4.Little Victim (6 page)

8

When a Stranger Calls

Pulmonary embolism
. . .

Ria reached out and picked up her aunt’s letter once again. As though she cared! Why did some people insist on quoting post-mortem results in obscure medical terminology? On second thoughts, it was good to know the precise phrase – she found that reassuring – it made her father’s death
real
. Well, this meant she wouldn’t be writing any more letters. She sighed. She’d miss that. The letters had become a part of her life. The game was over. She felt disappointed – empty. A great sadness swept over her. How funny. She suddenly felt tearful. She wanted to howl. What the fuck was wrong with her? Withdrawal symptoms?

What else had her aunt written? Nothing much. It wasn’t a particularly cordial letter. It made no mention of Lucasta. Poor old Lucasta – forever babbling about bulbs. Lucasta must have been distraught. She had doted on her father. Her life had revolved around him. Apparently Lucasta had been in love with Ria’s father all her life. She’d get the house and everything else, Ria supposed. Well, good luck to her. Ria didn’t really care. Uncle Henry had come up with the suggestion that Lucasta had actually poisoned Ria’s mother while nursing her, so that she could get into Toby’s bed. Uncle Henry was funny. Ria had rather liked him and from the way she’d caught him looking at her, she had no doubt he liked her too, though in a somewhat different way –

She smiled. Did she have a one-track mind? Was sex at the bottom of
everything
?

Had her father and Lucasta ever had any sex? It seemed an impossible thought. No, one simply couldn’t think of Lucasta in those terms. That marriage, like most late ones, was probably still unconsummated. Then another idea struck her. Could her father have actually lusted after
her
, Ria? That kind of thing did happen. Her father had dressed it all up in high morality and ethics and paternal love and concern for her welfare and good intentions and so on, but of course that was the kind of thing Lord Justice Leighton
would
do. Well, that would explain his obsession with her – the way he’d slapped her face – didn’t they say that violence was sublimated carnal desire?

That poem – she couldn’t get it out of her head.

Confound my carnal enemy,

Let my flesh not corrupted be –

Let my flesh not corrupted be. A little too late for that. She hadn’t had her orange juice. Leaping out of bed, she walked bare-footed across the room. It was a lovely room – all white – the most luxurious deep-pile white carpet – white modern furniture, which had come from Sweden – everything exactly as she liked it. She walked out into the hall. She twiddled her fingers in greeting at her radiant reflection in the oval silver-framed mirror that hung on the wall. She went into the sitting room and turned on the radio. There was an Italian music station she adored
. Ciao Amore
. Of course they would be playing love songs today. St Valentine’s. What a bore.

The kitchen was also white and fully fitted.
New
Millennium
in snappy chrome letters shimmered on each cupboard as well as across the double-width fridge. Air-conditioning. Every possible gadget. A smoothie maker. A shining espresso machine. Kopi Luwak coffee. The most expensive coffee in the world, apparently. A pound of KL coffee cost three hundred dollars, Roman had informed her. Imports from Italy, Germany, the USA. Roman hadn’t stinted himself. One had to give him credit for that. A woman came and cleaned every day. ‘Anything you want. All you need to do is tell me,’ Roman had said.

She poured herself a glass of orange juice. Florida oranges. Roman too had orange juice in the morning. Sometimes when he was with her, they sat side by side, drinking orange juice out of tall crystal glasses. Sometimes they talked but more and more often they sat in companionable silence. As though they’d been married for ages. Darby and Joan. How depressing.

Was orange juice all they had in common? What else was there? Well, they hated Sarla and loved sex – they were good at it. Both had enjoyed the drag revue at Le Carousel in Paris. Both loved girls – funnily enough Roman didn’t mind her being with other girls – he liked to watch, though he said that once they were married that would have to stop. (He
was
funny.) Both had a weakness for expensive jewellery – Roman more than her, in fact – the way he decorated himself, like the maharajas of old, or like a tart. (It had made him angry, when she had said that – Roman didn’t have much of a sense of humour. He hated it when she teased him.) Both liked expensive scent. What else? They loved the sea. They went swimming together. Both enjoyed smoking hashish every now and then. (One of Roman’s ventures was the selling of hash and he used a customized Cartier cigarette case for his marijuana roll-ups.) Anything else? Well, they loved dancing. Was that a good enough foundation for a lasting relationship? For a lifetime together? She was twenty-four, Roman twenty-nine. They could have fifty-five years together.

Ria took a rice cake out of a jar, spread it lightly with manuka honey and bit into it thoughtfully. Fifty-five years with Roman? She feared she’d be bored. They didn’t have much to say to one another, really. She’d already started finding him tedious, if she had to be perfectly honest. Roman liked to talk about his enemies, what he’d done to them, what he wanted to do to them, or he told her how much he wished he could get to one of the Queen’s garden parties, or he boasted that he could buy himself a barony complete with a castle in Scotland, if he wished – an English solicitor had already explained to him the procedure in some detail.

A garden party. There would be a garden party at Coconut Grove later today, in honour of the old hag who had come from England. She was buying Coconut Grove from Roman. Ria was expected to put in an appearance at some point. Roman was terribly keen on her doing so. He wanted her to make a good impression. He insisted that she wear her floral dress and pearls, her Alice band and white elbow-length gloves, like some perfectly groomed deb out of an early 1950s
Vogue
cover. Quite different from an earlier fantasy of his. Ria smiled, remembering. Wouldn’t it be fun if she were to appear at the garden party wearing the black bustier, garter belt, fishnet stockings and snakeskin stiletto heels?

Roman wanted the old hag to like her – the Honourable Mrs Depleche. He said he hoped Ria and Mrs Depleche would be ‘friends’. He seemed to envisage Mrs Depleche in the part of Ria’s chaperone. The elderly duenna and the young ward. Totally pointless, inexpressibly bizarre.

Roman seemed to hanker after some kind of aristocratic Arcadia. The truth was that he was twitchy about social status, which, exasperatingly, eluded his otherwise cocksure purchasing power. She meant of course social status in the ‘English’ sense. She kept telling him England was completely different from what he imagined it to be, but he didn’t seem to believe her. Well, he got all his ideas about English high society from ‘society’ novels of the 1920s and 1930s – he’d found a boxful of those somewhere – the kind of trashy novelettes shop-girls had read once.

She didn’t feel the slightest inclination to grace Roman’s garden party. She didn’t feel like meeting any English people, particularly not the kind of English people who might know her father. ‘Marigold Leighton? I wonder now – aren’t you poor Toby’s gel? We heard something. I am sure we got it all wrong. Fancy bumping into you here, of all places . . .’ No, she definitely did not want to go – but Roman would be furious if she didn’t. They’d have a row. She couldn’t bear the thought of another row.

Ria sighed. To think that when they had first met, she had considered him the best specimen of his kind – exciting, vigorous, dangerously sexy. Unlike any other man she had been with. She’d considered Roman the very personification of va-va-voom. Full of testosterone-fuelled bounce. She’d had a name for him: Tigger! (She remembered how she’d always said she’d marry Tigger.) Sadly, the novelty had worn off. He had revealed himself as petty and petulant, possessive, given to violent jealous rages – same as her father, in fact. He had also started putting on weight and was no longer anything like Tigger – and, goodness, he talked so much rubbish. Still, he had money. Money
was
important. If she played her cards well, she could have it both ways. She could have
– fun
. She needed to be extremely careful though –

That boy would be there, she suddenly realized – at the party. She held her breath. He’d be serving the drinks or proffering canapés. Now, was that a good thing or a bad thing? Part of her wanted to see him – very much – another part said, no, that would be total madness – he might give himself away – in fact he was
bound
to give himself away, the silly young fool – the way he gazed and gawped at her! Roman or his henchmen would be sure to notice. Sometimes Roman ‘noticed’ things that weren’t there. He was paranoid. He didn’t like it when she smiled at people. He’d already accused her of ‘flirting’. He didn’t trust her.
I gave commands, Then all smiles stopped
. Ria shivered. She’d actually found ‘My Last Duchess’ wonderfully creepy when they did it at school.

Her phone rang and she picked it up.

She heard a sharp intake of breath and knew at once who it was. Talk of the devil! That silly young fool – how had he managed to get hold of her phone number? Suddenly she panicked – could Roman have had the phone tapped? Could Roman, or one of his men, be listening in? He wouldn’t go as far as that, would he?

‘I told you not to call, didn’t I,’ she whispered.

‘Ria – please –’

‘It was a mistake, I told you. A big mistake. I don’t want to see you again. Not as long as I live.’

‘Please – can I come and –? I want to give you something. It’s St Valentine’s Day – I
must
see you!’

‘
No
.’

‘I
will
come –’

‘Don’t you dare!’

She slammed down the receiver. Her heart was once more beating fast. She felt as though she were walking on the edge of a precipice. She hoped Roman would never know about it. Roman would kill him if he knew – she had no doubt about it. He’d kill
her.

The love-lorn puppy! But what a sweet smile. She rather liked the way he talked. He was not a real waiter. Ria believed she was the only one who knew his secret. She admitted to herself she was flattered by his ardour. She should never have done it. Never. Valentine’s Day. For some reason she thought of the massacre rather than of roses and violets and love. She was sick and tired of love.
Ciao Amore
. Nothing but trouble. She hoped Roman would never know about ‘Bond’ either. She
had
been a naughty girl. She needed to start behaving. ‘Bond’ had been nothing but a whim – she hadn’t even fancied him that much – she had been in his taxi – she had been extremely bored, it had also amused her, that was the
only
reason she had invited him in.

That dream . . . Meeting her father on the beach . . . She still felt shaken up by it.

It was some twenty minutes later that she heard her front door bell ring. She put down her cup of coffee. Who could it be? She looked through the window.

There was a stranger standing there. A man.

9

The Mysterious Commission

Julian Knight tried not to drink on the morning of the fourteenth but found it difficult. He knew perfectly well what would happen and he dreaded it. By nine o’clock his hands would start shaking. Sweat would break out all over his body and that would be followed by a creepy-crawly kind of sensation. Withdrawal symptoms – it happened every time he failed to have his usual ‘intake’. He invariably started the day with a Kingfisher, the cheap local beer, for which he had acquired a taste – his fridge was stacked with Kingfisher bottles. He went on to drink whisky, then moved on to brandy, then back to Kingfisher, then –

Not today. Today he had to make a good impression.

The phone call had come late the night before, only moments after he had finished the bottle of Napoleon brandy. The voice had been loud and clear. A woman’s voice. A very English voice. As it happened, Julian had been in a morbidly mawkish mood – it always happened on the eve of St Valentine’s. Bloody St Valentine’s – how it brought back memories. He’d been thinking of Carolyn, his former wife. When he heard the woman’s voice, his heart missed a beat. For a wild moment he imagined it was his wife who was ringing him from England. He thought she might have undergone a change of heart, that she wanted them to get back together again, that she had decided to give him another chance.

It was five years since they’d got divorced.
Five years
. How time flew. His wife had said she was leaving him because of his drink problem while he was convinced he had started drinking
because
of his suspicion that she was preparing to leave him for another man. A suspicion that had proved only too correct. Now, which one had come first? Which was the truth? He couldn’t say. The past was fast becoming a blur.

The woman had told him who she was and then explained why she was phoning. His mind had been a complete blank. Her name had meant nothing to him. Her tone was superior, peremptory; he didn’t like it at all.
What
was she talking about?
He shouldn’t have drunk so much. Eventually her words had sunk in and at the same time he recognized the name. So
that
was who she was. Fancy now. He had never had any dealings with
her
before. At first he thought she was employing the royal ‘we’, but then she told him they were both in Goa. That surprised him, though of course it was none of his business where they went or what they did. The only thing that mattered was that he was going to be paid for his services. As soon as she mentioned money, he had pulled himself together and concentrated. It was a simple enough request. Of course, madam, he said. No problem, madam. I would be delighted to be of service.

She phoned again at eight o’clock in the morning. Where
was
he? They were waiting for him. She sounded impatient, cross. He might have been her servant. Was he on his way? Yes, yes, he said – coming – sorry – will be with you in five minutes. He had already got out of bed, bleary-eyed, his face like that of a drowned man, if his cracked mirror was to be trusted. He didn’t feel like going
anywhere.
He felt like slipping back into bed, curling up and resuming his sleep. Still, they were paying him – and action was better than inaction. A commission provided him with a purpose. It gave his day a structure. It made him
try
not to drink.

He reached for his notebook. It was bound in soft reddish-brown leather and had a picture of an Arthurian sword on the front cover. He had written his name inside the sword, vertically: KNIGHT. His little joke. That was some time ago. Quite some time. He no longer made jokes.

The notebook contained all his reports. He leafed through it. Funny requests, some of his clients had. No, he didn’t think he could kill anyone, no matter how high the fee. For one thing, he wouldn’t be able to do it properly – he couldn’t shoot, stab or strangle anybody – his hands shook too much. (He had already refused to release a poisonous snake into a bedroom.)

Would he commit perjury for a fee? Not even if the money was good? No
– never
. He might have been a much richer man if he’d had been less scrupulous. One might not think it of him, but he had his principles. Knight by name, knight by nature. He went on turning the pages of his diary. He used capital letters because his hand was so often unsteady, he couldn’t decipher his own handwriting. A paper cutting fluttered out from between the notebook’s pages. He caught it before it reached the floor and saw it was a three year-old
Times
article.

If there is a problem group, it is lone men aged fifty-plus, who
are more likely to suffer health problems such as alcoholism,
panic attacks, suicidal thoughts and depression.

Well, yes. All correct. Lonely, boozy, emotionally volatile and, when he wasn’t drinking, more than faintly depressed, desperate in fact, that was him to a T. He drank to allay his sadness and fear of life. Still, he managed to do his job properly. His clients were happy with his services. So far only Madame Scarpetta had been difficult. She’d refused to believe her husband was having an affair with an Englishwoman and said he’d got it all wrong. Mrs Agrawal on the other hand had had no problem accepting the outlandish nature of her husband’s passion and had started filing for divorce.

Actually, he needed no reminders of the kind of person he had become, so he crumpled up the paper cutting and dropped it on the floor. The floor was covered with things he no longer needed. He wished his hands didn’t shake so! He went into the bathroom. Was there a cure for him? He had attended a service at the local Catholic church the previous Sunday and prayed for a miracle. He had felt encouraged by the sermon, but his optimism had lasted only a short time, and been replaced by his usual dark despair. What was else was there? Alcoholics Anonymous – rehab? The point was he couldn’t be bothered to seek treatment. He’d have to return to England. Although he found Goa isolated and backward, he felt reluctant to leave it.
No
. England would be worse. He would rather stay here till he died. How about suicide?

He paused, the razor gleaming in his hand. His face in the bathroom mirror was deeply tanned, yet pale.

‘Hello. My name is Julian Knight,’ he said to his reflection. ‘And who are
you
?’

Sometimes he talked to his reflection as to a stranger. Was he losing his mind?

There was something on his chin – dark drops – blood? Yes. Must have cut himself while shaving. He knew the colour of blood was red but of course he could neither see nor recognize red. He gave a twisted smile. He was denied the beauty of rubies, roses and rainbows. He was born that way – colour-blind – well, that was the least of his troubles!

One of the worst features of his nervous breakdown had been the conviction, coming in flashes every now and then, that he was not real any longer; that his body and his inner self had moved apart, the first walking or talking in everyday life like an articulate dummy, while the brain remained in another place. Sometimes he felt as though he were dead already and seeing his body move . . .

Julian Knight put on his panama and his dark glasses.
En avant
, he murmured. He went out. Eight thirty and already so hot. There was going to be a solar eclipse at about eleven, that’s what they said on the news – a partial one – it would only last five minutes. He felt vague stirrings of anxiety. He didn’t like the idea of darkness at such an hour. He knew he wouldn’t be able to bring himself to look up at the sky. His anxiety spells were becoming worse; they were particularly bad in the early hours of morning. He felt cold and clammy and started mopping his face with his handkerchief. He was dying for a drink, that was the trouble, but he knew that would have to wait. Business first.

Out in the street he bumped into his Chinese landlord who said something to him, but Julian didn’t respond. He was concentrating on his feet. Left right, left right. He wanted to make sure he was walking in the right direction. He carried his left shoulder slightly lower than the right and glided somewhat. He was a familiar figure in the streets of Kilhar. Some people smiled when they saw him, others tut-tutted and shook their heads.

Left right
.

He had no idea he was on his way to a murder.

After he left them, Julian Knight walked fast down Fernandez Avenue and bought two bottles of Kingfisher beer from the kiosk at the corner. Well,
now
he could drink. He finished the first in six seconds. His eyes shut and he gave a deep sigh, his enjoyment was so intense. He opened the second bottle. Drinking more slowly, he made his way to the beach. The beggars didn’t bother to approach him – they knew he’d have no time for them. The ocean looked smooth. There were several fishing boats in the distance. Shakeel’s Sea Shack was only a minute away. Reaching it, he bought two more Kingfishers and a small bottle of Portuguese rum. He sat down at one of the little wooden tables and opened his third Kingfisher.

His mobile phone rang half an hour later. By now he was feeling extremely mellow, the way he liked it. It was her again. Another request. He thought she sounded odd. He was ready to swear someone was sobbing in the background. Would he be able to . . . He listened dispassionately and said he would try. The money they were offering was good – much better than any of the rates he charged for his services. Again, cash on delivery – that suited him down to the ground too – cashing cheques in Kilhar could be extremely tricky.

He managed to obtain a pass to Roman Songhera’s party with comparative ease and comparatively cheaply, by bribing one of the guards. That, he had discovered, was the manner in which most difficulties were resolved in India. There was always a way round every seeming impossibility. He also contrived to learn details of the gathering.

The gathering – a ‘garden party’ in the English style – was going to take place at Coconut Grove at five o’clock in the evening. Roman Songhera would be there in person. Roman Songhera was entertaining some high-ranking English visitors. An Honourable lady, a Mrs Depleche, and her friends, a married couple of the name of Pyne or Payne. It was the head waiter at Coconut Grove who provided Julian Knight with the guest list; it cost Julian a further five thousand rupees. He reflected that Roman Songhera, powerful as he was, had in fact feet of clay. Roman instilled terror but not the tiniest drop of loyalty. Feared, loathed and despised, yes, respected, no – not in the least. One of these days, like Humpty Dumpty, Roman Songhera was going to have a great fall.

Julian wondered about the kind of drinks they’d be serving at the Coconut Grove party. He had heard the head waiter refer to cocktails with rather exotic names. Ice-cold cocktails. Julian’s mouth started watering. He felt his hand rummaging inside his pocket, scooping up change.

He bought another bottle of Kingfisher.