Second Lives (6 page)

However, the conversation was brief. I could see the cops get visibly agitated. Two of them jumped out and came towards our vehicle, while a third one spoke animatedly on the phone. We were bundled into the jeep and driven to the Panjim police station.

For the next couple of hours, we tried to convince the sub-inspector who grilled us that we had not killed the man nor did we have any clue as to who might have done it. He was not unpleasant (our obvious affluence and perhaps my being a woman ensured that) but endlessly probing and provocative in his questioning. It’s a time-honoured tradition of law enforcement in our country that whoever reports a crime automatically becomes the prime suspect.

We stuck to the truth as far as possible. Each of us had to reveal the minutest detail about ourselves, and we spoke about our childhood friendship. My status as the owner of one of the prominent residences in Goa certainly helped our cause.

Just as I was thinking the interrogation was coming to an end and we would be allowed to go, a man walked in. He was in plainclothes but the sub-inspector jumped to his feet and saluted clumsily. My heart sank. Here was obviously a senior officer, come to pile further misery on us!

‘My name is D’Mello,’ he said in a raspy voice. ‘Detective John D’Mello.’ I guessed he watched a lot of James Bond films.

He was in his mid-fifties, very dark and rotund. His salt-and-pepper moustache matched the grizzled crew-cut, and the head seemed to erupt from the cascading rolls of flesh above his thick shoulders. He stared at us with small, shrewd eyes.

‘I am heading the investigation into the Grishin case. Can one of you tell me what exactly happened here?’

I glanced at Neel. He turned to D’Mello and began, ‘Well Detective, it all started with the death of our friend Rachel…’

D’Mello listened with half-closed eyes as Neel narrated the sequence of events again, from our meeting with Zoe to the lead about Grigor. We had decided earlier that the best policy was to hide nothing and prevent any suspicion about our motives.

When Neel finished, D’Mello said softly, ‘So it seems that I’m not the only detective here.’

None of us replied to that.

‘Why didn’t you come to the police earlier?’

I said with some asperity, ‘We understood from Mrs Fernandes, Rachel’s mother, that the police hardly bothered to investigate Rachel’s death. They pronounced it a suicide without checking all the facts!’

‘That’s a very big accusation, lady,’ he said coldly. I noticed that his nose was like a big uneven lump stuck on to his face. Maybe it had been broken sometime.

‘I suggest you speak to Mrs Fernandes and also review Rachel’s case file yourself.’ I knew I was sounding aggressive but I didn’t care!

‘I’ll definitely have to do that now.’ D’Mello gave me a long, hard look. ‘However, I do want to know why you thought it wasn’t a suicide in the first place.’

Omar chimed in. ‘We know Rachel from childhood. There wasn’t a nicer and more positive human being in this world. It’s impossible to believe she would take her own life. And Mrs Fernandes will tell you the same thing.’

‘And you think you’re the first friends of a suicide victim to feel that way?’

I added, ‘We now know that Rachel was doing a story on Anna Grishin, so maybe there’s a connection there.’

‘Many reporters have tried to solve big cases on their own and become famous.’ D’Mello rubbed the sides of his forehead. ‘Believe me, it’s a bad idea. All they end up doing is getting in the way of the police, and preventing us from doing our job.’

I bristled. ‘Rachel wasn’t like that. She would never…’

D’Mello interrupted me by banging his fist on the table between us.

‘That’s enough! All of you are trying to meddle in the most difficult case I have seen in my thirty-three years with the Department.’ He stood up and wagged a thick finger at us. ‘I’ve a good mind to arrest the three of you right now!’

We were too taken aback to say anything.

The sub-inspector said mildly, ‘Sir, we need to…’ D’Mello cut him off with a wave of his hand and sat down. He took a deep breath and appeared to be lost in thought for several seconds. I wondered what was coming next!

Abruptly, he told the sub-inspector, ‘Let them go for now.’

He then turned back towards us. ‘You’ll hear from me again very soon.’

16

Neel

Sara and I dropped off Omar at the Marriott. On our way back, we decided to pop into the Cape Town bar on Tito’s Lane.

The weather was cool and breezy. We took a table in the open area. It was separated from the street by a low wooden railing. Cylindrical lights in beehive-shaped shades hung down from the corrugated ceiling. A couple of large television screens were showing an English Premier League football game.

It was early. The place was fairly empty. But I knew it would fill up soon. This was the heart of one of Goa’s busiest party districts. We perched ourselves on the high wooden chairs. I ordered a vodka-tonic for Sara and a whisky-soda for myself.

I said, ‘It’s a wonder that Omar can think about sex after everything that’s happened today. That guy’s unbelievable.’

Sara smiled at me. ‘You don’t think about sex?’

‘Yeah, I guess I do.’ I drained half my tumbler of whisky in a long gulp. The alcohol burnt its way through my insides. ‘It’s only my mind that’s fucked, Sara. No pun intended.’

‘Sex is a great way to beat stress, Neel.’ She looked at me over her glass. ‘You should try it sometime.’

I averted my eyes. ‘I suppose you’re right. I can’t go on living like this.’

Sara smiled again. ‘You should have gone with Omar. I bet he would have found you someone to hook up with. This is Goa, after all.’

‘You know I wasn’t just referring to sex.’

A large group of foreign tourists walked in. I figured they were Russian. Some of them were definitely below drinking age. I suppose bars in Goa aren’t so fussy. One of the girls, a blond Lolita, reminded me of Anna Grishin. I hoped she wouldn’t end up like Anna.

Sara asked, ‘What do you make of this whole Grigor episode?’

‘It’s obvious he saw something on the night of Anna’s death. Otherwise why would he be murdered like that?’

‘Poor fellow, no one took him seriously but now they’ll have to believe him.’

‘I would love to know what exactly Grigor told that reporter who interviewed him. You should probably give your lover Writwik another call.’

Sara made a face at me and took out her mobile phone. She dialled his number. There was no response.

I ordered a second whisky. Sara said, ‘You know, that D’Mello scared me. I don’t want to end up in jail.’

‘Neither do I, Sara, but I’m convinced that Rachel died for a cause. It’s not what D’Mello thinks but something much deeper. Something with far-reaching consequences.’

‘I know that.’

‘We owe it to Rachel to find out what really happened.’

‘I only wish she had told me what was troubling her when we spoke that final time.’

I said firmly, ‘We’ll find out, Sara. One way or another.’

She sighed. ‘With Grigor dead, these last four days are a waste. We’re back to square one.’

‘I don’t think so. His murder only proves that we’re on the right track.’ I paused. ‘Besides, it’s also got the police interested in Rachel’s death again. D’Mello will hopefully dig into it now.’

‘Something just struck me.’ Sara leaned forward. ‘You think Grigor’s killing could have anything to do with us? I mean, the timing is too much of a coincidence, isn’t it? Half of Goa probably knew we were looking for him. If he was a witness, why not bump him off earlier? I think they just didn’t think he was a serious threat until we started our hunt for him.’

I pondered. ‘Anything’s possible. This whole business is getting murkier by the day.’

‘You know what that means, don’t you? If these people can dispose of Grigor so easily, then we must also be in grave danger.’

This was getting too depressing. To change the topic, I said, ‘Should we get some food? I’m starting to feel hungry.’

We ordered fried prawns. One obviously can’t go wrong with seafood anywhere in Goa.

We were silent for a while. Sara’s eyes were on the screen behind me. She loved football. A diehard Manchester United fan.

I observed her quietly. Her eyes were an unusual grey-brown colour. She had no make-up on. Her long hair was its natural black. With none of the blond highlights women love these days. The sharpness of her profile and the extra jut to the chin meant that she would never be considered classically beautiful. But she invariably attracted men of all ages.

Sara suddenly turned her gaze on me. ‘What are you looking at?’

‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Nothing.’

The prawns arrived. We dug into them with gusto. The place had filled up. People were standing around the bar and in the aisles. More waited on the pavement outside. Between the hum of a dozen conversations and the ever-louder music, it became impossible for us to hear each other.

Sara signalled to me to leave. I asked for the bill. It was a relief to the senses when we got out on to the street again.

I asked, ‘You want to walk to the beach?’

She nodded and took my arm. We walked the short distance down the lane. Past the eponymous Tito’s bar. I remembered that Anna Grishin’s body had been found somewhere around this spot.

Sara and I were holding hands now. It seemed the right thing to do. We crossed the sand and sat down by the waterline. The waves were breaking gently at our feet. Neither of us spoke. I suddenly felt completely calm. All the events of the past few days were gone from my consciousness. It was a moment I wished would never end.

I don’t know how long we stayed like that. Suddenly Sara said, ‘Let’s return to the villa.’ Her voice was husky.

We got up and walked back to the Innova. There was some kind of invisible tension crackling around us. I felt my heart beating faster than usual. The caretaker had retired to his quarters. Sara opened the front door with her key. Just then, her mobile phone rang shrilly. Swearing, she took it out of her handbag and answered the call.

Her expression changed after a few seconds. I knew something serious had happened.

17

Omar

When Sara and Neel dropped me off at the Marriott, I was full of anticipation. My date that evening was the heiress of one of the big business families of Goa, whom I had met at a party in Mumbai. She was a frisky young thing, always ready for a good time. After the harrowing events of the day, I had half a mind to cancel but finally decided not to. What the hell, getting laid would relieve some of the tension. So there I was, sitting in the expansive lobby of the Marriott, nursing my second beer. I looked at my watch—where the hell was the girl?

As if on cue, I heard my cell phone beep. It was a text message from her. Something had come up, and she was bailing out. Just like that. She had signed off with a terse “sorry”. I was so annoyed I felt like throwing the phone at someone. Damn all women. You can’t live with them, and you can’t live without them.

I had two options. One—go to one of the bars and pick up someone. It wouldn’t be difficult, certainly not in Goa. Two—return to the villa. Neither appealed to me.

And then I noticed the sign leading up to the hotel casino. Option Three.

I had been to the Marriott casino only once in the past but I had won a lot of money on that occasion. Maybe it was lucky for me, unlike almost every other place I had ever gambled in. Encouraged by that thought, I walked up the stairs.

The casino was L-shaped, with slot machines along one arm and the tables along the other. There was the usual set of hopefuls at the slots—first-timers, middle-aged women, two old men who must have been at least eighty. The single blackjack table was empty so I headed there. The dealer in the yellow shirt brightened up and greeted me warmly. I took up a seat at one end of the table, one of my little quirks which I believe brings me luck. My first three hands were straight blackjacks, and I felt my pulse race. It was a good omen, perhaps a harbinger that tonight was going to be special.

The first rule of the gambling handbook is that you should leave the table when you’ve won half of what you’re prepared to lose. Unfortunately, it’s the other way round with me—I usually end up losing twice what I expected to win, and often much more.

It was no different that night. After almost two hours, I finally decided that enough was enough and stood up to leave, furious with myself. A woman came up from behind and took the adjacent seat. She smiled up at me. I looked at her carefully. She was in her early thirties and obviously wealthy, judging by the Louis Vuitton handbag and the ring with a solitaire almost the size of a pearl. Her black saree had the simple elegance that only a lot of money can buy.

I knew her type well—rich, bored, botoxed, horny—but this one seemed different. For starters, my practised eye couldn’t detect any trace of plastic surgery on her. From the faint lines near her eyes to the gentle curve of her breasts, it was all natural. Her face wasn’t necessarily pretty but it had character and intelligence.

‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Leaving already?’

‘No,’ I replied, and sat down again.

She pulled out a wad of notes from her bag and the dealer carefully counted out a pile of chips before placing it in front of her. She pushed the entire lot ahead for her first bet, and I realised that it was more money than I had played all evening. Her first two cards added up to thirteen. She turned to me and raised her eyebrows. At thirteen in blackjack, you were in no man’s land but I nodded.

Without hesitation, she asked for another card. It was an eight, that beautiful fat lady. Unless the dealer got a blackjack, she couldn’t lose.

The dealer got a blackjack. He gave the woman an apologetic look.

I cleared my throat. ‘It’s been that kind of a night…’

She looked into my eyes. ‘Then let’s get out of here.’

I didn’t object. As we stood up together, my hand brushed against her arm, and I felt a current of desire run through me. We went out into the lobby and I asked, ‘Do you want to have a drink?’

‘No,’ she said firmly and continued walking. I followed.