The Case of the Deadly Butter Chicken (29 page)

Tubelight made a split-second decision. He ran down the platform and leapt on to the step of the last door of the last carriage. Prising the door open, he clambered inside and fell to the floor.

'Wily old jackals,' he muttered to himself as he stopped to catch his breath.

TWENTY-ONE

AT AROUND THE same time that Tubelight was picking himself up off the floor of the train, Gopal Ragi reached the first level of the multi-storey car park in Nehru Place, Delhi. As per the instructions he'd received over the phone, he was carrying a sports bag containing the two lakh rupee ransom demand for his moustache. The cryptic voice had insisted he come alone, if he ever wanted to see his 'precious pet' again. But he'd ignored the warning. Inspector Thakur and his men were hidden nearby, waiting to pounce.

A car came up the ramp, circled the parked vehicles in search of a space and then continued up to the next level. A security guard walked past, whistling a tune. A couple of pigeons began to flap around in a pool of dirty water.

The voice on the phone had said, 'eleven o'clock and don't be late'. Ragi checked his watch for the umpteenth time. It was almost half-past eleven. He could barely contain his frustration; he felt like going and kicking in the side of the nearest car. But he stayed put. He'd do almost anything to get his moustache back. It had been twenty years in the growing and he had every confidence that it would find a place in the National Museum. That way people would be able to continue to be inspired by his commitment and sacrifice.

More cars came and went. And then a motorbike pulled up the ramp. The driver was wearing a helmet with the visor down. He raced around the parked cars and pulled up next to Ragi, engine running.

'Give me the money!' he demanded.

'Where's my moustache?'

'Money first, bastard!'

'No moustache, no rupiya!'

Reluctantly the motorcyclist tugged a plastic bag from his jacket and held it up.

'I want to see it!' insisted Ragi.

Thakur and his men came running towards them, shouting, 'Stop! Police!'

The motorcylist managed to grab the sports bag and made a hasty getaway, evading the cops and racing down the ramp into the street beyond.

Ragi was left holding the plastic bag. He reached inside and took out the moustache. It was black, about six inches long, with a peel-away sticky back.

'Maaaa-daaaar-chod!' he shouted, the curse echoing off the concrete walls and ceiling of the car park.

Puri spent the night in Lahore, having arrived at the border after it closed. The setback came with some compensation. After checking into a hotel surrounded by more blast barriers and barbed wire than the American embassy in Saigon in 1975, he sent his driver to Nirala Butt's restaurant in Lakshmi Chowk to fetch some of its famous kadai gosht.

Puri would never forget the meal as long as he lived. The marinated mutton was so tender, so succulent, that it melted in his mouth. The yoghurt-based gravy was a revelation: creamy with a perfect blend of coriander and chilli and just a hint of lemon. He lapped it all up with the crisp pieces of roghini naan, wiped the container clean with his finger and sucked every last bit of marrow from the mutton bones.

It actually crossed his mind that staying in Pakistan for another day might not be the end of the world. Not if it meant he could get his hands on some more of that Mughlai cuisine. Indeed, now that he was back at the border, with his homeland in sight, Puri felt a tinge of regret that his stay had been so brief.

One of Chanakya's sayings came to mind: 'Learning is like a cow of desire. It, like her, yields in all seasons. Like a mother it feeds you on your journey.'

The experience had certainly humanised Pakistan in Puri's mind. It was no longer an abstract entity, one that generated only bad news, but a country populated by ordinary people no different from ordinary Indians. They were labouring under many of the same difficult conditions, in fact. And no doubt the vast majority wanted nothing more than to live in peace.

Puri's distrust of the military, however, was unshakable. And he couldn't bring himself to trust Aslam. That story about Aga being taken by the Americans was pure fiction. 'Cock and bull,' he kept telling himself.

And yet as he waited for the border to open he found himself reasoning the thing out. Could there be some truth to it? The Pakistanis would certainly be loath to admit that Aga had been found on their soil. As for the Americans, they could be equally duplicitous, one minute training Islamic militants, the next spending billions of dollars to hunt them down.

One thing was certain: if Aga was being waterboarded in a CIA interrogation cell (quite a pleasant thought, incidentally), then it helped explain the murder of the bookies and possibly the poisoning of Faheem Khan as well. Aga's deputies or a rival outfit were vying for control of the Syndicate.

Aslam had been adamant that it was someone in India and not Pakistan. 'Someone who knows that Aga is no longer in charge and has taken advantage of the vacuum. Someone under the radar.'

But then he would say that, wouldn't he?

Puri removed his Aviator sunglasses and massaged his eyes. He had a strong aversion to this kind of conjecture. It always led to two things: the wrong conclusion and a headache. Cold, hard facts were the only antidote.

Thirty minutes to go before the border opened. Another fifteen to twenty before he'd be able to use his phone again. He hadn't dared contact any of his people from Pakistan, certain that his conversations would be recorded. But last night he'd called his elder brother and told him to put Mummy under 'house arrest'.

Bhuppi had informed him that their mother wasn't at home. She had been out all day, apparently, but not left word of her plans.

It was then the detective had lost his temper: 'Call her, yaar! Tell her to revert! No delay! Enough of this bloody nonsense!'

The detective regretted having raised his voice; it was his mother with whom he was furious. She'd been playing detective again. Worse, she withheld information vital to the case from him.

As soon as he reached Delhi, he'd confront her and demand to know what she knew about Faheem Khan's past. Then he would get on with solving the case.

There could only be one detective in this family.

'I've met my match, Boss,' admitted Tubelight.

By now Puri was heading back down the GT Road towards Delhi, the silver sedan once again following behind.

'You lost the trail?' asked an incredulous Puri.

His operative took up the story again at the point where he had jumped on board the Pune Express.

In need of a new disguise in which to search the train and ascertain whether the diamond couriers were indeed onboard, Tubelight had reverted to his old trade: thievery. He waited until the lights in the carriages were switched off and most of the passengers were asleep, and then went in search of new clothes. From beneath a berth where a sardar-ji lay snoring, he helped himself to a change of clothes and a freshly laundered turban.

Tubelight then entered the toilet a Muslim and walked out a Sikh.

'What did you do for a beard?' asked Puri in Hindi.

'Beard net,' replied the operative. 'Cut a clump of hair off my head, stuffed it inside.'

He came across the Angadia couriers in one of the front carriages in confirmed berths. Tubelight managed to find a spare seat a few rows behind them and kept watch through the night.

By the time the train pulled in to Mumbai Central at 05.17, Flush and Chanel No. 5 had managed to reach the station by road, and Tubelight had called ahead for more help - four Mumbai boys with whom he'd worked in the past.

'You were seven in all?' asked Puri. He could count only a handful of occasions when he'd had cause to use such a large team.

'I tell you those old jackals were cunning,' said Tubelight.

But not cunning enough. After a pursuit across Mumbai on the city's busy local commuter trains, both couriers were followed successfully to their final destination: the city's Diamond Bourse, the largest exchange in the world. There Desai's blood diamonds were delivered to a firm called Shah and Partners.

'Couriers kept the packets well concealed. Even now I can't tell you where exactly.'

Tubelight's voice was thick with admiration as he continued: 'These Angadias carry nearly all the world's diamonds back and forth, but without any security. Could have been more of them on the train for all I know.'

'An unparalleled parallel system, one might say,' said Puri.

'Only in India, Boss,' replied Tubelight with a certain pride.

Satya Pal Bhalla had left no fewer than eleven messages while Puri had been in Pakistan, demanding to know what progress had been made and threatening to find himself another detective.

The detective felt inclined to wash his hands of the whole affair. He might have been the best detective in all India, but he wasn't a magician. A couple of Tubelight's boys were making enquiries around the city about a six-foot-tall Punjabi barber with white blotches on his hands and a scooter with a licence plate that ended in 288. For the time being there was nothing more to be done.

'Tell him I'm doing undercover work on the case,' he said. 'Anything else Madam Rani?'

'Another call from the chief's office - demanding you explain your involvement in the murder case.'

Puri just chuckled. 'Must be he's getting nowhere with the case,' he said.

Puri reached Delhi at lunchtime, made a quick stop at his father-in-law's house to drop off the copy of the Koran and then continued on to Punjabi Bagh, mentally preparing himself for battle.

Yet when he came face to face with the smiling, diminutive figure of his mother, he could muster none of the anger he'd felt since yesterday's encounter with Major General Aslam.

'Everything is quite all right, Chubby?' she asked. 'Looking so tired, na. Come, sit. You should take chai vai. Then rest. Such big eye bags are there. Black and blue. Must be sore, na. I'll bring some cucumber slice. And your favourite iron tonic, also.'

'No need, Mummy-ji. I'm fit and fine, believe me. Never better, actually . . .'

Mummy disappeared into the kitchen, to emerge a few minutes later bearing a tray groaning with cups of chai, a plate of macaroons, a plate of cucumber slices and a bottle of the iron tonic that she had fed him every day throughout his childhood and teenage years. The sight of it made him feel instantly nauseous.

'That Radhika didn't come today - can you imagine?' she complained as the detective cleared space on the dining table. Radhika was the maid. 'Some nonsense about ingrowing toenails. Such an idle one I tell you. Always taking offs. Just she's doing chit chat and ignoring her duties--'

'Mummy-ji, I've been in Pakistan these past days,' Puri interrupted, adding, pointedly, 'Rawalpindi.'

She was in the middle of pouring the tea. For a second, the pot in which she had boiled the leaves, milk, sugar and cardamoms hovered motionless above the tray.

'Oh,' she said. 'That explains it, na.'

'Explains what, exactly?'

'Those eye bags, Chubby. Tension is there, na.' Mummy sighed. 'Not to worry. Some iron tonic will do the trick.'

'I met an old friend of yours,' Puri continued. He gauged his mother's reaction as he said, 'Khalid Muhammad Aslam.'

Mummy finished pouring the tea and sat down, folding her hands in her lap. Her smile was full of tenderness as she asked, 'He's well, na?'

So it was true.

'Very much fine, Mummy-ji,' replied Puri, who thought it better not to mention how her so-called friend had arranged for him to be abducted at gunpoint.

'Aslam is retired, Mummy-ji, but being a former Major General he is one fellow who keeps his fingers firmly on the pulse.'

'Major General you say? In those days, he was Captain, na. So dedicated to his duty he was. A proper gentleman all round.'

A terrible thought suddenly struck Puri, something he could never have dreamed of considering before. Had she been in love with Aslam? Was this the reason why she had kept her time in Pakistan a secret all these years?

'Must be you're wondering why I never told you, na? About that time,' asked his mother, who had a canny way of knowing what he was thinking.

Puri didn't answer; he braced himself for the truth.

'In those days it was not done,' continued Mummy. 'Things I got up to, na? Not for young girls. Such different times.'