‘It is touching the border of Goa. They must have taken Rana Hooda across. Kidnappers prefer Maharashtra to Goa. The beaches are less crowded,’ said Inspector Chand.
‘They are kidnappers, holding a person for ransom, not tourists looking for a scenic spot to sunbathe. Anyway, we told you we saw Rana at the Happy Home. He talked to us,’ said Deven.
‘Please get new spectacles all of you. You can charge it to Goa Police if you want,’ said Inspector Chand. ‘I have closed the case and it is none of your business now. Please don’t waste my time. Are you sure Miss Maria sent you here? I don’t believe you. Please leave. We have to go and look for this temple shoe thief now. He has gone off with 121 slippers.’
‘Why steal an odd number of slippers?’ asked Cyrilo as Deven frowned at him.
‘One man’s foot was bandaged so he wore only one slipper to the temple,’ said Inspector Chand. ‘We were wondering too but Robert here figured it out. He is very smart.’
As soon as his name was mentioned Robert smiled and saluted again and said in an excited voice, ‘The man who stole the slippers has come, sir. Asking us to lock him up. He wanted to teach his wife a lesson since she keeps buying new sandals every week so he gave her all the slippers he had stolen from the temple.’
‘Poor fellow. Let him go with a caution. I feel sorry for a man with such a spendthrift wife,’ said Inspector Chand.
As Deven and Cyrilo walked out they bumped into a small, thin man. He was wearing a straw sun hat and dark glasses. His feet were bare but next to him was a pile of shoes and slippers.
‘The slipper thief,’ said Cyrilo. ‘Marry in haste and repent at leisure,’ he whispered to Deven and the man heard him. He took off his dark glasses and nodded his head. ‘She is my third wife. So I can repent till I am your age, sir, if I am still alive,’ he said.
* * *
Yuri looked at his hands. They were still trembling. He put the brush down. What was happening to him? Had his brain really gone as the doctor said? He could remember everything clearly but still couldn’t speak. Words came out in an incoherent jumble when he opened his mouth. A wave of fear swept over him. Would he never be able to speak again? What would he do now? He could not live like this. Yuri tried to pick up the brush again and this time he noticed his hands were trembling less. He dipped the brush in ink and very slowly drew a faint line. Gradually, as he looked at the paper, his eyes following the shaky line he had drawn, he began to feel calmer. He raised his head and looked out of the window. The garden was bathed in gentle, golden sunlight and all the shrubs seemed to have been washed clean with rain. A few yellow butterflies flitted about and one flew in to sit on the window frame. It lazily opened its wings and Yuri saw it was deep orange like the early morning sun.
He knew he would be all right. As long as he could draw, as long as he could see all the beautiful images around him, he would be fine. Who cared if he could not speak clearly? His few friends could still understand him. Olga had not even bothered to call him. Did she know about his accident? Someone must have told her. Maria had said she met some Russians at the Tip Top Cafe and they were asking about him. Olga must know.
Suddenly Yuri knew what she was trying to do. Why had he not seen it before? He had been so blinded by his infatuation for this beautiful girl that he had closed his mind to what she really was. What an old fool he had been. Yuri shut his eyes and Olga’s beautiful face floated up in the dim light. She seemed to be laughing at him, her painted rosebud mouth leering and cruel. Yes. She was behind all this. She was trying to trap him for that woman’s murder. She wanted him out of the way so that Rana Hooda could marry her. He was rich and had palatial houses in Delhi and London. He had expensive cars and owned a racehorse too. He had everything Olga wanted.
‘Soon I will be a very rich woman and I will live in London and throw garden parties. You can come too and be my butler,’ she had said to him one day. He had thought she was being silly and daydreaming like all the young Russians who desperately wanted to become rich overnight. They were children of turbulent times in their country and felt no loyalty like his generation did for the motherland. Getting rich very fast was their motto.
I must tell the others about Olga right now. She must not get away with this. Olga must have sent that fellow to beat me up, Yuri thought as he looked at the window. He saw that the paint had been scratched near the windowpane. It must have happened when that man jumped into his room. Yuri shut his eyes and tried to think. It was difficult. At first everything was blurred and then gradually the images in his head cleared and he saw the man’s face. He was thin with a long, scrawny neck like a turkey. His eyes were so deep-set in his head they looked like black hollows. The nail on his little finger was like a misshapen claw and painted bright red. He had held his scarred hands over Yuri’s face and tried to smother him with a pillow. ‘Why don’t you die? You dirty old goat. Leave Olga alone. She is mine. Say goodbye to her now because I am going to send you to your grave,’ he had whispered, saliva dripping from his mouth. Then someone had shouted from downstairs and the man had run away, leaving Yuri bruised and gasping for breath. He had not managed to kill him but those claws had damaged his windpipe. They had taken away his ability to speak. It was as good as being dead.
Yuri heard a noise and saw Rosie pushing her wheelchair into his room. He shut his eyes. He felt so tired but he knew he had to tell Rosie what had happened. She was patient and kind and she could help him write it all down. Yuri tried to raise his head and look at Rosie but found he did not have the strength. He lay back helplessly as tears ran down his face.
He is sleeping. I’d better not disturb him, thought Rosie, stopping her wheelchair near the door. She pushed the handle on her chair and began turning around and then heard a whimper. She looked back and saw Yuri staring at her with desperate eyes.
Rosie moved forward. She stopped near the bed and put her hand out to touch Yuri’s arm. ‘Is something bothering you, Yuri? I will wait here. You can tell me slowly. Can you speak a little now?’
Yuri grunted a reply which she barely understood.
‘That is good. Much better than before. Try once more. Make a long sound now. Think you are a cow mooing,’ said Rosie with a smile.
Yuri smiled back at her and opened his mouth. His voice filled the room with a long, trumpet-like sound. Then he barked a few short words, and even though they made no sense to Rosie, she clapped her hands. Yuri began to call out over and over again, his eyes sparkling with joy. He mumbled incoherently for a while and then fell silent and shut his eyes.
‘You rest now. We will practise talking some more again tomorrow.’ But Yuri was already fast asleep with a quiet smile on his face. Before he had been injured, Yuri would very often sit with her in the veranda at night since they both could never catch that elusive creature called sleep. They would watch the moon travel across the star-studded sky. Yuri would talk to her about his childhood and then sing Russian songs. ‘You remind me of my dear mama,’ he would say, kissing her hand. Rosie was not happy to be compared to his mother, who she felt must be a hundred years old, but she let it pass. Poor Yuri. I hope he gets well soon. It takes so long for our bodies to heal at this age. Everything is slow. Our minds work slowly, our blood flows slowly but not our heartbeats, thought Rosie.
* * *
The newspaper was wet with the rain that had fallen at night. Leela went out to fetch the milk and the day’s newspaper. She wiped her hands on her dress and glanced at the headlines as she put them on the table. Then she began to scream. She ran to the dining room and threw the paper on the dining table. Everyone stared at her.
Deven picked up the newspaper and began to read. ‘Rana Hooda, Delhi builder, found dead in the swimming pool of his villa,’ shouted the bold black letters. A photograph of the villa was splashed on the front page along with a small inset of Rana.
‘I cannot believe this. We just saw him last night. He was sitting right here,’ said Maria. ‘How terrible. I must cal
l Bobby and tell him at once.’
‘He must have seen the newspaper too though I doubt he gets one at the remote spice farm. They are not saying how Rana died. At least he didn’t die on our doorstep,’ said Prema, reaching for another piece of bread. She spread a generous spoonful of jam on it.
The terrible news has not spoilt her appetite, Rosie thought as she imagined the dead man’s face. ‘Do you think it was an accident?’ she asked, pushing her coffee cup away.
‘I think he was on drugs. Remember I found that syringe in that house, right under the sofa where he was sleeping. Did I not show it to you?’ Deven asked.
‘No, you did not. Anyway, you should have given it to the policeman,’ said Prema.
‘I was planning to. Come, let us not sit around wasting time. We’ll go meet Inspector Chand again and see if he has any more news. I want to know exactly what happened. I think he must have overdosed and drowned,’ said Deven, pushing his chair back.
Maria was still on her phone. ‘I cannot get through to Bobby,’ she said.
‘Why don’t you call Francis? You said he was at the party too that night. He might know something,’ said Prema.
‘No, I don’t want to call him . . . ever,’ muttered Maria and walked out into the garden, still looking at her phone.
‘That means Francis is out and Bobby is in. Good riddance to bad rubbish,’ said Prema.
‘I will tell you a secret,’ said Leela, coming in with a mug of coffee for Maria. ‘She is engaged to Bobby but wants to keep it a secret for some time.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Cyrilo.
‘I heard them talking. I was putting the garbage out and I heard them talking and . . .’ Leela giggled. Then she remembered they were discussing a man’s fatal accident and kept quiet.
‘We must not pry into Maria’s personal life. She will tell us when she wants to, Leela. I cannot believe we have another dead body. What is going on in Trionim? Why are all these Delhi people rolling up here to die?’ asked Rosie.
‘Forget them. Do you think what Leela is saying about Maria and Bobby is true? She’s always eavesdropping. Real sneak, that girl,’ said Prema.
‘She is not. She is a very smart girl and we would all be lost without her. She cooks for us, washes our clothes and gives us our medicines,’ said Rosie and turned away from Prema.
She was trying to recall the details of Rana’s face. He had been sitting on that sofa just the previous night and now he was dead. How fate struck people, taking them unawares. What a horrible way to die. Could he have really killed his wife or was he imagining it? He seemed an unstable and odd fellow. Rosie tried to put these thoughts out of her mind. She wanted to only think about the good news. She was so pleased about Maria and Bobby. She wished all these terrible things would clear up soon and they could celebrate with chocolate cake and home-made wine. But death was hanging over the Happy Home. First that woman from Delhi, and now her husband. These clouds of tragic events were casting a gloomy shadow over their home. All this evil darkness must be cleared away. The sun must come out again in their garden to chase away the shadows and then Maria and Bobby would be blessed.
‘A rich man like him must have had many enemies. There is always someone waiting to put a bullet through important people. You read it in the newspaper every day,’ said Deven.
‘Poor fellow. He looked so distraught and confused last night. That Olga had convinced him that he had killed his wife by pushing her into the well. I can’t believe a woman can be so cruel. Do you think he committed suicide or he was pushed into the pool?’ asked Cyrilo.
‘The newspaper report does not say much. He was certainly taking drugs. Everyone in that house was an addict. Maria even found traces of cocaine on the tables. He could have overdosed,’ said Deven.
‘That Olga woman could have pushed him in,’ said Cyrilo.
‘He could have jumped in himself. Killed his wife and then committed suicide. Matter finished. Why do these Delhi people have to come all the way to Goa to pop off? I wish they would do all these horrible things in their own homes and not spoil the pure air of Goa. Now let us get on with our breakfast. My mother used to say we must not talk about death during breakfast.’ Prema tapped her fingers on the table impatiently.
‘So when is it a good time to talk about death, Prema?’ asked Rosie.
‘At our age any time is bad. Death is waiting to pick us up any minute. Have you all made your wills?’ asked Prema.
‘I have nothing to leave and nobody to leave it to. I am a happy man,’ said Cyrilo.
‘You know, we should find out if Rana Hooda had made a will. He was such a rich man. His wife is already dead so who is going to inherit his houses and cars?’
‘Yuri told me Rana has a yacht too. How does he know? Yuri can talk a bit now but it is difficult to make out what he is saying. He tried to write but his hands are still shaking badly. But he can hold a brush and paint a few strokes. He keeps asking me to tell you that Olga is behind all this,’ said Rosie.
‘I will go and see him right away. Will you come with me, Rosie? I can push your wheelchair up the ramp,’ said Deven.
‘All that money and he drowned in his swimming pool. Poor fellow. We should have locked the door and made sure he stayed with us last night. We could have saved his life. I am feeling very bad about this,’ said Cyrilo.
‘His time had come so he went to his maker. What is there to feel sorry for? God has taken him,’ said Prema.
‘What if his time had not come? What if that woman pushed him into the pool? We have to go to that villa again. We have to find out what that Olga woman is up to now,’ said Cyrilo.
‘Wait till Deven comes back. Yuri might tell him something important now that he can communicate a little bit,’ said Prema.
‘No. I’m not going to wait for him. He’s too bossy and does not let me do anything on my own. I am going right now but don’t tell him where I have gone,’ said Cyrilo, quickly going towards the door.
‘I will tell him. How dare you ask me to lie to Deven, our chief detective?’ said Prema. ‘In fact, I will go up to Yuri’s room and tell him right now.’
‘Go on, Miss Tattletale,’ shouted Cyrilo, slamming the door shut. The lights on the wall shook and a picture fell down. Leela heard the van spluttering noisily as it struggled to start and looked out of the kitchen window. She saw Cyrilo, still dressed in his trackpants driving off. He’s in a great hurry. Did not even ask for his second cup of coffee today, thought Leela as she washed the breakfast dishes. Maria was upstairs in her room and the others too had all disappeared. It was unusual for them to rush off like this right after breakfast. They always sat around talking, reading the newspaper over and over again, arguing about small items they had read. Each one would think he or she knew better than the others. If Cyrilo said the monsoon had arrived, Prema would say it was late by ten days. If Deven said foreign tourists were bringing a lot of money to Goa, Rosie would say they were making the prices go up for locals. It must be very relaxing to be so old. Nothing to worry about since life is almost over. No worries about the future, thought Leela, putting the teacups away on the shelf.
Leela heard a scratching sound on the kitchen door. She ignored it at first, thinking it must be cats but then the sound became louder. Leela opened the door and looked out. There was no one. The cats were sleeping peacefully in the shade of the guava tree. ‘How strange,’ muttered Leela. She was about to shut the door when she saw someone. The little boy Tony was standing behind a pile of chopped wood. He was so still that for a moment Leela thought he looked like a wooden statue.
‘Hello! What do you want?’ asked Leela, smiling and waving her hands. The boy looked at her shyly and then came forward. Leela saw that he had a phone in his hands.
‘Is it your phone? You want to show it to me?’ she asked, pointing at the phone and then at herself.
Tony nodded and handed her the phone. Leela was shocked to see that it was a very expensive phone, like the iP
hones she saw advertised in the newspapers. Where had he got it from? Leela wondered if Tony had stolen it and suddenly felt afraid for the boy. She gave the phone back to him and shook her head.
Tony smiled at her as if he could read her mind. He gestured to himself and then spelt out ‘Alfie’ on his palm with his fingers.
‘Alfie gave you this phone?’ asked Leela.
Tony nodded with a broad grin. He pointed to the ground and mimed picking up something.
‘He found it on the ground and gave it to you.’
Tony nodded.
‘But that is not right. He should have handed it to the police. This phone does not belong to him or to you. Do you understand me, Tony?’
The boy gave her a puzzled look and put the phone back in his pocket.
‘You give this phone to me. I will see if I can find out who it belongs to. Okay?’ Leela put her hand out.
Tony stood still, looking at her uncertainly, and then brought the phone out of his pocket. He touched the smooth surface and then reluctantly gave it to Leela.
‘Thank you. You are a good boy. I will buy you a phone one day when I have enough money,’ she said.
She pressed a round button on the phone. The screen lit up and Tony clapped his hands.
A face popped up on the screen. It was the lady she had seen in the beauty parlour, the lady who had been murdered right outside the Happy Home. The cruel eyes seemed to be screaming at her angrily. Leela switched the phone off. She ran upstairs and left Tony staring at her. She knew it was the dead woman’s phone and she must tell Maria at once.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
DEVEN PAINSTAKINGLY WROTE down what Yuri was saying. He was still slurring but by stringing together the words they could understand, Rosie and he could put together sentences. Something about Olga . . . the Russian girl wanted to marry Rana Hooda . . . so what? Deven stared at Yuri. His face was still very swollen and his eyes could not focus properly. Poor chap. He could have been murdered too. Had his brain been affected by the blow to his head?
Murder at the Happy Home for the Aged Page 19