure Charlotte knows everything about riotous imaginations. You mustn’t pay any attention to a word she says.’ Payne sounded annoyed. ‘Charlotte’s role in this affair is to make the obligatory cameo gargoyle appearance, nothing more. Strictly for comic relief purposes. If this were one of your books,’ he went on, ‘how would you prevent the second body from being found too soon? Pacing’s always important, isn’t it?’

  Well, she might have an ‘interlude’, Antonia said after a pause – a shortish chapter, in which the amateur detectives discussed the murders as though they were something out of a whodunit – a postmodern conversation piece of sorts. And that would be followed by some bizarre episode, which would prove to be terribly important to the investigation – or it would only seem terribly important, but would in fact simply distract the amateur detectives from solving the murders. It was only then that the second body would turn up.

  ‘In the deep freeze?’

  ‘I have no idea. Perhaps.’

  ‘I suppose the reader would go on labouring in Cimmerian darkness a little longer – without having the obscurest of inklings as to what was really going on,’ said Payne. ‘Though of course, faithful to the spirit of fair play, you’d have scrupulously laid a trail of clues pointing to the truth.’

  ‘The truth yes, though not the whole truth.’ Antonia gave a little smile. ‘There’s always one final twist, you know.’

  22

  The Holy Innocent

  They had got out of the cab some way from Coconut Grove and for the past ten minutes had been walking alongside the beach towards the steps that led up to the house. The sand beneath their feet kept slowing them down. The firework display in the sky above, on the other hand, hadn’t relented for a moment. A shower of rubies was followed by a bouquet of sapphires, a fountain of pearls, then a burst of diamonds.

  It was as light as day. On their left lay the sea, vast, smooth, unbelievably calm. Somewhere far off on the horizon flickered the lights of ships. Close to the shore lay a yacht, the Caspar, with strangely striped funnels. ‘Have we been seen?’ Antonia was gazing nervously towards the terrace. They could hear music, laughter, delighted gasps and, again, the popping of champagne corks.

  ‘If we haven’t, we soon shall be. So what? Don’t be paranoid. We went for a walk. Nothing wrong with that, is there? I don’t think anyone suspects us of any involvement in the affair yet. If they’d seen the diary change hands in the folly, they’d already have tried to deprive you of it.’

  Antonia said that perhaps Roman Songhera’s men had been to their room in their absence and taken it. She groaned. She hadn’t taken the trouble to hide the diary properly – she should have but she hadn’t – she’d simply pushed it under her pillow.

  ‘It’s here, actually,’ Payne said and he showed her the diary. He had picked it up while she had been standing in front of the mirror and put it into his pocket, he explained. Antonia kissed him.

  There were people on the beach – the men in charge of the firework display. As the Paynes approached the stone steps a figure came out of the shadows. It was one of Roman Songhera’s guards. He wished them a good evening and moved aside to let them pass.

  The throng on the terrace seemed to have multiplied and become denser. ‘I can’t see Charlotte anywhere,’ Payne said. ‘No Songhera either . . . Shall we go and inspect the freezer?’

  ‘Would she still be there?’ Antonia whispered.

  ‘I imagine so. It was a crime passionnel, so Songhera still loves Ria. He wouldn’t want to be parted from her. He hasn’t come to terms with her death. My guess is that he bitterly regrets what he did. He would be in the doldrums. He’d be distraught and inconsolable. He’d be overcome with grief, guilt and, very possibly, self-loathing. Chances are he’d be feeling suicidal.’

  ‘He was voted most unpopular person number two. He kept torturing poor Louis by throwing him overboard at every opportunity to punish him for his “lazy self-entitlement”.’ A woman somewhere on their right was speaking amidst peals of laughter. ‘He poured a bottle of syrup on Mrs Cox-Bisham’s head and then locked Pamela in her cabin for the best part of the morning and he turned off the air-conditioning with the portholes shut tight! The outside temperature at the time had reached forty degrees Celsius. It was supposed to be a joke.’

  ‘Who was most unpopular person number one?’ a man asked. Antonia smelled the whiff of a superior cigar.

  ‘Angela! You wouldn’t believe this, but she was discovered in the engine room, trying to remove a vital part of the generator – of all the asinine and childish pranks!’

  ‘That’s typical of Angela. Angela will never grow up.’

  ‘Never!’

  ‘Sailing isn’t what it used to be. Hi-tech carbon and Nomex machines crewed by thirty professionals bear no passing resemblance to the gentlemanly sailing boats of yesteryear. Except that both have a hull, masts, sails and winches.’

  ‘Jet-setters,’ Payne murmured with distaste. ‘I think they are from that yacht we saw earlier on . . . Caspar.’

  ‘Champagne, madam – sir?’ One of the waiters was standing beside them, proffering a tray.

  ‘No, thank you,’ Payne said. ‘I would like some soda water, actually. With lots of ice – and a dash of lemon.’
>
  ‘Yes, thank you. Champagne would be lovely,’ Antonia said. ‘I need a drink.’ She peered at the waiter’s name tag. ‘Here you are, madam.’

  ‘Thank you, Manolo.’ Antonia raised the frosted flute to her lips. The champagne was ice-cold and very dry.

  More disembodied snatches of conversation floated over to their ears.

  ‘It would never have worked. India would have become another Kenya. A precarious balance between post-colonial market-dominant minorities and tribally politicized local poor –’

  ‘What soul? Rupert has no more soul than a steamed asparagus.’

  ‘I say, Manolo,’ Major Payne said, ‘I’d like to have a word with one of your colleagues. What was his name now? Camillo. Any idea where he might be?’

  Manolo nodded. ‘I am afraid Camillo is not feeling very well, sir.’