Murder at the Happy Home for the Aged Page 8

  Olga did not reply. She was not going to think about anything. She shut her eyes and began planning what to wear if she got invited to the queen’s garden party in London. Next year. It had to be next year or she would just go back to Moscow. She could not stand Rana’s voice any more. Olga looked down at her fingernails, each one painted with an intricate flower. The new diamond ring flashed on her third finger and suddenly she felt better. Perhaps Rana Hooda, however boring he may be, was not such a bad deal. She could do better but she could do worse too and get hitched to an impoverished Russian drunkard. Olga caressed her ring.

  Suddenly, she heard a noise downstairs. The servants were off today. Rana always sent them away because he was scared they would talk to his wife about her, though he always said, ‘I like being alone with you, darling.’ That was a big bore because she had to fetch and carry for him. Rana could not even make a cup of tea. He was such a lazy slob. Olga got up and peered out of the window. She suddenly saw Yuri and looked around nervously before quickly shutting the window.

  ‘Where are you doing?’ asked Rana, looking up.

  ‘Just looking to see if your car is there.’

  ‘Where should my car be?’ asked Rana, picking up his phone. He was quite distracted today and kept checking his phone all the time.

  ‘I will be right back, sweetie. Missing you already.’ She smiled.

  What is this stupid fool Yuri doing here? Olga thought as she went downstairs. If Rana saw him there would be trouble. He had smashed all the glasses and broken an expensive vase when he had found Ziriko here one day. She had pretended he was a plumber and had quickly given him a wrench she had found on the shelf. Now Ziriko always carried the wrench around with him like a security blanket. Olga frowned as she looked out at the garden. Ziriko was such a fool and a coward. She hoped he had not messed up what she had asked him to do. Time was running out for her and she was surrounded by a bunch of idiotic men. She must chase Yuri out at once and then call Ziriko.

  Olga went back upstairs to Rana and sat down. If she had been away any longer he would’ve come down to see what she was doing. ‘Why did you take so long?’ asked Rana, looking irritable.

  ‘Just checking if the garden gate was shut. I’m going downstairs to get a cold beer. Do you want one?’

  ‘Okay. Hurry. Get those masala chips too.’ He put his feet on the glass coffee table. It was an expensive Swedish table and it groaned under his weight. Olga made a face behind his back and went out of the room. She quickly washed her hands in the bathroom and ran downstairs, her high heels clicking on the floor.

  ‘Yuri, you fool. Why are you here? You’ll get me into real trouble. He will smash your face along with all the glasses in the house,’ hissed Olga through the half-open window in the downstairs hall.

  ‘Why don’t you answer my calls? I had to see you. I miss you so much. Listen, just fetch me that photograph from the drawing room. You know, that big one in a silver frame on the top shelf,’ said Yuri.

  ‘Why? Are you trading in stolen silver now?’ whispered Olga.

  ‘I just want to see the photograph, please. I called you so many times but you keep cutting me off. You don’t care for me any more,’ said Yuri, his voice breaking as a wave of self-pity rose to flood him.

  ‘I do. I do. You are my snowflake. Listen, sweetie, you wait here. I will get the silver photo frame. You can have the silver ashtrays too. He will never notice they’re missing. Alfie at Morjim beach will give you a good price for them.’

  ‘No. No. I don’t want the silver frame. I want to see the photograph. I think she is the dead woman.’

  ‘Dead woman? What are you talking about? What dead woman? Where?’ Olga said, forgetting to keep her voice low.

  ‘The dead woman who was found hanging in the Happy Home garden. Don’t you know about it?’ said Yuri.

  ‘Darling. What are you doing? Come back,’ Rana shouted from the upstairs room.

  ‘Go. Go away, you old fool!’ said Olga, and she began to laugh hysterically. She sat down on the floor, covered her mouth, and screamed with laughter. Yuri stared at her, and just when he was about to reach out through the window and touch her hand, he heard footsteps coming down the stairs. He turned around and ran, his heart racing. This time he was truly afraid and his whole body began to shake wildly. He found he could not breathe and had to sit down near the garden wall to catch his breath. ‘What is happening to me? Why have I got myself into this trap? She does not care two hoots for me. I must get out of her clutches. I must forget her. She is mad,’ he said to himself as he listened to Olga’s manic laughter. Yuri’s hands began to tremble. He was very afraid.

  * * *

  ‘Breathe in, pause, count to five, breathe out and bend to your left,’ chanted Maria in a low voice. Her soothing words floated out into the garden and made the leaves of the hibiscus plant tremble. ‘Now turn to your right slowly and touch your toes,’ she murmured as five pairs of stiff knees squeaked in protest. Her sole student under the age of sixty nimbly touched her toes and sprang back, her firm young body poised like an arrow for the next yoga exercise.

  Maria had decided the previous week to start these yoga classes in the courtyard of the Tip Top Cafe to earn some extra income during the off season. On weekdays she had only a few students, mostly Russians on their way back from the beach and a lone Japanese girl who was as agile as a young child. Now all the members of the Happy Home had decided to join, including Rosie in her wheelchair. Maria was surprised but very pleased to see them there.

  They were all looking very different for some reason. Deven was dressed as usual in his neatly ironed shirt and black cotton trousers, looking like a lawyer, but the others too had made an effort. Rosie was wearing a pink tracksuit with sequins on her back declaring she was ‘Ready for love’ while Prema was dressed in an all-black salwar kurta and looked like a female dacoit as she glowered at everyone with her narrow, foxlike eyes.

  Cyrilo was wearing shorts and a T-shirt but not one of his usual faded, crumpled ones. He was looking very smart in Nike shorts and a Desigual T-shirt with his grey hair slicked back with gel. Only Yuri was missing. He always woke up late and hated doing yoga in any case.

  Maria chanted the instructions as she watched them bend and stretch, their aged limbs awkward and stiff but with smiles on all their faces. She wondered if this horrible murder was the best thing that could have happened to them, and then immediately felt guilty. Some poor woman had died and she was feeling happy. Tomorrow she would go to St Antony’s Church in Siolim and light a candle.

  Maria stretched and exhaled. A Russian girl was now doing very quick, energetic jumps that were not a part of the yoga class and everyone had stopped to look at her. Maria looked too. A huge diamond and emerald ring on the girl’s finger flashed in the bright sunlight as she twisted her body into a perfect triangle and then jumped back again to stand still, tall and beautiful like a marble statue. Maria noticed she was wearing a big red bindi on her forehead.

  * * *

  The sea rippled in the fading light as a few fishing boats slowly made their way into the tiny Chapora bay. Gulls screeched, making aggressive sorties in the air as they searched for any fish that had fallen off the boats. They swooped down as soon as they saw some movement on the water and then rose in the air again, disappointed, their angry screams getting louder and louder.

  Tiny wooden huts painted in bright pink and blue shades lined the edge of the road and each one had a forest of green plants shielding it from the busy traffic. Huge fishing nets were stretched out to dry on the ground and stray dogs lay curled up on their rough surface. A few long-legged white birds hopped amongst them but they were ignored by the dogs, which continued sleeping peacefully.

  Alfie cursed as he watched the young man twist a rope around a pole on which a torn fishing net was drying. Then he shook his head angrily and shouted, ‘Ziriko, idiot. You are not doing it right. Make the knot the other way. The way I showed you.’ But the young man continu
ed, singing loudly to himself. Alfie picked up a stick and threw it at him but it had no effect. Ziriko began singing even louder, leaning on the fragile wooden crate, and his tall, angular figure looked like a crooked wooden pole rising out of the sea. His long, matted hair flew around his face like wriggling worms and Alfie was surprised the birds did not fly down to perch on it in search of food.

  Alfie did not like the taciturn, shifty-eyed man but he was the best person to repair fishing nets in Chapora. The best and the cheapest since he was quite happy to be paid in feni or weed instead of cash, but sometimes he was so drugged he just did his own thing and made a mess of the fishing net. Alfie was also a bit scared of this strange fellow with red scars on his hands. It looked as if he liked cutting his own flesh. Ziriko hardly ever spoke and only grunted out short replies but he sang all the time. Alfie was not sure where he came from. He looked Russian but spoke another language that sounded like French but very often he sang in Konkani too. Alfie was quite sure he was a bit off his head. Too much feni or maybe drugs, he thought and went down the wet stones to the boat. Ziriko had neatly untangled the fishing net and tied it to the pole. Now he was half in the water, laughing and talking to himself as he tried to catch a plastic bag that was floating past.

  ‘Crazy, stupid fellow,’ muttered Alfie, shaking his head. The previous night Ziriko had brought a cloth bag filled with silver ornaments and dumped it on the table. ‘You want me to sell them?’ Alfie had asked, knowing very well that they were stolen from one of the big villas on the beach. Ziriko nodded and clapped his hands like a child. ‘Olga, Olga, my little sparrow, Olga,’ he had crooned.

  * * *

  Inspector Chand tried to focus his binoculars but the sweat trickling from his forehead down to his nose had now reached his eyes and all he could see were two blurred figures trembling like reeds in the glittering sea.

  ‘Here, you take a look and tell me what they are doing.’ He handed the binoculars reluctantly to Constable Robert, who was gazing out to sea, holding his large paw over his eyes. The binoculars looked like a tiny toy in his giant hands when Robert picked them up. ‘It all looks very far to me, sir,’ he said, suddenly speaking in Konkani.

  ‘You idiot, hold it the right way around. Have you never used binoculars before?’ asked Inspector Chand.

  ‘No, sir. This is the first time,’ said Robert, turning the binoculars around and resting them on his nose. Then he held his breath and slowly shut one eye.

  ‘You don’t have to shut one eye. Use both eyes,’ shouted Inspector Chand. A few people stopped by to see what was going on. Soon a small crowd had gathered on the beach and everyone was pointing to the boats.

  ‘They caught a thief escaping on that boat,’ said one man, squatting on the roadside and washing his mouth at a tap.

  ‘No. He was a smuggler. They catch a smuggler every day around this time. The fat cop and the giant cop share the loot with him and then let him go,’ said another man.

  ‘Why are they looking there with those binoculars?’ asked a boy, climbing up on a water tank to get a better look. ‘O! I can see Alfie and that druggie fellow with long hair.’ He said this so loudly that Inspector Chand heard him and turned around. The inspector and the constable walked over to him.

  ‘You know that man?’ he asked.

  The crowd suddenly melted away but the boy perched on the water tank just froze. ‘Yes. Yes. Everyone knows him,’ he muttered nervously, looking down at them from his perch.

  He was almost at eye level with Constable Robert, who now jabbed a finger as thick as a stick into his chest. ‘Who is he? Tell us his name, son. Don’t be shy now,’ he said in a gentle voice.

  ‘Alfie, and that other man is . . . I am not sure. I cannot see that far.’ The boy quickly jumped down from the water tank.

  ‘Here, use these,’ said Inspector Chand, handing the boy the binoculars. He hoped he did not have an eye infection. Children had so many dangerous infections; he never went near any child if he could help it. He must remember to disinfect the binoculars before using them again.

  ‘I think . . . I don’t know. He could be Ziriko. He comes here sometimes to repair the fishing nets but he never talks to anyone. He is from Mumbai,’ said the boy, looking around furtively for an escape route.

  ‘Come on. This is a waste of time. That old fellow from the Happy Home was talking rubbish. Someone must have played a trick on him and told him that something fishy was going on in that house by the beach. These old folks have nothing better to do than waste my time,’ grumbled Inspector Chand.

  ‘Something fishy,’ said Robert and giggled.

  ‘Find out who that villa belongs to and also ask that Russian in the Happy Home for a description of the woman he thinks is the dead woman. We can give him the photograph that the Panjim police department sent us of her,’ said Inspector Chand.

  ‘It is a terrible photograph, sir. I feel scared looking at it,’ said Robert.

  ‘Well, it is not a beauty contest we are judging, Robert. We are looking for clues which will lead us to the identity of the dead woman. We don’t know who she is. If we don’t know who she is, how will we find out who killed her?’

  He looked around as if hoping to find the murderer lurking behind them.

  ‘I think I will go to the Happy Home now and try to get some more details from the Russian fellow. You go talk to this Alfonso fellow who calls himself Alfie. Find out if he was near the Happy Home last night. Ask the shopkeepers in Trionim,’ said Inspector Chand and turned to get into the car, holding his binoculars far away from his face. He must wash them with Dettol as soon as he got home.

  * * *

  Eric the undertaker was showing Alfie the new coffins that had just come in from Panjim. He opened the lid of one and then got in as swiftly and gracefully as a dancer.

  ‘Look, it is lined with satin even on the inside. Not that it matters to the poor deceased since he or she can hardly admire its softness now. But little details like this matter to me. I always order my coffins from Berimanza and Sons in Margao. Look, the handles have a pure bronze finish. They are plastic, mind you, and will come off if you pull them. But then, who needs to pull them once the funeral is over. You are six feet under and safe in the bosom of mother earth. I can order you one, if you like, Alfie. They are going at a cheap rate since the season has not yet begun,’ said Eric, lisping through his broken teeth.

  ‘I don’t want a coffin. I want to be cremated . . . much cheaper. Eric, tell me. How well do you know this woman called Olga?’ said Alfie, taking out a packet of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and passing it to Eric.

  ‘Gave them up, man. You will certainly need a coffin soon if you keep smoking like this,’ said Eric with a smirk.

  ‘I saw you talking to her the other day. Do you know where she is now? She isn’t answering her phone,’ said Alfie, blowing smoke out of his nostrils.

  ‘Does she owe you money? I always take an advance payment from these girls if I do some work for them. You can never trust women when it comes to money, especially these smart young Russian girls. I always keep my wallet hidden from my wife too. Would you like a cheaper imitation wooden one? I can show you the one that the police use to transport corpses from one place to another. Cheap and sturdy but no frills.’

  ‘No. No, thanks,’ said Alfie, taking another long pull on his cigarette, and then he began coughing.

  ‘Bad cough. A cough like that can take you to your grave. I will see you soon in my parlour, my boy.’ Eric laughed. He stared at Alfie and then said, ‘Go to that Ziriko. That long-haired boy with scars on his arm. He knows where she is but you have to get him to talk.’ He paused and then said, ‘You can buy this discounted coffin for yourself. I used it to carry that woman’s body to the Panjim morgue and she travelled like a queen in it. I had to wash it with soap and water but it’s as good as new now. No one can tell,’ said Eric as he sat down on the coffin and opened his lunch box. As Alfie walked away he heard him mutter, ‘Soggy ve
g sandwich again. I will kill that woman one day.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  MARIA WAS GAZING up at Francis, holding her breath in so that her skirt would not feel so tight around her waist.

  They were sitting in a quiet corner of the Tip Top Cafe, sipping cappuccinos laced with cherry brandy. Francis had put on weight since the last time she had seen him but Maria did not say anything. Much better if he got fat; then he would not notice her spreading waistline. He was wearing a brand-new cream-coloured Hugo Boss jacket and polished brown leather shoes with pointed toes. His feet looked like baby alligators as he moved them closer to her sneaker-clad feet. Maria would make him throw those shoes out when they were married. She hated them. Francis was obsessed with clothes and was always buying really expensive things. She thought it was odd for a man to be so fashion-conscious.

  ‘Are you sure nobody knows who the dead woman was?’ asked Francis once more.

  ‘Not yet. But Yuri found a clue. He saw a photograph in someone’s house and he told the police about it. They are now asking the police station in Panjim in case someone has reported a missing person. They don’t seem to believe him,’ said Maria.

  ‘By police you mean that fat Inspector Chand who keeps drooling all over you?’ said Francis, laughing.

  How perfect and white his teeth are, thought Maria, and quickly resolved to go to the dentist to get her teeth polished. ‘What bothers me is how she got there. How did someone drag her dead body and hang it up on the branch of the tree?’ said Maria, moving her hand a bit closer to Francis, hoping he would hold it.

  ‘Must have been two or three people doing the job. Are you sure you never heard anything that night?’ Francis ignored her hand. He took out a comb and began combing his hair.

  ‘No. Nothing at all.’ Maria moved her hand back. She hated it when a man combed his hair in public. Only loafer-type boys did that. Bobby would never do such a thing. Bobby probably never ever combed his curly hair. Maria looked at Francis and suddenly remembered that she had woken up that night to drink water and had stood at the window to look at the moon. But she had been thinking of Francis and did not bother to look into the garden. If only she had. She would have probably seen the murderers dragging the woman’s body up the tree.