4.Little Victim (5 page)

‘We always seem to get involved in mysterious deaths.’ Major Payne frowned. ‘Isn’t that odd?’

6

Belle de Jour

Along the beguilingly balmy Betalbatim beach Ria walked, under a blazing sun. Unusually, there were a lot of people around her, a real crowd. That didn’t bother her, but something else did. For the last couple of minutes she had been aware that someone was following her. With the tail of her eye she saw it was a man. When she started walking faster, so did he. When she slowed down, he did too. What
did
he want?

Looking over her shoulder, she saw that it was her father.

Well, he didn’t look like her father at all, not the way she remembered him. Their last confrontation had taken place a year and a half before, on the very day she left England. Then her father had filled her with terror as well as with the hysterical desire to laugh aloud. Ashen face twisted in impotent rage, old and wrinkled, something simian about him, tufts of white hair standing on end. Roaring like a bull and emitting sparks – nearly detonating with rage. Now he looked different: much younger, darker, taller and more handsome – not unlike Roman, in fact. There was a little smile on his lips. She didn’t see his mouth open, yet she heard his voice.

You shouldn’t be afraid of me any more. I am dead. It is
all over.

Ria swung round and began to run in sudden blind panic, but her progress had become difficult. The people round her had grown in number and she had to push them out of her way. Her feet sank deep into the sand, which seemed to have turned the consistency of treacle. Her heart was racing and she was gasping for breath. When she felt a tap on her shoulder, she gave a cry –

She opened her eyes.

It was morning and the room was full of bright light. The sun played on the platinum cufflinks which Roman had left behind the night before and made them glitter. Ria lay in her bed, the ridiculously regal bed Roman had had specially made for her, a four-poster, with carved pillars and a canopy. Her heart was still beating fast, as though she had really been running. She glanced at the gilded clock on her bedside table. Ten to eight. The electrically operated curtains moved in the breeze. As usual, the night before she had left her windows open. She could see part of the palm tree that grew outside. For a couple of moments she lay very still.

What was that poem they had taught her at school?

Dismiss the dreams that sore affright

Phantasmagoria of the night . . .

Yes, quite. ‘It’s only a dream,’ she said aloud. ‘My father is dead.’ As though to convince herself she rose on her elbow and, reaching out, opened the bedside table drawer and took out the letter.

Your father died of a pulmonary embolism, that’s what the
doctor said
, her aunt had written.
He collapsed in the woods,
where we found him, and was taken to hospital. He died soon
after without regaining consciousness. The funeral was rather a
grand affair, but I won’t bore you with details. I don’t for a
moment imagine that this news will cause you any great grief
or sadness. I know how you felt about your father. I am perfectly
aware of the fact that it was because of him you left England,
but perhaps now you could find it in your heart to forgive him?

Ria – whose real name was Marigold – looked up. She smiled. Dear Aunt Iris. Face like a friendly sheep. What was it she’d heard her father say once? That Aunt Iris was as hopeless as the Poles and the Irish – she liked to tell you what you wanted to hear, but was ineffectual and untrustworthy. Ria was sure her aunt hadn’t cared much for her brother either . . .

She dropped the letter. Well, that was that. Her father was dead. The ogre was six foot under. She was never going back to England. They didn’t have to stay in Goa either. In fact, there would be no question of their staying in Goa. She couldn’t stand the place. The dirt, the poverty, the stray dogs, the hungry crows, the cripples, the children from the orphanage with their ‘sponsorship’ forms, the impossibly hot spices they seemed to put into every kind of food, the – well, everything.

East meets West? It hadn’t worked for Jemima and Imran – nor for Diana and Dodi. One relationship had ended in divorce, the other, well, in death. As soon as they were married, they’d leave. Yes. She’d never have to see Roman’s wife again. Roman’s wife somehow embodied all that to Ria’s way of thinking was wrong with India. Her name was Sarla, and she and Roman lived separately. Ria had seen Sarla only three or four times, but that had been enough.

She remembered the second time. It had been very odd. Ria had seen Sarla from her window, walking up the path, a voluminous bag in her hand. She had been afraid that Sarla was going to make a nuisance of herself, that she might create a scene, attack her even – but Sarla hadn’t rung the front door bell – all she had done was empty the bag on the ground underneath Ria’s sitting-room window. The bag seemed to contain some kind of greyish powder. On another occasion she’d woken up from her siesta and thought she’d seen Sarla’s face at the bedroom window, staring at her. She had been frightened out of her wits and cried out, but by the time she’d got out of bed, the face had disappeared. Had that been a dream? On that occasion Sarla’s hair had been exactly like hers – long, golden-brown. Perhaps it was a dream.

Pay no attention, Roman had said. She is mad. I’ve told her she’s a dead woman if she tries to touch you. I’ll get her fitted for a tight jacket in a narrow room with soft walls, he’d added for good measure. Ria smiled. She liked him when he talked like an American gangster. Each time she saw Sarla, Ria experienced a shrinking, creeping sensation – exactly like when she had seen her first cobra at Kilhar’s market . . . or her first female scorpion, plump with poison, four babies on her back, crawling along the kitchen window sill . . .

Each time Roman suggested she have a bodyguard, she said a firm no. Someone spying on her, reporting everything she did to Roman? No, thank you very much. She had made it absolutely clear to Roman that she didn’t want to stay in India. With Roman’s money, they could live anywhere in the world. Somewhere warm. Spain or Italy would be her first choice, but she wouldn’t mind the South of France either. Thanks to his Portuguese blood, Roman could easily be taken for a denizen of any of these countries. When she had first met him in Dubai, she had thought he was Italian.

Ria sat up in bed, brought her knees up to her chin and contemplated her reflection in the mirror on the wall opposite. ‘Mrs Roman Songhera,’ she said aloud. There were mirrors everywhere, even on the ceiling above the bed. That was the way Roman liked it.

She examined herself critically. Well, even at this early hour, even after her nightmare, she looked good – no,
stunning
. An oval face, high cheekbones kissed by the sun, almond-shaped eyes, smooth supple neck, thick golden-brown hair that owed nothing to chemistry and everything to nature that had been too generous, perfectly shaped breasts that were tantalizingly outlined through her Brooks Brothers pyjamas. Ria pushed her bare leg through the silk sheets and stretched it out before her, like a ballerina. So long – so smooth . . .

It wasn’t surprising that Roman was mad about her. ‘Crazy’ was the word he used. Sometimes he spoke like an American, which she liked better than when he put on his stuffy English accent. ‘I am crazy about you. I can’t get you out of my mind,’ he had told her the night before, between kisses. ‘When I am not with you, I don’t feel right. I get restless, anxious, depressed. I can’t settle down to doing anything important. I keep seeing you. You are inside my head. My life is dominated by my desire for you. I desire you all the time. Do you understand?
All the time
.’

Ria’s hand went up to her cleavage and she smiled again, a slow, lazy smile.

I can’t get you out of my mind
. Her father had written something on those lines in one of his letters. Roman was as obsessed with her as her father had been, now wasn’t that freaky? People did do crazy things when they were obsessed with someone . . .

Roman had said he’d kill his wife. Would he really do it? Well, he sounded as though he meant it – if Sarla refused to divorce him, if she tried to make any trouble between them. There was no question of him doing it in person of course. He’d have Sarla bumped off. He could do it, easily. Everybody listened to him. He had the local police eating out of his hand. It wasn’t without a reason that he was known as the king of Goa.

She had dreamt that she was being followed. Funnily enough the other day she had had the feeling that someone
was
following her. She had been in the market place. She hadn’t seen the person but the feeling had been there all right. Somebody’s eyes boring into her. She thought it was a man. Well, it had to be a man. Was it possible that Roman was having her followed? Did Roman suspect that she might be seeing somebody else? She had caught him watching her speculatively on a number of occasions.

Did Roman know about –? Superstitiously Ria tried not to think of the boy’s name. She wasn’t ‘seeing’ him. She had ‘seen’ him
once
. Still, Roman was pathologically jealous. She didn’t want to think what he might do if he got to hear about it. She shouldn’t have done it. It was interesting the way her father had been transformed into Roman, but then that was the illogicality of dreams. Was her subconscious trying to warn her about Roman?

7

The Shadow

The moment he had stepped off the plane he was enveloped in a surge of stifling hot air which might have sprung from some steam room. Blistering heat. He remembered his thoughts:
I am moving towards dissolution.

On the minibus, as they drove away from the airport, he felt ill, feverish, drained of all energy. Dozing off, he dreamt he was on board a ship. At first all seemed to be well, the most marvellous indigo sea, but then the ship started shaking and suddenly they found themselves invaded by hairy apelike creatures with hungry burning eyes. The creatures swarmed about the deck and started gnawing the ropes and cables with their sharp teeth. He saw the mast toppling, coming towards him – he tried to jump out of its way and woke up with a violent start.

It had taken him several moments to remember where he was and why. He had stared out of the dusty minibus window at the angry, orange-red sky. The air was full of dust; it made him cough. Most of the people on the bus wore turbans and they spoke in a language he could not understand. He felt so disoriented, for a moment he convinced himself this was another dream. But of course it wasn’t a dream. He found himself wondering how normal, ordinary people spent their lives.

The minibus had stopped at a petrol station that looked like a shack. He thought of getting off and stretching his legs, but decided against it. He couldn’t believe how desolate everything looked. An alien landscape of great menace, at least that was how he saw it.

He continued gazing out of the window. He saw a little bird get caught in a curtain of creepers across the brick wall adjoining the shack, its wings beating helplessly. The next moment a copper-coloured snake appeared from somewhere – such a large head – he could see its forked tongue flick in and out from where he sat! The snake slithered fast. Aware of its approach the bird made one last futile effort to disentangle itself –

He had looked away. His ears had rung with the bird’s desperate chirruping. He had heard some of his fellow passengers laugh and whistle.

Thank God they had driven away.

It had come as a shock to see her in the hotel foyer, sitting in one of the leather chairs, wearing a snuff-coloured tropical suit, drinking tea and looking through a three-month-old copy of
Country Life.
The ground moved under his feet with a dancing sway and it had suddenly felt dark and extremely close, as though an old-fashioned photographer’s black hood had been drawn over his head. He had stood and stared. He had been rendered speechless.

At first he thought she was a mirage conjured up by the heat, but the next minute she had opened her mouth and spoken to him. She had managed to track him down. She’d booked in at the same hotel. Well, where else? This seemed to be the only decent place around. She patted the sofa beside her and asked him to sit down. Would he have some tea? She told him not to be agitated – his face was too red – it was bad for him – he should keep calm in this appalling heat. Before he knew what she was doing, she reached out for his wrist and checked his pulse. She had brought his medicine, she said. Was he aware he’d left his medicine behind? He said he didn’t need any medicine. He felt better without it! He glared at her. He asked her what she thought she was doing. Why had she followed him? Who the hell did she think she was? His bloody shadow? Couldn’t she leave him alone –
ever
?

She had remained unruffled. Not in the least discomfited. She was good in a crisis. Well, he had to hand it to her. She had nerves of steel. She feared for him, she said – for his health and safety. Roman Songhera wouldn’t be happy if he knew what he was planning to do, would he? She seemed convinced his mission was doomed to fail. Something in her voice made it clear to him that she
wanted
it to fail. She looked so terribly smug and self-righteous. She was not quite human. She was right about that filthy wop, though. Roman Songhera
was
dangerous.

She meant to take good care of him, she said. He might not realize it but he needed her.

He told her she was an infernal nuisance. He didn’t want her here. He wished she could go away. He said he didn’t trust her. He hated her. He reminded her how she had urged him to adopt a resigned and a non-emotional attitude and become reconciled to his ‘loss’. Well, he refused to become reconciled to his ‘loss’, so there! She gave an indulgent smile and patted his hand. She had already ordered more tea. China tea. Extremely refreshing, she said. The kind of tea one got at Brown’s. We
are
at Brown’s, he pointed out. She made a moue – well,
yes
– not quite the real thing, though, was it?

She produced a pill and instructed him to put it under his tongue. He grumbled but did as asked. It was easier that way. He didn’t have the energy to argue. He shut his eyes. He felt her hand on his forehead. Her hand was cool and dry. He felt calmer. He told her he didn’t want her to interfere in his affairs. Don’t try to stop me, he said. I wouldn’t dream of it, she said. He looked at her suspiciously. He was sure she was humouring him now.

There was another English couple in the foyer. He listened to their conversation absently.

‘There was an advertisement at Reception,’ the woman was saying. ‘One could have one’s very own personal guru, apparently.’

‘What should I want with a guru?’ the man grumbled.

‘A personal guru helps you meditate and purify your inner self, so that you can look inwards and find peace and tranquillity.’

‘I’d rather have a gin than a guru!’ Laughing, the man snapped his fingers. ‘Waiter!’

He held his eyes tightly shut, trying to persuade himself that when he opened them, she’d be gone. We are in this together, he heard her say. You need me. I will do
everything
to help you. It isn’t so bad here, actually. If one stuck to the hotel and didn’t mind the smells, one could imagine one was in England. Besides, the place is not without beauty. It is the violet hour now – that’s what they call it –
look.

Reluctantly he looked. She was right about that too, blast her. He had to admit she was often right. The place was not without beauty. Indeed. The late afternoon sun was filtering through the jacaranda trees, casting sublime purple shadows on the terrace. He heard her cancel his single room and book a suite for the two of them . . .

Tomorrow. He’d go tomorrow. No point delaying.

He
had
to see her.

He had a bad feeling about it.