[Inspector de Silva 09] - High Wire in Nuala

by Harriet Steel

  ‘Nevertheless, I must question her.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Does she speak any English?’

  ‘Only a little, but I will translate.’

  They waited in silence for Izabella to be brought. De Silva noticed there were beads of sweat on Boris’s face. The effects of repressed anxiety and grief as much as of the temperature, he imagined. Briefly, it crossed his mind that there had still, as far as he knew, been no news of the whereabouts of Boris’s brother, Alexei. Surely, the search party would have found him by now; the Nuala racetrack was not that large a place. It was odd that he had not come to grieve with his brother, and if he knew de Silva was there – and he had made no secret of it – to talk to the police. Sadly, it indicated that the relationship between the brothers was probably as hostile as the clown, Gordo, had said it was. The charitable view was that Alexei might be taking on the task of calming the situation and trying to keep the circus’s routine on foot, but from the conversation with Gordo, he didn’t sound the obvious man for the job.

  The sound of raised voices heralded the arrival of Izabella, accompanied by some of the other circus people. De Silva recognised the fire-eater and Gordo, but he noted that still no one came forward to introduce himself as Alexei.

  Izabella had removed her circus costume and wore a severe, gunmetal-grey dress that clung to her angular figure. No longer warmed by greasepaint, her sallow face looked drained. She stalked over to where Boris and de Silva waited and stopped, regarding him suspiciously. He wondered if gossip and accusations were already circulating backstage. If word had got out that there might have been something wrong with the wire, he was probably not the only one to make the connection to Izabella. Still, if that was the case, the damage was done.

  ‘Miss Rabach, I understand that you and Tatiana checked your equipment before the performance.’

  Izabella looked at him blankly and Boris intervened. ‘Yes,’ she said when he had finished speaking. ‘Always I check.’ There was aggression in her voice. De Silva saw he would have to handle her with tact, but it was clear she was already on the defensive. He sensed that the mood of the crowd of onlookers, swelled by the arrival of more of the dancers, verged on hostility too. It might be safest to remove Izabella before there was any unpleasantness.

  ‘Everything was good,’ she added flatly.

  ‘What time was this?’

  She looked at Boris, who said a few words, before she replied.

  ‘Twelve o’clock.’

  ‘Did you check the whole length of the wire?’

  Again, she looked to Boris for help then shook her head and said something to him.

  ‘She says no, Tatiana always does this. She only checks where wire is fastened to towers.’

  ‘Did they do the checks together?’

  Again a pause while Boris translated.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘She does not know when Tatiana checked.’

  A man called out from the crowd.

  De Silva frowned and turned to Boris. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He saw Tatiana up on wire at about eleven o’clock.’

  So, thought de Silva, Izabella would have had a chance to tamper with the wire after Tatiana’s inspection. She might be lying about only involving herself with the fastenings to the towers. ‘When the checks were being done, would there have been lights on as there are now and other people about?’ he asked.

  ‘A few,’ said Boris. ‘But it is high up. People below are busy with their work.’ The troubled look on his face had intensified.

  ‘Miss Rabach,’ said de Silva. ‘While you were up checking the fastenings to the towers as you say you were, did you put anything on the wire? Grease, for example?’

  Boris spoke to her again, and she shook her head violently. More people in the crowd shouted out. Concerned by their tone of voice, he made a quick decision.

  ‘I believe it would be best to continue this conversation at the police station. To be clear, at this stage I am not making an arrest.’

  Izabella’s face darkened as Boris Goncharov translated. She rushed at him, grabbed him by his shirt collar, and began to shake him. A stream of furious words poured from her lips as he forced her back to arm’s length and tried to calm her.

  De Silva approached the crowd. ‘Go about your business. The lady is distressed. Your boss and I will deal with it.’

  Mutinous eyes watched him; no one moved.

  ‘Either you leave, or I’ll arrest you all for disorderly conduct.’ He delivered the order in his sharpest tone, with no idea how many of them understood a word of what he was saying, but he saw Gordo whisper something to his neighbour, who passed it on. Slowly, the crowd backed off. He watched sternly until the stragglers had gone then turned his attention back to Boris and Izabella. He had succeeded in calming her a little although she still shot de Silva looks that would have frozen monsoon rain.

  ‘Izabella will come with you now, Inspector,’ said Boris sadly. ‘I tell her if she has done nothing wrong, she has nothing to be afraid.’

  ‘I suggest she brings a few things with her. She may be gone for a few days. It’s for her safety.’

  Boris murmured something to Izabella who wiped her wet cheeks with his handkerchief and nodded.

  ‘I go with her to find Nadia,’ he said. ‘She will help.’

  De Silva omitted to ask who Nadia was; he was already busy thinking about how he would get Izabella to the police station. If she lost her temper again, he didn’t relish the idea of sharing the Morris with a wildcat. Fortunately, he heard familiar voices, and Prasanna and Nadar came into the tent. He went over to them.

  ‘You’ve turned up at the right time. Who told you I was here?’

  ‘Doctor Hebden, sir,’ replied Prasanna. ‘We asked him if you wanted help. He said he wasn’t sure, but he expected you’d be glad of the offer. We’re sorry not to have come sooner. We needed to find neighbours who would take our families home.’

  ‘That’s fine. You see this lady?’

  Prasanna and Nadar peered nervously at Izabella who favoured them with a malevolent stare.

  ‘She’s not under arrest, but I need her taken down to the police station. She is to stay there overnight, to keep her safe. I’ll come and see her in the morning. If she does try to leave, however, you will have to arrest her. At the moment, she’s the most likely suspect we have.’ It was, after all, a strong possibility that out of jealousy, Izabella had played a malicious prank on Tatiana that had gone horribly wrong.

  ‘Where must she sleep, sir?’ asked Prasanna.

  ‘It will have to be in one of the cells. Make her as comfortable as possible. Plenty of blankets, and all the pillows you can muster. Offer her tea.’

  A look of comical dismay came over Prasanna’s and Nadar’s faces.

  ‘I’m relying on you,’ said de Silva briskly.

  He had thought of telling Prasanna to come back once Izabella was installed at the station, but on reflection, he would let him stay with Nadar to watch her. Safety in numbers. Presumably, it was too late to catch Hebden, and the cars from the Residence would be long gone. The three of them, and whatever luggage Izabella wanted to bring with her, would have to travel by rickshaw. He sent Prasanna and Nadar off to find a couple of drivers and tell them to wait nearby.

  **

  Izabella returned with Boris and a short, plump woman dressed in black. She carried a small holdall and had a grey coat draped over one arm. Talking quietly to Izabella, she steered her in de Silva’s direction; he assumed she was the Nadia that Boris had referred to. At close quarters, he saw she was middle-aged with a weathered face netted with wrinkles. She wore a scarf that covered her hair except for a few wiry, grey strands that escaped around her forehead. Her hands were roughened: the hands of a woman who had worked hard all her life. Amber eyes took him in at a glance. He had the feeling that crossing her would be perilous.

  ‘Izabella is ready,’ she said. She had the same accent as Boris and Gordo
, so presumably, she too was Russian but spoke some English.

  Prasanna and Nadar returned with the news that two rickshaws had been found and were waiting outside one of the public exits. With Izabella and her luggage safely installed, de Silva watched the rickshaw men pedal away in the direction of town. When they had dwindled to specks in the gathering darkness, his thoughts went back to Alexei. Where was the fellow?

  Inside the tent, he found Boris alone. The ringmaster looked exhausted. ‘Nadia sits with Tatiana,’ he said. ‘She will stay with her tonight. It is hard for her. She has looked after Tatiana since she was baby.’

  ‘What is her role in the circus?’ asked de Silva.

  ‘She is wardrobe mistress.’

  There was a pause. ‘The doctor is arranging for the undertakers to come up to collect Tatiana’s body,’ continued de Silva. ‘But I don’t expect it will be before morning now.’

  Boris frowned, and it crossed de Silva’s mind that he was going to object. It was a delicate situation. As Archie had said, these people were not British; they might not see themselves as obliged to abide by British authority. If Boris refused to give up Tatiana’s body, what should he do? He put the question aside, hoping it might not arise.

  ‘Izabella will give your men no trouble,’ Boris said at last. ‘She gave her word.’ His voice cracked and a few moments passed before he composed himself again. ‘You think she did this?’ he asked wretchedly.

  ‘I’m not sure yet.’

  ‘Do you have more questions?’

  ‘Only one more thing for the moment. As your brother is part owner of the circus, it would be appropriate for me at least to meet him before I leave.’

  Boris shrugged. ‘If you want. I expect he is found now.’

  But if so, why hadn’t Alexei made himself known? De Silva was casting about for a way of posing the question that was not too blunt when he heard Boris grunt something.

  ‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’

  ‘I know what you think, Inspector.’ With a bitter laugh and a shake of the head, Boris gave de Silva a sideways glance. ‘Alexei does as he wants. I am sorry, but I have no power over him. We see if he is found, but if he does not like to speak with you …’

  De Silva frowned. The circumstances were out of the ordinary, and Alexei, like Boris, was likely to grieve deeply for someone he had regarded as a sister, but he was a grown man. Tact and sympathy were one thing, pure indulgence another. If necessary, Alexei might have to be compelled to speak with him.

  **

  By the time they emerged from the tent, the last rays of the sun burnished the sky; the green vistas of tea terraces had turned to grey. All the visitors from town had departed. Soon, dusk would give way to night.

  A passing circus hand told them which direction the search party had last been seen going in so they followed, heading away from the centre of the course, aiming for the crossing over the track itself and the area where the paddock and the permanent buildings were situated. Darkness gathered as they walked. Stumbling on a tussock of sandy grass, de Silva wished he had brought the torch that he kept in the Morris.

  Boris appeared to be untroubled by the rough going, seemingly lost in a world of his own. With his long legs he walked fast, and when they reached the area where the small accommodation tents were pitched, de Silva allowed himself to fall behind, observing the groups of people huddled around the fires outside. They would be glad of the warmth later, he thought. Heat escaped rapidly into a clear night sky, and the racecourse was higher than the town. In a few hours, it would be much cooler, and by dawn, a chill would be nipping fingers and noses.

  Aromas of strong, sweet tea and tobacco drifted towards him. Outside a larger tent than the rest, metal grids were heated over big pans of glowing charcoal. Cooks called orders to underlings carrying out platters of raw meat and vegetables. There was a smell of baking bread. It reminded de Silva that he had gone without those tasty snacks he had hoped for, and lunch had been many hours ago.

  Despite the semblance of domesticity, however, de Silva sensed an uneasy atmosphere – a mood that made him doubly thankful that by now, Izabella was probably safe at the police station. Firelight washed faces with crimson and gave dark eyes a sinister gleam; muffled conversation, but little laughter, reached his ears. An eerie feeling that he was a spy walking through an enemy camp on the eve of battle crept up on de Silva.

  He reproached himself for being so fanciful. These people were bound to be unsettled. Once more, his disapproval focused on Alexei. He could have been out here talking to the groups. The sudden and tragic death of a colleague would alarm and distress most people, quite apart from a fear of it bringing bad luck.

  Boris was by now a considerable way ahead, so he quickened his pace to catch up. But before he reached him, Boris suddenly lumbered into an ungainly trot. Several men were hurrying towards them from an area to the right of the racecourse buildings. They were shouting. Boris speeded up, stumbled, and almost fell, but managed to right himself and plough on. De Silva’s heart thudded against his ribcage as he began to run too, straining but failing to hear what the men were shouting about; they must be speaking in Russian.

  At last, they and Boris met. When de Silva joined them a few moments later, he had already sunk to his knees. It was the snake charmer who seemed to have taken command. De Silva remembered that he and Reverend Peters had met to talk about snakes, so unless the vicar spoke Russian, this man must be able to speak at least some English or one of the local languages. He tried English and asked what had happened.

  ‘We find Alexei,’ the man said. ‘Please come.’

  Chapter 3

  They took the dirt track on the right going in the direction that the snake charmer and the other men had come from. As they went, de Silva quickly ascertained that the snake charmer’s name was Kumar, and he spoke Tamil as well as English. To their left, the racecourse stands and the permanent buildings where the bookies’ counters, bars, and other refreshment places were situated were in darkness, although a few lights shone in the area for which they were aiming.

  The place they arrived at was a courtyard with buildings on three sides. The doors of the large wooden barn on the left were wide and high; oil lanterns hung on either side of them and on the walls in several other places in the courtyard. To his right, de Silva saw a long, low brick building; a sign to one side of the door indicated it was an office. The building ahead of him was more of a shed, open at the front and with several bays. It seemed to be a storage place for the machinery and equipment needed for maintenance of the racecourse. There were numerous large mowing machines and grass rollers, stacks of posts and rails for fencing, piles of sacks, bales of straw, wheelbarrows, and also, a large muck heap. The smell of fresh horse dung mingled with the musty aroma of chaff in the air.

  The rest of the men in the search party hung back, and Kumar took charge. ‘This way,’ he said, pausing to unhook an oil lantern from a wall before heading for the office building. The door was open, and they went inside.

  It had been too wet for race meetings over the monsoon season that had recently come to an end, and apparently the building had not been used for some time. The windowpanes were coated with a thin layer of mouse-grey dust that let in only a little light. De Silva saw serviceable desks and along the wall opposite the door, a row of metal filing cabinets. Above them, noticeboards covered with green baize and lattices of rubber webbing bristled with hundreds of pieces of dog-eared paper: presumably office memos and messages. Instead of horse dung and chaff, he smelled stale tobacco.

  At the far end of the room, the word “Manager” was painted on a door that was ajar. As he and Boris followed Kumar and his lantern through the gloom, de Silva felt as if he were swimming through murky water in pursuit of coral fish.

  All at once, Boris stopped abruptly. For a moment he froze before barging past Kumar, almost knocking the oil lantern out of his hand in his haste to get into the room. De Silva hung back, a premonition of
what he was about to see chilling his blood. A visceral cry reverberated down the length of the building then Boris emerged from the room, his knuckles pale against the dark-stained wood as he clutched the door jamb. ‘How this happen?’ he asked brokenly. ‘Why no one stop him?’

  **

  Limp as one of the sacks in the shed outside, Alexei’s body hung from a ceiling beam. A chair lay on its back a little way off. Boris put his arms around his brother and clasped him as if he would never let go. ‘Alexei, Alexei,’ he mumbled.

  ‘We ought to cut him down,’ muttered Kumar. He produced a knife from his belt and went over to Boris, speaking quietly to him until he released his brother’s body and went to slump in the chair behind the manager’s desk.

  The thick rope took several minutes to cut; de Silva supported Alexei’s body as Kumar did so. After they had laid Alexei’s body on the floor and removed the noose, de Silva glanced at Boris. His expression was blank, and his eyes glazed; he was in no condition to take charge.

  ‘I don’t want to leave Alexei here,’ said Kumar in Tamil. ‘Maybe we should take him to the place where Tatiana’s body has been put.’

  He said something to Boris in Russian. De Silva couldn’t understand it, but presumably Boris agreed with the plan, for Kumar went outside and came back with two fence posts and a bundle of sacks. Working with his knife and some twine, he constructed a makeshift stretcher.

  ‘Will you help me, Inspector?’

  De Silva nodded and together they rolled Alexei’s body onto it. As they lifted the stretcher, de Silva saw the weave of the material distort, and he feared it might give way, but it held.

  It helped that although Alexei was not much shorter than his brother, he was thin as a whip. Dark hair that fell in glossy waves to his shoulders and handsome, chiselled features gave him a romantic air. His smooth skin was tanned; the red wheals and bruising at his neck looked raw and grotesque against the white of his open-necked shirt.