4.Little Victim (14 page)

‘He doesn’t look very happy.’

‘He looks the epitome of the petulant tyrant. Observe the proprietorial manner in which he clutches his daughter’s arm. I imagine he loved Ria beyond reason, beyond rectitude and beyond pity. Perhaps he was a little in love with her . . . I do have a way with words, you must admit.’

‘Pipe-smoking nuns risking the birch! Really, Hugh, that was the most idiotic thing I’d ever heard.’ Antonia shook her head. ‘You have given Tang a terribly distorted idea of what life at an English convent is like.’

Payne sighed. ‘I keep thinking of Songhera’s crocs, my love. I know it’s awfully silly of me, but I can’t help it. When I was a young boy I always felt great sympathy for poor Captain Hook. Now I
know
how he must have felt.’

‘Roman wouldn’t dare throw us to his crocs, would he?’

‘He would certainly do so if he thought we were conspiring to get him, I have little doubt. Charlotte, too – and it would serve her right. Killing Ria might have tipped him straight into the mouth of madness. Ah, there’s a taxi at last.’ Payne held up his hand. ‘Songhera could always claim he never laid eyes on us. The police station,’ he told the taxi driver.

Antonia frowned. ‘What was that thing about Julian Knight’s right shoulder?’

20

A Man Lay Dead

The police station was small and even dingier than Julian Knight’s abode. Major Payne wished the policeman behind the desk a good evening. ‘Do you speak English?’

‘I speak English.’ The policeman smiled at them in a friendly enough manner.

‘I am terribly worried about my cousin. A Mr Julian Knight. He resides in Kilhar but he seems to have vanished into thin air.’

‘Your cousin is English?’

‘Yes. He lives at 203 Vindia Street. We’ve been to all the hospitals and now we’d like to report him missing.’

‘All hospitals?’ The policeman laughed. ‘Only one hospital in Kilhar! When did gentleman disappear?’

‘Can’t say exactly,’ Payne proceeded with caution. ‘He doesn’t answer his mobile phone. He hasn’t been seen by his landlord. We fear he might have been involved in some accident.’

‘Accident? Many accidents happen here. Many, many accidents. This is very nice place, very nice beaches, but we have many accidents.’ The policeman had opened a large black book and was looking through it. ‘Today is . . . fourteenth of February. Your cousin drive car?’

‘I don’t think so.’ Payne looked at Antonia who shrugged.

‘We have three car crashes today, two fatal, and one man died later at hospital. Lady fell under train – cut in two. This is bad, very bad. Your cousin is lady?’

‘No. A man.’

‘We have four dead bodies today. Three ladies, one gentleman. One gas poisoning, probably suicide, one decapitation, one fatal stabbing. Gentleman hit by car.’ The policeman made a slashing gesture across his forehead. ‘Not very nice. We find card in pocket.’ The policeman held up the card. ‘Mr –
Julio Kugtilo
– this your cousin?’

‘No.’

The policeman laughed. ‘I make a mistake. Sorry. Light is bad. It is Mr Julian Knight, of . . . of Knightsbridge Investigating Agency. Your cousin is private investigator?’ ‘Yes . . . Oh, my God.’

‘And his name is Julian Knight? This is very, very bad news. I am sorry, sir, but your cousin is dead. You want to see body?’

Payne felt blood rushing to his head. Dead! So they did get him after all. Why did he feel so shocked? Hadn’t they already written Knight off as one already lost to this world? Antonia had gone very pale. Knight had talked to her. Poor darling. She must be feeling responsible, guilty, though what the hell could she have done? The way Knight had staggered across the lawn. All those hospital romances. Poor blighter. Rotten business. One body had turned up, the other was waiting to be discovered. Was Ria in the deep freeze at Coconut Grove? If they were to discover her there, what
would
they do? As pretty a tangle as any fellow ever stumbled into, as Richard Hannay put it. At least Knight hadn’t been fed to the crocs. Thank God for small mercies.

Payne heard Antonia ask where the body was.

‘Over there – you see that door?’ The policeman pointed matter-of-factly with his thumb. ‘Wait. I tell someone to take you. Please note that your cousin has head injuries. Not too bad but not nice.’

* * *

‘Oh, my God,’ Antonia said. A great nauseous shiver had gone through her. She had been holding her handkerchief against her nose. The room was pervaded by a terrible foul smell. She was sure she could hear the buzzing of flies, though it might be her imagination. She was afraid she would be sick.

The body lay on a tin platform on wheels. It had been pulled out of what looked like an enormous gimcrack cupboard.

‘This is Mr Knight, madam?’

‘I don’t know. I – I think so.’

She couldn’t say for sure it was Julian Knight and yet it must be him. The light in the room was poor. Its source was a single electric bulb in a socket above the door, through which they had entered. Well, the dead man
looked
like Julian Knight. He wore the same jacket, or something very similar. What would be the point of a stranger’s dead body being passed off as that of Julian Knight? She couldn’t think of any reason. No, that wasn’t true – she could think of a number of reasons, but this was neither the time nor the place for fanciful speculation. Antonia held her hand firmly cupped over her mouth. She hoped she wouldn’t disgrace herself.

She tried to think rationally. This
was
Julian Knight. Julian Knight had been witness to murder and now he too had been killed. He had been silenced. Cause and effect. If they – Roman and his henchmen – knew that he’d given her his diary, which contained his eyewitness account of the murder, then she would be in danger – Hugh as well. Actually, she couldn’t
swear
that the dead man lying in the tin tray before her was Julian Knight. Julian Knight, when she had met him, had worn a hat with a slouching brim and dark glasses. She hadn’t been able to see his face properly. Still, who else could this man possibly be? Of course it was Julian Knight. When people died, they always looked different. Shrunken. Diminished. The dead man looked smaller than the one who had joined her in the folly, but death did diminish people . . .

There was a horrible livid indentation across his forehead. A tyre mark? Julian Knight’s cheeks were covered in dirt. Didn’t they wash corpses? Julian Knight’s short grey hair was sticky with congealed blood. The eyes were wide open. The left eye looked damaged – as though it had – Antonia glanced away quickly. The eye couldn’t have fallen out, could it? Julian Knight’s mouth was gaping pathetically, like that of a dead fish. The lips were blue. The face had in life been deep brown but was the colour of lead now. Julian Knight’s hands lay limply beside his body, palm upwards. She looked at them curiously. No, nothing inside either of them. Both hands were empty. What
was
it he had held in his left hand? Was the object in his killers’ possession now?

Payne touched her hand. ‘Shall we go?’

She jumped. ‘Yes!’

‘Is there going to be an investigation?’ Payne asked when they stood beside the desk once more.

‘Investigation? What investigation?’ The policeman on duty seemed greatly surprised by the suggestion. ‘No, no investigation. This is accident.’

‘Have you managed to catch the driver of the car that hit Julian?’ Antonia asked.

‘No catching. No one saw number plate. Lots of people in street, but everybody looking at the sun, you see. No sun this morning. The sun disappear. Very interesting.’

Payne nodded. ‘The partial solar eclipse. Yes. It didn’t last longer than five minutes.’

For some reason the policeman reacted as though he had been rebuked. ‘Not enough policemen for investigation!’ He waved his hand to emphasize the empty space around him.

‘Where did the accident take place?’ Payne persisted.

‘In town. In main street. Your cousin cross street, then –
boum
!’ The policeman beat his fist against the palm of his left hand.

‘Was anyone with him, do you know?’

‘No. Yes. Woman. Local woman. She is walking with your cousin when accident happened.’ The policeman spread his hand across his face. ‘Her face covered. She wears veil. Tall woman. She runs away.’

‘She ran away? Really? A local woman, did you say? Somebody saw her?’

‘Yes, madam. One man saw her. She is tall and she wear veil.’

‘Aren’t you looking for her?’ Payne asked.

‘No. Why look? She is not his wife. Wife doesn’t run away when husband die,’ the policeman said sententiously and he made a dismissive gesture. ‘Not important.’

‘What happens if no one claims a dead body here?’ Antonia asked.

The policeman shrugged. ‘We bury dead bodies. Very high temperatures – very hot. Not nice. English people? Yes, English people too. This is law. Law is very strict.’

‘Is it?’ Payne cocked an eyebrow.

‘If no one says, this is my husband or my father or my brother or my cousin, we bury them. Why keep bodies, if no one want them? We have power cuts. Blackout. Electricity is very expensive. We can’t keep bodies. Not nice . . . Now you take your cousin with you, yes?’

‘We most certainly shall, but not at this very moment.’

‘You bury your cousin in England?’

‘We’ll be back. Um. We need to get a car,’ Payne reassured him.

This was a blatant lie and for a moment he felt guilty, but then he reflected that Knight was past caring. Poor lonely blighter. What difference did it make where they buried him?
The earth is the earth is the earth
. There was a poem about it. Some people had funny ideas about burials. At one time Charlotte had wanted her dead body to be thrown to the dogs at a meet. And didn’t the actress Sarah Miles have her playwright husband buried in her back garden? No, it didn’t matter a hang where one’s mortal remains were laid to rest.
All flesh is grass
. It was where the soul went that counted. Had Knight had any religious beliefs? The statuette of the Virgin and the Child had been wedged between two of those tatty hospital romances. Knight’s former colleagues at Scotland Yard would probably never know he had died. Or his former wife. (Who was the woman who’d run away? Had she had any reason to run away?) Did Knight have any children? Would anyone
care
he’d died and been buried in Goa?

Payne was feeling light-headed. Dizzy and quite upset, actually. A tight knot in his throat. Too long in the sun. Too much to drink. Bloody cocktails. Never again. Dog tired. Then this business. Rotting flesh. Nasty pong. All too much! And it was not over yet. They needed to find Ria. They were about to put their theory to the test – check the deep freeze at Coconut Grove. What if they were caught red-handed and Songhera turned nasty? The crocs! Payne dabbed at his forehead with his handkerchief.

They walked out into the night. It was still very warm, yet Antonia started shivering. Payne put his arm around her. Neither of them spoke. They heard distant explosions and the sky was suddenly ablaze with crimson – like a splash of blood – several splashes of blood – then golden yellow.

It was five minutes past nine o’clock and the firework display at Coconut Grove had started.

21

Murder as a Fine Art

‘A riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma. Churchill actually said that about Soviet Russia. What I mean, my love, is that it is all a little bit too much. It’s not the complexities I object to, actually, but the roller-coaster rate at which things have been happening. Hardly any time for stock-taking, wouldn’t you agree?’

A roller-coaster, yes. Antonia admitted to feeling disoriented as well as a little nauseous.

‘I am sure that if this were one of your books, you’d want to pace things better, wouldn’t you? ‘

‘My editor might suggest it. I may also decide to revise the scene in the police station.’ Antonia scrunched up her face. ‘Do morgues at Goan police stations really resemble vile-smelling Third World butcher’s shops?’

‘That one did . . . This
is
the Third World.’

‘I think most people enjoy fast-moving plots, no matter how improbable. Even the most sophisticated reader likes things to
happen
. Most readers prefer action to, say, discourses on the nature of evil or intricate descriptions of the weather. What else is there to write about? Do readers like analyses of the investigators’ tortured love lives?’

‘Some crime writers do go off at incredible tangents, I’ve noticed, describing in meticulous detail things that have nothing to do with the murder plot. I must say I have little patience with self-indulgent bores. Self-indulgent bores should be on the High Executioner’s Little List.’ Payne held up his forefinger. ‘Those who ramble on about gourmet food, the Book of Common Prayer, cats and dogs, opera, church architecture and so on. Talking of tortured love lives, did Dalgliesh marry Emma in the end?’

‘I have no idea. I always thought that such an
unlikely
sort of romance. So much to-ing and fro-ing. And it’s all so ponderous and gloomy.’

‘The trouble with certain
grandes dames
is that they would insist on being taken
au grand sérieux.
Being considered capable purveyors of escapist entertainment is simply not enough for them.’

‘If I were writing this up, I would have Ria alive rather than dead,’ Antonia said suddenly.

Payne looked at her. ‘You would? How very interesting. Ria is not in the deep freeze at CG?’

‘No. That – that would be too obvious. The assumption about Ria’s being dead would turn out to be entirely fallacious. I rather like the idea of the amateur tecs getting it all wrong. The amateur tecs have been goaded into a trap. Julian Knight has lied about witnessing Ria’s murder. He has had a good reason for it.’

‘Go on.’

‘Julian Knight’s intention was to implicate Roman Songhera. He saw Roman as his rival –’

‘Rival? Do you mean Knight was in love with Ria?’

‘Yes. Madly in love. Julian Knight had been stalking Ria as part of his job – he had been observing her closely – recording her every move – noting down the way she dressed, the scent she wore and so on – and he became obsessed with her. He decided he couldn’t live without her.’

‘Enchanted and enchained, eh? Like the chap in
Vertigo
?’

‘This is what happens. Julian Knight pays Ria a visit. He turns up on her doorstep and declares his love for her. She stares at him. She has actually noticed him following her. A pathetic Wurzel Gummidge of a man. Not at all dangerous-looking. Actually the whole thing is an incredible hoot. She bites her lip. She is amused. She likes men to fall in love with her. She takes a perverse pleasure in leading men on. She is rotten to the heart. She is in a particularly skittish mood that day. She says she is greatly flattered. She invites him in. She offers him a drink. She pretends to reciprocate his ardour –’

‘She allows him to crush his mouth to hers?’ Payne suggested.

‘Possibly. She then suggests they meet again. Tells him to feel free to call on her again, very soon. Julian Knight takes her at her word. He arrives at the bungalow the very next day. He’s brought her a bunch of flowers – but now she stares at him blankly. She is annoyed – bored with the whole thing – no, she’s forgotten who he is! He is unkempt, looks incredibly wrinkled and reeks of drink. His leer repels her. She doesn’t let him in. She pushes him away. When he reminds her of his feelings for her and of her promises, she laughs. She lets him know what she really thinks of him. In the end she admits it was all a game. He’d better scram, she says, or he’d be a dead man if Roman came and found him here. He knows who Roman Songhera is, of course? She then slams the door. Julian Knight staggers back. He is stunned – mortified – distraught –’

‘The episode unhinges him somewhat?’

‘It does. It unhinges him considerably. Julian Knight is a troubled man and now his first urge is to kill himself, but then – then he finds himself planning Ria’s murder. He does it with the utmost care and the most scrupulous attention to detail. He is an ex-policeman-turned-private-detective, so he knows how to set about it. The murder will be pinned on Roman Songhera – his love rival! He himself will play the part of the witness to the murder. After he kills Ria, he will disappear, perhaps make it look as though he has committed suicide? But he needs someone who will listen to him first, someone who will take his allegation seriously. He gatecrashes Roman Songhera’s garden party and settles on me –’ Antonia broke off. ‘Does any of this make sense?’

Major Payne nodded. ‘It was a friend of Knight’s who phoned CG and asked to speak to him. Knight had put him up to it. All part of the plan. Or Knight paid one of the locals to make the call . . . So Knight told you he had witnessed the murder
before
he actually went on to commit it?’

‘That’s correct. After he left Coconut Grove, he went to Ria’s bungalow. He managed to sneak in. Either Ria had forgotten to lock the front door or he had a skeleton key in his pocket.’ Antonia’s eyes narrowed. ‘He finds Ria in the bedroom. He pushes her on the bed – holds her down – grips her legs with his knees – puts his hands around her throat – starts strangling her. Ria struggles – as it happens, she is stronger than him – she claws his eyes. As he screams and pulls back, she reaches out and picks up something heavy from her bedside table.’

‘An ormolu clock? An onyx vase? A copper candlestick?’

‘Some such object, yes. She hits him across the temple with it. Then she hits him a second time. He goes limp. She pushes him off the bed. He falls on the floor and lies motionless. There is no blood. She prods him with her foot. He doesn’t move. She checks his pulse and doesn’t find it. He is dead. She has killed him. She is not particularly perturbed. She picks up the phone – Dear me, Hugh, this is terrible!’

‘I don’t see anything wrong with indulging our wild and vivid imaginations in a gallop over wholly speculative courses, if that’s what you mean.’

‘You don’t think it is irresponsible and childish of us?’

‘Not really. Shall I go on?’ Payne pulled at his lip. ‘Ria calls two of Roman’s henchmen – tells them to come at once. When they do, she orders them to take away Julian Knight’s body. They put the bedroom carpet to good use. They ask no questions. They load the body into the boot of their car and later dump it in the street. They make the death look like an accident. Perhaps, for good measure, they run their own car over the body. Then they pay someone to give the police an eyewitness account, to say that Knight was pushed under a speeding car by a veiled woman.’

There was a pause.

‘Where’s Ria now?’ Antonia said.

‘Hiding somewhere. Apparently Songhera has luxury villas all over the place. Or she may have left Goa. She may have gone to Europe where she will lie doggo till things calm down. She may be in Rome or in Paris. She may be shopping in the Place Vendôme at this very moment . . . So Knight is the one and only all-important victim, eh? His is the only murder worth investigating? This is awfully good.’

‘What was it Camillo saw at the bungalow that shocked him so much?’

‘Maybe – maybe he witnessed the struggle in the bedroom? Sorry, old thing.’ Payne had yawned. ‘It’s been a long haul . . . What’s the time in England now? Are we five hours ahead or five hours behind?’

‘Five hours ahead. If we’d been in England, we’d be sitting in the garden, having tea. No, not in the garden – in England it would be freezing –’ The next moment Antonia clutched at his arm. ‘Hugh, I do believe this is important!’

‘What is important? Having tea or the freezing English weather?’

‘
Five hours ahead
. Ten minutes ago I imagined that the policeman said something, which suggested – no,
proved
beyond doubt that Julian Knight’s death was all wrong.’

‘Proved beyond doubt?’ He stared at her. ‘What did the policeman say?’

‘I haven’t got the obscurest of inklings. Now I am talking like you!’

‘I am sure I never say things like “obscurest of inklings”.’

‘You do. You often talk like a character in a book.’

‘I think we might be having a joint nightmare,’ Payne said. ‘We should never have left Hampstead. Aunt Nellie had no business recommending us to the Honourable Charlotte. No business at all. To think that we might actually end up in a decorative lake full of crocodiles. This is most definitely
not
my idea of a pleasant holiday.’

‘You can say that again.’

‘What was it you imagined? Think back. The policeman mentioned a veiled one. Is that it? A woman was seen with Knight at the time of the accident. A tall woman who might have been . . . a
man
? The veil that covers a multitude of sins,’ Major Payne murmured. ‘Is that it?’

‘I don’t know. A moment ago I thought I had it, but it’s gone now. It may be nothing but a wild fancy. For some reason I keep thinking of the Carpenters record in Julian Knight’s room.
This Masquerade
. I don’t think it’s got anything to do with the veiled woman. Or perhaps it has.’ Antonia sighed. ‘Well, as Charlotte said, I am the sort of woman who lets her imagination run riot.’

‘I am sure Charlotte knows everything about riotous imaginations. You mustn’t pay any attention to a word she says.’ Payne sounded annoyed. ‘Charlotte’s role in this affair is to make the obligatory cameo gargoyle appearance, nothing more. Strictly for comic relief purposes. If this were one of your books,’ he went on, ‘how would you prevent the second body from being found too soon? Pacing’s always important, isn’t it?’

Well, she might have an ‘interlude’, Antonia said after a pause – a shortish chapter, in which the amateur detectives discussed the murders as though they were something out of a whodunit – a postmodern conversation piece of sorts. And that would be followed by some bizarre episode, which would prove to be terribly important to the investigation – or it would only
seem
terribly important, but would in fact simply distract the amateur detectives from solving the murders. It was only then that the second body would turn up.

‘In the deep freeze?’

‘I have no idea. Perhaps.’

‘I suppose the reader would go on labouring in Cimmerian darkness a little longer – without having the obscurest of inklings as to what was really going on,’ said Payne. ‘Though of course, faithful to the spirit of fair play, you’d have scrupulously laid a trail of clues pointing to the truth.’

‘The truth yes, though not the
whole
truth.’ Antonia gave a little smile. ‘There’s always one final twist, you know.’