Second Lives (3 page)

I chimed in. ‘Unfortunately, the circumstances point strongly to suicide which is why I suppose the police aren’t considering any other possibility…So we thought we would do some investigations of our own.’

Mrs Fernandes looked up sharply. ‘The police are nothing but a bunch of fools! That fat inspector Gomes has hardly bothered to question anybody and simply decided to close the case. I overheard him telling one of his flunkies that there was enough crime in Goa to take up their time, without having to bother with these distractions,’ she said, her tone indignant.

‘Distraction? My daughter’s death is a distraction for them?’ Her voice was stronger now, and rose several decibels. ‘It was never like this in Goa before. We used to be like one big family here. I don’t know when things changed so much…’

Sara said, ‘Mrs Fernandes, when we met at the funeral, you told me that Rachel appeared disturbed during those last few days here in Goa. Did you figure out what was bothering her? Maybe there’s a clue there to why this happened.’

‘I…don’t know…She wouldn’t tell me. There’s nothing specific I can put my finger on but I know something was not right. She would leave home right after breakfast and return late in the evening. It was only on the last night that she had dinner with me.

‘Whenever Rachel came to Goa, we would spend long hours chatting. She would fill me in on everything that was going on in her life. This time though, we hardly spoke much. I first thought she was upset with me for some reason but soon realised that wasn’t the case. She was just preoccupied with something which she didn’t want to discuss.’

‘Did she tell you why she landed up in Goa so unexpectedly?’

‘Well, she just laughed and said she wanted to surprise me. But I don’t think that’s the whole story because she clearly wasn’t here for me.’

‘Then?’

‘She did mention in passing that she was in the middle of an investigation. A story she was writing…’

‘Do you know what it was about?’ I piped up.

‘No, she didn’t tell me.’

This was getting to be a dead end, I thought.

Omar spoke for the first time. ‘So, you can’t really think of any possible reason why Rachel might have committed suicide?’

Mrs Fernandes glared at him. ‘Didn’t I say, young man, that I don’t believe Rachel committed suicide? I don’t know what actually happened but my daughter definitely did not take her own life!’

Omar was immediately contrite. ‘Yes, ma’am. I’m sure there has to be some other explanation. And that’s why we’re here, of course.’

None of us wanted to use the “M” word.

Sara stood up to go. ‘Mrs Fernandes, we don’t want to take up any more of your time. Thank you for talking to us. If you need anything, or just want to talk about Rachel, please give me a call.’

Mrs Fernandes thought for a moment. ‘Wait, I just remembered something. When I was clearing up Rachel’s room later, I found a piece of paper with a Panjim address noted down on it. It was in Rachel’s handwriting. I still have it and can give it to you, if you like. Maybe it will lead you somewhere.’

8

Omar

I was surprised to see the number of floating casinos that lay moored on the wide Mandovi estuary. Casino Royale, Casino Carnival, King’s Casino—the names flashed by on garish signboards above their respective boarding jetties.

Goa is one of the two states in India where gambling is legal but it’s prohibited on the mainland. Hence, the casinos are set-up on sleek white ships which go on gambling cruises up the river. To keep out the riff-raff and attract only the well-heeled serious punters, there is a hefty entrance fee.

Until a few years ago, there used to be just one, called the Caravela, but I guess gambling is such a lucrative industry for both the operators and the government that it was bound to mushroom here in Goa once the seed was planted. Many of the five-star resorts have also started their in-house casinos, getting around the regulations by having electronic blackjack and baccarat, which doesn’t qualify as live gambling and is thus permitted.

I imagine Goa has aspirations of becoming the next Macau, another former Portuguese colony. Frankly, that’s a pipe dream because Macau is already on its way to overtaking Las Vegas in terms of the grandeur of its properties and the money it attracts.

Take it from me. I have lost my shirt there more than once.

I was at the wheel of the Innova, with Sara in the passenger seat. Neel had stayed back at the villa. We drove down the main road of Panjim, along the river. Panjim is the capital of Goa and a study in contrasts—ancient churches and luxury resorts, terraced hills and broad avenues, lazy beach shacks and busy commercial centres.

The promenade seemed to be wider, cleaner and greener than I remembered. Maybe one of the business houses had sponsored the recent beautification. Corporate social responsibility was a big thing these days.

We finally located the address given to us by Mrs Fernandes. It was an unremarkable residential building at the end of a narrow lane, almost at the point where the Mandovi met the Arabian Sea. I tasted salt in the air.

I parked the car in front of the small gate, and the two of us stepped out. We had no idea what to expect. Sara led the way in, and I followed uncertainly.

She rang the bell and we waited.

I glanced around.

The house was a drab urban construction. There was a heavily grilled patio in front but no garden, not even a parking space. I noticed that all the windows were closed. There was probably no one at home, which was unfortunate.

I caught a faint smell. It was familiar but I just couldn’t place it.

Sara rang the bell again and also banged on the door hard with her fist. After several moments, there was a shuffling sound from inside and we heard soft footsteps approaching. The person fiddled with the latch for a bit before opening the door a crack.

The smell hit me like a slap on the face, and I had no difficulty identifying it now. Marijuana, but it was mixed with odours of other stronger substances.

The face that peered out at us was of a woman, a foreigner. Not European but Middle-Eastern—probably Israeli. Her hair was in disarray and her face was streaked with make-up. It was obvious from her glassy eyes that she was doped out.

She gave us an unpleasant look. ‘What the hell do you want?’

Sara stepped forward. ‘Look…we are here to talk to you about a friend of ours…’

‘I don’t know any friend of yours. Go away.’

I put my foot in before she could close the door. ‘One minute. Her name was Rachel. Rachel Fernandes.’ I paused. ‘She committed suicide…’

There was a flicker of recognition in her eyes; and something else—fear.

She took a step back and pulled open the door. ‘I suppose you better come in.’

9

Sara

‘My name is Zoe.’

The woman’s voice was deep and gravelly. She was about our age. Her face had been beautiful once but was now ravaged by drug abuse and God knows what else. She was wearing orange harem pants and a white tank top that had rucked up to reveal a tanned midriff and the underside of her large breasts. I could sense Omar staring but she seemed quite oblivious.

We were sitting in a surprisingly well-furnished room, with leather sofas, wooden flooring and a huge bar displaying an impressive collection of wines and spirits. Rather irrelevantly, I made a mental note to get a bar area made at the villa soon. My drinks trolley had become passé.

I asked, ‘When did you meet Rachel?’

Zoe lit a cigarette and took a long pull. She was more sober than we had initially thought. ‘It was…maybe three weeks ago. She was sitting exactly where you’re sitting right now.’

It was eerie to hear that.

Omar said, ‘So what was she here for?’

‘She said she was interested in the death of Anna Grishin. You might have read about that?’

Anna Grishin! Why did that name sound so familiar? I tried to think hard.
Nowadays I forget things so easily, it scares me.

Zoe continued. ‘She was murdered here in Goa some months ago. A young Russian girl, not yet seventeen years old.’ Her voice quavered.

Of course!
Anna Grishin.
Her story had been front page news for weeks in the local papers. It had even been reported in the national media.

Anna Grishin had been found on Baga beach, the early morning waves lapping at her lifeless naked body. It had been dumped there during the night before but there were no witnesses, at least none that had agreed to come up. She had been stabbed fourteen times. There were signs of sexual intercourse but the evidence suggested consensual sex, not rape.

It was the most heinous crime in Goa for as long as anyone could remember.

Anna had been living in Goa for six months and though just a teenager, she led a wild life of drugs, sex and parties. The prime suspect was a shack owner who had been Anna’s last known boyfriend. He was a dubious character, who had started off as a waiter and then graduated to peddling drugs, before gaining some respectability by buying out the same shack he used to work at. A British woman had once brought a molestation charge against him but dropped it later, disgusted with the judicial red tape it entailed.

However, the man stoutly proclaimed his innocence in Anna’s killing. He said that Anna was never his girlfriend and that she was anyway sleeping with multiple men at any point of time. The post-mortem report and other evidence ruled out his involvement in the crime, and the police were no closer to solving the case.

There was talk in the press of a conspiracy. An unnamed political leader was dragged into the story as having had sex with Anna, and then getting her disposed of when she threatened to spill the beans. It was suggested that a major cover-up operation was underway, tying the hands of the police.

Eventually, Anna Grishin became old news and the media forgot about her. The pressure on everyone eased off. The investigation continued but there were no new leads to go on. It appeared that her killer had gotten away with the crime.

Omar was saying something. ‘…know Anna Grishin?’

Zoe’s eyes were moist. ‘Anna…My darling Anna…She didn’t deserve such a terrible death. I don’t know…’ she stopped.

I asked, ‘Were you related?’

She looked at me defiantly. ‘She was…my lover.’

My God, this Anna Grishin really was something else! I looked at Zoe in a new light, and so did Omar, I could tell.

I’ve always wondered what it would be like to make out with another woman.
I’m firmly heterosexual but I know I’m not the only one to have imagined swinging the other way. There was this one incident with a senior girl in school, when I was fourteen, which still sends a tingle through me sometimes.

Zoe was speaking again. ‘I first saw Anna at a shack in Anjuna. She was sitting with a large group of people, all Russians. Her hair was long and blonde, and her face was so…beautiful. Our eyes met a couple of times, and she knew I was staring at her. I next saw her at a private rave, where we were introduced.

‘You know, despite all that was written about Anna, she rarely did drugs. And then only hashish, nothing stronger. Sex was her drug. It was just sex and more sex…never enough for her. I couldn’t have her all to myself but she was closer to me than to any of the men she fucked.’

I realised that despite her strange voice and strong accent, Zoe’s English was excellent. ‘When did you last see her?’

‘I don’t remember exactly but perhaps a week before she died. She had come over and spent the night here, something she rarely did. I was happy, of course. She was excited for some other reason, though. I think it was a new man she had met, someone she really liked for a change. She didn’t tell me who it was. I guess she thought I would be jealous.’

‘Or maybe he didn’t want her to reveal his identity?’

Zoe thought for a moment and said, ‘I suppose that’s possible. She often went out with married men or rich Indian businessmen who liked white skin. She never took money but preferred to get expensive clothes and gifts from them. Someone even bought her a car, although she was too young to have a driver’s license.’

Omar said a little impatiently, ‘So what did you discuss with Rachel?’

‘Your friend was a journalist, right? She told me she was doing a story on Anna’s murder. I don’t know if there’s anything left to write about it but she seemed to be very keen on knowing everything I could tell her about Anna.

‘I had nothing more to say beyond what I had told the police already. They questioned me three times. But I liked your friend Rachel. She seemed nice and sincere. And I thought, who knows? Maybe she will succeed in finding the bastard who killed Anna, where the police have failed so miserably.’ She threw her hands up. ‘I had no idea death would follow her so soon.’

I asked, ‘Do you think what happened to Rachel could be related in some way to Anna’s murder?’

‘I don’t know. You tell me…’ Zoe looked puzzled. ‘But you said she committed suicide, right?’

Omar and I looked at each other. Neither of us said anything.

Zoe lit another cigarette. ‘All I can say is that whoever murdered Anna is crazy; a psychopath who needs to be in an asylum.’

A chill went through me.
I remembered hearing exactly the same words twelve years ago.

10

Omar

We asked Zoe a few more questions but she became increasingly reluctant to talk and finally asked us to leave. Although she had not provided any new information about Anna Grishin’s death, we learnt something very important from the visit.

Rachel was investigating a high-profile murder when she died.

We got into the car and drove off, our minds racing with unspoken thoughts. Sara finally broke the silence. ‘I’m sure the police were unaware of this while probing her suicide, Omar. Otherwise they wouldn’t have closed the case so quickly.’

I didn’t respond. My eyes were on the rear-view mirror—there was a Xylo about fifty metres behind us, and I had been noticing it for some time now.

‘Sara, I think we’re being followed.’

She looked back. ‘The black SUV?’