Second Lives (4 page)

‘Yes. I noticed it soon after we got out of Panjim. It’s been on our tail since then. When we stopped at that petrol pump, that car stopped too and waited while we tanked up.’

She said grimly, ‘Step on it, Omar. Let’s see what he does.’

The road was fairly empty and I accelerated sharply. It had only two lanes but the asphalt surface was smooth. We were passing through a stretch of open countryside, emerald fields dotted with palm trees and the occasional buffalo.

The Xylo not only kept up but began to gain on us. It was probably going at a hundred and twenty, I reckoned. There was no further doubt about his intentions.

Sara shouted, ‘Watch out!’

In a sudden burst of speed, our pursuer had overtaken us and cut across our path. I veered sharply to the left and braked simultaneously. I felt the tyres losing traction as we careened on the rough shoulder of the road. Miraculously, the Innova came to a stop just a few inches short of the steep bank that fell away to the adjoining patch of cultivated land.

The Xylo sped away.

I thought I could actually hear the furious beating of my heart. After a few seconds, I managed to turn towards Sara. ‘Are you okay?’

Her face had gone white. ‘Yeah, I guess so.’

‘The bastards deliberately tried to push us off the road!’

Sara slowly looked out on the left. ‘If we had fallen down there, it would have been curtains.’

My head was still buzzing with adrenaline but I started the Innova and carefully got it back on the road. We made it to the villa without further incident. Neel opened the door, a pint of beer in his hand. It was obviously not his first of the morning but seeing our faces, his expression sobered. ‘What happened? You both look all shook up.’

I quickly told him everything.

‘My God, you guys had a narrow escape!’

Sara held up her iPhone. ‘I’ve noted down the number of the Xylo. We’ll find out who they were.’

It was already late afternoon and we went in for lunch. The caretaker of the villa also doubled up as the cook. He was a cantankerous old man and had been living on the property for decades, seeing it change hands thrice. Sara kept bitching about how difficult he was but she also couldn’t dream of managing without him, and I have to say he was brilliant in the kitchen.

The showstopper on the day’s menu was pepper garlic crab. The old man explained how the giant crabs had to be boiled alive in salt water until they turned from a dull grey to the distinctive red-orange colour. My sympathy for the crustaceans quickly disappeared when I put the first delicious piece of white meat into my mouth. None of us spoke until our respective plates were piled high with shells; cracked, chewed and sucked until the last morsel of flesh had been extracted.

Neel chuckled. ‘The events of the morning don’t seem to have affected your appetites.’

Sara put a mangled claw down on her plate and glared at him. ‘Don’t joke, Neel. I can’t tell you how scary it was. And whoever it was may try to kill us again.’

He stopped smiling and looked thoughtful. ‘Isn’t it too much of a coincidence that this happened right after you met Zoe?’ He paused. ‘Maybe she was lying to you.’

I reflected. ‘Someone is definitely sending us a warning but I don’t think it’s Zoe.’

I had caught a fleeting glimpse of a face in the open rear window of the Xylo. In that briefest of moments, I had registered a lined forehead, a bald dome of a head, thin lips and red-rimmed eyes filled with madness.

It was a face of pure evil.

11

Neel

I wondered if what Zoe had told Omar and Sara was true. It certainly deepened the mystery surrounding Rachel’s death. It was now entirely possible that she had gotten uncomfortably close to whoever had killed Anna Grishin. And paid for it with her life. But what had drawn Rachel into such a sordid story in the first place? She was a sports journalist, for God’s sake. This was way out of her usual beat.

Omar happened to know the editor of the magazine she used to work for. It was a woman, of course. He gave her a call. She said she had no idea that Rachel was working on any such story. However, she added that Rachel had taken a month off from work just before she died. All she had said at the time was that it was to take care of some personal stuff.

I wondered if there really was something personal in her investigation.

So far, we had steered clear of discussing the subject that loomed like a spectre over us. Waiting for someone to look up and stare it in the face.

Roy.

His full name was Delmar Roy. He was the product of a Bengali father and a German mother. Everyone simply called him Roy.

Roy had inherited the best physical features of his parents. Thick wavy hair and the black, brooding eyes of his father. The ruddy complexion and Teutonic robustness from his mother. He turned heads whenever he entered a room. Admiring women and envious men.

Early in his childhood, his mother decided abruptly not to return from her annual trip to her native Dusseldorf. There were many theories but I think she was simply tired of life in India.

Roy’s father remarried soon. A fiery Punjabi woman this time. It was a tumultuous relationship from the start. There were frequent arguments. Even the occasional violence. He began to drink heavily. For some reason, his new step-mother hated Roy. She often hit him and would regularly lock him up in a room.

Even as the young boy was coping with all these traumatic changes in his life, his father died of a sudden heart attack.

It should have sent Roy over the edge. Luckily, his grandmother stepped in and took the boy away to live with her in Dehradun. She was a formidable Bengali matriarch. And highly disapproving of her son’s marital choices.

It was a turning point for Roy. Under his
thamma
’s loving care, he began to overcome the trauma of losing both his parents in quick succession. One was dead. The other had apparently forgotten him. Every week, his mother wrote him a long letter from Germany. But his grandmother ensured that the airmail envelopes never reached him.

The physical abuse by his step-mother would, however, stay with him. The unfairness of it and his inability to defend himself created a deep rage. Which would burn inside him forever. No one could have predicted back then how that would find expression in his actions much later.

After a couple of years, with a heavy heart, Roy’s grandmother decided to send him to boarding school. She was nudging eighty. If something happened to her, there would be no one to look after the boy. He protested strongly. Just when he was settled into a new life, everything was going to turn topsy-turvy again.

It proved to be a fortuitous move. Within three months of Roy moving out, his grandmother passed away in her sleep.

Roy was grief-stricken. Once again. However, he was stronger now. His troubled childhood had made him mature beyond his years. He realised that he had no real family left. And would have to quickly get used to being independent.

He would soon find friends, though.

For Roy was the fifth member of our group.

12

Sara

I took my cup of coffee and went out into the garden, watching the red orb of the sun sink into the Arabian Sea. I could never tire of the cosmic beauty of a sunset over water. The only other place that comes close is the Grand Canyon, which lights up a luminous orange in the dying rays of the sun. It’s one of the few memories I still cherish from my honeymoon.

I was desperate to know how much Rachel had found out.

Clearly, Zoe was unlikely to have been the first contact in her investigation. She was just one small player in the extended public drama that had been played out over Anna Grishin’s death. The question was who or what had led Rachel to Zoe.

I tried to put myself in Rachel’s shoes. For some reason, she was interested in this particular crime. That unknown reason was another mystery we would have to solve soon enough but for the moment, I thought about how Rachel would have proceeded. I doubt she would have gone to the police because in a case like this, they would be tight-lipped about the evidence and resent any intrusion. In fact, they might have even been suspicious of her.

However, there was a lot of information already in the public domain, including many names linked to the case, which Rachel would have researched well, I was sure. I tried to recall the press coverage from over two months ago—the haunting image of Anna’s tearful mother speaking on television was still imprinted on my mind.

It suddenly struck me—the press, of course! Rachel was a journalist herself and what better place for her to start than within her own profession. She would definitely have had friends in the community, especially here in Goa. It was a fact that reporters often knew much more than they were allowed to write about.

And I knew just the person to call.

His name was Writwik (yes, with a “W”) and he was head of the local bureau of a major national newspaper. I had met him two years ago at a friend’s place and initially found him insufferably opinionated. I suppose it came with the territory, knowing more about pretty much everything than us common folk. But he grew on me through the evening, and I began to enjoy his acerbic wit. He also had these piercing eyes which I found very sexy.

We ended up in bed together that night. I’m not usually so easy and he was married so I suppose the excessive wine can be blamed. It remained a one-night stand, though we continued to be in touch.

‘Hello, Sara.’ Writwik sounded more relaxed than usual. He was generally immersed in work all the time.

We exchanged some pleasantries but I quickly got to the point. ‘I need to pick your brains about something important.’

‘Certainly, but I’m sure you’ve read enough novels to know that the nasty character from the press only reveals his crucial information over a drink, or three.’ He paused. ‘And it just so happens that I’m quite free this evening.’

I looked at my watch. ‘All right, how about you come over to my place? There’s a new bottle of eighteen-year-old Laphroaig I’ve been waiting to open.’ I never drank whisky until Jai had gotten me hooked on to the peaty single malts from Islay.

‘I’ll be there in an hour.’ I hoped he didn’t think this was going to be a date or something.

His face fell when Neel opened the door. I stifled a smile and made the introductions. We went up to the sea-facing balcony on the first floor, where I pulled out three chairs and switched on a wicker lamp, throwing a tangled pattern of shadows on the floor. It seemed to be an apt setting for the discussion at hand.

I opened the conversation without preamble. ‘Writwik, how much do you know about the Anna Grishin murder?’

‘Are you kidding me?’ He looked mildly annoyed. ‘It’s the biggest story we’ve had in Goa for a while. Of course, I know everything about it. What the hell do you mean?’

I glanced at Neel but he looked away. ‘Let me explain.’ As concisely as possible, I told him about Rachel.

Writwik listened intently. ‘That’s very interesting. You’re saying your friend makes her own enquiries into the Grishin case and then dies suddenly. The police call it a suicide but you think she may have been murdered.’ He seemed to be speaking to himself. I guess his journalistic nose was sniffing a new angle in the story.

‘And this Zoe was Anna’s lover? I didn’t know that, by the way.’ He looked at me sharply. ‘Do you know why Rachel was interested in this particular case?’

Neel replied, ‘No, we don’t. Otherwise Sara would have told you, wouldn’t she?’

I glared at him. He was behaving strangely, wearing a sullen expression and hardly speaking at all. I don’t know if it had anything to do with my telling him about having slept with Writwik. Neel had always been a bit of a prude about casual sex.
Or was he just jealous?

I quickly added, ‘This whole thing has been a shock to us, Writwik. First Rachel’s sudden death and then all these strange circumstances leading up to it.’

Writwik nodded at me, ignoring Neel. He took a slow sip of the light amber whisky and raised his glass. ‘This is superb stuff, Sara.’

I smiled briefly. He continued, ‘From what you tell me, I can think of only two reasons why Rachel might have been interested in Anna Grishin’s murder. One, she may have come across a brand new lead, unknown to either the police or the media, and was following up on it in an attempt to crack the case herself and become famous. Two, it may have been linked to something else she was already researching, in which case this mystery goes beyond Anna Grishin.’

I thought I heard Neel murmur under his breath, ‘Sherlock Holmes is here…’ but couldn’t be sure.

Writwik leaned forward, steepling his fingers. He really did look like a poor imitation of Sherlock Holmes! ‘Problem is…Both scenarios are unlikely.’

‘Why?’ I asked.

‘I’ve never seen the Goa police under so much pressure to solve a crime. The beautiful face of Anna Grishin is now familiar to the public across the country, and her brutal killing has generated sympathy and anger in equal measure, prompting calls for justice from every conceivable quarter. Practically the entire police department has been working overtime on this case for weeks, checking all possible clues and rounding up anyone even remotely connected with the victim. I know that the Commissioner was personally sending daily progress reports on the case to the Chief Minister until recently.’

Neel piped up. ‘But they’ve failed to catch the culprit, right?’

Writwik didn’t answer the question immediately. ‘The point I’m trying to make is that it’s improbable for your friend Rachel to have just stumbled on to some lead totally overlooked by everyone else, given all the spadework done already. And even if she did, it would have made sense for her to go straight to the police with it because carrying out a parallel investigation into such a high-visibility crime was next to impossible.’

His logic was sound but I was convinced that Rachel had been doing exactly that. A secret investigation of her own into the murder of Anna Grishin!
The question was—why?