screen that covered the window. Even dimly lit, however, the room’s impression was quite clear. Kate backed off, closing the door quietly, discomfited by the sheer raw sensuality of the room. There was no doubt which bedroom the couple had slept in.
She found Boyle and the Mehta brothers in the diminutive kitchen. The room had no cooking facilities aside from a microwave oven and an electric kettle, which Peter was filling with water at a bar sink too narrow to hold a dinner plate. He put the kettle on the counter and switched it on, and Kate had it on the tip of her tongue to ask Mehta why he had not converted this room to a proper, if small, kitchen, when she glanced at Laxman’s bereaved face and let the question subside for the moment.
Peter set four cups and a packet of tea bags on the sink and then turned to his brother.
“Laxman, these people would like to talk to you about, well—”
“Pramilla,” said Laxman, and raised his lovely eyes to Kate. “You want to talk about my wife and the way she died, because you’re policemen and that’s what the police do when a person dies, they talk to the family.”
“Laxman watches a lot of television,” Peter offered in explanation. Kate nodded and she and Boyle sat down in the chairs across the table from the boy-man. The tiny room was very full of people.
“All right, Mr. Mehta,” Boyle began, “tell—”
“I’m Laxman. Mr. Mehta is my brother.”
Both detectives found themselves smiling. “Okay, Laxman. Tell me, how do you think Pramilla died?”
“I killed her,” Laxman said. Their smiles died a sudden death and Peter nearly dropped the teapot he was holding.
“Mani!” he exclaimed. “What are you saying? Oh, I knew this was not a good idea.”
Boyle put out a hand to shut him up, and said to the beautiful young man across from him, keeping his voice even and gentle, “How do you mean, you killed her?”
“They all said I would if I hit her again, because I’m really very strong and she’s so tiny. She was so tiny, I mean. So I didn’t hit her and I didn’t, even when she made me so angry with her teasing, but they said I would kill her and she’s dead now, so I must have done it. I don’t remember, but I must have.”
“Did you hit her a lot, Laxman?”
“Three times. Three different times, I mean. I hit her one time when she made me mad by turning off the television. And the second time was when she… she was angry and she called me names. I hit her two or three times then, I don’t remember exactly. And then the last time she was teasing me because she’d been talking with some other men and I didn’t think that was right and I told her so and she laughed! She laughed at me and so I hit her and… and hit her. That time I made her bleed really bad and it scared me, and she cried and I told her I’d never do it again because if she did have a baby I didn’t want her to lose it. So then I promised I would hit other things if I got mad, so I wouldn’t hit her. And I did that twice. Once I punched a hole in the wall. I hurt my hand.”
They looked at him, and he looked back at them. Finally Boyle cleared his throat. “On the afternoon Pramilla died, Laxman? What were you doing?”
Laxman gave Boyle a flat stare, not really seeing him, and Kate thought he had either not understood the question or was zoning out (was he on drugs, prescription or otherwise?), but after a minute his eyes focused again. “She was making me
Kate looked down at the crude little figurine, alone in the center of the table, and it occurred to her that Pramilla could easily have meant not that the boy in the statue reminded her of Laxman, but rather the lumbering beast who was being led. If the latter, then the girl had possessed a sharp sense of humor. Kate could well believe that this dull-witted man could have been driven to fury until the girl relented and made him his
“She smelled bad,” Laxman added suddenly.
“Who,” Boyle asked. “Pramilla?”
“She was burned up and they wouldn’t let me see her, but she smelled awful. Rani said that’s how our people at home make funerals, by burning, but I don’t like it. It’s terrible.”
“I agree, Laxman, it’s not very pleasant. Tell me, Laxman, what did you do while Pramilla went out to cook the, er…?”
Laxman regarded the detective blankly, as if he hadn’t heard the question. It seemed to be a part of his thinking process, however, because after a minute he said, “She went to cook the
“Laxman, did you happen—” Kate started to ask, but this time Laxman was not listening, and went on with his thought.
“She was good to me, and she was so pretty, and her hair smelled so sweet and her skin was soft. I miss her so much. If she came back I’d never be angry at her ever again. But she’s dead and horrible and now I’ll never be happy again.” And with that he dropped his head onto his arms on the tabletop and began to sob as extravagantly as a child.
Embarrassed, Peter abandoned the tea he was trying to make and awkwardly comforted his howling brother. Kate glanced at Boyle, and could see in his face the agreement that they were not about to get a lot more out of either Mehta tonight. Boyle thanked Peter and Laxman in a loud voice, and they left.
They halted at the foot of the stairs.
“Do you want to try talking to Mrs. Mehta?” Boyle asked.
Kate shrugged. “We could try, and come back later with a translator if her English is too bad.”
They found Rani Mehta in the kitchen with three of the children. A boy of about thirteen was sitting at the table with a stack of books: the eldest, Rajiv, no doubt. A girl of about six or seven occupied the chair across from him; in front of her was a row of naked dolls with frayed hair, some of them missing various limbs. She had two of them in her hands, carrying on a loud conversation for them concerning, Kate thought, swimming pools. The third child was of uncertain sex until it turned and they could see the gold loops in her ears. She was seated on the floor whining in a manner that indicated she had been there for quite a while, and that she had no real hope of being rescued anytime soon. Rani was crashing some pans into the sink, talking loudly in some jerky language that Kate thought might be Hindi. She did not seem to have an adult audience, but after a minute an elderly, stoop-shouldered woman came in from the next room with a couple of bowls. She stopped dead in the doorway and said something to the woman at the sink, who spun around as if she was being attacked. The two female children went silent in surprise, and even the oblivious Rajiv looked up from his books and blinked.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Mrs. Mehta,” Kate said with a smile. “We’ve been talking with your husband and Laxman, and I wonder if we might have a word with you before we go. I’m Inspector Martinelli, this is Inspector Boyle.”
Rani did not answer, but glanced across at the older woman as if in need of reassurance.
Boyle took a couple of steps over to where the boy was working. “Math?” he asked.
“Algebra,” confirmed the boy.
“You must be Rajiv,” Boyle said. “You’re, what—thirteen?”
“Twelve,” the boy corrected him shyly, looking pleased, and Kate recalled that Boyle had kids of his own.
“Does your mom speak English, Rajiv?”
“A little.”
“She probably has trouble when she’s surprised like this. Would you mind telling her what Inspector Martinelli said?”
Rajiv spoke to his mother, but even in translation their greeting did not seem to reassure her much.
“Rajiv, whenever there’s a death like that of your aunt, we need to get a very clear idea of what was going on around the time she died. Could you ask your mother to tell us what—”
“You not bother the boy,” Rani interrupted. “Rajiv, take your sisters upstairs.”
