The Case of the Deadly Butter Chicken (10 page)

'Come, young man,' he said with a welcoming smile, motioning Puri into a cane armchair.

The lady announcer, her dulcet voice a reminder of the more civilised days before the advent of hysterical 24-hour TV news presentation, spoke calmly about a massacre of police recruits by Maoist rebels in Chhattisgarh State. A politician from Uttar Pradesh had been accused of rape and of trying to cover up his crime, she went on to explain. And in the ICT league, the Hyderabad Hyenas had beaten the Bangalore Bears.

'Those are the headlines. And now we continue with our Hindi drama Life Gulmohar Style. In today's episode, Aruna and Chanchal have a chat about marriage and expectations of life after marriage. Why is it that some women seem to think that marriage is the ultimate aim of life?'

Brigadier Mattu looked as if he might like to carry on listening but reached over and turned off his radio nonetheless. 'How is Mummy?' he asked. 'She's not well, I'm told.'

'Some fever is there, actually,' replied Puri, who'd only come to know she was ill an hour or two ago. 'The doctor has given medicine and she's taking rest. I'll be paying her a visit later, only.'

'Must have been the shock of last night,' commented Brigadier Mattu.

'Must be,' agreed Puri. 'It's not every day one sees a murder right before one's very eyes. And at her age--'

'At any age,' interrupted Brigadier Mattu, who was only three years younger than Mummy. 'Believe me when I tell you, Puri, I did not sleep one single wink last night.'

The Brigadier sipped his soup. A smidgen of tomato soup clung to his grey moustache.

'Sir, there is something I would want you to look at,' said the detective, coming straight to the point.

'What are you mixed up in this time?' asked Brigadier Mattu with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

'I've been asked to put the murder of this Pakistani fellow under the scanner,' said Puri. 'Seems he and his son are in the dock for match fixing.'

He reached into an outer pocket of his safari suit and took out one of the sealable sandwich bags that he always kept about him, mostly for collecting and preserving evidence at crime scenes. They also came in useful for storing emergency samosas.

This one contained a crumpled piece of paper.

He handed it to the Brigadier and explained how he'd 'found' it in Faheem Khan's pocket.

'This is evidence stolen from the scene of a crime,' pointed out his father-in-law, looking alarmed.

'Not stolen, exactly, sir,' replied the detective. 'Liberated is more like it.'

Mattu cocked an eyebrow in his direction.

'Sir, let me assure you the paper was sticking out of his pocket,' insisted Puri. 'What is more, such evidence would be one hundred per cent wasted on our Chief of Police. Doubtless, he would imagine those numbers written there were Faheem Khan's suit measurements. Probably start rounding up all Delhi tailors.'

But Brigadier Mattu wasn't listening; he was already studying the piece of paper.

Written on it was a series of numbers:

12, 11, 6

15, 9, 12

22, 14, 7

'Perhaps they correspond to overs and balls?' he wondered out loud.

'That would certainly make sense, sir,' replied Puri. 'The suspicion is there that Khan has been bowling no balls and wides and offering up easy deliveries. Thus a bookie can place bets on individual balls and overs and make a fortune. They call it spot betting.'

The Brigadier opened his desk drawer. 'I have the scorecard here,' he said. 'Let's see if the numbers correspond.'

He ran his fingers over the rows of meticulously recorded figures. 'Khan's first no ball came in the fourth over. Second delivery. Does that correspond with the number on the paper you stole?' he asked.

It did not.

He got the same negative result when he tried to match Kamran Khan's first wide ball.

'Perhaps they've reversed the numbers, balls then overs,' he suggested next.

Again the numbers didn't correspond.

'Could be these are instructions for the next match,' said Puri. 'Delhi is playing again day after.'

'In which case, we must watch the match carefully. Meantime I will keep trying different permutations.' The Brigadier's gaze remained fixed on the numbers.

'Most kind of you, sir,' said Puri.

He made his way out of the study, not entirely convinced that his father-in-law had noticed him leave.

En route to the Gymkhana Club, Puri made a quick stop at his usual chemist. He found six customers crowded around the counter, all of them simultaneously reeling off long lists of drugs with names that all ended in 'nox' or 'ozil'. Behind the counter, eight shop assistants fetched and carried their orders from shelves stocked to the ceiling with hundreds of white cartons containing every conceivable type of drug - a testament to the cavalier manner in which medicine was prescribed and eagerly guzzled down in India.

Mr Joti, the chief pharmacist, was sitting in his usual place behind the till. Puri elbowed his way past the other customers to reach him.

'Someone has overdosed again, sir?' asked Mr Joti, who had helped the detective with medical-related expertise in the past.

'Nothing like that, actually. My wife is after me to get my weight down.' Puri showed him the ZeroCal flyer. 'You've this product?' he asked.

Mr Joti immediately called out to nobody in particular, 'One box ZeroCal!'

A carton was placed on the counter by one of the shop assistants. It was already open. There were about twenty blister strips inside.

'How many pieces you want?' asked the pharmacist.

'Four only,' replied the detective.

Four strips were promptly extracted and slipped into a little brown paper bag.

'Take one with every meal, sir,' instructed Mr Joti. 'Anything else?'

'Buss.'

There was a party being held at the Gymkhana Club, the diamond wedding anniversary of a Parsi couple called Mr and Mrs Gaariwala. Delhi's elite were arriving in their chauffeur-driven sedans. The dress code was 'sober', a word that had come to mean tasteful in a country that increasingly delighted in bling. The women wore heavy silk saris and expensive but discreet jewellery; the men blazers and cravats. There was an air of self-satisfied urbanity about them.

Puri spotted the club secretary, Colonel P.V.S. Gill (Retd.), and his harridan of a wife standing under the portico in front of the main entrance and ordered Handbrake to drive on.

'Go round back!' he shouted in English as he ducked down in his seat.

Gill had been on at him to run background checks on some of the latest applicants for club membership and Puri couldn't spare the time. As for that terrible woman, she had been gunning for him again recently. This time it was his Sandown that was at issue: hats and caps, according to Mrs Colonel P.V.S. Gill (Retd.), were not to be worn inside the Gym. One evening last month, she'd ordered the detective to remove his offending headgear, and when he'd refused, a disciplinary committee had been assembled. The spirit of the code of conduct laid down by the 'Founding Fathers' was being violated, the old crow had claimed. But Puri had argued - successfully for now - that she was talking 'total nonsense only'. Members were at liberty to wear turbans or topis. Why couldn't he don a cap?

Only a naive fool would have considered the war won, however. Mrs Colonel P.V.S. Gill (Retd.) was like a Rottweiler. Her long-suffering husband had the teeth marks to prove it.

Puri took the back way into the club and reached the terrace bar without incident. 'Hearties apologies, Inspector sahib!' said Puri as he joined Inspector Jagat Prakash Singh, who had already claimed them a table.

They ordered a couple of Patiala pegs.

'So you mind telling me what all the Chief has been up to?' asked the detective as he settled into a comfortable armchair.

Singh looked uneasy. He leaned forward. 'Sir, if he knew I was sitting here with you discussing his case he'd have my badge.'

'Who is going to tell him, Inspector? Not you. Not I. And the barman is a mute. So why worry?'

'And what if I share some piece of evidence with you to which only he's privy, some salient detail, and it helps you solve the case? What then? He'll know it was me for sure.'

'Put it this way, Inspector sahib: no one is aware it was I who solved the tantric fraud case. Correct?' Puri didn't like to bring up past cases in which he had anonymously assisted Singh, but sometimes it was necessary to remind the inspector of what the detective called their 'mutual back scratching' arrangement. 'Point is,' continued the detective, 'many of the witnesses present were VVIPs and all. Such types won't speak with yours truly.'

Singh stared down into his glass. 'I printed off copies of the interviews and statements,' he said with a quiet reluctance. 'They're in the bag under the table.'

'Most kind of you, Inspector sahib.'

'Chief's taken statements from everyone who sat at the victim's table,' added the inspector.

'He's interviewed each and every one of them personally?'

'Some statements were submitted in written form - from the likes of the cabinet secretary, obviously. As for the Bollywood types, Chief talked to them by phone. All very cosy.'

'And the hotel staff?'

'They've been Bhatt's remit.'

Inspector Ravindra Bhatt was the Chief's lackey.

'One of the waiters is a charge-sheeter. Credit card fraud.'

'He's charging him, is it?'

'I would not be surprised,' replied Singh, who had nothing but contempt for his fellow officer.

Puri asked about Kamran Khan and was told he'd accompanied his father's body back to Pakistan in the afternoon.

'After he gave his statement, he was cleared to leave the country.'

The detective gave him a look of despair.

'You think he was involved?' asked Singh.

'Till date every person in that room is a suspect - even my dear Mummy-ji. So how can the son of the victim be allowed to leave the country, I ask you?'

'It's not that straightforward, sir. There's politics involved here - pressure from Islamabad.'

'Is there by God? Pressure from Islamabad? Then challo, never mind! No matter Pakistan is a terrorist-supporting state, occupying half Kashmir, wreaking havoc with Afghanistan, sharing nuclear secrets with likes of North Korea. Main thing is we should keep them happy. No boats should be rocked.'

'Sir, you've no argument with me. The fault lies with our politicians.' Singh drained his drink. 'Now if you'll excuse me, I should be getting home.'

Puri could see he was upset. 'Apologies, Inspector sahib!' he said. 'Didn't mean to get hot under the collar and all. Stay for another, haa. Have something to eat at least. I ordered one plate chilli cheese toast.'

'Didn't you tell me just last week that you had been put on a diet, sir?' asked Singh.

'Thank you for reminding me, Inspector sahib,' answered Puri, taking out the medicine he'd purchased earlier. 'Just I am planning to start it now, in fact.'

SEVEN

MUMMY NEEDED A cover story. And a suitable travelling companion. Someone with whom she could make the journey to the holy city of Haridwar, where she planned to continue her own investigation of the murder of Faheem Khan without raising the suspicion of her three sons. Someone who wasn't suspicious by nature and could be easily distracted.

Only one name fit the bill: Ritu Bawar, better known to everyone as Ritu Auntie.

Not the best traveller in the world, it had to be said - what with her bad hips, strict dietary requirements and highly superstitious nature. But she of all people had time on her hands. Her husband was no more (clogged arteries), her eldest son had emigrated (UAE) and her second son had someone else to cook for him (married off). She passed her days gossiping on the phone and from the balcony of her apartment, playing teen patti at the Punjabi Bagh Club, and badgering her young daughter-in-law for a grandson.

Still, persuading Ritu Auntie to travel so far was going to take some doing. Recently she'd baulked at going after dark to the Ananya Festival at Purana Qila - and that was only a few miles away.

Mummy sat in her bedroom in her house in Punjabi Bagh, where she lived with her eldest son, Bhupinder, mulling over the best strategy. Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door.