CHAPTER EIGHT
Chupplejeep walked back towards his holiday cottage, carrying his shopping. The sun on his back for the duration of the walk had made him feel sticky. He would have a cool shower as soon as he put the shopping away and then drink a cold Kingfisher on the veranda. It would be the peaceful start to the holiday he had wanted, but was deprived of yesterday.
The lake was a peaceful spot despite the crickets, which had already started their commotion in the shrubbery. In the distance, he could hear children splashing about in the lake, reminding him of the summers he spent here playing with Dilip.
He looked up at the lake house. Detective Kumar and his sub-officer were standing outside his front door.
‘So you’ve decided to meddle in our investigation, after all. You think you solve one big case in Goa and you know everything. See this,’ Detective Kumar said. Not giving Chupplejeep a chance to defend himself, he thrust a manila folder in his face.
‘What’s this?’ Chupplejeep asked.
‘Open it and see.’
Chupplejeep put his bags down and took the folder. He opened it and saw the familiar report format for an autopsy in front of him. ‘This is not completed. It hasn’t been signed either.’
‘Read it,’ Detective Kumar ordered.
Chupplejeep closed the folder, gave it back to the detective and found his keys in his pocket. He opened the door and picked up his shopping. Detective Kumar took a step to his right so that he was blocking the entrance to the house. Chupplejeep stared at him. ‘Do I really have to ask you to move?’
Detective Kumar didn’t flinch; instead he opened the folder. ‘The report identifies previous ruptured blood vessels shown by scar tissue.’ Detective Kumar looked up. ‘This is caused by high blood pressure. The arteries were hardened, and both the left and right ventricle of the heart were enlarged and weakened over time. A sure sign of a dilated cardiomyopathy. The heart muscle had been damaged previous to this final heart attack. Jackpot had a problem and suffered a mini-stroke last year. You don’t believe me, ask his wife.’
‘It’s impossible to complete an autopsy in such little time,’ Chupplejeep said. ‘It’s yet to be concluded.’
‘No, but it soon will be, and my forensic pathologist is confident it will return a natural death verdict.’ Detective Kumar closed the folder.
‘He is, is he? It may require a second opinion then,’ Chupplejeep said, pushing past Detective Kumar into the house. A heart attack was possible. What the detective was saying made sense, but he couldn’t deny the strangulation marks he had seen on Jackpot’s neck, conveniently hidden from the rest of the spectators by a bandana. Kumar couldn’t deny them either. Was he really that lazy or was he hiding something?
Chupplejeep slammed the door behind him.
~
Vadish swallowed his fifth boiled egg with a gulp of hot masala tea. He admired his physique in his full-length mirror. Flexing his biceps, he watched them stretch the fabric of his t-shirt. The scar across his forearm stood out, pink and raised against his dark skin. He winced as he recalled the tip of the razor piercing his skin and ripping through his flesh. His attacker didn’t get away though. Despite his injured arm, he had wrestled the razor out of his attacker’s hand and had grabbed his neck, pressing his thumbs on his trachea, just above the collarbones. He watched as his eyes, full of anger and life, bulged and reddened under the pressure until eventually, poof, his life was extinguished, or so he thought. Sadly it was not the case. The man he was trying to kill refused to die, and somehow Vadish didn’t have it in him to finish him off. He was a thug, a known goonda, and when his uncle, a notorious murderer with links to the underworld, had decided to retire in Mangalore, he had expected his only nephew to take over from him. Vadish had jumped at the chance. He saw the attention his uncle had garnered. He had seen with his own eyes how doors had opened for his uncle, fresh fruit and meats delivered to his house daily by well-wishers, and his house, his house was magnificent, with marble floors and chandeliers, all because of his choice of career. Vadish wanted to live a lavish lifestyle, he wanted the reputation of a hardened criminal, but he was finding it extremely hard to become one.
Vadish grimaced. It had been yet another failure for him. The mistake with those identical twins had not been forgotten either. When it came to murder, his reputation was in the gutter, so much so that he had to move from Mapusa to Porvorim to get away from the embarrassment. Here, news of the twins hadn’t yet reached, and he was still known as a first-class goon. He was the go-to guy, this side of the Zuari River, for dealing with petty disputes, and he enjoyed this part of his job, but he couldn’t just beat people up; he needed murder to establish him as a force to be reckoned with. It was time that he took control. His uncle was certainly expecting him to.
And that was why he had started watching Jackpot. He was going to be his first murder victim. The man was old; it wouldn’t take much to extinguish his life. He would be the one. He could feel it in his bones as he walked around the boatwalla’s house under orders.
But no, someone else had got to Jackpot first, and once again his reputation would be tarnished. Who would have thought that one night of passion with a lady of the night could have caused such a problem? All those missed calls must have been from one of his clients, but which one? The telephone number had been withheld. There was no way of finding out who had tried calling him, and in his line of work, it wasn’t something he could ask outright. And even if he could, it was not something anyone would admit to. Someone was desperate. So desperate they had taken matters into their own hands – unless another goonda was treading on his patch?
When he heard the news about Jackpot’s death, he had made his way to the lake. Once there, he had strained his neck from the safety of the crowd to get a better look. Someone had spoken to Detective Kumar, because he was making all the usual sounds to suggest the death was natural. Very good, Kumar, big pat on the back. But there was another official-looking fellow there, one Vadish didn’t recognise at first. He was dressed casually in off-white trousers and a navy striped t-shirt, leather sandals on his feet. He had a fat belly and a wiry moustache, the ends of which he kept twisting. Vadish could tell he was rubbing Kumar up the wrong way by the way Kumar bristled every time he spoke. Vadish had watched this fellow take photos and cast his suspicions before eventually realising who the fat man was. It was Detective Chupplejeep! He had heard about him, the cop that wouldn’t take a bribe. Ha! He felt momentarily sorry if anyone was to be blamed for Jackpot’s death, but then he thought it served them right for interfering on his turf.
Vadish watched the detective lift the bandana from Jackpot’s neck, and his blood froze. The strangulation marks were clearly visible and the Detective had certainly seen them, but that didn’t worry him. What worried him was that whoever had done this to Jackpot had used his uncle’s modus operandi, and his uncle was most definitely in Mangalore.
He knew two of his clients were after Jackpot, but which one of them had done this, he wasn’t sure. He needed to know who it was, because if he didn’t find out, his whole business could be at risk; he could be at risk. Vadish needed to do some investigating of his own. Find the killer before that pesky Detective Chupplejeep did. He had one up on the police though. He knew exactly who he needed to visit.
CHAPTER NINE
Talika looked out over the lake, chewing her thumbnail. Her daughter would be arriving any minute now. How would Roshni be now that her beloved father was dead? Roshni wouldn’t take the news easily. She wouldn’t easily accept that her father died naturally despite knowing that her father was a drunk. Their daughter would want to know everything, every little detail.
Roshni, their only child, had grown into a headstrong woman. Fighting with her father to go to Dhudsagar waterfalls for a picnic when she knew he worried about her swimming there, arguing her case for a late curfew when she went out in the evenings with her friends and continuing with her studies in science instead of attend
ing secretarial college. Eventually, she always got her way with him. Of course she had. Ranjit and Roshni were close, closer than Talika’s relationship with her daughter. There was a bond between them that could not be broken.
Until now.
Only recently, Roshni had convinced her father to pay for her to go to college in Belgaum. Talika harrumphed at the expense of it. Ranjit had worked his entire life, from a young boy helping in the paddy fields to working in the salt pans after his father died. He was even a kabadiwalla, junk seller, in the nineties, when life was particularly tough. He had finally settled with a job right on his doorstep – taking people around the lake in his boat – and he was very happy doing it.
Tourism in Toem Place had given Ranjit the opportunity to make money close to home. It was an easy job, and he could have doubled his prices if he had wanted, but he never did. And then last week, Talika had bumped into Suzie, from one of the rented lake-side bungalows, at the market, and she had commented on Ranjit’s low prices. It had irritated Talika, especially now that Roshni was going to an expensive college out of town. They needed the money for their retirement and agreed that he would increase his prices. When she returned home, she questioned him, but as usual it had turned into an argument. ‘We have money to live. What are you so worried about? Stop eating my brains, woman,’ he shouted as he so often did nowadays, and so she had stopped asking him questions and retreated back to their bedroom.
Ranjit’s sudden disregard for money had worried Talika. Was he going senile? Was it that simple? No, she didn’t think so. Nothing in life was simple – Talika had learnt that at an early age, when at eight her mother had sent her to work cleaning pots and pans for a rich family in the neighbouring village.
No, Ranjit had not been going slowly mad. Her beloved husband Ranjit had been keeping secrets from her, secrets big enough to make her head spin. He thought that he could keep her in the dark. But she was smarter than that, smarter than that bewde, drunk.
~
Talika heard a key in the door and braced herself. ‘Roshni,’ she whispered. She watched, waiting for the door to open. When she saw her daughter’s face, she took a sharp intake of breath. There were similarities between her daughter and Ranjit that she had almost forgotten. They both shared those large almond-shaped eyes and unruly black hair, hair that Talika would wrestle with every morning before sending her daughter off to school.
That hair had worried Talika. For years, Roshni paid no attention to her appearance, preferring her studies to dressing up for potential matches Talika had made for her. The girl never wanted to run a brush through her hair. But now, as her daughter walked to the kitchen table where Talika was sitting, she noticed her hair had been tamed, straightened, cut short and wait… Talika sniffed the air. Her daughter was wearing perfume too.
So she had money to buy expensive-smelling perfumes whilst Talika smelled of ghee and mutton. This was no time for perfume. Her father had just died. The girl was undisciplined, and now that her father was no longer around, Talika would take her behaviour into her own hands. After the mourning period was over, she would find her daughter a suitable match. Talika looked at Roshni’s freshly plucked eyebrows. Roshni was not so naïve and innocent as she often liked to portray, as Ranjit had liked to believe – she hadn’t come home wearing perfume and makeup for the benefit of her widowed mother. No, she was after something else, someone else. Over my dead body, thought Talika.
‘What happened?’ Roshni asked. Her thick jet-black hair was smoothed back with coconut oil. Her terracotta-coloured shalwaar was modern, in a simple cotton with some intricate embroidery along the border.
‘What, no hello for your mother?’ Talika asked. Her daughter was always more concerned with how Ranjit was than the woman who carried her in her womb for nine months and went through forty-eight hours of labour to deliver her.
Roshni shook her head and put her bags down. ‘Sorry, Ma,’ she said, tears running down her cheeks. ‘It was just so sudden, that’s all. Such a shock.’ She walked to her mother and put her arms around her.
‘You have become skinny, Rosh. Why’s this? Too much studies? Boys?’ Talika ventured.
Roshni let go. ‘Tell me what happened,’ she said, ignoring her mother’s question.
‘Nothing has changed from when we spoke. You know your father took alcohol often.’
Roshni scowled at her mother. ‘No thanks to you,’ she mumbled under her breath, but Talika heard her.
‘What did you say?’ Talika said, closing her hands into fists by her sides.
‘Nothing.’
‘You think I drove your father to drink?’
‘You were constantly nagging him about money, about his clothes, everything. When I was here, you were always shouting. Daddy was a peaceful fellow. You…’
‘What are you saying?’
Roshni was silent. She touched the arch of her eyebrow. ‘Never mind. I don’t know what I’m saying. Let’s not fight. It won’t bring him back.’
Talika unclenched her fists and walked to the stove, where there was a pan simmering. ‘Tea?’ she offered.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean –’
‘You’re angry that your father is dead. No one understands that better than me. I’ve lost my soulmate, the love of my life. No matter what you may think.’ Talika averted her watery eyes from her daughter as she made two cups of tea.
‘Ma, I don’t think like that. It’s just… You’re right. I’m angry.’
Talika handed her daughter a cup of sweet, milky chai. She reached into a cupboard and retrieved a packet of Marie biscuits.
‘Daddy’s favourites,’ Roshni said, taking the pack.
Talika nodded.
‘Who did this to Daddy?’
Talika took a dishcloth from the side and started wiping down the kitchen work surfaces. ‘Don’t start this, please,’ she said softly.
‘They’re doing an autopsy?’
‘So you approve of that. I thought you’d be angry with strangers cutting open your father. You should be.’
Roshni made a face. ‘Why do you have to be so graphic? You’re heartless.’
‘Big words.’
‘I’m in college now,’ Roshni said.
Talika turned to look at her daughter.
‘I want to know why this happened,’ Roshni said, dipping one of the round biscuits into her tea. She looked up and stared at her mother, looking her in the eye. ‘Don’t you?’
CHAPTER TEN
Christabel rolled out her newly purchased purple yoga mat and sat on it, cross-legged in the lotus position. Well, not the lotus position exactly. She couldn’t quite get her feet where she wanted, but nevertheless she was almost there. And this morning her instructor, Vishnu, had said that what she was doing was good enough for a beginner. Christabel was excited about her final class for the day because the owner of the ashram, Sneha Dhanjwant, was taking it. She was lucky to get in because Sneha only ever instructed ten students at a time. Any more and it interfered with her prana, or so she said.
Her decision to come just for one class at this expensive retreat at Toem Place had been worth the money. But one class had now turned into four and a lunch. She hoped Arthur would understand. Of course she wanted to talk to him about their future together. That was important to her, very important to her, but after just one class, she had felt so much lighter in herself that she decided to stay for another, and then another, and then the lunch of vouchi bhaji and channa had looked so tempting.
Before she had come to the retreat, she was like a tightly wound coil, ready to spring at any moment. Her mind was all over the place. Would Arthur ever marry her? Would she be a spinster forever like her mother had warned? Would she fit into any of her clothes if she continued to comfort eat the way she was? Should she even forgive Arthur for practically ditching her at the altar? Today she discovered this was what was referred to as her monkey mind. Constantly flitting from one thought to another. Instead, Vishnu had instructed
her to concentrate on her breathing in a mindful meditation, and after ten minutes or so, she felt strangely calm, calmer than she had felt in months.
The only disappointment was that the name of the retreat, Women of the Sun, had been a little misleading – because there were men everywhere. Many of the instructors were men, and there were men in every class, even the fertility yoga class she had tried. When she had booked the class, she had taken a good look at the website, but she hadn’t bothered to check if the retreat was unisex. She had assumed from its very name that it was for women only.
This morning after attending her first class, the only one she had planned on, she had asked the receptionist if there were any female-only classes. The woman behind the desk stared at her like she had just farted. Looking at her over her thick-rimmed glasses, her nose scrunched, the woman said, ‘We are very modern here. All classes are mixed.’
Christabel, feeling like a prude, said no more. But she found it quite uncomfortable doing a downward dog in front of a man. She had to tuck her t-shirt into her sweatpants to prevent it gaping open and exposing her pink brassiere to everyone behind her.
They were not in Europe, where men and women seemed to share everything. They were in Goa, rural Goa, where male and female facilities were separate, otherwise who knew what would happen.
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