Authors: Shakuntala Banaji
Through the plush offices of Antonio Sinbari's domain the news spread: boss upset; get out of the way. Mrs Annie Pillai, his secretary, who by the very nature of her job was unable to flee Sinbari's presence, felt her stomach churn. She had almost never seen him this unstable.
Sinbari's irritation had commenced the previous evening when, contrary to his expectations, the investors had proved less enthusiastic and more cautious about his Himalayan idyll than he'd anticipated. They had asked probing questions, wanted to scrutinise the plans, asked to see estimates for future rather than present costs. Even after his confident responses, they had not seemed satisfied.
It was not a normal sensation for Sinbari – to have a dozen rich Indians refusing to eat out of the palm of his hand: something had made them edgy and he wasn't sure what it was. As the director and prime shareholder of a prestigious multinational chain he was used to absolute and immediate deference. The kind of covert chitchat taking place during his pitch was unnerving and threw him off key. Without Sadrettin to smooth ruffled feathers, he became even more restless. The evening ended without any firm commitments although there were pledges of support from a few members of the gathering.
But the real blow had come at eleven this morning: he was sipping iced tea and making notes on his copy of Business World when he received a phone-call from his consul. Would he make himself available on the morrow to contribute to a bilateral investigation by the British and Indian police? It was a matter of importance for the Italians to resolve before any further tensions built. Yes they were aware that he was a very busy man and that his private assistant was out of town but this matter had to be dealt with; it wouldn't be held off any longer. Of course it was the prissy Brits who were pushing it. They were always uptight when a Briton's life was at stake in a foreign country.
The Italian ambassador, Daniello Frasca, had sounded as affable as always; however, once Sinbari had agreed to the meeting he cut the connection without farewell.
Now Sinbari sat at his desk, his eyes closed and his fingertips steepled together. He had called his financial consultants and Marcel Suri, the head of his high-powered legal team. Suri had warned him that clauses in the contracts already sent out regarding the Konali project gave right of refusal to all those who'd bought into the scheme. Even now he was using some flunkey in reception to field enquiries from Ravindran and Powar about getting their capital back.
Before he went into any meeting with the British cops, he had to be sure of two things: first, that his backside was legally covered and second, that under no circumstances would the bullish Hàrélal be able to unsettle him. It had been fun tormenting the man and using him to obfuscate matters, but perhaps he had pushed him too far. Of course he could outwit the dupe, but it might prove complicated; and he wanted his mind free to work on the investors' confidence.
Annie Pillai was getting late and she squirmed in her seat, unwilling to interrupt the boss's thoughts but equally unwilling to delay her husband's dinner.
She had worked for Sinbari for six years and all through that time she had been grateful for Sadrettin's quiet presence, his willingness to deal with issues that she could not understand, the hundred little ways in which he had made her life easier by mediating between the boss and herself. She was not qualified to be an assistant. She was good at shorthand, could easily transcribe things the boss wished written up, could connect his conference calls and respond to routine enquiries. But she was no good with people. She had an inkling that the boss didn't always play things straight – but then, she'd always assumed this was just the nature of business. Annie knew for a fact that Sinbari rarely paid a rupee for the land he built his resorts on – at least not if he could get it for free …. But jobs such as hers were hard to find in Delhi, especially now she was nearing forty.
At last Antonio looked up and she forced herself to meet his cold eyes.
'Annie.'
'Sir?'
'Have we had any news from our team in the hills?'
'No, sir.'
'Calls from Goa? Emails or faxes from any of my hotels?' She shook her head. 'Not a word from my assistant?' His voice was almost a whisper, the anger palpable in every breath.
Mrs Pillai felt sick. 'Shall I check for you sir, e-mail an' all?'
'No!' He narrowed his eyes at her, the muscles of his tanned cheeks working, wondering why she had mentioned e-mail. Then, calming himself he shrugged. 'No. It's okay, you carry on, Annie.' She leapt up and was out of the room in a few seconds.
Sinbari slammed a drawer shut and swung himself round in his chair. He looked out of his gigantic picture window as rain spat itself into the dust of a Delhi sidewalk. The phone at Annie's desk began to ring and the answer machine clicked in. An oily uneducated voice began to run through a business proposition. Something to do with supplying linen to his company at a very
de-lec-terous
price. He ignored it. He wasn't rattled. He was cool. But where was Sadrettin's team and why in hell hadn't Adam or Sara called from Goa to thank him?
*
In Goa too, it had started to rain. Feathery drops, from a sky still humid at eight pm. Her day at the local hospital had left Sara even more bedraggled and shaky than she had been in the morning. An over-worked trainee doctor in a dirty white coat had taken her pulse and then drawn blood, Sara secretly heaving a sigh of relief when she saw that he would use a disposable needle rather than one of the steamed metal implements in the jar beside her chair. The results wouldn't be back for a week, but hearing her speak of her symptoms, he told her she'd probably had a virus and was well enough to fly home. If she so desired.
Bleakly she opened her suite door, noting that the maid had been in, hoping that Adam was out, or sleeping, or dead drunk; anything to prevent a scene in front of this bright young detective from the New Delhi cops.
Sara thought of Tanya as young. While she herself was only twenty-four, she felt like a forty year old. The grief and anxiety of the past few weeks had traced their path down her face and written themselves onto her skin, especially beneath the eyes: bereft of Cameron by unknown circumstance and now of Adam by a tormenting suspicion, she had been interrogated, ill and grief-stricken.
Removing the threadbare barette from her hair, she flung herself onto her bed.
Her mind was wheezing, barely functional, living a murky half-life in which one part was devoted entirely to thoughts about the past.
She'd been so astounded when Cameron accepted her proposal; he hadn't seemed the marrying kind, all his flirtatious energy directed towards others and the emotional bond he shared with her more of a haven than a wellspring of passion or lust. Not wanting to question her luck, she'd allowed herself to become complacent, had accepted his decisions with passive warmth, had let him make all the choices, content that her slow-burning love was what he craved. He was playful, ambitious and scathing of others; she was content to sleep against the curve of his back once a week.
The resort had been his idea
, dreamed up when they were camping in the Highlands, put to her first with one of those tempting 'What if ….' openings and making her think 'How exciting! How clever!'
'Come on Sara, what would you say to this, my clever wee girl … a whole village, idyllic, and untouched, at least on the outside, and inside … perfection, indolence, sumptuousness – a total contrast to the lives of them locals! Indigenous materials used; foreign guests invited. West kisses East.' Syllable after syllable had rolled off his tongue.
The notion of getting Antonio Sinbari to finance Cameron's scheme had appealed to her sense of irony: get a tycoon to fork out to support an environmentally friendly model village. Ha ha ha. Back from holiday, they'd combed through Edinburgh's libraries to find the sort of Indian location they'd dreamed of: stunning lakes, picturesque villages, mountains accessible, at least to some. Why not, she'd thought then, why not accept a separation of a few months, if it means that we'll be well off for the rest of our lives?
Shrugging off these thoughts, she wondered how much she should reveal to this new Indian detective about Cameron's plans. What had she really known about them anyway? So little, in truth. And who could have foretold that it would all go so tragically, fatally wrong?
Shaking off her memories, Sara showered and changed into a skirt. Her mother rang and they exchanged inanities for a couple of minutes; when her mother started begging her to come home, she made an excuse and put the phone down. The door to the bedroom was ajar and Adam's clothes were scattered all over the floor, suggesting that he'd been back to the hotel during the day and left again, perhaps in a rush. Her mother had asked after him and she had lied; lying was becoming second nature these days. Perhaps Adam really was down at the beach waiting for her to join him; perhaps she wasn't on the verge of confessing her deepest fears to an enigmatic Indian detective.
There was a knock on her door.
Later that evening, they'd finished two bottles of local wine, though Tanya was trying to drink as little as possible for the sake of her baby. She'd told Sara about Lal Bahuba and had been surprised by the thoughtful sympathy she received; when Sara asked if she'd ever really been in love, she couldn't bring herself to speak of Karmel.
'So you've never been in love, huh? Maybe you're waiting for the right one … or maybe you'll marry the man your parents choose for you. It's like that here, isn't it? Either way, I don't guess you'll understand me and Cameron.'
Tanya fought down her irritation. 'Try me.'
'Arright. I will.'
'Mind if I tape you?'
'Go ahead, I've been taped by the police already.' Sara took a deep breath.
She described her romance and Adam's predilection; she described the way they both doted on Cameron; yet again, she recounted how Vincent had shaken up their lives and how Cameron had wanted to get rich.
'So he e-mailed Antonio Sinbari in India. And when the guy wrote straight back with a request … it was like Christmas had come early. How often do we get to meet people like that? Huh? What are the odds of that happening? Have you ever spoken to Mr. Cadbury? I bet you haven't. It was a once in a lifetime chance. 'Course I was uncertain about it being the Himalayan meadows, conservation and all that,
and
I wasn't sure if Cameron really understood what he was being asked to do.'
'You're certain he was given a contract, though. A written contract?'
'Oh, yes. He received it by courier just a day later. This is just one bit of it. The story. The other bit is … well, kind of more tricky.' She drank long and swiftly from an open bottle, belching silently into her open palm. When she finished and looked back at Tanya, her lips were wet.
'The other bit …?' Tanya prompted her.
'See, Adam thought Cameron was
his
man. He'd got that impression …because they knew each other from way back. And Adam's a sweet guy – we loved him of course, well, I did – I don't really know how Cameron felt.' Tanya noted the slight coolness and her use of Croft's full name. Jealousy had been a constant torture, she guessed.
'So, we didn't know how to break it to him that we were getting hitched and Cameron said not to worry, we should both just come visit him out in India and he'd hook up with Adam a few days before he hooked up with me and he'd tell him then, after spending some "quality time" together.' She sketched quotation marks with her fingers in the air. Then let her hands fall limply into her lap. 'He'd tell him we were getting married. I thought …well. I wasn't sure.'
'Were you worried?' Tanya was sitting up and trying to keep her eyes open. Her head throbbed. She imagined what Adam might have felt, discovering their double betrayal: to some people such a rejection might seem far worse than murder. A long-drawn-out, persistent ache where taking a life was merely the work of a moment, the swing of a wrist. Sara was leaning back on the sofa, eyes closed, head tilted back.
'I was anxious. I suppose.' Tanya suddenly heard a new emotion in Sara's voice. Anger. So, she
had
doubted her lover too.
'You thought that Cameron was playing both of you? You thought he might not tell Adam?' Sara's eyes sprung open.
'No. Well. Not really, not like you said it. I had faith in him.'
Like hell you did!
Tanya kept the thought to herself. There were several reasons why Sara might lie about her suspicion and pain. After all, tragic as they were, weren’t those very feelings a motive for murder? Then Tanya asked mildly, 'May I see a picture of your fiancé?' and Sara rose unsteadily to search her luggage for one.
When she returned with the picture, Tanya took it from her and gazed at it in silent admiration. Here was one of the best looking men she had ever seen. Everything about him was perfect, from his teeth to his clothes. He must have had a good brain too, to have become an architect. Despite this knowledge, his image left her cold. Nothing in the picture moved her the way Lal Bahuba's fingers had, or the way a single smile from Kailash could. But then, no photograph, however splendid, did justice to someone's true character.