Grave Secrets in Goa

Book 0: Ruby Jones

by Kathleen McCaul

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

Ruby Jones just needed to relax and take a holiday. She made a bad decision when she headed for Goa... Famed for beaches and full moon parties, Goa is also home to one of the most famous Christian shrines in Asia - St. Francis Xavier, his body still miraculously intact after five hundred years. But when the head of the saint is stolen, Ruby discovers there's a lot more going missing in Goa than the head of the famous saint, and beyond the palm-fringed beaches is a world of smuggling, corruption and crime. The weather is balmy, the sea is warm, but Ruby can't play at being tourist when her journalist instincts are twitching. And soon she finds herself at the centre of a lethal world turning in on itself - with deadly consequences.

Release date: July 5, 2012

Publisher: Piatkus

Print pages: 368

Sample

The head of the bull had been hacked off cruelly; it looked like the work of a chainsaw. The neck was jagged with new, sharp
edges. Fine, black sawdust lay all round its feet. I didn’t think you could kill a statue, but this really did look like murder.


The camera zoomed out of the close-up, to a mourning crowd, gawping at their bull in mute shock. A doe-eyed reporter, gripping
an outsize red mike, swung into view.


‘Goa. Paradise Lost. We’re getting used to news of drugs, Russian gangs, murders of foreigners, corrupt land deals. But this
crime is entirely new to the state. Idol Theft.’


The reporter walked backwards slowly.

‘These Hindu villagers woke this morning to a terrible scene. Their precious murti, a twelfth century Nandi, had been decapitated.
The Holy bull had guarded the entrance of Goa’s oldest temple for centuries, but could not protect itself from these barbaric
thieves. I spoke to the son of the temple priest earlier and I asked him, how – and why – this had happened?


A small trim man, well-dressed, with a neat grey beard and bright, angry eyes, flashed up.

‘It’s money. Pure and simple. Like every crime here in Goa, money is at the root. Our Nandi is a legend, a legend not just
in Goa, across India. Its beauty, its age, its survival. It’s survived colonisers, invaders, evil missionaries. It protects
the order of lives. It gives us meaning. This isn’t just a theft, this is a crime against God. Against our land and our way
of life. They must be found,’ he said.


Back to the studio. A middle-aged presenter in what looked like a wig.

‘And we’ve news in just now, the Archeaological Survey of India have requested the National Idol Squad – the crack team responsible
for waging and winning the war on the Tamil Nadu temple thieves – handle this case. We’ll be back with more on the Goan bull’s
head later but first let’s pay a visit to Delhi Art Fair, where curators predict a record year of sales for India, who’s economy
continues to shine. But in a country where ancient art is valued and worshipped – does anyone really care about the modern
stuff – or is it simply a fashion statement?’


A tinny tune from inside my rucksack. My phone. I scrabbled and got to it just in time. It was always right at the bottom.

‘Hello?’ I answered.

‘Hi, hi Ruby … it’s Josh from CultureClick.’

‘Hey. How are you?’

‘Good. Good. Wondering if you know much about Delhi Art Fair?’

I’m actually watching it on TV right now.’


‘Could you do a piece for us? Usual price – 250 for 1,000 words.’

‘Ah, sorry Josh, I can’t this time.’

‘Just something quick? A bit of colour; couple of quotes?’

‘I’m at the airport Josh. I’m about to go on holiday.’

‘Oh. OK.’

He sounded pissed off. Freelance journalists weren’t supposed to go on holiday, I suppose. Editors think their lives are an
eternal holiday.


‘I really need a break. It hasn’t been easy these past few months.’

That softened him up a bit.

‘Yeah, I can imagine. You going anywhere nice?’

‘Goa.’

‘Goa. Cool. I spent a bit of time there, must be ten years ago now. Intense partying. Don’t think I was ever the same again.’

‘I’m not going for the Full Moon Parties. I’m just going to relax, get some perspective on everything.’

‘Yeah, well, anyway. Have a good time. When are you back?’

‘I dunno actually. I’ve given my flat up so I could be down there for a while.’

‘All right. Well, let me know if any good stories crop up. Culture. If there’s any left in Goa.’

I got off the phone and leant back in my chair. The café was fairly empty. It was an imitation of Starbucks and made milky,
sugary coffees. Flies flickered heavily from surface to surface. The groaning air conditioning system was working so hard
to simply stay alive it generated more heat than cool. Two small birds had somehow got into the airport terminal and ended up in here too, twittering
and crying out and banging their heads on the small windows. They had no idea where they were or how they could get out and
were pooing all over the tables in fright. I felt sorry for them. The manager became bored of the news and changed to MTV
India, blaring out some Desi pop.


I rummaged through my bag to find my iPod. Sticking my headphones in and shutting out the world had been my default reaction
to almost everything since Stephen had died. I couldn’t work out whether the obsessive listening habits I had developed were
an antidote to depression or a symptom of the black hole I found myself in, but I knew it was weird. I would become addicted
to certain songs and listen to them over and over and over again until I was sick, completely sick on a three-minute song,
but couldn’t help listening just one more time. I was greedy for chord changes and choruses that made me vibrate, made me
feel something, touched the lonely bits inside me. Other people’s emotions, other lover’s stories, which filled the empty
space where my own relationships, my own friendships should have been.


My latest choice was Prince, a song about a three-some gone wrong. I was into my fourth play when I felt a hand on my shoulder.
I turned around to see a skinny guy in a hoodie and baggy jeans with deep bags under his eyes. I took out my headphones.


‘Hey,’ I said.

‘Hey. Sorry. Excuse me. Sorry. Sorry. I just saw you had a phone and I want to use the wireless in the airport but you need an Indian phone number to get the password texted to you. I got a US number but I don’t have an Indian
one. Could I get a password sent to you? Is that OK?’


He was American. He gabbled his words.

‘Sure. Er … Have you got a pen?’

‘Yeah, yeah.’

He patted his trousers down with jerky movements but couldn’t find one.

‘I’ll just type it in my iPhone,’ he said, pulling a new model out his pants.

‘OK – it’s 9739024182.’

The guy gave me a tight smile.

‘Thanks man. What’s your name?’

‘Ruby Jones.’

‘Nice name,’ he said, typing the number in.

‘Thanks. What’s yours?’

‘Zim Moon.’

‘Great name.’

‘A lot of people take the piss. It’s short for Simon. My dad’s Raoul Moon.’

Zim suddenly closed his eyes and shuddered. He looked like he might vomit.

‘Is your dad really that bad? Or are you ill?’ I said.

He opened his eyes, surprised. Looked at me properly for the first time. Laughed.

‘A bit of both I guess. Anyway, thanks, will you let me know when you get the password? I’m just sat on the next table, on
my laptop.’


The text came pretty soon. I gave it to him and offered to buy him a coffee or something. He looked like he needed one. Zim
accepted with a gaze that was more mournful than grateful. He poured five sugars into his already saccharine vanilla latte and took mindless gulps. I went
back to Prince, though couldn’t help but keep glancing at this guy behind me. He was fixated on whatever he was reading on
the internet, flicking down fast, kept on running his hands over his head and then rubbing his mouth. He looked up at one
point and caught me watching him. He came over.


‘Do you know somewhere I can smoke in this place? I’m desperate for a cigarette.’

‘There’s a little kind of dungeon place by the toilets.’

‘Sounds awful.’

‘It is. But it’s the only place.’

‘Do you wanna come? Do you smoke?’

‘Yeah, why not, I could do with one too. My plane’s been delayed.’

I’d smoked a ton of cigarettes when I found out Stephen had died and I’d tried to give up after the funeral. It hadn’t worked,
there were whole days when I went without seeing anyone and the cigarettes helped me mark time, break up the loneliness.


I led the way to a tiny windowless room with two plastic-covered settees; a thin fluorescent light cast a green, ill-looking
glow across both our faces. You could see the bones working through Zim’s skin as he flipped out a cigarette and gripped it
between his lips. He closed his eyes as he sparked his lighter but opened them again when he went to light mine.


‘This country is shit,’ he said.

I laughed and took in a drag of smoke. It was a US brand, much better then the cigarettes I smoke here.

‘It’s not that bad.’

‘It’s dirty and the people are mad. They’re nuts. I stopped in Delhi but took two steps out of the airport and came straight
back in again.’


‘Why?’

‘I got mugged.’

‘No.’

‘OK; not exactly mugged. But I don’t like being touched. There were all these taxi drivers, pulling my luggage, getting in
my face, shouting at me. I couldn’t handle it. So I just came back in and re-booked my ticket to Goa.’


‘I’m going to Goa …’

‘Oh cool. Which airline?’

‘SpiceJet.’

‘Yeah me too. Delayed by five hours. Five fucking hours? The flight’s only two and a half. I mean what is that about?’

‘You get used to it. The flights are cheap at least.’

Zim put his head in his hands and then leant back in a sigh.

‘I just didn’t need it today. I’m crashing badly.’

‘What’s happened to you?’

Zim stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Is there anywhere to get a beer round here? I need something to take the edge off.’

A new bar had opened up at the airport and it was full of people who looked like they were on the way to Goa; women in strappy
tops, guys with pints of Kingfisher. Zim paid for our beers with a credit card painted with a large moon. It was the most
beautiful credit card I had ever seen.


‘That’s a cool card.’

‘Yeah. This trip is on Blue Moon. If you want champagne, go right ahead.’


‘Blue Moon?’

‘Blue Moon Gallery, Los Angeles. Off Sunset Boulevard. You know it? It’s where all the stars go. I can’t say who, but a very
famous, Hollywood actress bought a bust from us recently. White marble Roman with a shot to his head, blood dripping down.
I loved that.’


I shook my head.

‘I don’t know it.’

‘Really? You never heard of it?’

‘I’ve never been to the US.’

Zim widened his eyes.

‘Shit. That’s crazy. You came to India before America?’

‘So?’

‘I dunno … it’s just … this place?’

He screwed up his face, looked around him.

Despite understanding exactly how he felt, I was offended on behalf of the country. I was sure America did Starbucks better.
But large coffees weren’t everything.


‘What are you doing here?’ I said.

‘I was supposed to be going to the Delhi Art Fair. Finding some new Asian artists. Visiting a new client of my dad’s, in Goa.
A businessman. Paulo Mendes. I just couldn’t handle the fair though you know? After the week I’ve had. I’m just going straight
down to see Paulo. I shouldn’t have had that stop-over in Thailand. You ever smoked Crystal Meth?’ he said, putting his head
in his hands.


‘Er, no. My brother tried it once with a prostitute in Cardiff. He got caught by the police round the back of the bus station. He didn’t look good when we picked him up. Went
to bed for days.’


‘I’ve been vomiting periodically since Bangkok airport.’

‘Well you don’t smell too bad,’ I said, for something to say.

I was clearly out of practice of conversation, but I thought this was obviously a joke. Zim took me deadly seriously.

‘I took a shower when I arrived. I can’t stand being dirty. I hate it. I hate bad smells …’

‘My brother’s room stank. He puked the whole day after we got him home. My parents completely freaked out. They banned him
from leaving the house for a month. Took his car off him, he’d just got it too, for his birthday. My dad’s a teacher, said
he’d never seen such behaviour, etc. etc. Lasted forever. I felt sorry for him in the end.’


‘God. I know how that feels. I’ve been banished. I’m supposed to be staying out of trouble. I’m supposed to be redeeming myself.’

‘Why?’

‘Ah … you know, I had some girlfriend trouble. They’re well-known. They didn’t like the fuss. Didn’t look good.’

‘Girlfriend trouble doesn’t sound as bad as smoking meth.’

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Depends on the girlfriend doesn’t it?’

Zim took a sip of beer and began peeling off the bottle label.

‘What do you do?’ he asked, more out of routine than interest.


‘I’m a journalist.’

Zim lifted his eyebrows.

‘Oh really? Really? That’s cool. I’m like, addicted to twenty-four hour news. I can’t stop watching. I love it.’

‘Oh God. I hate it.’

‘What kind of stuff do you do?’

‘Print mostly. Freelance. Culture. Arts. Delhi and sometimes a few trips.’

‘You working now?’

‘No, this is a holiday. I needed to get away.’

We sat drinking beer in silence. Zim looked at me and began ruminating my name slowly round his mouth.

‘Ruby Jones. Journalist. Sounds like you could be famous.’

‘I’m far from that. Only just make a living.’

We wasted the hours drinking beer. Zim would often put his head in his hands. He felt sorry for himself, needed his suffering
to be obvious. He made me laugh, something I hadn’t done for a while, with his desperate face, his wretched expressions, his
lack of any grip on reality. It helped he was good-looking, though not much, because he was far too aware of it. He explained
that his face had been in his only saving grace.


‘People have called me everything. Everything. People have been so mad at me, they’ve had to be held back from smacking me
down. But no one has ever called me ugly. And believe me, if I was, they would have said it,’ he joked.


I told him he was an egotistical cock. He seemed like the kind you could say what you liked to. He took it on the chin.


‘But not ugly right?’

I shrugged, gave up, laughed. What could you do?

Zim spilled his life out to me like I was his best friend. He was here in India to make a new start, make amends for his misspent
years.


‘I’ll admit. I’ve acted badly. I dropped out of college and pretended I was still there. Went everyday. I gambled my fees
and snorted it up my nose. I begged for a job at the gallery and then started massive arguments with clients at openings.
I’ve just been a shit. I think it’s all been a cry for attention.’


‘Did your therapist tell you that?’

I thought I was being mean, but he didn’t even blink, just took a serious sip of beer.

‘That’s what she says. She says I have issues with my father because he’s talented and successful and I’m scared to be compared
to him, so I rebel instead. I have Developmental Trauma Disorder. This trip to India, I’m supposed to be confronting this
and recovering. I’m supposed to behave.’


He pronounced this word carefully, like a foreign concept.

‘Sounds like you’re a spoilt little rich kid to me.’

‘I’m rich. I’m not spoilt. My dad swears I was his one bad sperm. My mum always says I must have been abused, not that she
sounds too worried about it. She replaced any filial bond with botox a long time ago. She’s just not as interested in me as
she is in preventative ageing technology.’


He looked so dismal as he said this, genuinely hurt. I actually felt sorry for him. I put my hand on his shoulder, the most
emotional gesture I’d made in a long time. He looked up at me, shook off his family and half-smiled.


‘I guess you’re got a great family, loving, normal. You seem one of those really together, over-achieving types.’

He wasn’t too far off, except I was the furthest from together I had ever been.

‘My dad, he’s a teacher, he’s pretty normal. My mum. She’s pretty crazy, she’s a minor poet. Not really successful. Likes
to write about blood and wombs.’


‘Gross.’

‘I know. You know she read us Sylvia Plath as bedtime stories? That was probably the most warped part of childhood. She’s
not bad though, just wrapped up in her own world. My brother’s kind of like her. I take after my dad.’


‘So how did you get to be a journalist, travelling all over the world?’

He sounded so much more impressed than he should have. I didn’t travel all over the world, I was stuck in India. I’d come
over with wild ambitions to dig up seminal stories, become a great writer of the new century. In reality I was stuck doing
colour pieces on Delhi Art Fair. Still, it was nice to be appreciated.


‘I dunno … I guess I do take after mum a bit. I like writing. I just didn’t want to write crazy poems that went nowhere and
didn’t mean anything to anyone. I wanted to write something concrete, something that would make a difference to people, something
people would actually read. I went to university, started work on a local paper and then somehow got out here. I’m from Wales originally.’


‘Wales. Is that North England?’

‘No. It’s a whole fucking country. Have you not heard of Dylan Thomas?’

He looked at me blankly. I was about to start explaining rugby when the tannoy buzzed. Our flight was finally leaving. There
was no seating plan and the usual scrum to get a seat. I skulked at the back of the plane for a bit, not knowing whether to
sit by this guy or not. Sitting in close proximity for another two hours would be a commitment, would suggest that I liked
him maybe. And there was a risk he might vomit. But he was really fun to talk to. I enjoyed listening to him, he was weird
but at least he made me feel less of a fuck-up myself.


Zim took the decision out of my hands, calling loudly to me across the plane.

‘Hey, I saved you a seat. Come on over.’

I smiled weakly and grabbed some napkins from a sullen air-hostess, just in case things went wrong. There were TVs bedded
into the backs of our seats and Zim immediately tuned to CNN.


I pulled out my book, Strangers on a Train.


‘Hey, hey,’ he said, pulling his headphones out for a moment. ‘It’s like we’re Strangers on a Plane!’

Zim seemed a lot happier now. He chuckled at his own joke, even though it really was not funny. He was still smiling as he
watched some footage of a bomb going off in Afghanistan. He was the kind that recovered from hangovers by getting high.


I tried to concentrate on my book, but I couldn’t. I took out my iPod again.


‘What are you listening to?’ asked Zim.

‘Prince.’

He shuddered. ‘God.’

‘What have you got against Prince?’

‘Ah, it’s personal.’

‘What?’

‘I told you, it’s personal.’

I couldn’t just drop it. Even in the depths of depressed self-involvement I was still nosy as hell.

‘Oh come on, tell me. I won’t tell anyone will I?’

Zim shook his head.

‘Oh come on, I love a good story.’

‘OK, but you got to promise never to tell anyone. Or I might have to kill you.’

He looked at me with no humour in his eyes. I tried to match his seriousness.

‘All right I swear.’

‘My ex-girlfriend, Melissa. She was obsessed with ‘Purple Rain’. She would only come when Prince was on. I don’t know who
was turning her on more, me or him. I got a little jealous in the end. I smashed up all her Prince CDs.’


‘God, that’s a bit extreme.’

‘I’m not proud of myself. I’m not. I just kind of saw red. She was so upset. One of them was signed. And there was a first
print too. I felt terrible after. We didn’t last much longer.’


‘No wonder. That’s a shit thing to do.’

Zim frowned like a dog who’d just been kicked for no reason.

‘I didn’t want to tell you. I told you it was personal. You insisted. Now you think I’m crazy and all I was being was honest.
Damn.’


‘Don’t worry about it. I don’t think your crazy. I’m not listening to “Purple Rain”. I’m listening to “Dirty Mind”.’

‘OK, that’s not so bad.’

We arrived at Panjim airport late. It was dark and hot as we stepped out the plane and there was a salty breeze.

‘I booked into the Majestic Panjim online at the airport. Don’t know if its any good, but its supposed to be the best round
here. Do you fancy coming with me? Get a margarita at the bar?’ he asked.


‘Ah, thanks, but I’ve booked somewhere. Fernando’s guesthouse, in the old town.’

Zim shrugged his shoulders. ‘OK. Suit yourself.’

He didn’t seem bothered either way and that made me regret refusing. Now all I had to look forward to was lying on a bed and
listening to my iPod. Why didn’t I say yes? Why couldn’t I just relax? Make a friend?


A crowd of drivers were waiting for holidaymakers at the entrance of the airport. One man dressed all in white was holding
a decorated white board with the name ‘Zim Moon’ neatly written.


‘That’s my ride. Do you wanna lift?’

‘Ah no, don’t worry. I’ll get a cab.’

He looked at me. He had bloodshot eyes with very pale-blue irises. They would have been lovely if he hadn’t just spent the
whole of his Bangkok stopover smoking weed.


‘You’re independent aren’t you? You had your fingers burnt by someone?’


I laughed. ‘I guess I’ve had my fingers burnt but I don’t know if it was by anyone but myself.’

‘I know all about that. I think I’ve become a master in the art of self-combustion … well … look after yourself.’

‘No worries. See you. You know, I really have got something to do tomorrow. Or I would have come with you.’

‘What’s so important?’

I was embarrassed but I wanted to explain. I didn’t want him to think I was some ice queen who couldn’t hang out and drink
a margarita.


‘I’m going to a festival.’

‘A music festival?’

‘No … it’s the festival of a saint.’

Zim looked shocked then faintly worried. ‘Are you religious?’

‘No, no. God no. Ah. It’s a long story.’

Zim’s driver had taken his bag and had started the engine of his car. He clearly wanted to go.

‘Well, look I got your number. I’m going to call you.’

‘OK.’

He looked at me fixedly.

‘I’m gonna call you Ruby. Is that OK with you? I’d like to hang out.’

‘Yeah, sure, it is. I said it was.’

He smiled, reached out to stroke my hair, but thought better of it. Maybe it was the expression on my face that stopped him.
Maybe it said ‘don’t touch’. We hovered for a moment, his hand mid-air. I balanced myself in the night, eventually leant in. But he’d taken his hand up in
a wave and then he was away in his car.


I woke up the next morning with an aching back and clammy skin. My mattress felt like it has been badly beaten up. The bathroom
smelt of sewers.


Fernando’s guesthouse had seemed old-fashioned when I arrived the night before, with a wooden veranda, dim lights and plaster
walls. In the morning my overwhelming feeling was that it was dirty. I wished I’d taken up that margarita with Zim.


I found Fernando sitting in his mouldy bar, surrounded by the debris of last night’s orders, watching football on TV. I asked
him for a taxi into Old Goa. He didn’t seem keen to move and just rubbed his tight, round belly.


‘What do you want to go there for? Very busy today. Crowds. The feast day of Saint Francis today. Better to go tomorrow.’
He said, not taking his eyes of the screen.


‘Tomorrow when the football’s over? I want to go to the feast day. That’s why I’m here.’


‘It’ll be dirty.’

I couldn’t quite make out this comment. Whether Fernando was being a hypocrite or the feast of Saint Francis was truly filthy.
But I’d travelled thousands of miles down here to see this saint; I wasn’t going to give up now.


‘I don’t care. Just book me a cab.’

He swiped a fly away from his face and looked up at me with new eyes. I was weirder than he’d realised.

‘You’re religious? OK. I’ll get it for you.’

I didn’t bother protesting. I’ll admit it was a strange way to start a holiday, but it was a start at least.

It had been hard work freelancing in Delhi, but I’d been doing all right, I’d been having some fun. Then Stephen, my flatmate,
my best friend, my only real friend there, died. I’d pretty much lost it after that. I couldn’t work, hardly at all. Most
of the time I lay on my bed listening to the wailing train horns from the railway station nearby.


I tried to muster the usual discipline, searched myself for the glint of hope that got me up in the morning, made me write
lists, send emails, make calls. But I couldn’t find it. I think it was the guilt more than anything.


Stephen had been pulled out of the Yamuna River and at first we thought it was murder. But it wasn’t. He’d been off his face
on heroin. He’d fallen in. I found it all out and wrote about his death, my first article for a national newspaper. A big
break. Now his family won’t speak to me.


Before this, journalism, writing, had seemed simple. The only problem was getting commissions. I loved it, believed in it, saw the truth as all-important. Now, I wasn’t sure. I sneered at my old self; naïve, over-enthusiastic, self-righteous.
I’d lost my vocation and didn’t know how to get it back. Or if I ever would.


I discovere. . .