‘If he had cracked the case last year, he would have been made SP or Superintendent of police by now,’ her father said. ‘He has promised me he is going to do his best to solve it quickly and find Veda. And, Darya.’ He leaned forward as if to add emphasis to his words. ‘He specially requested that I ask you not to interfere with the investigation.’
‘I’m doing nothing,’ Darya replied. Absolutely nothing, which was driving her nuts.
‘I mean it,’ said her father. ‘This is dangerous. These are dangerous people. Go back to Goa. Your course is done now.’
Darya gave him a dutiful nod, but her father saw immediately her heart wasn’t in it.
He let out a sigh. ‘You’re so stubborn,’ he said. ‘You’ll do what you want to do. Always have. Ask Roshan to help you. Keep him informed on your whereabouts. I don’t want the same thing as Veda—’
Darya cut her father off with a cold glance. ‘Yeah, I will,’ she muttered, also noting he hadn’t mentioned Aaron once.
‘When are you planning to go back to Goa?’
‘Next week,’ answered Darya. ‘I’ll wait for at least a week in case the police need anything else from me.’ Or if Veda turns up. Oh, Good Lord, please.
‘Once Viktor is in jail, hopefully everything will be over,’ her father said.
Darya shuddered, feeling suddenly cold. For a fleeting moment, she had been convinced the Mascarenhas were innocent. But with this new evidence…
Darya wasn’t sure what to think anymore.
Should she tell her father about Debbie’s note? She decided not to. His immediate reaction would be to ask her to hand it over to the police. She didn’t want to do that. Not yet.
The silence stretched between them. Darya felt her father’s eyes on her, concerned, questioning.
‘You’ve had a narrow escape,’ he said finally. She knew he wanted to say the words again. Leave all this. Go to Goa. Or come home.
But, how could she? An obsession had overtaken her. She had to solve this. Leaving now would be akin to running away.
Every part of her body ached as she uttered shakily, ‘Sure, I’m safe, but what about Veda?’
Slithering Shadows
An hour later, unbeknownst to her father, Darya was back at Chapel Road. An urgency had overtaken her. She knew she had to take matters into her own hands if she had to find Veda. With inaction, she grew crazier by the second, consumed with anxiety and fear.
Three police cars were parked at the end of the lane, bumper to bumper.
Constables in khaki swarmed around the entrance of the villa; Darya counted seven of them. Wearing a nondescript salwar kameez, a dupatta wrapped around her head, Darya hoped she was inconspicuous enough. She sidled close to the woman in front of her at Quiche Corner. There were five other people in the queue, all of whose heads were turned towards the happenings at the end of the road.
The woman in front of Darya glanced uneasily at the teenage girl standing next to her. ‘I always told you, no?’ she muttered. ‘No good that one is. Their names also must be fake.’
‘Get the quiches quickly, Mum,’ the girl said, visibly nervous. When they paid and left the queue, Darya slipped away with them. A convoy of cars passed, honking, scattering rubble. Darya sprinted to take their cover, walking alongside them as they rumbled past. She matched pace with the vehicles, keeping close to the walls, her head lowered, pretending to be glued to her phone. She prayed no one would notice her, but she need not have worried.
All eyes were on the villa.
A large crowd had gathered in front of the gate. Darya wondered how she was going to break through them and do what she had come to do. She knew the villa had been cleaned out, and if there was anything left, the police would’ve bagged it by now. But they may not have taken what she’d come to get, something that could throw light into the Mascarenhas’ shady past and explain what was happening, provided it was still there.
From a distance, Darya recognized SSP Makrand and Inspector Gawde.
Inspector Nourahno had sent her a picture of Gawde a few days ago in case she ever needed to talk to him. Darya saw him now, gesticulating forcefully to his superior. From time to time, the two of them surveyed the length of the lane and scowled. The crowd was growing bigger by the minute.
The front door of the villa opened. Darya saw a column of policemen head inside, led by Makrand. Gawde followed closely behind.
Darya walked over to the grocery store. She stood to one side, turning her body aslant, pretending to rummage through the biscuits on display. The owner and his young helper scarcely paid her any notice.
‘So bad for Chapel Road,’ the grocer said ruefully.
‘But good for business,’ the boy murmured.
‘Suddenly the police have become very active,’ the grocer commented. ‘Last year Francis told them to investigate the Mascarenhas, but no action.’
‘They must have proof this time,’ the boy said.
A few others had joined them, though none looked like they wanted to buy anything. In the next few minutes, as Darya stood with her face lowered, conjectures flew fast and wild around her. Viktor was bipolar, or schizophrenic, or both, although she was sure none of them knew exactly what the terms meant. An elderly man claimed he’d heard on good authority that Viktor had killed kittens when he was young. Darya wished they’d be quiet. She needed to focus, think about how she was going to enter and leave the villa undetected.
A hush broke through the group. The policemen re-emerged from the villa with a sobbing Viktor and stony-faced Debbie in tow. Darya watched as Debbie turned to close the front door, but a constable stopped her. The two were led quickly to a jeep. Doors slammed shut. Then, engines revving, sirens blaring, the jeeps roared away.
Two constables stayed behind. Darya assumed they were there to search the house and secure the scene. Casting a malevolent glare at the street, they whipped out cigarette packets and ambled to Chapel’s Pride, seemingly to talk to Rosaline and Rodrigo. The two had been watching the show comfortably from the balcony of their house, seated in matching red chairs.
The front door of the villa stayed ajar.
That was going to be enough.
Darya waited a few minutes for the crowd to dissipate. Then, gathering al the desperate bravado inside her, she crossed the road, walked quickly to the front door, opened it and was inside.
The door to the reception had been left unlocked; another stroke of luck. The room was sparkling clean, the table and chair in its place, the furniture wiped and dusted, the upholstery and curtains freshly washed. Everything smelled crisp and clean, of lemon and phenyl.
But she saw what she’d come for.
Face down on the tabletop.
Darya lunged for the photo eagerly.
Yes!
She’d vaguely recalled seeing the indigo letters at the back. She’d hoped—like most photo studios did in the city—it was a stamp of the studio’s address.
And it was!
She read the fading letters:
Crystal Photos
Shop 23, Wonder Plaza
Kamothe
Heart thumping in her chest, she stuffed the photograph inside her bag.
As she was preparing to leave, Darya was dismayed to hear a loud noise from outside. It was probably the constables making their way back to the villa.
Darya cowered inside the room, weighing her options. She rehearsed her excuses silently, her eyes scanning the space around for potential hiding spots.
An alternative was to run upstairs and hide until the policemen were gone.
Clutching her bag close to her, Darya made a dash for it, climbing the stairs two at a time, her heart bouncing crazily in her ribs.
Please, God… Please, God… she silently begged.
She stopped at the top of the stairs. Creeping up to the shadows, she looked down.
The hubbub had grown louder. She watched as the front door opened a few inches and flattened herself against the wall, hoping i
t was dark enough for whoever it was to not see her…
Then… at least a dozen people entered; necks craning, peeping over shoulders. They were people from the street, curious to see what was going on.
No one looked up the stairs.
Immediately, the constables came charging in, breaking through the cluster, pushing people away, wielding their batons in the air like machetes.
Using the commotion as a cover, Darya sprinted down and melded with the group, which was being herded out of the villa with the choicest of expletives.
As soon as she was outside and had extricated herself from her accidental saviours, Darya walked away. Only once did she hesitate, next to the D’Mello bungalow, when she thought she saw a light flicker on in one of the bedrooms.
Darya took another look at the address. She hadn’t expected Wonder Plaza to still exist, and definitely not Crystal Photos. She guessed the lot of them had transformed into the large store she saw in front of her. Welcome Medicals.
It was 2 p.m., and as was to be expected in that part of the city, Welcome Medicals had closed for lunch. A burly man leaned on the fastened glass doors, intently chewing on a wad of tobacco, dealing with the occasional out-of-control spume in his mouth by expelling it onto the road. He looked up questioningly as Darya approached.
‘Excuse me,’ she started.
‘Kya hai?’ he asked, spitting out a stream.
Slightly concerned the next spurt might hit her, Darya moved to the unmarked side. She took out the photo from her bag and turned it over so he could read the address.
‘Kya yeh Wonder Plaza hua karta tha?’ Darya asked.
The man surveyed the photo with interest.
Darya held her breath.
Then at long last, after a final spit and a gulp of water, he said, ‘Haan. It closed down.’
‘When?’
He shrugged.
‘Are you from around here?’ Darya persisted, hoping the man could throw her a clue or point her to something worth pursuing. She was loath to give up so easily. After all, she’d travelled for over an hour to get there, she might as well try everything.
‘No,’ he replied shortly.
In a subdued voice, Darya asked, ‘Do you know anyone who’s from here?’
Without warning, he lifted his face and shouted, ‘FAROOKH.’
Noting Darya’s startled face, the man chortled. He gestured at the photo in her hand. ‘Farookh’s father used to own Wonder Plaza. He died, but Farookh’—he jerked a thumb at the shuttered door—‘works as the biller here.’ He looked her up and down. ‘Kya chahiye?’ he asked.
‘An old relative’s address,’ Darya said, presenting the answer she’d prepared.
‘Relative?’ he asked suspiciously.
‘He left this photo for us in his things. He died…’ Darya groped for words.
‘Which of them is he?’ He pointed to the photo.
‘He is not in it… he knew one of them.’ Darya shifted on her feet. After a beat, she mumbled, ‘I can give money for information.’
The man stared at her for a long minute. Then with a soft judder of his shoulders, as if trying to hold back his laughter, he said, ‘Wait here,’ wrapped his dhoti around his legs and left her.
He returned a few minutes later with another man.
‘Yeh hai Farookh,’ he announced.
Farookh smelled of fresh paint. He was a silent man, lanky, dressed like a scarecrow, about forty years old.
‘Did your father own Wonder Plaza?’ Darya asked him, watching warily from the corner of her eye as the other man left them and walked to the back of the shop.
Farookh nodded. He didn’t seem surprised at the question.
‘What about Crystal Photos?’
‘So long time ago,’ Farookh replied.
‘Who owned it? You?’
‘Cousin. Wonder Plaza was fully ours. Family enterprise.’
‘Can I talk to him?’
‘Kyon?’
‘I have an old family photo. Of a relative’s. We lost touch. I want to know where they lived.’
‘Show me.’
Darya shook her head. ‘Only him. Your cousin.’
The man moved his gaze away, his eyes intent on the road. Darya thought he hadn’t heard her.
‘Can I talk to your cousin?’ Darya repeated.
Farookh focused back on her face. With a gentle smile, he murmured, ‘Bewkoof nahi hai hum, janti ho na?’
‘What do you mean?’ Darya asked nervously. ‘What gave you the idea I was taking you for a fool?’
The man shifted his weight and looked at her pointedly. ‘That boy came asking the same questions,’ he said.
Darya’s eyebrows shot up.
‘Who?’ she asked, barely managing to get the words out. ‘Who came?’
‘We saw him on TV. His body was found in Walkeshwar. But he came here asking about her. Just like you.’
Barely managing to keep her excitement in check, Darya mumbled, ‘Was his name Parthiv?’
But the man didn’t know. ‘Saw him on TV yesterday,’ he said. ‘We saw him here. Some weeks ago, he came asking for an address, like you.’ He nodded at her. ‘Are you reporter?’
Darya shook her head firmly. ‘Friend of his family,’ she replied.
She was onto something at least. Parthiv had come to Kamothe looking for clues, as she had. Why exactly though, she did not know. But it was something.
And his death followed, a cautious voice rang inside her head. Darya shook it off. She had to find Veda; she couldn’t afford to be circumspect given the circumstances.
‘He showed me a picture,’ Farookh said. ‘Of a woman. Asked if I remembered her. From four years ago.’
‘Not this one?’ Darya asked, lifting the framed picture to his face.
He shook his head.
Heart dropping, Darya asked, ‘What did that woman look like?’
‘Very beautiful,’ Farookh said. ‘Long dark hair. Slim. Big eyes.’
Darya sighed softly. That could’ve been anybody.
‘But she’s in your picture too,’ Farookh said quietly. Leaning forward, he pried the photo from Darya’s hands. His fingers traced the outline of Debbie’s face, then those of her parents. He chuckled mirthlessly when he traced the outlines of Viktor and Daniel. ‘By special request,’ he murmured.
Darya bobbed her head, encouraging him to go on.
‘This the Monteiro family. That’s Colleen,’ he whispered, tapping on Debbie’s face. His eyes appeared glazed. He had gone back in time. ‘That’s her father Emmanuel. That’s Sarna.’ He pointed to each of them in turn, in the end coming back to Debbie, his finger lingering.
So, Debbie had changed her name.
‘What happened to them?’ Darya asked.
‘Bechari,’ he murmured. ‘It was only bad circumstances that made her do what she did.’
‘What did she do?’ Darya asked.
His response was both sharp and apologetic. ‘Opened that business,’ he said. ‘Right here.’ He gestured to a vague location at the back of the store. ‘That randi business. Young women, rich men.’ His features creased with the effort of saying the words. ‘For eight years they did it. Then they moved.’ He glanced around with furtive eyes and muttered, ‘It’s 2.30 p.m., madam. I need to reopen the shop.’ He had taken his phone out and was fingering it impatiently.
Darya’s head was bursting with questions. But she asked the most important one. ‘Where did the… er… Monteiro family live? Can you tell me?’
‘They left long ago.’
‘I know. But where did they live when they were here… four years ago?’
He glanced at her thoughtfully.
‘Where?’ Darya persisted.
Perhaps only to get rid of her, he told her.
Fifteen minutes later she was facing flat 33 in building C of the Balaji Housing Complex.
‘He came here,’ the old lady said shyly, ‘standing where you are right now.’
; ‘He came here?’ Darya repeated. ‘To your flat?’
‘I saw him on TV today,’ the woman continued. ‘TV is my only friend these days.’
Darya took in the woman’s voluminous white hair, tied neatly into a bun, the parchment-thin skin, the deep serrations around the mouth, the light dab of kajal around her striking eyes. She was wearing a sagging yellow nightie. Gold and green bangles shone on her thin wrists, jangling as she widened the door ever so slightly every few seconds, growing more and more confident as they talked. Yet, she didn’t invite Darya in.
‘What did you see on TV?’ Darya asked.
Her face broke into a shrewd smile. ‘The dead man,’ the old woman replied. ‘Two weeks before, he stood in front of me. For five minutes, he was standing. I said I never saw the woman whose photo he showed. But he was hoping. His eyes kept opening and closing. He kept looking over his shoulders like this.’ She mimed the motion for Darya’s benefit. ‘Then he walked up and down the corridor twice. Then ran down the stairs.’ A pause. ‘He looked to me as afraid.’
Once again, Darya felt a pang of unease. Had she made a mistake by coming here? Should she have simply told the police about what she’d found or told her father?
But it was too late now. She was here.
Balaji Housing Complex comprised four three-storey houses arranged in a square with a small playground in between. The houses were old: cracked walls, dusty corridors, poorly maintained fixtures—falling apart, like a million others in the city. Darya had come in easily enough. No one had stopped her. No one had asked her who she was. She had climbed up the stairs accompanied by regular household sounds seeping through the doors: vessels clanking, televisions playing, children protesting, parents nattering. It was odd how even amidst this crushing commonness, Darya had felt a strange foreboding, as if her every step was being watched.
But how was that even possible? Who knew her here?
At long last, she had come to the third floor.
Like the rest of them, this floor too had four flats, but the level of disrepair was markedly higher. It was deathly quiet too. Damp. Cold.
The Darya Nandkarni Misadventures Omnibus: Books 1-3 Page 45
