The Case of the Deadly Butter Chicken (15 page)

No wonder she's thrice divorced, Puri thought.

Less than ten minutes later, Nariman Rathore, one of the most powerful lawyers in India, called.

'With regard to the tragic events at the Delhi Durbar Hotel this past Sunday evening, my client, Ms Neetika Sahini, has made a full statement to the police and has nothing further to add,' he said. 'Any effort on your part to contact her again will be regarded as an infringement of her privacy.'

Acting through an intermediary whom Puri had worked for in the past, the detective was able to arrange an appointment for five o'clock with multimillionaire Ram Dogra and his wife.

The Prince of Polyester, whose original fortune was made supplying dirt-cheap garments to the Indian masses, made no secret of the opulence to which he and his family had become accustomed. The entrance to his property, an enormous plot in the quiet, leafy and prohibitively exclusive area between Prithviraj Road and Lodhi Gardens, was not understated. Spotlights highlighted the brass plaques on the gateposts, the name DOGRA spelt out in an elaborate, calligraphic script, like a Fifth Avenue brand name. The grand front gates were made of dark Burmese teak. An illuminated fountain played on the strip of lawn along the front of the wall.

The contemporary bungalow and tropical gardens beyond could easily have been mistaken for a five star boutique hotel and spa. This was borne out by the sitting room to which Puri was led by a liveried servant. A perfect square of raw-silk-upholstered couches occupied the centre ground. Side tables held Venetian vases overflowing with an array of waxy, exotic lilies.

Ram Dogra's choice of double-breasted jacket, silk cravat and Italian loafers seemed no less affected to Puri. The eighty-year-old came from humble Ludhiana stock after all, his gnarled, pitted features suggestive of a lifetime of battle.

'Mr Puri, your reputation precedes you,' he said, his voice deep, commanding, yet cordial. 'Swati speaks highly of you. Called you a man of great integrity.' Swati Saxena was the former client who'd arranged the interview.

'A great honour to meet you, sir,' responded the detective, markedly deferential in the presence of such a powerful individual. 'I'm most grateful to you for taking the time to see me, actually.'

Another man entered the sitting room. He was dressed in the badge of the male Indian assistant-cum-secretary: white open-collar shirt with breast pocket accommodating a row of pens. Without a word, he sat down on a chair next to the closed door, notebook and pen at the ready.

'Madam would be joining us, sir?' asked the detective.

'She's got a headache,' said Dogra as he sat on one of the couches and motioned for Puri to do the same. 'She should be along in a few minutes. We can start without her. Before we do, Mr Puri, I want you to know that I had a call this afternoon from the Delhi Chief of Police.'

'I see, sir.'

'He urged me not to speak with you. Called you a "meddler".'

'We two do not always see eye to eye exactly,' responded the detective, wondering where Dogra was going with this.

'Yes, well, I decided to ignore his advice for the simple reason that my wife and I have nothing to hide,' he stated.

'Most admirable of you, sir.'

Dogra checked his watch. 'Now, I can give you ten minutes,' he said.

'Ten minutes will be more than enough, sir,' responded Puri as if it was all a matter of mere routine. He took out notebook and pen. 'I wanted to ask you about the seating arrangement at the dinner, actually. Your good wife sat three places from the victim and you yourself to her right. Tell me: that was by choice, sir?'

'Not at all,' answered Dogra. 'We had no say in the matter.'

'You're part owner of the Delhi team, is it not so?'

'I'm the majority shareholder. I own fifty-one per cent. But I don't get involved with the catering arrangements.'

Puri made a note of this. Then he said, 'Please be good enough to tell me what all happened from the time you entered the banquet hall.'

Dogra described how he and his wife had spent fifteen, maybe twenty minutes talking with his 'old friend' Cabinet Secretary J.K. Shrivastav and then sat down at the table. One by one, the other guests had joined them. The food had been served straight away.

'You remember Faheem Khan leaving the table, sir?' asked Puri.

'Yes I do. I remember thinking his food was getting cold.'

'You saw any person standing there - behind his chair, that is?'

'I don't believe so, but then a few of us did get up from the table. I remember Kamran Khan excusing himself for a while. At one point, Mrs Talwar came and stood behind Mrs Bhangu and they talked. My wife paid a visit to the ladies' room after she'd finished eating. I went to the WC myself. I believe Satish Bhatia was gone for a short while as well.'

'During Faheem Khan's absence, sir?'

'Afterwards, I believe,' said Dogra, but he didn't sound sure and looked up at the ceiling again as if, somehow, the moulded plaster might hold the answer. 'To tell you the truth, Mr Puri, I can't remember.'

'Anyone else approached the table - aside from the waiters, that is?'

'Not while we were eating, no.'

'It is my understanding you spilt your drink, sir?'

'That's right. I knocked it over.'

'When exactly?'

'Oh that's hard to say.'

'When Faheem Khan was absent?'

'Yes, I suppose it was.'

'Must have distracted everyone.'

'I suppose so. Some of it spilled on Gunjan Bhangu, I'm embarrassed to say. But most got on to my trousers. That was when I visited the WC. To dry it off.'

The detective made a note of this and then followed up with, 'You'd been at the function the preceding evening, sir?'

'For the championship inauguration drinks? Yes, I was there for an hour or so.'

'And Madam?'

'She accompanied me, of course.'

'You met Faheem Khan, is it?'

'Briefly.'

'What did you talk about?'

'We welcomed him to India. Asked him if he'd had a good journey.' Dogra checked his Rolex. 'You've got another few minutes, Mr Puri.'

'Just I wanted to ask you about your business dealings with Pakistan.'

Dogra gave a gesture that suggested he'd anticipated the question. 'My company imports various commodities from there,' he answered.

'And you've visited Pakistan on no less than seven occasions.'

'You would not have found that information on my company's website,' answered the multimillionaire with a touch of pique.

'No, sir, I've other sources, actually.'

'Well, your other sources are correct, Mr Puri. But before you ask, I've no connection whatsoever with the Khans.'

'It is my understanding Madam was born in Pakistan, sir.'

Before Dogra could answer, the door opened and his wife appeared. She was petite and elegant. Her grey silk sari was immaculately tied, a diamond brooch pinned to one shoulder. Her hair, though white and thin enough to show the scalp beneath, was professionally coiffed.

'Aah, there you are.' Dogra sent her a sympathetic smile. 'How's your head?'

'Much better, thank you. The maid gave me maalish.'

She came and sat next to her husband, arranging the folds of her silk sari about her.

'Mr Puri here was just asking me where you were born,' explained Dogra as she sized him up.

'Oh, that's easy,' she said, her tone almost festive. 'My birthplace was Lahore. More years ago than I care to remember.'

'You came to India in 1947 is it, madam?' asked Puri.

'Along with my mother, yes. I'm afraid my other relatives were lost to us along the way.'

'There is any connection between your family and the Khans?'

'None. I believe they hail from Rawalpindi.'

The detective went back over much of the same ground he had covered with Ram Dogra and found her recollection of events tallied. There was one detail Mrs Dogra was able to add, however. Ten minutes before Faheem Khan died, she'd seen Kamran Khan heading towards the hotel's emergency exit. 'Why you didn't inform the police, madam?' asked Puri, sure that this detail had not appeared in the transcript of her police interview.

'It must have slipped my mind,' she answered.

TEN

THERE WAS NO mistaking the change that had come over Puri's childhood neighbourhood of Punjabi Bagh in west Delhi since the late 1990s when the effects of 'liberalisation' - the loosening of the noose that had been strangling the Indian economy - had started to take effect.

In the 'good old bad old days,' as Puri referred to them, you had to wait years to get a telephone connection. And when, at long last, the engineers turned up and you could make a call from the luxury of your own living room (as opposed to a grubby PCO/STD booth), there was always a crossed line, or rather several crossed lines, and quite often a delayed echo too, so it sounded as if you were speaking into a wishing well along with a group of strangers.

Once, when Puri was fifteen, he'd overheard Asha Singh's mum at number twenty-five oblique three telling Mrs Bhullar about how her husband was having 'erectile dysfunctioning'. Believing that she might have been referring to some kind of DIY problem, he had asked his mother for clarification. On another occasion, Puri's father, Om Chander Puri, then still on the force, had overheard a known thief discussing plans with an accomplice to knock over Ambar Jewellery Emporium and, consequently, caught them in the act.

Buying a car had been a similarly laborious process. The waiting list was as long as the Ramayana. The choice of models had been limited - either an Ambassador or an Indian Fiat - and they came in any colour as long as it was white. Air conditioning was almost unheard of and most models came with fans fixed to the dashboard. Side mirrors were considered additional extras.

As for luxury goods, they were smuggled into the country in the bulging suitcases of Non-Resident Indian relatives from the US and the UK. Their arrival was always accompanied by a ritual unpacking. French make-up, diabetes medicine and the odd laptop computer would be shared out like rations during a time of war. The younger generation would then go and try on their blue jeans; their elders, meanwhile, would criticise Western cultural values while tucking into rare delicacies like KitKat bars.

How things had changed and in such a short period of time, reflected Puri as he walked along NW Avenue, feeling somewhat bewildered by it all. Now even the aunties had BlackBerrys, you couldn't throw a mango stone without hitting a BMW with a cool Punjabi dude in designer shades behind the wheel, and the black and white TVs that had stood in people's living rooms covered in knitted woollen cosies had been replaced by HD flat screens.

There was no mistaking the new enthusiasm in the air, either. For the educated, English-speaking middle classes, there were well-paid jobs in the private sector. 'India Inc.', as it was often referred to in the press, had bought British Steel and Jaguar. A guy from Chandigarh had co-invented Hotmail. PepsiCo was now run by a Tamil woman called Indra Krishnamurthy Nooyi.

The detective paused outside a cafe-cum-video-hall filled with teenagers dressed like the cast of an American high-school movie. They were eating plates of nachos coated in processed cheese, blasting aliens with laser pistols, addressing one another as 'dude' and 'bro' while catching up on Facebook on their Androids. Indipop spilled out on to the pavement. 'Just chill, chill. Just chill . . .'

This was the stuff of Mahatma Gandhi's nightmares. 'Waste of human mind space,' Puri muttered as he turned away. Was he witnessing a passing fad or the future? With half of India's population now under twenty-five, where was society headed? Did this bindaas brigade know anything of their own culture?

The thing that worried Puri most was the idea that the old extended family structure might break down. It was the glue that held Indian society together. And there were cracks showing in the system. Only last week, he'd come across a widower, a former engineer no less, living on his own at the age of seventy because his three children had taken up jobs in other cities. Had they no shame?

He turned the corner and made his way into the Old Slum Quarters area, finding himself back in the tamasha. For all the tangles of wires hanging overhead and the treacherous uncovered manholes lying in wait like animal snares, he felt more comfortable here. There had always been many Indias, coexisting side by side - or perhaps one on top of the other - and there always would be, he reassured himself. Layer upon layer upon layer, like the very earth itself.