Death of a Financier Read online

  On arrival, Emma Parkly feeling peckish decided they would take a snack and wanting to see a little more of the hotel suggested the restaurant. Stephen complied, but only to please her, he did not really feel like mixing with the other hotel guests after their long night partying on the rice boat, in any case hotel restaurants, even the best, were not really his thing.

  Emma's immediate plans were first to explore the hotel then relax spending the next few days on the beach or by the pool, she was feeling the effects of travelling and she too was still recovering from Simi's New Year's Eve party, she simply wanted to lay back and relax in the sun. Emma was pleased with the Maharaja Palace, by Indian standards it was the top, for her it had its charm and glancing around the dining room she could see that the other guests were without exaggerated airs and graces, a few even seemed a little intimidated by their luxurious surroundings, they were neither the jet setters nor City types, definetly not the kind of people that always seemed to be present in the places Stephen generally chose. They was a good scattering of young people, mostly middle class, she was pleased to feel part of the crowd, another holiday maker and no obligation to pretence.

  When they returned to their suite to change into their beachwear Stephen complained of his stomach, he was feeling a little queasy, perhaps a touch of turista, locally known as the Delhi Belly, he begged off the pool, opting for the suite's garden, near the bathroom just in case, though insisting that Emma go and take advantage of the hotel pool and the sun.

  Emma, after sympathising with her husband, set off to explore the hotel and found the pool, there was also a private beach with a couple of uniformed guards to ensure that the hotel beach area was not encroached on by the locals.

  A pool attendant prepared a sunbed and a parasol for Emma, placing a second towel on the low table, then brought her a freshly pressed orange juice. She surveyed the surroundings, the pool was elevated and set at an angle relative to the shoreline, a number hotel guests were sunning themselves and two or three swimming in the pool. She sighed with pleasure, she realised she was not totally unpleased to be alone and sipping her orange juice she surveyed the surroundings in search for potentially like souls amongst the other guests.

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  Chapter 12

  Barton had settled in nicely at the Maharaja Palace, he was satisfied with the Dubai travel agent's choice, the service was good as was the food and he was enjoying the pool. He was a bachelor and was not used to being served on all around the clock.

  In his Epping home, a woman had come in three times a week to clean, look after his laundry and put some order into the place, it was not a big deal; in reality much of the large house went unused. He mostly ate out or had take-outs delivered and whenever he felt like making the effort he picked up something more appetising from Sainsbury's, he had a liking for their food to go counter with its wide choice of freshly prepared dishes.

  His different girlfriends sometimes cleaned up his oversized kitchen or his home cinema room after a meal. Whenever he entertained he brought in a local caterer who looked after everything. In fact Barton lived a rather frugal life, leaving for work early, returning home late, only at weekends did he find some relaxation, he used his home gym a couple of times a week preferring a local club to workout where he knew a few of the lads. He did not smoke and was not a real drinker though he appreciated good wine but in moderation.

  Looking into the bathroom mirror he felt pleased with what he saw, his tan was developing nicely adding to the light sunbed tan he had acquired at his club in anticipation of his departure. He took care of his body and his appearance, it was part of his business to look good and feel good, though normally he avoided sunbeds, using a skin toner to enhance his looks, although before holidays he was not averse to a couple or so short sessions on the sunbed to take off that sickly look he detested when he arrived on the beach.

  At the poolside he was becoming familiar with the comings and goings of the other hotel guests, there were a lot of couples, both young and old, a mixture of Brits and Scans, but there was also to his surprise a good many Russians. It had taken him a little time to identify them, he was not a not a linguist, but he was able to pick out a few words he had learnt from a Russian girl he had taken out for a while in London.

  The other guests were evidently holiday makers taking a break in the sun over the year end holidays, mostly on individual package tours, he had seen the new comers in the lobby, couples and families, and sneaked a peek at their baggage labels.

  Barton was on talking terms with the concierge who told him the hotel was full for the holidays and all through January, it was the high season, and suggested he visit Kovalam Beach less than a five minute taxi ride away. He was disappointed, not at all taken in by the tattiness and dirt he discovered, moreover, he was put off by the accents he overheard, he was surprised and a little taken aback to see so many what seemed like uncouth Londoners with middle age spreads, shaven heads, tattooed arms and shoulders, dragging their often loud mouthed mississes around with them. His conclusion was that for the moment the Maharaja Palace was a good spot to relax and wait whilst a better idea turned up.

  There was no hurry he thought wandering through the vast hotel lobby, the only noise being the soothing sound of water bubbling from the fountains and gently cascading from one pool to another. The hotel had the effect of a decompression chamber, its ambience brought back his natural carefree attitude, something he had always valued, but had difficulty maintaining in the urgence and stress of the mortgage business.

  The comfort of the hotel, the marble bathroom and king-size bed, it was everything he could have hoped for, it was almost a home from home. The poverty beyond the hotel grounds was not his problem and in any case he could have done nothing for the throngs of needy Indians. The disparity of wealth was everywhere and had to be accepted, it was part of India, perhaps in a century or two it would be better he thought - if they survived until then.

  A buffet was laid out in the pool area, it was a good occasion to exchange a few words with the other guests as they examined contents of the copper cover trays presented on white table cloths decorated with freshly cut tropical flowers.

  Barton selected a table in one of the airy, shaded, dinning areas overlooking the pool, he ordered a glass of chilled Chablis and turned his attention to a couple of Russian girls in their mid-twenties who circled the pool and were now approaching the buffet. Casually he followed them, they were laughing, nice looking and self-consciously aware of it, in bikini tops and obviously just acquired long wraparound Indian skirts. The relative paleness of their skins announced they were newly arrived.

  'I'd recommend the chicken,' Barton said.

  'Is it hot?'

  'You mean spicy?'

  'Spicy?'

  'You know spices.'

  'Ah, like curry?'

  'Yes.'

  The girls laughed and said something in Russian

  'Ya ne govoryu po-russki,' said Barton.

  'Oh, you speak Russian!'

  'No - just a few words.'

  'Where are you from?'

  'London.'

  'And you?'

  'Saint Petersburg.'

  'How long are you here for?'

  'Ten days.'

  'Very nice.'

  Barton helped himself to some chicken and French fries and returned to his table waving them goodbye and flashing them one of his seductive and well practised smiles.

  'Do skorogo. See you around,' he said.

  'Do skorogo,' they chirruped together.

  He felt please with his little encounter as he watched them, from behind his Ray Bans and without turning his head, take a table under a parasol to the left side of the pool, noting their animated t?te-?-t?te and the glances in his direction.

  Barton was a good looking man in his early forties, he carried himself well and emanated success even in beach shorts, a tastefully thin gold chain and cross glinted on his tanned well formed chest and his
new Blancpain reflected in the bright sun. Tanya and Oxana, the daughter and niece of a newly rich Russian entrepreneur, speculated on whether he was a rich English playboy or a successful businessman, in any case he had clearly succeeded drawn their attention.

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  Chapter 13

  Karen and her sister Sharon had found rooms at the Green Valley guesthouse, a few alleys back from the beach, five hundred rups a night but no service. They had still not decided how long they were going to stay in India, and were mildly preoccupied about Deana's and Elaine's schools, as they would certainly be overstaying the school holiday period.

  Harry planned to stay as long as the girls, his younger brother could be relied on to look after the garage business, but Dave wanted to be back at the security firm not later the 15 January, they needed him for a well paid contract at a new office building in the City. There was a shortage of reliable personnel and he had been promised a three month temporary placement at above the going rate plus overtime. The job was just a short walk from Fenchurch Street Station, less than twenty minutes from Romford.

  Initially they had planned to tour Kerala and the Tamil Nadu, but after their nightmarish journey they had decided to stay put in Kovalam for the sake of their ten year old daughters. They had flown from Dubai to Mumbai, it was the cheapest ticket - the girls had learnt to be careful with money, then taken a train to Goa, a journey of twenty four hours, costing just a few pounds for the six of them.

  In Mumbai they had almost gotten themselves killed crossing the tracks to catch their train after having mistakenly climbed into the wrong train - headed for Delhi in the opposite direction. After a night in Goa, they had taken another train to Trivandrum; a further twenty four hours. By the time they finally reached Kovalam they looked like bedraggled refugees.

  The girls had rented a couple sunbeds and a parasol on the beach in front of the German Bakery, a few steps from one of the piles of the rubble mixed with black sand and garbage that lined the seafront promenade on Lighthouse Beach, the southernmost of Kovalam's three beaches. The middle beach was called Hawah and beyond the promontory on which stood the Maharaja Palace was Samudra Beach.

  It was there Barton spotted Karen on her sunbed, just beyond the fresh fruit salad sellers seated on the rubble amongst bottle tops and other detritus, preparing their dishes of chopped mango, pineapple, papaya and banana, all generously topped out with a sprinkling of grated coconut for waiting tourists, who elsewhere would have shrunk in horror at the unhygienic conditions and imaginable filth, but who in Kovalam eagerly gulped down the salad quite clearly oblivious to all the potential dangers.

  Dodging the dust raised by the energetic brooms of the shopkeepers, who kept their doorways clean by sweeping everything from cigarette butts to plastic cups onto the beach, just a few paces from the sunbathers, Barton made his way down over the rough and ready steps, formed by half burst white and yellow plastic hessian sandbags, towards the girls. He still couldn't figure out whether the state of the beach was a vestige of the past or a vision of things to come.

  'Hello there, you made it!'

  Karen looked up at him, shading her eyes from the sun, it took a couple of seconds for her to recognise the good looking stranger standing before her.

  'Oh yeah, sorry, I didn't recognise you. So you decide to come to Kovalam!'

  The two young girls looked up at him squinting in the sunshine, waiting for Karen's approval of the newcomer as they made sandcastles in the suspicious black sand.

  'Yes, I arrived a couple of days ago. I'm just having a look around.'

  'Where are you staying?'

  'Up there,' he said pointing his thumb over his shoulder.

  She looked down the beach not sure where.

  'The Maharaja Palace,' he admitted.

  'Oh, very nice for some,' she said with a broad open smile without the least hint of disapproval in her voice.

  'And you?'

  'The Green Valley, just a walk down the alley there,' she said waving towards the shops.

  'I see the girls are enjoying themselves.'

  They looked up and smiled as expected of them.

  'Where's your sister?'

  'She's gone to see about a massage, you know Ayurvedic.'

  'Oh,' he replied vaguely aware that the resort was specialised in some kind of Indian natural health treatment that sounded something like that.

  'The boys have gone to rent a couple of scooters.'

  Karen had a natural charm, she was a good looking girl in her early thirties Barton supposed, a few kilos less and she could have been a beauty. She chatted away telling him that she had been to India before with her sister, it turned out that she was an experienced and knowledgeable traveller, which in a way struck him as strange for a Romford market stall holder. There was no doubt she was intelligent and in other circumstances he could have been attracted to her.

  They talked on for a few more minutes before he took his leave continuing his stroll. On Hawah Beach he stopped to watch the timeless spectacle of the local fishermen hauling in their huge nets, which they coiled amongst the heavy wooden fishing boats that lay upturned on the sand like beached whales, the wiry men chanting to keep rhythm, praying to the sea to provide for their families.

  At the end of Hawah Beach he slowly made his way up the steep hill towards the Maharaja Palace, politely refusing the offers of souvenirs and services from the shopkeepers. On reaching the top of the narrow road he found himself at a crossroads and a bus stop where a dented bus marked 'Fast Bus' stood awaiting its departure time.

  He followed a broader road, recognising it as leading down to another entrance of the Maharaja Palace, past a few run down shops and an equally dilapidated handicrafts centre. At the bottom of the hill he found himself near the hotel beach restaurant where he took one of the waiting golf style buggies up to the main entrance. Once in the lobby he dropped into one of the large cushioned wicker armchairs for a rest and to enjoy the refreshing cool air. He was undecided as to whether Kovalam was original or a rundown tourist trap.

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  Chapter 14

  It was not surprising, given the general ignorance of the public at large on Indian affairs, most British tourists were unaware that the Communist Party of India had recently celebrated the golden jubilee of the first Communist government of the State of Kerala. The reality was most tourists present in Kovalam had barely heard of Kerala before they booked their holiday.

  Half a century after the first Communist government the state was again governed by the Communist dominated Left Democratic Front, a left wing alliance, which held a large parliamentary majority. The LDF, for short, was composed of an overwhelming majority of CPI(M) - Communist Party of India (Marxist) - representatives.

  The Communist system was a far cry from the Kerala that had once had one of harshest and most rigid caste systems in India, controlled by an elite Hindu caste, the Namboodiris. Those of low castes were banned from public markets and its men and women were forced to go naked from the waist up. The Namboodiris held the power of life and death over those of low caste and could punish any one of them by death if they felt they had been polluted. Even Kerala's Christians had maintained a kind of caste system. At the lowest level were the Adivasi, the original indigenous people of Kerala.

  That changed in the 1930s and 1940s, when Kerala's growing trade union and Communist movement became engaged in the caste struggle, progressively transforming the state into the least caste conscious of all Indian states.

  Historically, Kerala was composed of three principalities: Travancore, Cochin and Malabar. With the arrival of the Europeans there was a long a period of constantly changing alliances until the British imposed their rule, maintaining the princely ruling lines in power in Travancore and Cochin, but with direct rule in Malabar. Less than ten years after independence Kerala surprised the world by electing a Communist Government in 1957.

  Francis was not totally convinced of India's much lauded p
rogress, he had observed the country on his frequent visits over a period of thirty years, there was no denying that the country had made progress, but was that progress real or was it merely superficial? The huge country was rife with burning poverty, disease, pollution and corruption, its burgeoning self-interested urban middle class parroted the talk of pollution and climatic change, but there was little they did or could do to stop forces beyond their control. Deforestation, desertification, pollution and an ever growing population promised a Mad Max like future dotted with islands of civilization, such as perhaps certain districts of Bangalore and Mumbai, which were serviced by a population of miserable serfs.

  Kerala was one of the best governed states, the most educated, the most watered, in comparison to the misery of Orissa, Bihar, Assam and Madhya Pradesh, where tribe and caste dominated.

  After fifteen years of economic liberalization, the Indian economy was in a boom period, however, its unprotected underbelly was its poor, uneducated, jobless and undernourished classes that economic growth seemed to have forgotten.

  A third of all Indians were poor, living on the equivalent of just fifty pence a day, that is to say miserably poor, a third were illiterate, almost two thirds were without running water, half without electricity and most terrible of all two hundred million Indians suffered from varying degrees of undernourishment and starvation.

  How would India be affected if the economic crisis promised by certain economists came to be? How would India be affected by the climatic change predicted and the threat of crop failure? A vast country with more than a billion people, twenty nine states and eighteen official languages, most of which even differed in their scripts.

  Each year, one and a half million Indian children under the age of five died from water borne diseases. There was no safety net for those who met with one of life's accidents such as ill health or crop loss, their only hope was to sell family assets or borrow, but when there was nothing to sell and credit was unavailable they were consumed by poverty and despair. Little wonder certain were reduced to selling their kidneys, or even suicide.