The Case of the Deadly Butter Chicken (26 page)

'That said, I'm in no doubt that the Khan family is innocent of any involvement in the match-fixing allegations doing the rounds in the press,' Baloch continued. 'The idea that Faheem Khan was in any way involved with bookies is preposterous. I can personally vouch for his character. He was above all an honest man - honest to a fault, in fact. And I'm quite sure that your investigation will help clear his name and that of his son of these baseless rumours.'

You'll make a fine politician, Puri felt like saying, wondering if Baloch's little speech was for the benefit of the audience or if he genuinely believed the Khans to be saints.

His reply was equally glib.

'Let me be the first to applaud you for your honesty and for taking the bold step of inviting me here in the interest of truth,' he began. 'And let me assure all the honourable gentlemen here present that Vish Puri never fails. By hook or crook I will most definitely get to the bottom of this crime. Allow me to assure you, also, that I have a personal interest in clearing up this matter - as a proud citizen of India. An honoured guest has been brutally killed on our soil and it is my duty to let no stone go unturned in doing positive identification of the person or persons responsible.'

This was met with a light round of applause.

'Thank you, Mr Puri,' said Baloch. 'Now if you're ready we'll send for Kamran. I'm sure you'll keep in mind that he has responsibilities to his family and that we don't want to keep him for any longer than is necessary.'

Khan's long frame was limp, like a sunflower in need of water. With a perfunctory salaam, he slumped down on to one of the couches, his giraffe-like legs protruding far into the room. He was wearing white, the colour of mourning, and a prayer cap.

'You've got some questions for me?' said Khan, his head cocked towards the ceiling in a gesture of total apathy.

'I'm endeavouring to solve your father's murder,' said Puri, who found the young man's lack of decorum highly insolent. 'You're interested in finding out who did it or not?'

Khan shifted in his seat, drawing his legs towards him.

'Yes, of course,' he answered with a frown. 'That's why I'm here.'

'Good. Then, yes, some questions are there.'

Silence fell over the room as everyone waited for Puri. He relished the expectation, the sense of finally being in the driver's seat. He took out his notebook and made a show of opening it to a new page and smoothing down the paper with the palm of his hand. Then he pulled a pen from the breast pocket of his shirt and asked Kamran Khan, almost as an aside, 'You remember we two met that night?'

The young man crinkled his forehead. He looked at Puri directly for the first time. 'You were there?'

'I'm Rohan's uncle. We two were introduced. You graciously invited me to Pakistan. As your guest, actually.'

There was a flash of recognition and a snap of the fingers.

'Right - of course. Sorry . . . um, sir. You were the one who kneeled by Baba, wasn't it?'

'Correct. I was by his side, only.'

Kamran Khan nodded, blinking repeatedly. 'He said anything to you, sir?' asked the young man. He sounded sad, at a loss.

'Nothing,' answered Puri. 'Too much pain was there actually. Why? You think he knew who poisoned him, is it?'

'No, sir. I've no idea.'

'He had enemies?'

Khan shrugged. 'None. Everyone loved Baba.'

'A man in his position, being a landowner and such, always has enemies no?'

'He was a much-loved man,' chimed in Baloch.

'Surely not by all and sundry,' said Puri. 'The person who killed him for example. He or she most definitely did not love him.'

Kamran Khan shifted his feet again as he said, 'I just can't think of who that would be, who would have done this thing, sir.'

The detective scrawled a couple of lines in his notebook before stating: 'You yourself were absent from the banqueting hall when your father was poisoned.'

'I went to make a phone call.'

'The receiver of that call was which person exactly?'

'My mother. She's been unwell. I wanted to check on her.'

This statement sounded rehearsed.

'You ate some butter chicken, also?'

'I didn't get a chance. By the time I came back . . . I found my father lying there.'

Puri asked how long he'd been absent.

'Fifteen minutes,' stated Khan. He placed the palms of his hands on his knees, the fingers gripping them.

'If at all possible, I would like to examine your phone records.'

Khan gave his lawyer a questioning look and the man replied in a laconic tone, 'My client's phone records contain confidential information.'

Including the numbers of half the bookies in India, Puri said to himself as he scrawled fiercely in his notebook like a teacher awarding a student an F grade. When he resumed his questioning, he focused on Khan's whereabouts the night his father died.

'There was another individual absent from the banqueting hall at the same time as your good self,' he said. 'One actress known as Dippy. You happened to see her?'

Khan's grip around his knees visibly tightened.

'I seem to remember passing her in the lobby,' he answered, his tone vague.

'Seem to?'

'Yes, I think so. In fact, I'm sure of it. Yes, she was there. Dressed in a sari, right?'

Dippy had been voted one of the most beautiful women in India recently by a lads' mag and looked especially ravishing that night. There hadn't been a man in the room whose eyes had not drunk her in. 'Seem to' didn't cut it.

'You've met her previously, is it? Before that fateful night?'

'Once or twice. In Dubai, London. I can't really remember.'

'Seems this Dippy lost one earring. Later it was discovered on the hotel emergency stairs. Must be she was there for some time.'

'Like I told you, I was on the phone in the lobby.'

'To your sick mother,' said Puri.

'Right.'

Puri paused for a moment, relishing the perceptible unease he had created in the room - the shared whispers, nervous coughs, crossing and uncrossing of legs. The fact that Khan had been on the emergency stairs with the actress had not been lost on any of the other gentlemen. But it meant a good deal more to Puri: Kamran Khan had played no part in his father's murder. Had he been aware of his father's rendezvous with Full Moon?

'What was your Papa doing out on the lawn of the hotel?' asked the detective.

The question caught Khan off guard. 'Sorry, sir?'

'He met someone there. I saw them talking with my own eyes.'

'Who?'

'A certain bald gentleman.'

'Bald gentleman?'

Puri flicked through the pages of his notebook. 'Name of Mohib Alam,' he read.

Khan blinked repeatedly and began to shake his head from side to side. 'Alam,' he repeated. 'No, never heard of him.'

'He was a bookie.' This revelation was met with pin-drop silence. Puri waited a beat before adding, 'He was murdered actually. Two days back.'

'Murdered?' Kamran Khan looked suddenly alarmed. 'How?'

'Poisoned. With aconite. It was placed in his paan.'

The cricketer stared at the detective. 'Where did this happen?'

'He owned a farmhouse in Delhi. By coincidence I was present there also. A good deal of illegal betting was going on. Betting on an ICT match, in fact.'

Khan's face had gone blank. Puri detected fear in his eyes.

'You say you've never met Alam, have no idea who he was, have no idea why your father met with him minutes before he died?' he asked, pressing home his advantage.

The answer was a few seconds in coming. 'No,' he said. 'Like I told you, I've never heard of him.'

At this juncture, the lawyer intervened: 'My client has a pressing engagement . . . If there's nothing else?'

'Just one request is there,' he said.

Puri took a moment to think, addressing Khan. 'I wish to examine your father's personal belongings. Those he took with him to Delhi. That is at all possible?'

The young man was studying the design of the Persian rug, lost in thought. Puri had to repeat his question.

'Yes, yes, no problem,' said Khan, hearing him this time. 'His suitcase is still in the study.'

The detective asked to be taken to the study right away. Khan's assistant escorted him out of the room. Puri could hear the murmur of conversation break out as soon as the door closed behind them.

Faheem Khan's study was upstairs. In front of the window stood a desk messy with papers, notes, numerous pens. Next to this was his luggage.

Inside, Puri found a change of clothes, an extra pair of shoes, a shaving kit . . .

Beneath a pair of trousers, he also discovered a copy of the Koran.

He opened it and turned to page one. The first verse of the first sura was underlined and there were some numbers written in the margin. The detective started to take out his notebook to copy them, when Kamran Khan burst into the room.

'That was my father's most precious possession,' he said, snatching the Koran out of the detective's hands. 'I've been meaning to put it away.'

He placed it in the top drawer of the desk.

'Was there anything else you wanted, sir?' he asked.

'The truth if you please,' answered Puri.

'About what?'

'Your relationship with the bookie Mohib Alam.'

'I told you, I don't know who he is.'

'I think you do, young man. I think, also, that unless you make a full confession so to speak, the identity of your father's murderer will never come to light.'

Khan stared back at the detective.

'That is what you want, is it? Your father's murderer to go free?' continued Puri.

The cricketer answered with a shake of his head.

'Then you've anything more to tell me?'

Khan looked away. Ten, twenty seconds passed. 'I can't,' he said. 'You don't understand. They'll kill me as well.'

Footsteps approached on the marble floor outside. The door opened. It was Baloch.

'You found what you were looking for, Mr Puri?'

'Unfortunately not,' said the detective. 'My journey has been wasted, in fact. Now if it is at all convenient, I would prefer to go directly to my hotel. I have a reservation at the Pearl.'

Looking Kamran Khan in the eye, he added, 'If anyone would want to reach me later, I shall be there only.'

NINETEEN

IT WAS STEAK night at the MarcoPolo restaurant in Rawalpindi's Pearl Continental Hotel and promotional posters of succulent cuts sizzling on flaming grills stared down from the walls.

Puri couldn't help but stare back at them. He'd never seen what slaughtered beef looked like and found the appearance of the juicy red meat appetising. For a minute or two, he actually considered ordering some. But the thought of eating steak here felt . . . well, blasphemous. It also crossed his mind that the Pakistanis might leak his indiscretion to the press. HOLIER THAN THOU DETECTIVE EATS COW was one headline he envisaged.

Besides, he wasn't sure he could live with the guilt. He ordered the chicken karahi instead.

'And one peg whisky, also.'

The waiter frowned down at his pad of paper. The hotel did not serve alcohol, he said apologetically. If the detective wanted a drink he would have to consume it in his room - that is, after first applying for a drinking permit.

'A permit?'

'From the Department of Excise and Taxation. I should bring you an application form, sir?'

'Just bring one salty lassi,' he said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

The fact that he couldn't get a drink made him crave one all the more. 'Absence makes the liver grow stronger,' he told himself, and started to chuckle, almost guffawing the more he repeated the phrase in his head.

He wished he had company, someone with whom to share the joke; a priceless one, after all. He disliked being on his own. At home there was always someone around - family, servants, friends popping in.