Second Lives (5 page)

I poured myself a second peg of the Laphraoig and lit a cigarette. Neel said disapprovingly, ‘I thought you had quit smoking, Sara.’

I pouted at him. ‘So did I. But you know how things have been…’

Neel just scowled in reply. Turning to Writwik, he said, ‘You mentioned the second possibility, of Rachel enquiring into Anna Grishin’s death as part of some other story. Why did you say that’s unlikely as well?’ I observed that the whisky had mellowed his tone.

Writwik thought for a moment before replying. ‘Well, if you ask me, this is a random crime of passion. A very serious one, no doubt, but one which is the inevitable outcome of the depravity that rules Goa now. These foreigners have created their own world here, a ghetto of endless partying and mindless promiscuity. Not to mention drug abuse on a scale even the authorities are scared to admit to.’ He held up his hands. ‘That’s just my opinion. An informed one but an opinion nevertheless.’

We digested his words in silence. Could Rachel have been doing a story on Goa? Then her interest in Anna Grishin would have made perfect sense but the theory didn’t ring right to me. Too many things didn’t add up—
this was not about Goa, I was convinced of that.

I suddenly remembered the main purpose of calling Writwik. ‘I was thinking that being a journalist herself, Rachel might have contacted folks in the media to find out more about the Anna Grishin case. Can you check if she spoke to anyone at your paper?’

‘It’s certainly possible.’ Writwik took out his mobile phone, an ancient and battered Nokia model.

I exclaimed, ‘That phone is from the Stone Age, Writwik. You have to get yourself a new one!’

He smiled and patted it lovingly. ‘She’s my lucky charm.’ Holding the phone to his ear, he got up and walked into the adjacent room. After a brief conversation, he came back, excitement in his eyes. ‘You were right, Sara. I just spoke to one of my editors and guess what, Rachel had called him a week before she died!’

Neel came out of the stupor he had sunk into. ‘What…what did she say?’

‘She was asking about Anna Grishin, of course. He told her pretty much whatever I told you. She had a lot of questions about the men Anna had been seeing, especially in the weeks leading up to her murder. More than once, she asked him if there was any one man she might have been going strong with.’

I remembered what Zoe had told us. ‘And was there someone special in Anna’s life?’

‘We don’t know. There were several candidates, that’s for sure,’ Writwik smirked.

Neel said, ‘Wasn’t he curious about Rachel’s interest in the case?’

‘Yes, he was. Obviously. But she was evasive and he didn’t push it too much. After all, this is a major story that has attracted attention from all sorts of people.’

I felt deflated. ‘That’s a dead end then.’

After a brief silence, Writwik said, ‘My editor also told me that Rachel was apparently trying to track down a man named Grigor. She asked him if he knew where she could find him but he didn’t.’

‘Who’s Grigor?’

‘Grigor’s a beach bum, also Russian. He had initially claimed to have seen Anna’s body being dumped on the beach by two men but later retracted his statement. I think the man was just trying to get some cheap publicity and hadn’t actually seen anything. He’s generally drunk all the time anyway.’

Neel and I looked at each other.

‘I know what you’re thinking.’ Writwik shook his head. ‘Take it from me, you’ll be wasting your time trying to find Grigor. In big cases like this, there are dozens of false leads that lead nowhere.’

13

Neel

I woke up with a splitting headache. The Laphroaig was smooth as silk. But eight large pegs had been too much. I usually ration myself to no more than five or six.

Writwik was one of the biggest assholes I have ever had the misfortune to meet. Everything about him irked me. From the way he spells his damned name to his pompous know-it-all attitude. I have no idea what Sara sees in him. And he obviously is sweet on her. Good thing I was there. Otherwise they would probably have been getting it on.

I suppose that’s none of my business anyway.

The other night, I had the strong impression that Sara was coming on to me. I couldn’t be sure, of course. She’s never done that before. And I didn’t want to risk making an ass of myself again. We’ve developed a unique closeness through the years. Buried all the old awkwardness. I guess my feelings for her have also died over time. Well, almost.

Dawn had not yet broken. I got out of bed. Once my eyes open, I find it impossible to get back to sleep. The need of the hour was coffee. I padded across to the kitchen. Sara had one of those fancy Italian percolators which you rarely see in Indian homes. She told me it cost a bomb, and is difficult to maintain. But the espresso it produces is worth all the money and hassle. I loaded fresh beans and switched on the machine.

‘Up so early?’

I whirled around. It was Sara. She looked incredibly sexy. Mussed hair and bare feet. Short nightdress. I forced myself to look away. ‘Yeah, my sleep’s gone for a toss nowadays.’

She placed a hand on my arm. ‘Thinking about them?’

I nodded.

‘Why is life so cruel?’

‘It’s…death that’s cruel, Sara.’

The percolator hissed and sputtered a final time. I poured out two cups from the steaming pot. The room filled with a rich aroma.

I took a sip of the coffee and said, ‘How come you’re awake already?’

‘My sleeping pills didn’t work last night.’

‘You take them regularly?’

‘Yeah…Have been for years.’

I knew enough not to probe further.

My eyes were drawn to the date on the digital wall clock. It had happened nine months ago. To the day. My wife and two-year-old son. Dead. Crushed as they crossed a road. I turned and saw the truck roaring down the wrong side to overtake a car. I screamed a warning. But it was too late. A lifetime too late.

The next moments are frozen in my memory as a series of horrifying images. A little body being flung impossibly high in the air. Landing almost at my feet with a sickening thud. A long swathe of colourful saree trailing from a crumpled form lying on the road. The truck speeding away with a loud screech. People running. Me sinking to the ground.

I wondered how I had survived these nine terrible months. I had wept. Attempted suicide. Locked myself in a room for days. Drank until I passed out. Picked fights with strangers. Banged my head on a wall until it bled.

The grief had now become a part of me. I had no more tears left to cry. Nothing left to punish myself with. I breathed. I ate. I slept. But I felt as lifeless as the two people who had been more precious to me than life itself.

Especially because I had killed them. As surely as if I had been at the wheel of that truck.

14

Omar

Writwik was right. We were wasting our time.

Neel, Sara and I had already spent the better part of three days trying to find a ghost called Grigor. All we had was a description provided by one of Writwik’s staff reporters, who had met him once in Panjim. Short and squat, bald, blue eyes, handlebar moustache, arms covered in tattoos. He was distinctive enough, I imagined, and wouldn’t be difficult to recognise.

Searching all of Goa for one man seemed a Herculean task. The obvious place to start was the hotels but there were hundreds of them, of course. It fell upon me to plan our little manhunt. I guessed that he wouldn’t be too far from Panjim, which meant that North Goa was the stretch to focus on. That, however, only reduced our problem by half. The next logical thing would be to begin with the shacks and hotels that were near the beach. The first day, we went to the twin beaches of Baga and Calangute, closest to Sara’s villa. These are the tourist hotspots of Goa but this was off-season and they weren’t overly crowded. Many of the beach shacks were closed.

We tramped laboriously to each of the hotels. The names ranged from the exotic Villa Goesa and Estrela Do Mar to the more mundane Nitya Resort and Hotel Seagull. Most of the desk clerks were helpful but we drew a blank, as neither the name nor the description rang a bell with anyone. Over the rest of that day and the next, we ticked off Arambol, Morjim and Vagator; Sinquerim, Miramar, Dona Paula and Bogmalo. Our efforts yielded nothing except tired bodies and sore feet.

Neel said flatly, ‘That prick Writwik was just bullshitting us. This is a wild-goose chase.’

Sara gave him a reproachful look but didn’t say anything.

We agreed that we would cover Anjuna on the fourth day, and give up after that.

Though not the best beach in Goa, Anjuna is probably the most well-known, mainly for its rave parties on full-moon nights. I have been to one long ago and believe me, it’s a heady cocktail of drugs and sex. I hear the government has now cracked down on these illegal jamborees but they keep finding new places further inland to have them.

Anjuna also has numerous nightclubs, bars, restaurants, bazaars, shacks and hotels; and draws foreign tourists in droves. Russians, Germans, Britishers, Israelis—anyone interested in a good time. It’s buzzing all year round. I decided to try the hangout joints I knew, instead of the hotels, since they were always full of people, and would be a good source of information.

We first went to Curly’s, which was next to the flea market at the southern end of the beach. The trance music hit us even before we entered. It was relatively early, which explained the uncharacteristically sober crowd. I went up and spoke to the bartender, and he helpfully announced to everyone what we were there for.

Several folks came forward to speak to us but all went away shaking their heads. One man wearing only a pair of dirty Bermudas and dreadlocks in his hair asked Sara if she wanted to join him for a drink. Neel was ready to take a swing at him but I put a restraining hand on his arm, for it wasn’t the time or place to pick a fight.

We went on to the other restaurants and shacks—La Franza, Munchies, Zuri, Shore Bar, Avalon and a number of the smaller ones, before ending up for a late lunch at the German Bakery, hungry and frustrated.

The German Bakery was Sara’s suggestion. It’s a spacious, leafy restaurant away from the beach, and offers an eclectic menu with several health food options, a rarity in Goa. We settled into a cosy booth not far from a striking blue Shiva statue with golden hair. A young waiter came up and handed us the menus with a smile.

After placing our order, I asked him if he knew a Grigor. We had all but given up on our search but I thought of taking one last chance.

He said immediately, ‘Short, fat…Lot of tattoos?’

‘Yes, that’s him!’ I couldn’t keep the excitement out of my voice.

‘He comes here regularly, usually alone. In fact, he had dinner with us last night.’

We looked at each other. Neel asked, ‘Do you know where we could find him?’

He thought for a moment and said, ‘Try the last shack on the beach, on the northern side. The restaurant is closed but they’re open for lodging. I think Grigor’s taken up a room there.’

We ate as fast as possible and headed for the shack, following the directions the waiter gave us. I remembered seeing it earlier in the morning but we had ignored it. There was a row of rooms on the first floor, and I led the way up a flight of uneven steps.

It was a hot afternoon and I could feel the sweat trickling down my face. There was no one around. Two of the doors were locked but the third one was slightly ajar. I stopped outside it and said loudly, ‘Anyone there?’

There was no reply, so I knocked hard on the door and it swung open. Hesitantly, I walked inside. It was a small room, with an unmade bed and a bare table. There was a man sitting on a chair facing the door. Sunlight streamed in through a window behind him.

As I moved closer, I knew it was Grigor. He was quite dead.

15

Sara

When I saw Omar stagger back, I realised something was dreadfully wrong!

Neel and I rushed forward. It took my eyes a few seconds to adjust to the light and then I saw the man on the chair. He was naked except for a pair of boxer shorts. His body was in a relaxed pose, arms loose by the sides and legs stretched out. He may well have been sleeping, except for the neat hole in the centre of his forehead.

There was surprisingly little blood. A trickle ran down one side of his face and neck, ending in a congealed mass just above the matted chest hair. A fly buzzed around his tilted head. Bile rose in my throat and I guess I must have passed out momentarily because the next thing I remember was leaning against Neel, his arm tight around my shoulder.

‘Don’t touch anything,’ he was saying. ‘This is a crime scene.’

He sounded like a detective in a Hollywood movie, except that this was no movie.

Omar said nervously, ‘Neel, do you think whoever did this might…still be around?’ His face was white as chalk.

The possibility had struck me as well.

Neel looked around and replied, ‘I don’t think so.’ He seemed amazingly calm! I suppose it was the military training.

I mumbled, ‘Let’s just get out of here.’

We ran back through the open corridor and down the steps. Neel checked the small lobby on the ground floor but it was empty. I figured it must have been quite easy for the killer to go up to Grigor’s room, shoot him dead and walk away.

We made our way towards the Innova, which was parked nearby. I had to control my urge to run. Neel held my arm firmly, whispering that we should act normally and not draw attention. Once we got inside the car though, Omar took off with a screech of tyres loud enough to have alarmed the entire neighbourhood!

I knew we would have to go to the police immediately. Omar suggested we call in anonymously to report our gruesome discovery, to which Neel retorted, ‘After that racket you just made back there, you seriously think that’s a good idea? Our sketches will be on Wanted posters all over Goa within an hour!’

I defended Omar. ‘Being at the wrong place at the wrong time isn’t a crime. We don’t have anything to hide.’

Well, maybe just the one thing.

We soon spotted a police patrol jeep parked off the beach, and Omar stopped the Innova behind it. Neel motioned to us to remain inside, and stepped out alone. I saw that he had taken out his Army ID, which was a good move. Policemen generally treat the military with respect, even deference.