by Vaseem Khan
She had no desire to make herself or Malabar House look helpless.
Her final option was to return tomorrow.
But that wasn’t really an option.
Entering the courtyard, she’d noticed a tall wooden gate at the side of the house, presumably fronting an alley leading to the rear. She threw her handbag over the gate, pulled her dress up as high as it would go, and clambered over it. A ripping sound ruptured the night’s silence as she hauled herself over the top and fell heavily to the other side.
Cursing, she stood and dusted herself off.
Her dress had caught on something; a long tear had slashed open the front of her skirt to reveal much of her stockings and a hint of underwear.
She picked up her handbag and headed to the back of the house.
The garden was a profusion of greenery. Bushes and flowering trees; a heady scent of jasmine in the air. French windows above a concrete patio. The door was locked.
She looked around, found a half-loose brick skirting the flowerbeds, pulled it out, returned, hesitated, then punched a hole in the glass. Reaching through, she turned the handle and let herself in.
Darkness. She moved around the room and fumbled for the light switch.
She found herself in a living room: a sofa, a gramophone, bookshelves, a sideboard crammed with exotic fauna fashioned from bronze and glass. On the back wall: a large landscape of abstract shapes, a montage of reds and yellows.
She walked through a short corridor, past a grandfather clock, and found three more rooms – a kitchen, a bathroom, and a bedroom. The bathroom was clean, the bedroom comfortable. A mirrored dresser crowded with female creams and more items of make-up than Persis even knew existed. The bed was a double. A sideboard was crammed with more knick-knacks. In fact, every available surface was crowded out with collectibles.
She searched the room.
There was little to find. Francine possessed an excellent collection of dresses, shoes, and nightwear – including an eye-opening selection of satin camiknickers – but little else. A folder was tucked into the dresser containing bills and paperwork, but nothing of any import.
She returned the folder to the dresser, then carried on with her search.
In the kitchen, she found a round walnut table, a well-stocked fridge, and wooden cupboards with a surfeit of plates and cutlery.
Something caught her eye.
She dropped to her knees and peered under the table.
Behind one of the rear legs was a small piece of shattered ceramic. Her finger traced its jagged edge. She scanned the room again, spotted a bin in the corner. Looking inside, she found more shards. Together, the pieces made up a mug.
She looked around the room once more. A small chip on one of the front table legs. An indentation in the lower door of the fridge.
A wave of nausea rode through her. A struggle had taken place here. More than a struggle. There was a quiet fury to the room and now she understood why. This was where Francine Kramer had been murdered, she was suddenly sure of it.
The evening unfolded before her eyes; for an instant, she stepped back in time and floated above the room, a ghostly observer.
Francine had entertained a man that night. Perhaps they’d made love in the bedroom. Then she had dressed – most probably for her shift at Le Château des Rêves. She’d sat down in the kitchen, a mug of something before she left. Her companion had moved up behind her, looped a cord around her throat, and strangled her. She’d been pulled backwards, instinctively lashing out, kicking the table leg, knocking the mug to the floor. The man had fallen back, thudding against the lower half of the fridge, his hands still pulling tight on the cord, Francine flailing at him as her face turned blue. Gradually, her limbs had stilled.
Afterwards, her killer had cleaned up in haste.
And then he’d driven the body to the tracks near Sandhurst Road station, hoping the train would destroy the evidence of his crime.
Her gaze lingered on Francine, eyes bulging, hand outstretched, moments before she succumbed. The image was so real she could reach out and touch it.
She made a decision. There was no point waiting.
She returned to the living room – on a side table by the sofa she’d spotted a phone. Using a handkerchief, she picked up the receiver and dialled Archie Blackfinch.
It was past midnight by the time she headed home. Blackfinch had offered to drop her, but an awkwardness had sprung up between them now that made such a proposition intolerable.
He’d arrived within twenty minutes of her call, with his assistant, Mohammed, in tow. They’d been working late at the lab, and had their equipment to hand.
She’d met them in the street, Blackfinch momentarily stalling, gawping at her. In the heat of the moment, she’d forgotten that she was still wearing a torn dress.
She’d explained quickly, not bothering to hold the front of her dress together. What was the point? Then she’d led them into the house, and left them in the kitchen, stepping back out as they set to work.
Outside, she discovered a neighbour standing in the street.
The woman, in her fifties, by Persis’s estimation, was wearing curlers and a silk kimono. She was white, dark-haired, with a sagging jaw and a heavy midriff. Blackfinch’s noisy arrival had awoken her; curiosity had driven her from her bed and into the street. Her name was Mabel Hopkins.
‘Did you know Francine well?’
‘Well enough. She was a nice girl. Kept herself to herself for the most part. But she was always pleasant when we spoke.’
‘How long have you lived here?’
‘If you mean how long have I known her, that would be about six years. She was here when I moved in, around the beginning of ’44. I lost my Ken a couple of months later; she was a great comfort. I was in a complete state. I thought about going back, but I have a good job at the Ambassador Hotel and nothing to go home to, so I stayed.’
‘Ken?’
‘My husband. He was killed in that big explosion on the docks. Poor bugger was the dock supervisor that day. Five minutes from the end of his shift.’
The Bombay explosion. A British freighter berthed in the Victoria Docks, carrying ammunition and explosives for the war, had caught fire. The resulting explosion had killed eight hundred, give or take, sinking neighbouring vessels and setting fire to the surrounding area.
‘When was the last time you saw her?’
‘I’m not sure. Maybe four, five days ago. She worked nights. I do day shifts. We’d meet up occasionally for coffee.’
‘Can you tell me about her? Where was she from?’
‘I don’t honestly know. She flat-out refused to talk about her past. I think she was Eastern European, judging by her accent. But she never mentioned her childhood.’
‘Why not?’
‘I can’t tell you. Some people are just very private. Or maybe there was something in her past she didn’t want me to know. I learned not to ask questions. Between you and me, I don’t think Kramer was her real name. She didn’t sound like a Kramer.’
Persis didn’t bother to ask the woman what she meant by that. ‘Can you tell me about her friends, acquaintances?’
‘She hardly ever had visitors. Maybe a couple of girls from that club she worked at.’
‘Did she have a gentleman friend?’
‘No one regular. I mean, not many ordinary men would put up with that sort of thing.’
‘What sort of thing?’
She fumbled a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from a pocket sewn on to her kimono. Lighting one, she took a long pull. ‘I’m not the type to judge, Inspector. She did what she did to get by.’
‘You can’t think of anyone who might have borne her a grudge?’
‘Francine was the sweetest little thing imaginable. She wouldn’t hurt a fly. But she had this . . . sadness about her. Kept it clutched close to her chest. Ken and I never had kids, otherwise I might have known how to get it out of her, how to help.’ She flicked cigarette as
h on to the road, and shivered, though the night was warm. ‘I noticed a gentleman caller outside her home a couple of weeks ago. It was late and I was outside for a smoke. Couldn’t sleep. He came out of her gate and headed up the street towards a parked car. Big man, heavy-set. Black hair. Nice suit. I only caught the side of his face, but I thought I saw a scar here.’ She waved with her cigarette at her left cheek, tracing a line from the side of her lip to the bottom of her ear. ‘I remember it because, as I said, Francine doesn’t usually have gentleman callers. She never brings her work home. And, also like I said, there’s no one special in her life.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Because she would have given herself away. A woman in love . . . that’s a difficult thing to hide, Inspector. Trust me. Francine wasn’t in love.’ She stared at Persis until the policewoman looked away. Something of her own predicament twisted at her insides and she thought, for an instant, about Blackfinch.
A pack of stray dogs came trotting down the street, yapping mindlessly.
Persis considered what Arabella had told her at the nightclub, that Francine had recently started seeing a man. Not love, but something. Something dangerous.
‘Did you ask her about this gentleman?’
‘I asked. Francine said he was just a friend.’
‘What was his name?’
‘She wouldn’t say. Said he was fanatical about his privacy. She called him Mr Grey. On account of he always wore grey suits, apparently. I suspect he was some married fool besotted with her.’ Her eyes became pinpricks. ‘You don’t think he—?’
Persis made a mental note to speak with Blackfinch’s assistant, Mohammed. Apparently, he had let slip to this woman that they’d arrived to investigate Francine’s murder.
Ignoring the question, she said, ‘Can you remember any details about the car? The licence plate?’
Mabel tugged on her cigarette again. ‘A white sedan. Expensive-looking thing. I can’t remember the licence plate.’
She arrived home to find her father stretched out on the living room sofa, snoring loud enough to wake the dead. Akbar was curled up on the piano, and shivered to life as she let herself in. She came and sat by Sam, watching his chest rise and fall rhythmically. Occasionally, his breath would hitch and he’d make a sort of choking noise as if a small animal had become trapped in his throat.
Ever since her mother’s passing, he’d made it a point to wait until she was asleep before retiring for the night.
Those early years after Sanaz’s death had been confusing ones. Persis had always been a loner; her mother her only real confidante. Her relationship with her father had not been close until that moment. He infuriated her, he challenged her, he made it impossible to have a reasonable discussion about anything. The man was incorrigible. And yet, she couldn’t imagine life without him.
She reminded herself to check with Dr Aziz on the state of his health. Sam would never tell her the truth. Even stretched out in the Towers of Silence, with vultures pecking at his liver, he’d probably insist he was as fit as a fiddle.
She decided to leave him where he was rather than disturb his rest.
Leaning down, she kissed him on the forehead, then went to her room, showered, and came back into her bedroom wearing a towel. As she dried herself she caught sight of Aunt Nussie’s shopping bag, still on the armchair where she had left it. She padded over and took out the black negligee. The silk was undeniably more luxurious than anything she’d ever owned.
She set down the towel and slipped into the garment, then stood and looked at herself in the mirror.
A tremor of shock ran through her.
The woman that looked back at her – tall, dusky, almost naked – was a stranger. Mysterious and dangerous. Like the women in certain risqué magazines her father ordered for his more discerning clients. The only thing missing was a pout.
She had become so used to seeing herself in uniform that it had become difficult to frame herself outside of it.
She thought about Arabella at Francine Kramer’s club. Her easy sexuality; her knowledge of what drove men and how easy they were to control once you knew the right buttons to press.
A skill Persis had never had.
If anything, she always seemed to press the wrong buttons.
Her thoughts drifted back to the night she’d given herself to the only man she had ever loved. Zubin Dalal. A small, neat presence, with impeccable manners, wit, and the charm of the devil. A fellow Parsee, older and wiser. She’d trusted him; she’d desired him.
That single night of passion blazed darkly in her thoughts.
They’d dined at his apartment, alone, a meal he’d prepared. Afterwards, he’d opened a bottle of Château Margaux, an outstanding 1928. They’d reverted to their favourite subject – literature. It was while they were dissecting Byron’s romantic works that he’d leaned over and kissed her. And that was all it had taken.
She still marvelled at how easily she’d fallen into the moment.
Hours later, returned to her own bed, she’d reached out and touched the pillow beside hers, wondering what it would be like to have him there every night. A partner, a companion, a lover . . . Lover. The frisson of that simple word electrified her.
And then . . . the betrayal.
She still couldn’t fathom it. The memory of it howled like the rage of angels in her breast, a searing resentment that refused to dim with the passage of time.
She picked up her hairbrush and pulled at her hair furiously.
Another thought crept in, unbidden . . . What would Archie Blackfinch say if he could see her now? What would he do? . . . She noticed Akbar watching her.
Foolishness.
She pulled on a set of pyjamas, then wandered back out to the living room to pour herself a whisky. Her father snored on.
Her eyes alighted on a package on the dining table. She recognised Birla’s handwriting on the envelope: The book you asked for.
She opened the package, lifted out the book, then returned to her bedroom, climbed on to the bed, and opened the translated version of Dante’s masterpiece on to her lap.
It was about time she read the work at the centre of all the trouble.
The translation was by Jefferson Butler Fletcher, a printing by the Macmillan Company of New York. The edition contained all three parts of Dante’s great poem – Inferno, Purgatorio, and Paradiso – with an introduction and explanatory notes on each. The book was illustrated with reprints of Italian Renaissance artist Sandro Botticelli’s drawings, created for a famed 1485 edition of the work commissioned by Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco de’ Medici, a member of Florence’s notorious House of Medici.
Quickly, she scanned the introductory text, Fletcher’s take on the work’s meaning and importance.
Dante Alighieri had been born in 1265 in Florence, part of the Republic of Florence – modern-day Italy – during a time of intense political rivalries, particularly between the Pope and the Holy Roman Emperor. Dante grew up with a love of poetry, works that later influenced his own verse, replete with metaphor, symbolism, and double meanings. At a young age, he fell in love with a girl named Beatrice Portinari – that love would remain unrequited. In time, Dante would marry another, though he continued to adore Beatrice from afar. After Beatrice’s early death, Dante remained haunted by her for the remainder of his life, revisiting his love for her in verse, even awarding her a starring role in his masterwork.
Having been dragged into the political quagmire of Florence during middle age, Dante found himself exiled from his home city. It was during this exile that he conceived of and began The Divine Comedy, completing it in 1320, a year before his death.
Persis turned to the beginning of Inferno, scanning the first canto, the words that Healy had left behind.
Midway upon the journey of our life,
I came to myself, in a dark wood,
For I had wandered from the straight and true.
She continued to read, making notes as sh
e went.
Fifteen minutes later, she had a solid grasp of the contents of the canto: Dante, lost in a forest, meets a ghostly Virgil, who offers to lead him to Heaven – via Hell and Purgatory.
She set down the book.
Why had Healy drawn their attention to this particular canto?
Was there a significance here that she was missing, something that might lead her to the missing manuscript? Unlike Healy’s previous clues, there was no riddle to solve here, at least none that she could see.
She read for another half-hour, then, frustrated, set the book aside. Sleep tugged at her eyelids. Beside her, Akbar had already succumbed.
Turning out the light, she fell into a deep slumber in which she dreamed of she-wolves quoting poetry and ghostly visitors speaking in riddles.
Chapter 19
‘Rigor mortis.’ Raj Bhoomi looked at her from above the corpse of John Healy, stretched out on the autopsy table before him.
She waited for him to expand, stamping down on her irritation. Why didn’t he just tell her? Behind her, Birla yawned like a baboon.
They’d arrived just before eight. Even at that hour the college had been busy, students and faculty stepping briskly through the corridors, the hustle and bustle of a new day.
Her mind lingered on the previous night’s events. Standing here, in the autopsy suite, the body of John Healy before her, she was struck by the notion that her life appeared to revolve around the macabre. Murder, death, human perfidy. No doubt Aunt Nussie would have plenty to say on the matter, vindicated in her belief that the role of police officer was no occupation for a woman.
‘By my estimation,’ continued Bhoomi, ‘this man has been dead for well over forty-eight hours. Rigor mortis has come and gone.’ He lifted Healy’s arm and waved it at her. ‘Floppy, as you can see.’ He grinned. Persis did not smile back. Bhoomi’s smile faltered. ‘The body has begun to bloat and there is a bloody foam beginning to leak from the nose. I’d say he’s been dead somewhere between three and four days.’
