4.Little Victim (15 page)

22

The Holy Innocent

They had got out of the cab some way from Coconut Grove and for the past ten minutes had been walking alongside the beach towards the steps that led up to the house. The sand beneath their feet kept slowing them down. The firework display in the sky above, on the other hand, hadn’t relented for a moment. A shower of rubies was followed by a bouquet of sapphires, a fountain of pearls, then a burst of diamonds.

It was as light as day. On their left lay the sea, vast, smooth, unbelievably calm. Somewhere far off on the horizon flickered the lights of ships. Close to the shore lay a yacht, the
Caspar
, with strangely striped funnels. ‘Have we been seen?’ Antonia was gazing nervously towards the terrace. They could hear music, laughter, delighted gasps and, again, the popping of champagne corks.

‘If we haven’t, we soon shall be. So what? Don’t be paranoid. We went for a walk. Nothing wrong with that, is there? I don’t think anyone suspects us of any involvement in the affair yet. If they’d seen the diary change hands in the folly, they’d already have tried to deprive you of it.’

Antonia said that perhaps Roman Songhera’s men had been to their room in their absence and taken it. She groaned. She hadn’t taken the trouble to hide the diary properly – she should have but she hadn’t – she’d simply pushed it under her pillow.

‘It’s here, actually,’ Payne said and he showed her the diary. He had picked it up while she had been standing in front of the mirror and put it into his pocket, he explained. Antonia kissed him.

There were people on the beach – the men in charge of the firework display. As the Paynes approached the stone steps a figure came out of the shadows. It was one of Roman Songhera’s guards. He wished them a good evening and moved aside to let them pass.

The throng on the terrace seemed to have multiplied and become denser. ‘I can’t see Charlotte anywhere,’ Payne said. ‘No Songhera either . . . Shall we go and inspect the freezer?’

‘Would she still be there?’ Antonia whispered.

‘I imagine so. It was a
crime passionnel
, so Songhera still loves Ria. He wouldn’t want to be parted from her. He hasn’t come to terms with her death. My guess is that he bitterly regrets what he did. He would be in the doldrums. He’d be distraught and inconsolable. He’d be overcome with grief, guilt and, very possibly, self-loathing. Chances are he’d be feeling suicidal.’

‘He was voted most unpopular person number two. He kept torturing poor Louis by throwing him overboard at every opportunity to punish him for his “lazy self-entitlement”.’ A woman somewhere on their right was speaking amidst peals of laughter. ‘He poured a bottle of syrup on Mrs Cox-Bisham’s head and then locked Pamela in her cabin for the best part of the morning
and
he turned off the air-conditioning with the portholes shut tight! The outside temperature at the time had reached forty degrees Celsius. It was supposed to be a joke.’

‘Who was most unpopular person number one?’ a man asked. Antonia smelled the whiff of a superior cigar.

‘Angela! You wouldn’t believe this, but she was discovered in the engine room, trying to remove a vital part of the generator – of all the asinine and childish pranks!’

‘That’s typical of Angela. Angela will never grow up.’

‘Never!’

‘Sailing isn’t what it used to be. Hi-tech carbon and Nomex machines crewed by thirty professionals bear no passing resemblance to the gentlemanly sailing boats of yesteryear. Except that both have a hull, masts, sails and winches.’

‘Jet-setters,’ Payne murmured with distaste. ‘I think they are from that yacht we saw earlier on . . .
Caspar
.’

‘Champagne, madam – sir?’ One of the waiters was standing beside them, proffering a tray.

‘No, thank you,’ Payne said. ‘I would like some soda water, actually. With lots of ice – and a dash of lemon.’

‘Yes, thank you. Champagne would be lovely,’ Antonia said. ‘I need a drink.’ She peered at the waiter’s name tag. ‘Here you are, madam.’

‘Thank you, Manolo.’ Antonia raised the frosted flute to her lips. The champagne was ice-cold and very dry.

More disembodied snatches of conversation floated over to their ears.

‘It would never have worked. India would have become another Kenya. A precarious balance between post-colonial market-dominant minorities and tribally politicized local poor –’

‘What soul? Rupert has no more soul than a steamed asparagus.’

‘I say, Manolo,’ Major Payne said, ‘I’d like to have a word with one of your colleagues. What was his name now? Camillo. Any idea where he might be?’

Manolo nodded. ‘I am afraid Camillo is not feeling very well, sir.’

‘Is he still here?’

‘Yes, sir –’

The next moment they were interrupted. ‘Major Payne, I was looking for you.’ A local dignitary had come up to them. Antonia was aware of her husband wincing slightly. The man was stocky and running to fat. His skin was the colour of caramel and he sported a pointed beard and a waxed moustache. His white tunic was ablaze with decorations and he wore a Nehru-style hat. His name on the large and superior-looking name tag was long, unpronounceable and, one imagined, extremely distinguished. He bowed to Antonia. ‘Major Payne, I meant to discuss a certain matter with you, but then you disappeared. Go away,’ he told Manolo. ‘Don’t you see I am talking?’

Payne leant towards Manolo. ‘Tell Camillo that I’d like a word –’

‘Major Payne, I saw a documentary about the First World War a month or two ago and I must admit I was really quite shocked.’

‘The First World War was a fairly shocking event,’ Payne said absently. ‘The end of the long Edwardian summer and all that.’

‘It was the way the British conducted themselves that shocked me. You might say it gave me the ghastliest of jolts.’ The dignitary’s manner was a blend of pomposity and earnestness. ‘We are talking about a time when the British Empire was still at its apogee and, yet, the British officer class were revealed as irresponsible, frivolous and decadent.’

‘You don’t say.’

‘I am sorry, Major Payne, I am perfectly aware that you are an officer and a gentleman, but Field Marshal Haig was shown directing the Battle of the Somme from the top of a helter-skelter – while the mounting casualties were being posted on a
cricket scoreboard
.’

‘My dear fellow, I do believe you are labouring under a –’

‘And that was not all. Marshal Haig and his adjutants and his soldiers,
they all broke into a song and dance
. They sang about it being a lovely war.’

‘
Oh, oh, oh, what a lovely war
?’

‘Exactly. This was not one of those tendentious German propaganda films either, I assure you. I happen to be something of a military historian –’ The dignitary broke off at the approach of a slender figure in a fez and baggy trousers. ‘What do you want? Can’t you see I am talking? Go away.’

‘Sir – you wanted to see me?’

‘I don’t want to see you. These house-boys! This is intolerable. No respect, no discipline. That’s why we are where we are and this country will never prosper!’ The dignitary shook his forefinger at the young man. ‘You see, Major Payne, don’t you? This is most definitely not on. I
must
have a word with Songhera. One thing I like about Songhera is the strict discipline he maintains among his staff –’

‘Ah, Camillo. Good man,’ Major Payne said. ‘Decent of you to seek us out. Let’s go somewhere where we won’t be disturbed . . . So sorry,’ Payne told the dignitary, ‘We’ll resume our interesting talk at some later hour, hope you won’t mind awfully? Got to dash now.’

‘The folly?’ Antonia suggested.

The garden sparkled with firefly lights. Once more Antonia sat inside the folly, with Payne beside her. Camillo chose to remain standing. He was an extremely good-looking youth, Antonia thought, with impossibly regular features, skin as white as magnolia petals and wavy light-brown hair. His smile was sad, shy and sweet.

‘Charlotte – our friend – started telling us about your strange experience at Miss Leighton’s bungalow, but was interrupted,’ Payne began without preamble. ‘Would you mind telling us what happened?’

The young man gazed back at Payne. ‘You – you know Ria?’

‘We don’t know her. We know a little
about
her.’

Camillo swallowed. He looked from Payne to Antonia. ‘You are Roman Songhera’s English visitors, aren’t you?’

‘Visitors, yes, friends, no. In fact we strongly disapprove of him, so don’t you go imagining this is some sort of a trap. You are perfectly safe with us. We got entangled in this business entirely by accident.’ Payne rubbed his temples. ‘We don’t know yet what exactly is going on, but we are determined to find out.’

‘Are you detectives?’

‘Not really, but we are good at – um – how shall I put it without appearing odd or conceited? Ferreting out secrets? Unravelling mysteries?’

‘So you
are
detectives.’

Poor boy, Antonia thought. He looks totally out of his depth.

‘Only in a manner of speaking. We don’t get fees or expensive presents or anything of that sort. Sometimes I think we are too observant for our own good. Afraid I can’t offer you any explanation that’s more rational than that. Incidentally, I am Hugh Payne, and this is my wife Antonia. Look here, we haven’t got much time. D’you mind telling us what you saw when you went into Ria’s bungalow this morning?’

Camillo passed his hand across his face. ‘Very well. I rang the bell. There was no answer. I tried the handle and the door opened. I went in. I heard music. Some Italian song. Then I heard a noise – it came from the bedroom. Someone laughing. A woman’s voice. At first I thought it was Ria. I didn’t know what to do. Then I heard the laugh again. It sounded mad.
Gloating
. I knew it couldn’t be Ria. Ria has a lovely voice. I walked up to the bedroom door and pushed it open. I – I couldn’t believe what I saw. It was terrible.’

‘What did you see?’

Camillo swallowed. ‘ For a wild moment I imagined it was Ria. I thought that something had gone dreadfully wrong with her.’

‘What do you mean?’ Antonia asked.

‘Her hair – the woman’s hair was exactly like Ria’s – golden-brown – long and shiny. But the rest of her was all wrong. Bloated – misshapen! It wasn’t Ria. Of course it wasn’t. The woman was dancing about Ria’s bedroom with her hands in the air. She was laughing, smacking her lips, muttering to herself. Her face was covered in paint – the most frightful collage of shadows around her eyes – eyelashes like bat-wings, dripping with mascara –’

He doesn’t talk like an ordinary house-boy, Antonia reflected.

‘– blue shadows around the eyes. And she was wearing a black bustier, fishnet stockings and snakeskin high heels – also Ria’s necklace. I knew it was Ria’s necklace – I’d seen it before. It is very distinctive – large rubies. Her – the woman’s – flesh was spilling out of the bustier – the bustier was too tight for her –’

‘What did she do when she saw you?’ Payne asked.

‘She stopped dancing – gasped – covered her mouth in exaggerated surprise – peeped at me through her fingers. She then put her head to one side coquettishly, stared at me – she gave a suggestive smile – she beckoned at me. She held out her hands, palms upwards, and twiddled her fingers. She kept nodding and cooing and then – then she sat on the bed and patted the space beside her – with her other hand she touched her breasts. She flung her head back, shut her eyes and made a moaning sort of sound. It was awful – grotesque. I turned round – fled.’

Payne cleared his throat. ‘You dropped the petits fours. Did you step on them as well?’

‘I don’t think so. I am not sure.’

‘You have no idea who the woman is?’

‘No idea at all. But this is not all.’ Camillo ran his tongue across his lips. ‘The really awful thing was that Ria was in the bedroom too.’

Payne and Antonia stared at him.

‘
What?
’

‘Ria was under the bed,’ Camillo said firmly. He looked from one to the other. ‘I know this sounds completely mad, but I don’t think I imagined it. Ria was hiding under the bed. I – I suddenly saw her – her hair showing from under the other side of the bed. Her lovely golden-brown hair. I didn’t see her face but I am sure it was Ria.I saw her hand too. It happened in a flash, you see – just as I was turning to go – on my way out.’