The Case of the Deadly Butter Chicken (17 page)

Still, she would need to make an early start tomorrow - and find a way of splitting off from Ritu Auntie. There wasn't a lot of time: two days at the most. Bhuppi had already called three times to check up on her. And Chubby had sounded suspicious - wanting to talk about Pakistan.

He was obviously thinking along the right lines. Not my son for nothing, Mummy reflected.

Ritu had fallen asleep in front of the TV. Her mouth was wide open and she was snoring gently. The urn was on the side table next to her bed. Tomorrow evening they would need to find a priest to carry out the Asthi Visarjan scattering ceremony.

Wrapping her shawl around her, Mummy stepped out on to the balcony of their room. Below lay a lawn lit by lollipop lights. A family was sitting around a brazier, three generations in all, eating their dinner and warming their hands. At the end of the garden flowed the British-built canal that carried the crystal-clear waters of the Ganges to the lush farmland of Uttarakhand. The lights of the old city on the far bank coloured the water's surface in liquid gold. The sounds of clanging bells and chanting reached her from temples dotted amongst the dense profusion of narrow buildings. Flags fluttered above tapered roofs. Down on the far bank, some pilgrims were taking a dip, washing away their sins.

Mummy pulled up a chair and took a folded piece of paper from her handbag. There were three names written on it:

Megha Dogra (wife of Ram Dogra, the Prince of Polyester).

Harnam Talwar (wife of Sandeep Talwar, politician).

Jasmeet Bhatia (mother of Satish Bhatia, 'Call Centre King').

All three women looked to be in their late seventies to early eighties, roughly the same height and the same build. None of the three had any distinguishing marks, either. Indian government records being unreliable and easily doctored, the only sure-fire way of checking their past was to consult the genealogical records kept by the thousands of Pandas living in the city.

That, though, was for tomorrow. There was still today's unfinished business to deal with.

Mummy took out her daily diary and began to write. This was a discipline she'd adhered to religiously since her sixteenth birthday.

'Ritu saw a gecko on the ceiling of our hotel and said it portends success,' wrote Mummy in Hindi using the elegant Perso-Arabic script she had been taught as a child. 'Let's hope she's right.'

Tubelight called Puri late at the office. He and his boys had spent the day doing background checking. When it came to Sandeep Talwar, they'd struck a rich seam. There was nothing 'Sahib' wasn't into. He controlled something in the region of 400 companies, many of them money-laundering fronts with pretend directors. Through these companies he owned thousands of acres of sugar-cane fields, numerous sugar-cane processing plants and at least four trucking companies. His illicit portfolio also included an IT park, a handful of hotels, a software development company in San Diego, an import-export business and a coal mine. Tubelight had it on good authority that he also got a 30 per cent cut from the petrol mafia in his home state of Madhya Pradesh.

Talwar was also a big gambler.

'One, two lakhs minimum. Goes to Dubai often.'

'Any direct connection with Aga?'

'Doubt it - fiercely patriotic.'

'Willing to screw India just as long as he's doing the screwing.'

'Exactly, Boss.'

'How about Talwar Madam?'

'First name Harnam. Comes from a village near Indore. Sixteen when she married. Numerous assets to her name. They've five children total.'

Tubelight had much less to say about Ram Dogra, the Prince of Polyester. He had his detractors, those who said he exploited his workers and had done all kinds of shady deals to secure land upon which to build his factories. But he gave generously to all the political parties and was on good terms with the country's major newspaper proprietors as well.

As for Satish Bhatia, the Call Centre King, he was a golden boy.

'Pays his income tax, gives to charity, campaigns for child literacy.'

'Keep checking. No one does business in India without getting stains on their kurta,' said Puri.

Satya Pal Bhalla, the former moustache raja, called ten minutes later. Puri held the phone away from his ear as he listened to his tirade, this time about how Gopal Ragi had been released without charge.

'I'm aware, sir,' said Puri, although he doubted his client heard him.

He put the phone down on his desk. It continued to crepitate for another few minutes until, finally, the detective picked it up again and delivered a string of platitudes, assuring his client that he was on the case and would contact him 'in coming days'.

He hung up and reread the fax that had been delivered earlier by his secretary. The message was typed on a blank piece of paper - no letter heading or signature. Just:

Dear Sir,

It has come to my attention that you are engaged in the investigation of the murder of the late Mr Faheem Khan. I am writing to inform you that I have in my possession important information regarding the case. For reasons of my own, I am only prepared to provide you with the aforementioned information in person.

Provided you are able, I suggest you travel to Pakistan this coming Friday so that we might meet and discuss the matter further. Please take a room at the Pearl Continental in Rawalpindi, where I will find you.

It was signed 'A Friend' and the sender ID in the top left-hand corner of the page was a London number. Puri tried it but got a disconnected message.

It was a trap, obviously. Aga had come to know that Puri was nosing around in his business and planned to lure him to Pakistan, where one of his henchmen would put a bullet through his head.

There: that was a good enough reason for not travelling to Pakistan. Final. Decided. Thank the God!

Puri locked the fax away in the top drawer of his desk and decided to head home. It was getting late. Rumpi would be wondering where he was.

He got only halfway down the stairs when, suddenly, he stopped, shouted out at the top of his voice, 'Bugger it all!' and gave the wall a hard kick. Storming back up the stairs and into his office, he retrieved the fax and read it again. The language was polished, old-fashioned, written by an older man. This was not the work of Aga. Nor the Pakistani intelligence service. This 'friend' might well be able to provide vital information about the case.

Puri slumped back in his chair, defeated by his own conscience. He poured himself a drink and finished it quickly. Then, with grave reluctance, indeed with a sense of impending yet unavoidable doom, he called his client James Scott in London.

'I would be needing that visa we talked about in a jiffy,' he said.

It was 10 p.m. by the time Puri left the office. The Khan Market bhel puri vendor was still open for business. A few youngsters stood around his stand in the car park devouring plates of puffed rice laced with tamarind chutney. The detective tried to will himself to his waiting car, but the sight of all the crisp papdis and yoghurt proved too much for him.

'Usual, sahib?'

'Extra chutney and chilli.'

His order was soon ready and he joined the other customers, eating in silent solidarity. It was broken by the sound of an Ambassador pulling up. The car had government plates. A short, pudgy assistant-type got out.

'Shri Vish Puri?' he asked.

The detective answered with a mouth full of sevpuri. 'Present and correct.'

'Sahib sent me.' Puri was being summoned by politician and all-round crook Sandeep Talwar.

'It's a sin to waste good sevpuri,' said the detective, holding up his half-finished plate.

The PA looked unmoved. 'Sahib is waiting,' he insisted.

Puri crammed in a last mouthful, threw away the rest and got into the car.

Their destination was the Lakshmi, a hotel owned by the Ministry of Tourism and one that clung faithfully to its kitsch 1980s decor. The lobby, a vast expanse of grey marble as polished as an ice rink, was dotted with atolls of brown leather couches upon which the occupants sat, as if stranded. The reception desk was half the length of a football field, the dozen or so staff members standing behind it as dwarfed as Soviet leaders watching a military parade in the vastness of Moscow's Red Square.

Sandeep Talwar's suite was on the top floor.

Puri was led through a series of rooms, each occupied by businessmen, lawyers, junior ministers and bureaucrat clones in white shirts - all waiting patiently to meet the minister, many of them with stacks of papers on their laps. A final set of doors opened and disgorged over-fed, suited men with briefcases. The detective was shown into a sitting room where Sahib lounged in an armchair, drink in hand. A coffee table groaning with files stood in front of him.

Sandeep Talwar was almost eighty and obese, his grey suit trousers pulled halfway up his stomach like clown pants. His lower lip was weighed down by a crumpled chin scoured with lines. Drooping jowls obscured the edges of his mouth so that even when he smiled his whole face looked turned down. His sunken eyes completed the picture of a cunning, duplicitous individual racked by greed.

Puri could barely conceal his contempt. Talwar hadn't garnered power because of his ideas or inherent wisdom. Nor because he gave two damns about his constituents, most of whom lived on less than two dollars a day. No, Talwar had risen to power, prominence and wealth thanks to his abilities as a deal maker. He was a horse trader, nothing more.

'My PA says you came to my home this morning asking to see me,' he said, studying Puri through steel-rimmed glasses.

'I happened to be passing, sir.' Puri stood with hands held behind his back like a petulant schoolboy.

'Happened to be passing,' repeated Talwar, his tone mocking. 'You usually just drop in on ministers and request to meet their wives, also?'

The detective countered with flattery: 'You've a reputation for being an open individual, sir, accessible to the aam admi. No offence was intended, I assure you.'

Talwar's eyes blinked slowly like an iguana's. He looked half asleep. But it would be a mistake to underestimate him, Puri reflected. He could be dangerous, this man.

'What's your game exactly, Mr Puri? What is it you want?' asked Talwar, careful not to sound too concerned.

'I'm investigating the murder, sir - of Faheem Khan.'

'That's the job of the police.'

'I'm a private investigator.'

'And you're working for?'

'That I cannot say, sir.'

Talwar showed startled dismay. 'You're refusing me, Mr Puri?'

'Confidentiality is my watchword, sir.'

'I see,' said Talwar, as if he finally had the measure of the detective. 'You're one of these do-gooders, no? Like an NGO type? Think the system is not working properly so take matters into your own hand.'

'This is my job, sir,' answered Puri, putting it as bluntly as he could.

'And I suppose I'm on your list of suspects, am I?'

'You and Madam, also.'

'You're suggesting my wife murdered that man?' The politician's words were liquid indignation.

'Sir, she is a suspect, that is all.'

'Now you listen to me,' said Talwar, his tone controlled but menacing. 'I'm a politician and must therefore put up with a certain amount of scrutiny of my affairs. My wife on the other hand is a private person and she is not in good health these days. She's made a statement to the police and that's an end to the matter. Is that understood?'

'Most certainly, sir. Thank you, sir.'

Talwar dismissed him with a perfunctory gesture.

Puri left the room in no doubt that he had made a powerful enemy. The encounter had been worth it, however. Sahib was getting sloppy. He'd made the mistake of warning Puri away from his wife.

Mrs Harnam Talwar had something to hide - no doubt about it at all.

TWELVE

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