by Vaseem Khan
She looked at the clock on the station wall. Between Jaya and the women from the Margaret Cousins College, she would waste hours, when she should be focused on the Healy investigation. But there seemed no way out of either engagement.
Sighing, she picked up the phone and began dialling.
In short order, she made appointments to meet with Erin Lockhart and Franco Belzoni – Belzoni was available later that afternoon, while Lockhart’s secretary informed her that she was out of Bombay till the following morning.
She then dialled her father’s old friend, military historian Augustus Silva. It was time she found out more about John Healy’s past.
Chapter 20
‘There is a common misperception that the British governed India by employing the Roman policy of divide et impera – divide and rule. The truth is not quite as dramatic.’
Persis listened with a frown as the Englishman waved them into his office. She followed Augustus Silva inside as their host shut the door behind them.
A shambling, elderly man, almost bald, with a heavy belly, Frank Lindley stank strongly of sweat and cigarette smoke. His shirt, drenched in perspiration, was unbuttoned to his chest, curls of soaking white hair debouching from within. Lindley, like Silva, was a military historian based at Bombay University. She supposed that she should be grateful for his assistance, even if it meant suffering his malodorous presence in the close confines of his office.
‘The fact is,’ continued Lindley, making his way to the far side of his desk and falling into the chair like a felled tree, ‘that, aside from a few notable exceptions – such as Curzon’s partitioning of Bengal in 1905 – most of the dividing in India happened with the collusion of local interests, a way for those at the top to maintain their ancient feudal rights. As for Partition . . . Surely, you’re not one of these Indians who believes that the British were responsible?’
Persis disliked Lindley’s supercilious tone. She’d heard such arguments before. Even if there was some validity to them, it didn’t change, for her, the unpalatable facts of colonialism.
Nevertheless, at this moment in time, she needed the man’s cooperation. Silva had recommended the Englishman as the best way of finding out about John Healy’s past.
Officially, Frank Lindley worked for the British Council in Delhi, preparing a study to complement various post-independence initiatives for the British and Indian armies to work together. In a past life, he had been a soldier – though Persis couldn’t imagine him in uniform – and had served extensively around the empire, including in an advisory capacity to Whitehall during World War Two. It was those contacts that he’d now prevailed upon to request the information that Persis needed.
‘Did you bring the money?’
Persis reached into the pocket of her trousers and took out an envelope. She watched, with a faint tremor of disgust, as Lindley counted the cash, then put it into a drawer. He grinned at her, displaying stained, yellow teeth, perhaps sensing her thoughts. ‘Information is a commodity, Inspector. And there is no such thing as a free commodity.’
He handed her a Manila folder. Inside, she found a sheaf of papers.
‘Your man Healy wasn’t quite as straightforward to track down as I had anticipated. Luckily, I still have a few friends in the War Office.’ He settled on to his elbows and fixed her with his watery grey eyes. ‘John Healy served in North Africa, with the British Eighth Army. I say served, but the truth is that almost as soon as he was sent out there, in the autumn of ’43, he was captured in action and taken to the Italian POW camp in Sulmona – Campo 78, as it was known. At its peak, there were almost three thousand inmates there – British and Commonwealth, both officers and lesser ranks, all captured in North Africa. Records show that, just weeks after his arrival, in September 1943, as the Italian government neared collapse, rumours spread among the inmates that the camp was about to be evacuated to Germany. Shortly after, the Italian guards deserted. Hundreds of the inmates took the opportunity to escape into the surrounding hills. Others, unfortunately, chose to tow the official British line – attempt no escapes and wait for rescue. On September 14th, German troops arrived to escort the remaining prisoners northwards. Healy was one of those taken north.’
Persis looked through the folder – Lindley had had the papers faxed over from the British War Office to a Western Union Office near the university, one of the few fax receiving stations in the city. Because of the sensitive nature of the documents, Lindley had had to stand guard over the receiving printer until the papers came through. His attentiveness – and the fact that he’d had to pay a senior contact to get the information out without the red tape that would inevitably have been involved in requesting a British Army service record through official channels – had been reflected in his bill.
Seth had almost fainted dead away when she’d told him the sum.
John Healy’s record included basic personal details, the date he’d entered the service, his rank – Corporal – his units, and his wounds and hospitalisations – none, as far as she could make out.
A photograph of Healy in uniform showed a rigid face, staring straight ahead, self-assurance in his gaze.
She skimmed through the remainder of the file which also held details of Healy’s time in North Africa, and his capture by German forces.
Lindley stood up and opened the casement window behind him, letting some much-needed air into the room. The voices of students drifted in with the midday heat. He lit a cigarette, his figure outlined in a haze of light. ‘I suppose the Germans found out that Healy was a bit special,’ he continued, eventually. ‘Not many star academics out on the front line. He was taken to Campo 12 at Vincigliata. Have you heard of it?’
She shook her head. These names meant nothing to her. She knew little of Italy, and little of what had gone on there during the war, aside from what she’d seen in Pathé news footage.
‘It was a particularly notorious prigioniero di guerra – “prison of war”. Set in a beautiful thirteenth-century castle near Florence, it was used to hold high-rank prisoners. There were only ever about twenty-five there at any one time, including several British generals. The fact that Healy was sent there means that the Germans thought pretty highly of his celebrity status.’ He flicked ash out of the window, then returned to his desk.
Persis continued to skim through the file.
She discovered papers describing the prison Healy had ended up in.
Photographs of the place showed a medieval castle standing atop a rocky hill, its most prominent feature a crenellated tower. The former stronghold of a noble Florentine family, it had been requisitioned by the Italian government during the war for use as a prison.
‘It wasn’t easy getting access to this information,’ commented Lindley. ‘There seems to be a lack of clarity as to exactly what happened to Healy during his time at Vincigliata.’
‘I believe that he was tortured there.’
Lindley stroked his stomach. ‘There seems little evidence for that sort of thing at the prison. I’m not saying it couldn’t have happened, but these were high-ranking officers. Even the Germans didn’t go in for pulling the fingernails off our top knobs.’
‘Healy wasn’t of a high rank.’
‘True. But he was taken to Vincigliata for a reason. I’d be surprised if that reason was simply to abuse him.’
She discovered in the documents a sheet of paper with a sketchy record of Healy’s arrival at the Castello di Vincigliata. It was written in Italian, with the Italian repeated in German. Someone had helpfully added an English translation to the text. It merely stated Healy’s rank, a summary of his army record, his time at Campo 78, and, notably, a few lines about his pre-war status as a noted academic.
What could have incited the Italians – and their German masters – to torture him? What had Healy done to make them want to break his spirit?
‘I need to know more. Is there any way we can track down some of his fellow inmates? Or possibly one of the guards
there?’
Lindley scratched at his jowls. ‘Fellow inmates might not be difficult to find, but I doubt they’ll be keen to talk. As I mentioned, they were mainly high-ranking officers. I can’t guarantee any of them will be willing to revisit their experiences as jailbirds in an Italian POW camp. A bit of a dent to the ego, if you catch my drift. As for Italians and Germans . . .’ He grimaced. ‘If we didn’t put them up against a wall and shoot them – as we should have done with every last Nazi, in my opinion – I might be able to trace one or two. But it’s a lot more work. I have a contact at the War Office Directorate of Prisoners of War. It’s going to cost money.’
She hesitated. Seth had already grumbled at the cost of paying Lindley. To go back and ask for more might give him a mild stroke.
Then again, this was now a national matter. How much was it worth to the authorities to find that manuscript?
‘That’s fine,’ she said, rising to her feet. ‘Just do it quickly.’
Lindley grunted and sucked on his cigarette, mentally dismissing her.
Chapter 21
On the rare occasions that she reflected on her school years, she found herself thinking of the four of them: Jaya, Dinaz, Emily, and Persis herself. Their friendship had been late-blooming – the first few years at the Cathedral Girls School had been largely a trial of hostility.
She’d been told that she was rude, uncooperative, surly. The more they required her to fit in, the less she was inclined to do so. The fact was that she had no real desire to dance like a monkey in the playground in order to earn the dubious badge of popularity. While other girls gossiped about the latest movie stars, she carried a book around, looking for a quiet corner in which to wait before the bell rang for the next class.
But then had come Emily, the daughter of an English couple newly stationed in the city. Emily, who had seen her reading Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment one day and sat down next to her, uninvited. Persis had given her every indication that her presence was unwelcome; to her astonishment, the girl had simply ignored her. She would wonder later if this was another example of the British sense of entitlement her father bemoaned, but, by then, it was too late.
They had become friends.
Emily had brought two of her own friends along, Dinaz and Jaya. Dinaz, Persis had found easy to get along with. She was a fellow Parsee, so there was common ground to work with. But Jaya had been a nightmare. A cultivated snob, she had treated Persis with aloofness, as one might a familiar servant. Jaya’s parents were wealthy – her father had made a fortune producing steel cutlery for the armed forces; her mother was an heiress to a copper mine. Jaya had grown up spoiled, and it showed. She was harsh and supercilious, except around Emily. With her, she was sickeningly ingratiating.
Persis had put up with her needling for about a month – for Emily’s sake – until, one day, Jaya stepped on a landmine, muttering something unforgivable about Persis’s late mother and her elopement. Persis had promptly punched her in the mouth, knocking out one of her teeth. She could still remember how Jaya had stood there, astonished, staring at her, as if the natural order of the cosmos had inverted itself.
When the fuss had died down, Jaya, to Persis’s own astonishment, had returned and sheepishly apologised. Her father, she explained, had told her that she deserved it and wished he had been there to see it himself.
From that moment forth, they’d become the firmest of friends.
The incident had only served to cement Persis’s belief that there were few ills in the world that couldn’t be cured by a punch in the mouth.
Jaya lived in a three-storey bungalow in Cuffe Parade. It was only when Persis had already rung the bell that she realised she’d forgotten to bring a present. ‘Damn.’ She jogged back to her jeep and rummaged in the glove compartment.
She stared at the object in her hand. It would have to do.
‘You’ve lost weight.’
Jaya examined her with a critical eye. Persis couldn’t help but note that her friend was looking effortlessly glamorous, as ever. Slender, and sporting a sari that had probably cost more than most people’s cars, Jaya had always taken pride in her appearance. It was hard to believe her friend had recently had a second child.
They sat on the new cream-coloured sofas that had just been installed on the rear porch in front of the pool. Children splashed and screamed in the water, mothers watching anxiously from the sides, one or two of the more adventurous ones in bathing suits resembling straitjackets.
‘And you’ve gained more hangers-on.’
‘Play nicely! These are my friends.’ Jaya lowered her voice. ‘Or at least, they’re the mothers of Arun’s friends.’
Persis smiled. ‘Motherhood becomes you.’
Jaya sipped at her martini. ‘Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.’
‘I can’t say that it’s on the horizon. Kids, I mean.’
‘Ah. Your precious career. Does the police service still not allow married women?’
‘No.’
‘What about unwed mothers? Since you’re so keen on breaking new ground.’
‘I was under the impression that a man was needed somewhere along the line. For the purposes of motherhood, I mean.’
Jaya sighed. ‘It’s not as if you don’t have options. I mean, look at you. If we got you out of that uniform and into a decent dress, you’d be quite the catch. Give me the word, and I’ll have you married off by the end of the week.’
‘You sound like Aunt Nussie.’
‘Is she so wrong?’
Persis rolled her eyes. ‘I’m not interested in men. Not right now.’
Jaya was staring at her with catlike intensity. ‘Hmm.’
‘Hmm, what?’
‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks. Have you met someone?’
‘What? No.’
‘You’re blushing!’
‘I am not!’
‘My God! You have met someone.’ Jaya leaned forward, mischief in her eyes. ‘Spill the beans. Who is he?’
Persis gaped at her. Relief washed over her as Jaya’s five-year-old son, Arun, waddled over. The boy, Persis couldn’t help but notice, was alarmingly overweight, with thick black hair and a heavy, square jaw, like a disgruntled toad.
‘When can we cut the cake?’ he demanded of his mother.
‘Not yet, my darling.’
‘I want to cut the cake now!’
‘Look who it is. Auntie Persis.’
The boy turned to her, looking her up and down as one might a particularly rancid goat. ‘Why are you wearing a police uniform? This isn’t a fancy-dress party.’
‘I’m a policewoman.’
‘No, you’re not. Women can’t be police officers.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because they’re women. Everyone knows that.’
‘I assure you, I am a policewoman.’
‘I don’t believe you.’ He stared at her belligerently. ‘Father says women are only supposed to cook and clean.’
Persis looked at Jaya. ‘I don’t believe your mother has cooked anything in her whole life.’
‘Mommy’s different. She’s got servants.’ He pointed at her hip. ‘I bet that isn’t even a real gun.’
She took it out and pointed it at him. ‘If I pulled this trigger, there wouldn’t be much left of you.’
‘Persis!’ Jaya frowned at her.
But the boy merely looked at her with shining eyes. ‘Have you ever shot anyone?’
Persis flashed back to the moment she’d shot the suspect who’d planned the killing of Sir James Herriot. The bullet had also claimed part of Archie Blackfinch’s ear. Of course, he had been at the mercy of a murderer at the time, which, to her mind, counted as a mitigating factor. ‘Yes.’
‘Wow! How many people have you killed?’
‘Too many,’ she said firmly, sliding the weapon back into its holster.
He gave a disappointed look, then said, ‘Where’s my present? You’re supposed to bring
a present to a birthday party.’
Jaya rolled her eyes apologetically. Persis was tempted to say that the application of a sandal to her son’s ample rump might be a better way of apologising for his rudeness, but held her tongue. She picked up a parcel – hastily wrapped in newspaper – and handed it to the boy. ‘Happy birthday.’
He tore away the packaging greedily, then held up the object, eyes glittering. ‘Handcuffs!’ He stared at her with something approaching adoration. ‘I’m going to be a policeman. I’m going to arrest all my friends, then shoot them, just like a real cop.’
‘You can’t give him handcuffs,’ said Jaya, as he waddled off, swinging the cuffs like a slingshot.
‘I don’t think they work,’ said Persis. ‘It’s an old pair.’
‘You forgot to get him a gift, didn’t you?’ She shook her head, smiling. ‘Anyhow, you were talking about a male admirer?’
‘No. You were talking about him. I was ignoring you.’
Jaya raised an eyebrow and waited.
Persis sighed. Maybe it would help to talk the matter through. ‘Fine. But don’t you go gossiping to anyone.’ Quickly, she filled her in on her awkward relationship – if that was the right word – with Archie Blackfinch.
‘An Englishman!’ whinnied Jaya. ‘Well, look at you. Quite the dark horse.’ She waved at a passing waiter, accepting another martini. ‘Is he handsome? Smart? Accomplished?’
‘He’s . . . clumsy.’
‘That’s a good start. Clumsy makes them docile. They’re always beleaguered, forever in need of assistance.’
‘He’s very intelligent.’
‘Not too bright, I hope. Remember, two positives make a negative.’ She examined her old friend over the top of her glass. ‘Have you two . . .?’
‘No!’
‘There’s no need to be so prim about it. It’s not as if you can mislay your virginity a second time. Anyway, dressed like that, you should thank your lucky stars any man wants to—’
‘I have to get back to work,’ said Persis, standing up.
Jaya gazed at her, then rose slowly to her feet. ‘Look. You’re a modern woman. You’ve already ripped up every convention in the book. If you like him, do something about it. Don’t dither around. One thing I can tell you, he won’t wait for ever.’ She smiled. ‘There’s another reason I asked you over. Dinaz is going to be in town in a couple of weeks. I thought the three of us might have dinner. Maybe paint the town red.’
