Not wanting any trouble with the strong arm boys Sid quietly sold up and after pocketing his gains started to look around for another area to exploit his acquired talents. At first he had thought of Spain, but he did not speak Spanish and imagined it full of the kind of Latino gangsters he had encountered in Miami. Then by chance he ran into an old pal, Hubert, who over a drink told him his son Harry was off to India for Christmas with Karen and the kids.
Hubert told him of Karen's enthusiasm for Kovalam and to Sid it sounded like a good spot to explore, a long way from the East End villains and a good alternative to Spain. After a few enquiries Kovalam was confirmed as a great place for a holiday by his East London friends and Sid decided to set out and explore it for himself.
The idea of buying a house in Kovalam appealed to Sid and Johnny a likely partner for his investment, since only non-resident Indians and persons of Indian origin were legally allowed to own property in India. However, as Johnny explained this restriction could be overcome by the formation of a company, which was permitted to buy property, or by establishing residency with a continuous presence of more than six months. What had he to lose with the price of a spacious detached house, a ten minute stroll from the beach on a one acre plot, costing well under half the price of a very modest London semi.
As for Johnny, he was a native of Trivandrum, he spoke good English and had studied hotel management. He ran the Rainbow efficiently for the Konguvel family, also owners the Moonlight Hotel, a wealthy Kovalam family. They had built the hotel in the late nineteen eighties to cater for a better class of tourist, the kind they had the foresight to anticipate. At that time it seemed to many a risky venture, the only tourists that Kovalam had attracted up to that point in time had been firmly in the wandering hippy category. Drugs, prostitution and small time crime were rife in the small town, but as low cost flights via the Middle East appeared the Konguvels were proved right and money had started to flow into what was still an unspoilt though scruffy paradise, little known to most travellers.
As travel became democratised a new class of traveller started to arrive, at first the more adventurous of middle class travellers with more money, seeking something more exotic than Bali or Phukit. Then came low priced charter flights and package tours for families in search of guaranteed winter sunshine at very affordable prices, attracting the Mike and Kate Rymans of the world.
It was not long before they were followed by another variety of tourist, those attracted by the easy life and more specifically easy profits, the kind of visitor who saw it as virgin territory, characters like Sid Judge, who had started to shun Spain where the property market was said to be in a worse state than that of the UK. Besides, the climate of the Costa del Sol was not all that great in the winter months, it was not Miami, and in Spain they did not speak English, where discouragingly, a number of the kind of British villains Sid most feared had either moved to Marbella or were holed up there.
*****
Chapter 58
Barton breathed in the fresh morning air, it was another fine day - every day in Kovalam was another fine day. He was up early, proof that his body-clock had adjusted to the time difference, and decided to take a walk to the beach before breakfast.
The beach was practically deserted, the sunbeds and parasols already laid out on the freshly raked sand. Looking around he spotted a girl sitting alone, half bent over on the edge of a sunbed. It looked like Emma Parkly. As he strolled towards her he sensed something was wrong, she looked bedraggled, as though she had not slept all night, and the nearer he got it confirmed his impression.
'Hello Emma,' he said kindly, being careful not to upset her with a gushing good-day.
She looked up bewildered, her eyes were red.
'Oh, Tom.'
A tear rolled down her cheek.
'Is there something wrong Emma?'
She stood up and embraced him, putting her head on his shoulder and cried for a long moment, her body heaving with deep sobs.
Something was very wrong, more than perhaps a simple dispute with her husband. Barton felt embarrassed, he did not like to become involved in matrimonial disputes.
'It's Stephen.'
'Stephen,' he repeated as he took her hand and sat down besides her on the sunbed.
There was just a lone swimmer emerging from the waves, a little further away a couple of women had arrived and were installing themselves under the parasols, they started to look in their direction, their curiosity aroused.
'Yes, he's dead?.'
Barton thought he had misunderstood.
'Dead?'
'Yes, he died during the night.'
Barton was confused.
'At the clinic in Trivandrum.'
Perhaps there was an accident he thought as he tried to gather his thoughts.
'How?'
'Cholera,' she said in a flat voice.
'Cholera,' he repeated looking at her closely, wondering if she was delirious.
'Yes, he fell ill a couple of days ago, they moved him to a clinic, then to Trivandrum.'
'Let's go inside Emma, it will be better there.
They walked towards the road that led uphill to the main entrance and took a waiting buggy.
'We'll go to your room.'
'We can't, they told me there was no room?that we had checked out.'
'What! Okay we'll go to my room.'
Emma tearfully explained to Barton that Stephen had died in the early hours, heart failure according to the doctor. Some time after, she told him, she must have left the clinic in a state of shock wandering in the streets nearby the clinic until she found a taxi and returned to the Maharaja Palace, where she had arrived about an hour before.
'So it was a heart condition,' he said in a low voice.
'No, three days ago he had a stomach upset, you know turista, then it got worse and they called in a doctor. The same evening he was taken to a clinic in Kovalam and the next morning to Trivandrum.'
'Did they say it was cholera?'
'No.'
He felt relieved, he knew very little about cholera except for the fact that it was a very dangerous disease.
'But Ryan Kavanagh told me it was cholera, he's a doctor, a specialist'
'Ryan? Ah yes, he's here with his mother and sister.'
'He was, they left last night.'
'I thought they were here two weeks.'
'So did I, but they've checked out.'
'Where are your bags?'
'At the clinic.'
'Listen, I suggest you take a shower, then we return to this clinic. You have the address?'
She searched in her handbag.
'I thought I had their card, it's near the General Hospital.
'Okay, we'll find it.'
An hour later they were at the reception in the Trivandrum General Hospital, where Barton, in the heat and general disorder, unsuccessfully tried to explain he was looking for a clinic.
'Look, we'll ask the driver to bring us to the private clinics nearby, perhaps you'll recognise it.'
After another hour of driving around it seemed like a hopeless task; there were any number of medical clinics, some of them specialising in medical tourism. There were also an impressive number of Ayurvedic clinics that promised to cure every thing from depression to cancer.
'Do you have the name of the doctor who came to the hotel?'
'Yes, Dr Swami, his clinic is in Kovalam.'
Barton asked the driver if he knew of Swami's clinic, he nodded his head affirmatively in the Indian fashion.
At the clinic, the receptionist informed them that Swami was absent and would not be there until later in the day. When Barton asked if a Stephen Parkly had been in the clinic the previous day, she replied she did not know, she had not been on duty and he would have to wait for Swami's return. Barton's suspicion that there was something seriously amiss was confirmed.
At the hotel everything seemed normal. Barton suggested to Emma that she take the second bedroo
m in his suite, she nodded in agreement, he then proposed she try to get some sleep whilst he checked around.
Back in the lobby he spotted the Russian girls with whom Ryan had become friendly. He asked if they had seen him and was told he had left late the previous evening with his mother and sister. Why the precipitation? They did not know except that he had told them some days before he was there until the end of the week.
'Did you speak to him?'
'Just a few words, they seemed to be in a big hurry.'
He thought for a moment. 'Do you have his phone number?'
She smiled coyly, 'He left me his mobile phone number.'
'Would you mind letting me have it,' he said putting on his best smile, then adding, 'he has forgotten something.'
She pulled out her phone and found Ryan's number.
After several attempts Barton finally got him on the line and informed him of Parkly's death.
'They said it was heart failure, but Emma claims it was something else.'
Ryan was stumped, it didn't look good, he, a doctor, had upped and left a patient in the lurch, because Parkly was, if indirectly, his patient, whether he liked it or not, a patient he had abandoned in a moment of need, without warning. He realised he could only worsen the situation by lying.
'Look we're in Bombay, I wanted to get my mother and sister out of Kovalam.'
'Why?' asked Barton detecting urgency in Ryan's voice.
'Look, I don't want to cause a panic, but it seems like Parkly had cholera.'
'Seems?'
'Yes, there was no definite confirmation from the Medical Institute.'
'So his death could be due to cholera?'
'Yes, heart failure can result from complications.'
'So what do we do now?'
'I would suggest you get out.'
'And Emma Parkly?'
'Yes, that's complicated, there's the body?'
'Look, we need your help, can you inform the British Embassy of the problem?'
It was the least Ryan could do, Sarah and his mother could take the BA flight to London that same evening and he could stay over another day or two so as to inform the embassy of the situation.
*****
Chapter 59
More than one hundred thousand small shareholders had invested in West Mercian Finance, a great many of whom had received their shares in the form of a windfall when the West Mercian Building society had been demutualised, others had bought shares as part of their retirement savings believing it was a solid investment.
Whatever their reasons for holding West Mercian shares most small shareholders were almost totally ignorant of the workings of the City and more specifically those of the West Mercian itself and through their ignorance they risked seeing their shares wiped out if the firm went into administration.
The small investors, many of whom were pensioners who had invested in West Mercian as part of their retirement plans, would receive little or nothing for their holdings if the company folded. All would be losers with the possible exception of part of the personnel who could be saved, though those amongst them who held shares in the firm, as many did, would also lose their money.
The small shareholders were therefore justifiably frightened by West Mercian's dramatic change in circumstances and furious at the lack of accountability of its board of directors to investors. Directors' compensation was one of their bones of contention and notably that of Parkly's, who was conveniently unavailable to comment on the situation.
Parkly himself held a large block of shares and had made over two million in the course of the previous two years, selling his shares when the price was high, whilst at the same time advising employees and small investors to put their money into the firm, which they willingly did, not wanting to miss out on a good deal and the preferential conditions offered.
The shareholders association could do little to defend small shareholders such as Mike Ryman, who at the other end of the world, unaware of his financial predicament, lay bed stricken. Their only immediate recourse was vociferous protestation and legal action. Unfortunately for them any process of law would take years and for many of the elderly shareholders compensation, if and when it came, would be too late.
Those who had confided their life savings to West Mercian turned in vain to the government for help as politicians obfuscated and legislators once again endeavoured to close the stable door after the horse had bolted. Many would face a poorer and sadder retirement than they had planned for, having carefully put aside what was left of their earnings, after the state had taken its bite in the form of every imaginable tax and on every imaginable occasion.
*****
Chapter 60
Swami was the last in line to leave the room, out of deference to the rank of the others, powerful men. Finally, when it was his turn to pay his respects the mayor made a discrete sign to him.
'Dr Swami, would you be kind enough to stay a moment.'
Swami trembled, he was afraid of the mayor, a most powerful man. The Chief Medical Officer closed the door and rejoined the mayor with a worried Swami.
'Dr Swami, you treated this tourist, who exactly is he?'
'It seems he is the head of an important British financial company.'
'It seems?'
'I will check it Sir,' he flustered.
'And his situation?'
'Stable for the moment.'
'Stable? I thought this could be cleared up quickly with antibiotics!'
'I'm afraid there could be complications.'
'Where is he?'
'At the Old Fort Hospital Sir.'
'There's no risk of contagion?'
'No sir, the disease is not contagious by normal contact, only through infected water or food.'
'Ah, infected water, back to our sewage problems no doubt.'
'I'm afraid so sir.'
Swami was in fact seriously concerned about Parkly's condition, more precisely he feared renal or heart failure. Even an otherwise perfectly healthy person could die from the disease. Just before going into the meeting an SMS had informed him that Parkly's blood pressure had taken a sudden plunge and one of the clinics specialists had been called in, but he did not want to alarm the mayor, hopefully things would be looking better the next day.
'Good, keep me informed Dr Swami, we wouldn't like any complications, would we?' he said dismissing Parkly who quickly bowed out.
'Good, let us hope it's a false alert,' the mayor said hopefully turning to the Chief Medical Officer. 'Apart from any other problems the opposition will have a field day if something goes wrong.'
'I'm afraid they will jump at the occasion.'
'We'll be accused of obstructing the City Development Plan and the water treatment plant.'
The Chief Medical Officer was silent.
'Funds, that's our problem, no money, for health or sanitation.'
An outbreak of cholera affecting tourists would be a disaster for Kovalam's reputation as a tourist centre and Kerala's growing industry built around medical tourism.
Outside, as Swami looked for his driver he had broken out into a cold sweat, he started to feel fear worming its way into his mind. Suddenly, through no fault of his own, he found himself in the eye of a political cyclone and the danger could be great if in some way he was made a scapegoat in the affair.
He should have never have brought Parkly to his clinic in Kovalam, his greed had gotten the better of him. He had lied to the Minister, telling him no one else outside a few reliable people at the clinic knew of the results of General Hospital's laboratory analysis.
It had been a long day; the problems of the real medical world were harsher than those he was normally confronted with in his Ayurvedic clinic, where a massage could usually relieve a patient's stresses and worries. Arriving at his home he decided what he needed was a good night's sleep and once safely inside switched off his mobile phone and went directly to bed.
The next morning he awoke early and immediately ca
lled the Maharaja Palace, to his great relief he was informed that Kavanagh and his family had left the previous evening. He had barely time to savour his relief when his phone buzzed and he was informed of Parkly's death, even worse the Parkly woman was no longer in the clinic, she had disappeared.
Swami had a poor opinion of most tourists, he saw them as being so different, in spite of that he always played up to their perceived selfishness, offering them the care of his clinic, pleasing them, after all it provided him and his family a pleasant existence.
Europeans little understood the unimportance of life, how transitory this life was, how insignificant it was and how peace could be found inside, not by material comforts.
It was strange that he never saw the contradiction in his views or that of his own cupidity. His wife and family pushed him to give them more and more and he responded knowing the duty he owed them and his cast.
He had come to look on tourists as milk cows, though it was nothing unusual in those who earned their living from tourists. Like a good Hindu he would never kill a cow, but he was not averse to milking it, and as a businessman he milked Kerala's second sacred cow, tourism, for all it was worth. However, it now seemed that by his indiscrete confidence to the English doctor he could end up by killing it.
Swami shuddered at the idea he had been responsible for unleashing the cholera word, but now, in spite of his business worries, he had no choice but to set about the task of the business in hand. Later that morning he was been enrolled in the medical team being formed for the possible emergency with clear instructions to avoid replying to enquiries from over curious foreigners, and only if absolutely necessary, to talk of an outbreak of gastric complaints.
*****
Chapter 61
Emma preferred their penthouse in King Street, Covent Garden, to the other home in Hampshire, she called Stephen's place, he had lived there with his previous wife before their divorce. To Emma, Stephen's ex was not in her class and had tried to acquire a veneer of standing with the over large country home. It vaguely reminded Emma of a nineteenth century country gentleman's house and was just as cold. Emma was not a country type, she was most definitely an in-towner, as she liked to call herself, and her part of the town was not any old part of town.
Death of a Financier Page 17
