Murder with Bengali Characteristics (11 page)

‘I thought we got along pretty well,’ said Li. ‘It must have been Sexy. He even warned me he would do it. Has his loyalty been noted?’

‘The problem with you is, you think you’re smarter than everyone else,’ said Propagandist Wang.

‘My ex-wife says the same thing,’ said Li, ‘you should get together. Maybe you can, once you make enough money to buy a position back home. She has a penthouse on Heavenly Hilltop. The view is fantastic.’

Wang leaned back in his seat and eyed Li. He was a liability. He should have disposed of him long ago, except for the nagging feeling that some day he might be needed. Right now he was being extremely inconvenient. Propagandist Wang had plans. Inspector Li was getting in the way.

‘Your brain is at the disposal of the nation,’ said Wang, ‘not your personal hobbies. Stop wasting time on this villager. We have more important things for you to do.’

‘He’s not the first victim of the thugs,’ said Li. ‘We should probably get to the bottom of this.’

‘You’re no longer on the thug case,’ said Wang, firmly. ‘General Zhou and the People’s Armed Police will take care of it. The thugs have been declared a threat to national security. General Zhou has been asked to investigate and suppress them, which he will no doubt do with maximum inefficiency. But things can no longer be handled at your level, which is very low.’

‘They’re on Elgin Road,’ said Inspector Li, helpfully.

‘This is no longer your problem,’ said Propagandist Wang. He gazed at him sternly. Li gazed back.

‘What about the teacher who died?’ asked Li.

‘What matters is punishment of the culprits, who are obviously thugs,’ said Propagandist Wang. ‘Zhou is in charge. Bullets will not be spared. The families of those shot will be paying for them. Justice will be done. You need to stop worrying about this. There’s something else I called you here for. I need a small favour.’

This was a peace offering. It was a long time since Wang had asked him for a favour. A guanxi event was occurring. Wang thought he was in the gutter, but the Propaganda Department was a power in the empire, even here in the semi-digested bits.

‘Sure,’ said Li, feeling very virtuous. He was being sensible.

Propagandist Wang relaxed visibly. ‘A mysterious anti-party campaign has been running across the city. It’s causing disharmony and making me look bad. Will you find out what’s going on? Technically it’s not a homicide, unless you count the death of my career, but I would appreciate your help.’

‘What kind of campaign?’ asked Li.

‘It reveals forbidden things.’

Wang dealt in broad hints and general guidelines. Providing specific information was against his principles.

‘How long has this been going on?’ asked Li.

‘A few months. It’s been increasing.’

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said Li.

‘I won’t forget this,’ said Wang, ‘and you forget about this thug case. And for God’s sake, stop harassing senior Politburo members!’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Li.

He checked the time on his way out. It was three in the afternoon. The Maoist commander Debu-da lived in the jungle near Jhargram. He was Barin Mondol’s former chess partner. If he left immediately, he could interview him, and be back from the jungle before dark.

He walked faster.

His phone beeped as he left Writer’s Building, a red-brick relic of British rule. All subsequent rulers had elected to stay there. It was Gao Yu.

‘You should be careful with the women out there,’ she said. ‘They don’t bathe much. They could have diseases.’

‘I don’t have time for women,’ said Li.

‘Ha!’ said Gao Yu. ‘Like I don’t remember you checking me out in front of the police station!’

He couldn’t deny it. Whenever corruption bubbled over, and the public was restless, the government cracked down on prostitutes, to show that they were tough on crime. It never worked. The police were rough, and few people liked it. Most of them knew they were just poor girls trying to earn a living. Li had always hated it, and never took part, but, as usual, it had been hard to ignore her. He was returning to the station and they were lined up in front of it, Gao Yu and three other working girls, on their knees. The police liked to display them in public, to show people justice in action. A small crowd had gathered to leer. Others walked past the station faster than usual, repulsed. The girls had their heads down and their faces turned away, hoping to avoid the cameras. Except for Gao Yu. She was in a flimsy nightie and Hello Kitty panties, staring up at them defiantly. Her chin was set and her eyes were flashing. Li had known instantly that he would always want to protect her. One of his colleagues had leaned down and whispered something. ‘You don’t have the money, you loser!’ she said, and spat in his face. Li had stepped in when he raised his hand.

Gao Yu watched him remembering.

‘Good times, no?’ she said, grinning. ‘I think you broke his jaw. But don’t change the subject. You have to be careful with those women.’

‘I told you I don’t have the time’

‘Whatever. Just remember to have lots of antibiotics,’ she said. ‘I have to go now. My helicopter’s waiting. I got a pink one. I’m going on a skiing holiday to Wusan. Not that you care, but I could make as much as 50,000 dollars from this trip.’

Li felt a pang of sympathy for her new man. He was desperate to marry her, and bleeding cash. ‘Why don’t you marry him?’ he asked.

‘And let him do it for free? Are you kidding?’

Li couldn’t think of anything else to say. ‘I have to go to the jungle now,’ he said.

‘You should stay there,’ said Gao Yu, ‘it would suit you.’

‘We no longer lurk amongst you. You can sleep without fear.’

The guide was sullen, and prone to disgruntled silences. He stomped grumpily down the narrow forest trail, never looking back. Inspector Li followed him cautiously, trying not to touch the greenery. Concrete was his natural environment. Nature made him nervous.

‘It’s not like he has to live in the jungle, you know,’ said the guide. ‘All villages are under him. He could live in any one of them. It’s all theatre. When those giant foreign women come to photograph him in the jungle, it looks good. It’s all about setting, that’s what it is. He never admits it, though. He says the revolution is not over, he must not forget about hardship. He should live with my mother-in-law. That’ll teach him about hardship.’

Inspector Li assumed that he was now in Junglemahal, an independent state within the liberated zone, covering parts of what used to be the states of West Bengal and Jharkhand. Borders here were fluid. It was hard to tell where Junglemahal began, and the Protectorate ended. For most people, it meant paying both the local police, respectfully referred to as uncles, and the Maoists, represented by local area commander Debu-da. This made it a high tax area, like Sweden. Emigration levels were high.

‘Of course, it’s only natural he’ll do theatre. Theatre is very important to them. When they’re not shooting people, they’re doing theatre. Some of them even prefer theatre to shooting people. It must be because of their artistic mentality. I saw one of their plays once, about this boy Eklavya. He was one of us, a tribal. Naturally he was very good with bow and arrow. This was before the AK47 had been invented. It was the main method of killing people. He was a threat to all the young rajas, who were practising-practising all the time, but not improving sufficiently. The guru-ji of the young rajas could see that he was a very suitable candidate, and one day he would challenge the young rajas. So he asked Eklavya for his thumb and, like a fool, Eklavya gave it to him. In this play, they changed the ending, and added a twist to the story. Here he shows good sense, and refuses to give his thumb to his guru. Instead he shoots him full of arrows and chops off his head. This ending was much better. Performance was good. There was plenty of dancing, and the girls were nice. Here also, when Eklavya protects the villagers, they give him food and drink, just like we do. But the quantity was much less. Nowadays there are so many of these people, and none of them produce food. They only consume it. Sir, what can I tell you? In trying to feed them, our backside is exploding.’

They walked on in silence. Inspector Li tried hard not to think about the insects in his boots as the sweat trickled down his spine. He slapped a mosquito on his arm. They were bigger here, and sucked more blood, like high-level party members. He tripped over a root, and found himself in the middle of a clearing. ‘Debu-da’s office,’ announced his guide, and departed in search of food.

It was a full-fledged military camp, with regulation tents in neat little rows, a small brick generator room, and a mobile rig. Not a bow or arrow in sight. A couple of sentries in olive green sauntered up and looked him over, unimpressed by his uniform but staying sharp. He was not the boss of them. They were citizens of an allied nation. Most of their gear was Chinese, Inspector Li noted, with satisfaction. Manufactured in the jungle, under licence. They were getting quite good at it. They were giving the Indian Army a hard time, a few hundred miles away in Bihar. Geography on the Western Front was a living thing, rippling and slithering, leaving little puddles of blood in its wake. Things were much more relaxed for the Maoists here in the East, with the friendly Chinese next door. In theory, cross-border relations ought to have been marked by thigh-slapping and merriment, as they celebrated the spirit of revolutionary brotherhood together, but in practice, Inspector Li couldn’t recall ever seeing much of this happening.

‘I suppose Swapan-da won’t do, only Debu-da,’ said one of the troops.

‘I’d prefer that,’ said Li, ‘I’m investigating the murder of a government officer who lived nearby.’

‘He means Mondol-da,’ explained one guard to the other. ‘He was strangled last week. Mondol-da was OK. He ate very little, and never stole anything.’

They walked him to the command tent. As they approached, they could hear the funky beats of A. R. Rahman. Inspector Li was intrigued. This was an unlikely place to find a classical music fan. He raised the flap and stepped into the tent.

It was a large tent, dominated by an active-surface table with touch panels. There was a low, narrow cot on the side. On it sat Debu-da, a pleasant, open-faced man in spectacles and green fatigues. A copy of
Stardust
magazine lay next to him, featuring two identical women on the cover, striking martial arts poses. ‘I’M IN LOVE WITH MY CLONE!’ SAYS SHEILA, the cover blared. Sensing his interest, the magazine began to speak. ‘It was a romance that began during the shooting of
Kung Fu Twins
…’ said the magazine. Its voice was warm and thrilling. Debu-da hit it with the butt of his rifle, and it subsided. ‘It’s amazing how my clone is hotter than me, Sheila was quoted as saying…’ it ventured tentatively, but Debu-da glared, and it fell silent. Its cover went blank, just the
Stardust
logo gleaming eerily in the dim light of the tent. There seemed to be a book underneath it. Was that a pig on the cover?

At first glance, Debu-da seemed surprisingly young to be such a pillar of society, until Inspector Li noticed the touch of grey at his temples. He had the easy confidence of a veteran, and an air of amiable menace.

‘This is just like Agatha Christie,’ said Debu-da. ‘Big city cop visits innocent villagers. Do they read Agatha Christie in China?’

‘We adore her,’ said Inspector Li. This was true. They were mad about A-Granny back home.
The Mousetrap
had been running forever. ‘And your boys outside don’t look like villagers,’

‘I keep them in shape,’ said Debu-da, modestly. ‘They say the fire inside me is gone. That’s why I’m here, instead of at the Front. But I keep the boys tight. Otherwise they might get up to mischief. You know how it is. Around here, there’s not much to do. I’m extremely strict. Discipline is my middle name.’

A dreamy-eyed soldier popped his head into the tent.

‘Guru-ji, come join us outside, the jungle smells heavenly!’

Debu-da waved him away, smiling. ‘He’s in love,’ he explained.

Inspector Li was happy to see romance flowering in the jungle. He hadn’t been getting much himself, although one of the waitresses at the Serve The People in Chowringhee had been giving him the glad eye lately, so maybe there was hope. It was hard to concentrate, with Gao Yu calling all the time.

‘What happened to the fire inside you?’ he asked.

‘Oh, it just went out one day,’ said Debu-da, looking quite undisturbed. ‘We’ve been doing this for years, and nothing much changes. Patna was a bloodbath. The army boys are tougher than the poor constables we used to blow up. I was good at killing, but how much can you kill? Patna’s a great prize. I understand the value of Patna. Emperors have ruled from Patna. But how much blood is it worth? “Why don’t we just divide it up and settle down?” I said to my comrades one day. They disagreed. They want everything. They locked me up for a few days while they figured out what to do. For a while it looked like the People’s Court, which has a 100 per cent conviction rate, but my boys were getting restless, so I was let off with some Medium to Heavy Public Criticism, along with thirteen hours of revolutionary poetry.’

Inspector Li was sympathetic. ‘Reading or writing?’ he asked.

‘Reading,’ said Debu-da. ‘At least it wasn’t singing. I hate those songs. I prefer Clapton.’

He was a long way from Presidency College, where the walls were steeped in history and all the girls were clever. He had been full of revolution back then. His original plan was to become a leading intellectual, but mounting injustice had transformed him from light pink to deep crimson. Later, it turned out he had a talent for jungle warfare. So here he was, in a spacious tent, a slightly exhausted leader of men.

‘Tell me about Barin Mondol,’ said Inspector Li.

‘He was one of the few we didn’t kick out,’ said Debu-da. ‘Usually, we drive out the babus when we take over. They go and hide in the district town, and pretend they’re still on duty. That way they still get their budgets every year. No one ever comes to check. We take our share once a month, so everyone’s happy. We’re government servants too, in a way. A few of the stubborn ones we have to kill. Barin-babu refused to leave, but we didn’t kill him.’