The Goa Connection - Chapter 2

 

Chapter2

 

After making extensive enquiries for two days, Dan and Mark tracked down a former wartime cryptanalyst living in Penzance. He invited them to take the map to his home for scrutiny.

Ninety year-old Harry Renshaw was remarkably alert but his failing eyesight caused problems. He repositioned a bright reading light on his desk in the study of a rambling former vicarage. Dan and Mark watched anxiously from behind the expert as he hunched low over the map, using a powerful magnifying glass to examine the coded message.

“Mmm, quite interesting—indeed very interesting,” Harry Renshaw said softly. “You see, there was a similarity between German Enigma coding apparatus and our British Typex cipher machine. However, our Typex proved superior. Thanks to extra wheels and notches the code was declared unbreakable by the Germans.”

Mark asked, “So can you tell what sort of code we have here?”

Harry raised a hand. “Patience, gentlemen, give me time.” He continued studying the code, jotting down rows of numbers and letters on a sheet of paper.

Dan could hardly conceal his excitement and began tapping a foot on the floor impatiently. He thought Please let it be good news. Come on!

Eventually the cryptanalyst declared, “It’s very close to the British layout—give or take a few irregularities. It’s certainly not German.”

Fifteen minutes later Harry announced, “Well, well! I do believe we have an answer. You see, whoever wrote this code couldn’t have been completely familiar with how to do it properly. In fact, almost half the letters in every word seem not coded at all. I just need to decode the rest and all should be revealed.”

“We’ll pop outside for a while and leave you to get on with it,” said Mark, standing up.

“You’re welcome to sit in the garden and Mrs Peabody, my housekeeper, will bring you some cold drinks,” offered Harry.

Dan and Mark walked through a patio doorway and sat at a rustic table under a leafy tree in a lawn surrounded by well-tended flower borders. Birdsong filled the stonewalled garden.

Mrs Peabody placed chilled lemonade, nibbles and some newspapers on the table. “There you go, gentlemen. Don’t hesitate to let me know if you need anything else.” She beamed broadly, turned and walked back to the house.

Suddenly Dan started thinking about Katie Barnes. He was becoming increasingly concerned about the lack of any news. Doesn’t make sense. She’d never deliberately fail to keep in touch with her mother, he thought, his face taking on a glum expression.

Almost an hour later Harry Renshaw appeared and called out triumphantly, “I’m delighted to tell you I’ve successfully completed the task. Come along, gentlemen, come and see.”

Harry’s two visitors followed him back to the study, sat and leaned forward expectantly as the old man read out information contained on the map.

Harry cleared his throat. “Apparently this pinpoints the location of hidden treasure somewhere in Goa, India. Some words are still in Portuguese but that’s not surprising given the place used to be run by that country. A ruined fort named Cabo De Soldado—Cape Of The Soldier, in English—holds clues to the exact location of the hoard.”

Dan gabbled, “Does it say how to get to this fort?”

Harry nodded. “Indeed. It’s close to a village called Repousante, meaning Restful, in southern Goa. The district—taluka—is known as Salcete.”

Dan shot out of his chair and punched the air exuberantly. “Yes! Oh boy, I can hardly believe it!”

Mark cut in with, “Steady, Dan. You don’t exactly have your hands on a fortune yet. Even if you did find the bounty, you’d not be allowed to take it out of India. When I was working in the Arabian Sea years ago, I heard a story about priceless treasure going missing from one of the oldest Hindu temples in Goa. Rumours followed that the Supreme Court of India had approved an enormous reward for the safe return of the sacred hoard. I’ll research that when we get home and see if it’s true. So, be patient. Anyway, there’s the small matter of getting out there and being able to stay indefinitely. That’ll need a lot of money.”

Harry offered, “Perhaps you’d like me to write the full translation in English to keep with the map.”

Dan nodded. “Oh yes please, that’s very important.”

As soon as the additional document was ready, Dan and Mark thanked Harry profusely and left.

On arriving at The Mackerel Inn, Dan enjoyed a pint at the bar while Mark searched online for information about the alleged reward on offer in India.

After a few minutes Mark exclaimed, “Here it is! Yes, the reward is still up for grabs. Good grief! It can’t be that much. Three-hundred-and-fifty million Indian rupees. Let’s do a quick conversion.” He opened a currency conversion website and typed in the figures. “That’s about four million pounds!”

“Whew! Why so much?” Dan wanted to know.

“Just getting the sacred property back is of paramount importance. Enormous wealth accumulated over centuries from the contributions of ‘devotees’. Keep in mind this temple, called Napahadram, is one of only two that escaped destruction during the Portuguese era. New temples sprang up later.”

Dan raised his tankard and declared, “I’m off! The obvious thing to do first is sell my boat. It should fetch around thirty thousand pounds so I’ll advertise it right away.”

“Maybe . . .” Mark hesitated. “Maybe we could sell the story to the local media. They’re always on the lookout for unusual material. Mind you, we say nothing about the map, hidden treasure or rewards­—that’d be rather foolish.”                                                                                            

* * *

A television news team arrived at Polminan harbour the next morning. Curious onlookers gathered to watch a camera and microphones being set up on the deck of Lucky Lucy.

Before filming began, an attractive female reporter explained, “Okay, Mr Mapleton. I’ll just ask a few questions, and you answer any way you wish, okay?”

“Sure, go ahead. But keep it simple.”

During the interview, Dan explained the theory about how the Ganesh eventually washed up in British waters, but revealed nothing about the contents of the object as he held it up for viewers to admire.

The story featured on both national and local news programmes that evening.

* * *

Indian born Vinay Subram stopped eating spicy lentil dhal from a bowl on the dining table in his East London terraced house. The early evening news on the TV caught the retired railway worker’s attention when the newsreader mentioned a minor story from Cornwall about a local fisherman recovering a bronze Ganesh statuette from coastal waters.

“Hey, listen to this, Geena. It sounds just like that thing your father kept on about for years.” Vinay increased the TV volume on the remote control. “You remember? When he worked at Mormugao Harbour in Goa during the war.”

His wife, Geena, shrugged. “Don’t be silly. We all know old Naveen Mahajan loved telling tales to anyone who’d listen. Now eat your dinner. Anyway, even my mother got bored with the same old story.”

Vinay objected with, “That’s because your mother was British. She didn’t understand our family properly. I’m telling you there may well be a connection to Naveen’s account of what he witnessed.”

With a sigh, Geena gave in. “Okay, go on; remind me again if you must.”

Her husband leaned forward enthusiastically. “Naveen discovered how a criminal gang stole treasure from a Hindu temple in Goa and hid it somewhere in the province. He also found out the gang had a map made and hidden inside a Ganesh statuette. They placed the bronze in a crate of merchandise on a Portugal-bound ship in Mormugao Harbour. In Lisbon it was transferred to ship going to England but sank en route so accomplices in England never laid hands on the clue to the whereabouts of the treasure.”

Geena remained silent for a few moments, a pained look on her face. Quietly she said, “Why oh why do we have all this cloak and dagger stuff going on in our family? Father wasn’t a criminal—just tempted to help himself to a fortune if the opportunity cropped up.” She brushed tears from her cheeks. “Not like our son—our own son—in prison right now for thieving and goodness knows what else.”

Vinay nodded. “Yes, it is so sad. But we did our best. When he gets out, we’ll help him start a new life. It’s time he found a wife and settled down. We’ll go and visit John again tomorrow.”

“At least we can tell him all about this fuss in Cornwall over a little bit of metal. That should cheer him up,” Geena added.

* * *

John Subram impatiently paced his cell, waiting for prison officers to unlock the door and lead him to freedom. Now thirty-six, the medium built, moustached man of Indian descent with black hair and dark eyes had completed a five-year sentence for armed robbery and causing grievous bodily harm to a security guard at a suburban London bank.

Since his parents told him about the Ganesh statuette being washed up in Cornwall his brain had been working overtime. He was hell-bent on beating that fisherman to the prize and already had the first steps planned.

* * *

Sleeping at night was difficult. Dan tossed and turned in bed while his brain churned through much of what was happening: would there be a better offer for his boat than a bid of nineteen thousand pounds? The meagre two hundred pounds from the TV company wouldn’t go very far.

His phone rang. Who on Earth is phoning at this time of night? he thought drowsily, fumbling in darkness for his mobile, which he habitually kept in a transparent waterproof pouch due to spending so much time at sea. Blearily squinting he discovered it was Rosie Barnes calling at three o’clock in the morning. “Something’s happened to Katie!” he gasped while connecting. “Rosie! What’s wrong?”

“Oh Dan, I’m so sorry to wake you at this hour but it’s Katie. The girl who was travelling with her in the Philippines just called to say she hasn’t heard from Katie for ages. It seems Katie decided to go on alone weeks ago. I’m beside myself with worry. I must tell the police. Can you come over, Dan? Please!”

“Of course, I’ll come straight away. Try not to get too upset, Rosie. I’m sure it’ll be alright.” He quickly dressed, grabbed the van keys and a torch, hurried outside and locked the cottage door.

Firmly gripping the steering wheel, Dan navigated along torturous roads at high speed, headlights picking out large boulders partly concealed by undergrowth as he approached sharp bends. Tyres screeched as the vehicle careered on.

Rosie tearfully greeted her visitor and ushered him indoors, wailing, “I haven’t phoned the police yet because I don’t know if it’s better to wait until morning then go to the police station.”

“We’ll visit the police station at first light and file a missing person report,” Dan assured her.

* * *

August arrived and John Subram was infuriated to learn that his fake passport wouldn’t be ready until early September, and then he needed to get a three-month visa for India. Using a computer in the back bedroom at his parent’s London home in the early hours, he opened Google search, typed Polminan and jotted down the village location in a notebook. Next he typed Cornish fisherman finds Ganesh statuette in lobster pot. Several references appeared onscreen and he studied one that carried the most detail concerning a television news report.

“Brilliant! Just what I was looking for,” he said softly. “Dan Mapleton. Lives alone in a Polminan cottage. Boat name Lucky Lucy. That’ll do nicely for starters.” He wrote the information in the book. “Right, Mr clever dick Mapleton, little do you know what’s about to happen.” Subram chuckled and closed down the computer.

Next morning he travelled by train from Paddington to Penzance, took a bus to Polminan and checked into Sunrise Lodge Hotel.