The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 10

by Maxim Jakubowski

  They took up the oars again and pulled, gliding downstream more quickly, as far as the Manikaran Ghat, a darker place with many weirdly shaped temple domes wreathed in smoke, where they turned to go back to their starting point. As they approached the quay they became aware of a commotion at the foot of the ghat, below the flight of steps where Mrs Darling had been murdered. Men were shouting and gesticulating, and the boy leaped up on to the prow of the boat to try to see what was going on. Then they heard the howl of a siren and the boy pointed to the top of the ghat, where the crowd was parting for a group of men who came charging down the steps - three of them in uniform and one, who looked very like Sub-Inspector Gupta, in a dark suit. Christine blinked, feeling as if she were having a dream, replaying the scene of Mrs Darling’s death but now seen from a distance, from the river.

  The old man said something to the boy and they began to pull strongly towards the shore, and as they came close they saw the police emerge through the mob at the water’s edge and go to one of the boats tied up there, where, accompanied by a great murmur from the crowd, they heaved a limp body up on to the stone steps. The old man steered his boat to a clear space further along and they all jumped out. It was impossible to get through the crush on the waterfront, and instead Christine climbed to the top of the ghat and watched from there as an ambulance arrived and two men carried a stretcher down. They returned after a while, followed by the man in a suit.

  “Sub-Inspector Gupta!” Christine called, for it was he, and he turned and came to her.

  “Christine! My goodness.”

  “What’s happened?”

  He took her to one side, shooing away the people nearby. “It is Mr Jeremy Darling, the murdered lady’s son. His body was found floating in the river by one of the boats.”

  “He’s dead?”

  “Very much so. He has a stab wound through the heart. Since the incident at the ashram we have been looking for him without success.”

  “That’s terrible!”

  “Indeed. I must make my report.” He hurried away.

  According to Indian custom, cremation should occur within twenty-four hours of death, and Mrs Darling’s ceremony could not be delayed. Christine and Mr and Mrs Dubashi took tricycle rickshaws to the Harishchandra burning ghat at the appointed hour and made their way down to the shore where they recognized Sub-Inspector Gupta talking to Dorothy Yanamandra, business manager of the Atmapriksa Ashram, among a cluster of people. As they got close Christine recognized some of the young people from the ashram, and discovered that they were witnessing the Swami Bhatti having his beard and head ceremoniously shaved.

  Mrs Yanamandra greeted her and explained, “Since Mrs Darling no longer has any family here for her cremation, following the tragic death of her dearly beloved son, the Swami has decided to represent her family and go through the rituals on their behalf.”

  She pointed out a man who was supervising the arrangements. “He is a member of the Dome caste, who were given the sacred flame four and a half thousand years ago by Lord Shiva to light the first funeral pyre, and have been its guardians ever since. When the Swami has been shaved he will bathe in the Ganges to purify himself and will change into a pure white gown. Then he will go to the Dome temple nearby to buy the holy fire to light Mrs Darling’s pyre. Meanwhile his disciples from the ashram have been buying wood logs to build the pyre - three hundred kilos are required, at one hundred and fifty rupees a kilo, would you believe, not to mention some sandalwood at a thousand rupees a kilo, which is a necessary part of the rituals.” Mrs Yanamandra was tapping numbers into her iPhone. “Such a lot of cash, but we must do this properly for Mrs Darling. Anyway, the pyre is ready now, and Mrs Darling’s body has been placed on it, face up, and covered by a final layer. You do not look well, Christine. Do you need to sit down?”

  It was the oppressive humid heat, Christine thought, coupled with the heavy smell of burning timber down here on the ghat, not to mention that glimpse she had just had of Mrs Darling’s white foot sticking out from among the logs.

  “Are you all right?” Sub-Inspector Gupta had taken hold of her arm and was offering her a bottle of water. His face was full of concern.

  “Yes, thank you, Sub-Inspector...”

  “Please, it is time you called me Deepak. That is my first name... much shorter.’

  Christine smiled at him. “Thanks, Deepak. I was just thinking of my own mother’s funeral, not long ago but very different from this.”

  “Ah, I understand how you must feel, this is all a bit confronting. But that is the point, I think, to fully embrace the reality of death. And although people are sad, they also find relief. They believe that the fire sets the dead person’s soul free. Often the souls are so happy to be set free that you can see them dancing in the flames. Sadly, though, I must go. This second murder is causing turmoil. Australian diplomats are here from Delhi to be briefed, and my bosses are trying to persuade them not to issue a tourist travel warning about Varanasi.”

  Once Swami Bhatti lit the pyre from the sacred flame it took over three hours for the fire to burn down and for Mrs Darling’s ashes to be scattered in the river. During that time Christine had a chance to consider Deepak’s words. They seemed convincing, and the cremation was certainly a powerful experience, yet she couldn’t feel that it had much to do with the living Mrs Darling she remembered.

  Eventually she got to her feet and made her way up the ghat, planning to walk back to the hotel. As she approached the head of the stairs she saw a man who appeared to have been watching the ceremonies turn away and disappear down an alleyway. She thought he looked like the Jain monk, Mr Nemichandra, who hadn’t come to the funeral, and she decided to follow him.

  The man pacing through the crowded streets ahead of her looked very like the monk, but Christine couldn’t be sure. They came to a place that was wide enough for street food sellers to set up their stalls down one side. The man had stopped by the first vendor and was buying something. He paid and as he turned to go she caught his profile and was convinced it was Mr Nemichandra - why, yes, he had his whisk tucked under his arm, although he wasn’t using it to sweep the street in front of him.

  She made her way to the food seller and said hello.

  “Hello, madam. I am your aloo tikki walla. You will have some?”

  “What’s in it?”

  “Potatoes, madam, with mint harri chutney. Very tasty.”

  That was odd, for Mr Dubashi had told her that potatoes were forbidden to Jain monks. Christine handed over a few rupees and took the snack, which was indeed delicious. As she ate she saw that Mr Nemichandra, or his double, had stopped at another stall further along and was eating something else. She worked her way closer and was surprised by a delicious smell of frying meat. This time the vendor explained that the man had bought several shami kebab mince patties. “Lamb mince, lady, filled with green mango. He is very hungry, your friend. He comes here every day.”

  Meat? That was impossible, surely. Mr Nemichandra was a vegan. Christine saw the man disappear down a narrow alleyway ahead and went after him, but just at that moment she saw something else that gave her a sudden fright - a figure very like the sinister-looking man in the dirty red turban whom she had seen watching her several times before was lurking in a doorway. He turned away as she caught sight of him, and she wondered what to do. Should she phone Deepak? But he would be tied up in important business and anyway she didn’t want to lose sight of Mr Nemichandra, so she hurried on, into the alleyway.

  The buildings closed in around her - old blackened stone walls, heavy timber doors, timeworn paving stones and steps. She turned a corner and was confronted by a cow, blocking the lane. She was forced to climb a few steps up to the door of a tiny temple, then squeeze around the cow’s haunches and step down, straight into the puddle of dung it had freshly dropped.

  “Ah.” She stared at her shoes, then looked up and saw Mr Nemichandra, twenty metres away, staring intently at her wi
th blazing eyes.

  “Excuse me.”

  Christine turned at the sound of a girl’s voice behind her - a small girl, smartly dressed in clean white socks and tartan skirt, with a backpack, on her way home from school. Christine let her pass and when she turned back found that Mr Nemichandra had vanished.

  She hurried on, determined now to speak to the Jain. She turned a sharp corner and gave a cry as a hand closed tightly on her arm and yanked her through an open doorway and began to drag her down a narrow passage into a tiny courtyard, half filled with stinking rubbish. The man was incredibly strong, his panting breath filled with the fumes of lamb kebab.

  “You stupid woman,” the monk hissed, crushing her back against the wall. “You should have minded your own business.’

  Christine looked with horror at the weapon in his free hand, the handle of the monk’s whisk, from which protruded a long narrow blade.

  “You killed Mrs Darling...” Christine croaked as he clutched her throat “...and her son.”

  “And now you,” he growled.

  Eyes swimming, Christine looked over his shoulder and saw the man in the red turban watching them, an evil smile on his lips.

  She didn’t see the club in the turbaned man’s hand, but she heard it as it landed on Mr Nemichandra’s head with a shocking crack. Mr Nemichandra released her and dropped to the ground.

  “Christine!” the turbaned man cried. “Are you all right?”

  She knew the voice, but could hardly make sense of it. “Deepak? Sub-Inspector Gupta? It’s you?” She fell forward into his arms in a dead faint.

  Later, after Deepak had called for armed police to take Nemichandra away, and after he had escorted her back to the guesthouse for a long bath and several cups of Mrs Dubashi’s rejuvenating tea, he returned, dressed now in his usual dark suit, to see how she was. She couldn’t help noticing how elated he was, barely able to contain himself.

  “I am a hero, Christine, the man of the hour. My bosses are overjoyed. They are talking about promotion, a medal, a Bollywood movie... and all thanks to you. How did you do it? What made you suspect him?”

  She had to confess that it had been a matter of luck, seeing him eat the forbidden food, and following him so that he panicked and gave himself away. “And you’ve been following me in that... amazing disguise.”

  “Yes. My bosses took over the case straight away, putting me back on routine duties, but I was worried that Mrs Darling’s murderer might target you as a possible witness, and I decided to keep an eye on you.”

  “You gave me the willies in that outfit.”

  “You spotted me?” He looked downcast.

  “You saved my life, Deepak,” she said, reaching for his hand. He cheered up immediately.

  “Anyway, he has made a full confession. He really was once a Jain monk, apparently, until he lost his calling and resorted to thieving to survive, becoming a hardened criminal and a paid assassin. We will probably never know how many people he has killed during his criminal career. When Mr Darling realized that his mother was intent on giving away all her money to the ashram, he made contact with Nemichandra on one of his business trips and arranged for him to kill her on her next visit. Unfortunately for Mr Darling she had already made her new will when she was murdered. When he realized Nemichandra had bungled things they had a furious row and Darling said he wouldn’t pay him. They fought and Nemichandra killed him and dumped his body in the Ganges. The Jain monk was a perfect disguise for a murderer, of course, no one believed him capable of violence, but in the end his appetites betrayed him. Pretending to be virtuous is not so easy.”

  His mobile phone rang and he listened for a while. “Yes, sir!” He rang off and said, “They want me for a news conference, Christine. TV! The world’s media! But you will not leave now, will you? I must see you again. If necessary I shall have you detained!” He gave an excited laugh.

  “No,” she said. “I won’t leave. Good luck with the media.”

  “I shall be cool, like James Bond.”

  When he had gone, Mrs Dubashi came and sat with Christine. “I’m afraid your spiritual journey in Varanasi has not been a conventional one,” she said. “Are you disappointed?”

  Christine thought, then nodded sadly. “The Swami, the Jain, the burning ghat - they were all powerful experiences and gave me much to think about, but none of them have changed the hurt I feel when I think of my mother’s death.”

  Mrs Dubashi said, “When I lost my first baby, I was heartbroken. Nothing could ease my pain. Then my mother told me that the pain was from the labour of creating a place inside myself for my baby. When I had finished doing that, the pain would ease and my baby would live for ever in my heart.”

  “Oh.” Christine pondered her words, and as she did so it occurred to her that they might be the truest thing she had heard on her journey.

  Later that evening they watched television together, to see the news. The lead item was the arrest of Mr Nemichandra, with Sub-Inspector Gupta the star. He spoke to the cameras in a clear, confident voice, more mature now, Christine thought.

  Mr Dubashi said, “My goodness, he’s talking to the whole world,” but his wife corrected him. “No, look at his face, he’s talking to just one person - you, Christine. You’d better watch out,” she chuckled, “that young man’s in love with you.”

  <>

  ~ * ~

  VANISHING ACT

  Christine Poulson

  O

  ne of these men is a murderer.”

  Edward looked at the grainy black-and-white photo that Edith held up. Three men smiled out at him.

  “What’s this all about?” he asked. “Who are they?”

  “I’ll give you a clue. One of them’s my brother - and he’s not the murderer.”

  Edward gestured impatiently. “I need a better look.”

  She brought her wheelchair closer to his bedside and leaned forward, bringing with her a gust of perfume, something warm and spicy.

  Theirs was a new friendship and it would inevitably be a short one. The doctors were careful not to offer any predictions, but Edward knew that he didn’t have more than a week or two. He was bedridden now. The morphine took care of the pain, but what he hadn’t expected was the boredom. Strange that time should drag, when there was so little of it left, but so it was. That was why Edith was such a godsend. She was in the hospice for a week’s respite care. They had taken to each other and she visited him every evening, scooting down the corridor in her wheelchair. She was an interesting woman, had spent most of her working life in Canada as a museum curator. He enjoyed her “take no prisoners” attitude without feeling it was one he could adopt himself.

  “Your brother is the one in the middle,” he decided. They had the same nose: that bump on the bridge was unmistakable. “Who are the others?”

  “Let’s call that one Dr X and that one Doctor Y.” She pointed with a red-varnished fingernail.

  Edward studied the photograph. Doctor Y was tall and fair with something irresolute about his mouth, the kind of man who is a little too anxious to please. Dr X was short and dark with a widow’s peak and full, sensuous lips.

  “When you say murder ... ?”

  “This all happened a long time ago - say, twenty-five years, even thirty? A surgeon had an affair with a theatre nurse. When it turned sour, he murdered her to save his marriage - and his reputation. There was a conspiracy of silence amongst his colleagues and he was never brought to book.”

  “Then how do you know?”

  “My brother told me. He was one of the doctors who kept quiet. Fred died a couple of months ago.” She gave a caw of laughter. “He’s beaten me to it. Just. He was very near the end when he let the cat out of the bag. It preyed on his mind. You know how it is ...” She shrugged.

  When you’re near the end? Yes, he did know - who better? - and counted himself lucky. On the big things, marriage, children, work, he’d done just fi
ne. He did rather regret that he’d never got round to reading Proust, but you can’t have everything.

  “Fred told me what I’ve just told you,” Edith went on. ‘“One of these men is a murderer.’”

  “Did he say how ...?”

  “She was found dead in bed. Healthy young woman, never had a day’s illness in her life. One of those unexplained deaths. Hospital dispensaries are full of things that could bring that about. They weren’t as strict about keeping track of drugs in those days.”