Max O'Brien Mysteries 3-Book Bundle. Mario Bolduc
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woman he’d ever loved or ever would.
21
Goa, 1510, and the Portuguese were on the beach, wading through the water, watched by the natives as if hypnotized. Alfonso de Albuquerque wondered: would this do as a trading outpost? Why not? It would boost Portugal’s economic power and eventually compete with the British, who would need a base to the north in Mumbai and one to the east in Kolkata, and the French, who would open another post in Pondicherry in the southeast. It was an ambition that the Portuguese would take quite seriously … more than just commerce, a colony. The French and English would just wait politely on the dock, not daring to impose themselves, not for the time being, at least. They’d trade discreetly, almost apologetically, but the Portuguese had no such scruples, and from the very beginning, their machine was running at full throttle, not hesitating before the huge task of “civilizing these barbarians” and forcing the Portuguese model on them, as they were soon to do in Africa, Brazil, and Macau. All the French and the British saw in India was a place to make tidy profits for their adventurers in commerce and finance. The Portuguese would be adding soldiers and priests to the mix. Goa was a proper colony, and when the Portuguese finally withdrew, after the Indian Army invaded in 1961, they left curiously empty shells behind on the beach, in the form of Portuguese-sounding names, European-style women’s dresses, and, inevitably, Catholicism.
This explained Max’s sense of déjà vu as he stepped into the small Roman Catholic cemetery. It was created by the Indians from the former colony who had been exiled to the capital. Its tombstones, cenotaphs, and sepulchres scattered pell-mell over the hill, it could have been a cemetery from Douro or Algarve transplanted to New Delhi.
A woman in black stood before the family crypt. She was the mother of Luiz Rodrigues, the young High Commission clerk who’d been killed along with David. Her white hair was tied back and held in place by her shawl. Her shoulders were stooped, her hands clasped against her stomach like a Madonna abandoned by her Portuguese god. She gripped her rosary with all her might, as Max had seen Sister Irène do after Pascale died. Ten years already. What had happened to the little nun? Probably gone back to France by now to spend her remaining days in a retirement home for missionaries in Toulouse or elsewhere. Her cell would be full of exotic souvenirs, and she’d have trouble getting used to their bland-tasting food. She’d miss the bright and vibrant colours of India.
When the woman in black saw Max and Jayesh, she reacted with exasperation. Must be two more of those policemen, she supposed. She hated it when people kept asking the same questions over and over, and now it looked like it was happening again.
“We’re not with the police,” Max assured her.
She shooed them away. “I’ve already told them everything I know, now get off my back.” She turned to Max. “The Hindus, the Muslims, those degenerate barbarians. Let them kill one another if they want to, but leave us alone.”
Max told her he worked for the Canadian Secret Service, and the government was taking the deaths very seriously. He even questioned the honesty of the Indian investigators. “After all, they owe their rank to the BJP, now, don’t they? They all eat out of the same hand at the Ministry of Home Affairs. You don’t expect them to put themselves out for an embassy clerk, do you, and a Catholic as well?”
That appeared to convince the grieving mother, who must have been thinking exactly the same thing. Her face softened, and a white lock of hair slipped out from under the shawl. As she fixed it, she asked them to follow her. They accompanied her to her home a few streets over, as she insisted on speaking to them only in the presence of her family. It was a modest but tidy house, filled with crucifixes and images of the Virgin, as well as framed photos of Luiz, each with a black ribbon across the corner. The mother of the young man sat beneath the largest frame and began to cry once again into her lace handkerchief. A young girl, timid and silent, with large dark eyes, put her hands on the woman’s shoulders. This was her eldest daughter, Teresa — Luiz’s sister — the only family she had now. Teresa cast an accusatory glance at Max and Jayesh, as if to blame them for everything.
Max waited for the sobbing to end, then asked, “How long did Luiz work for the High Commission?”
“Since we arrived in Delhi. He wanted so badly to find a job that he visited all the embassies on foot for weeks.”
“As a clerk?”
“As anything.”
“Did he ever mention David?”
“He loved working for him.”
She had dried her tears by now, so her daughter got up and left them alone. That was a good sign. At least it showed she trusted them.
“Did he ever mention any travel plans David might have told him about? Or any other plans at all?”
“He never talked about his job.”
“Except that he loved working for David?”
She looked up at Max and said in a strident voice, “My son has nothing to do with any of this.”
“Oh no, that wasn’t what I meant …”
“But you think it. You have from the start. Luiz wanted to die in his own explosion? According to you, he was some sort of kamikaze, a martyr like those fanatics in Al-Qaeda!”
Teresa was alerted by her mother’s rising voice and came back into the room. Max tried to calm things down. “As I told you, the Canadian government wants to clear this whole thing up. I haven’t come halfway across the world to find just any culprit. I’ve come to identify and arrest the people who killed your son, or those who ordered it done.”
“Luiz never hurt anyone.”
“I’m sure he didn’t, ma’am. He was close to David, and they did see each other several times before the attack, am I right? David might have told him he was afraid of something or threats someone might have made.”
She shook her head. Luiz hadn’t said anything.
“Please concentrate. Perhaps some passing reference, an insignificant comment, something that might mean nothing to you, but …”
“He was a bad driver.”
“Excuse me.”
“‘Mr. David’s always distracted.’ He said that to Adoor one night when he came here for supper.”
“Adoor Sharma, the watchman at the O’Brien house?”
She nodded. “Good friends, they were.”
“Distracted over what, did he say?”
“He had lots of worries.”
“Did Luiz say that?
“No, Adoor did, that night, and Luiz said, ‘He’s right, Mama, Mr. David’s quite concerned, but the others …”’
“Yes?”
“‘They’re not there for real.’”
“What did he mean by that, I wonder?”
She shrugged. “I reminded him to keep to his own business, just concentrate on work and avoid gossip, especially with Adoor.”
Well, David certainly took his work seriously, but how seriously?
“Perhaps it had to do with a trip?”
“He never mentioned a trip to me.”
Max looked to Teresa. She shook her head too.
“Is Adoor still recovering?”
“No, he’s fine now.”
22
Fine was hardly the word for it. Adoor Sharma had on a stylish grey lunghi and a shirt that was just a bit too small so that it squeezed his waist, slicked-back hair, and his tattooed arm was holding a canvas bag. This was your local thug, Indian-style, the kind