The Case of the Deadly Butter Chicken (32 page)

'Mind-blowing,' agreed Puri. 'But, it is by no means certain Kiran Singh murdered Khan. She may be dead also.'

His mother let out a loud tut. 'One of those ladies present is the one responsible. Just she changed her identity after coming to India,' she affirmed.

'You've proof?'

'Certain things you come to know in here,' she said, patting her heart.

Puri rolled his eyes. This was exactly why he never allowed her to get involved in his cases. 'Mummy-ji, I'm afraid we would be needing a little more than your say-so,' he said.

'Not just "say-so", thank you very much kindly, Chubby.'

'What then?'

She hesitated. 'Certain information came to me while staying in Haridwar, na.'

'You mean you went looking, most deliberately in fact, for certain information.'

Mummy glared at him defiantly and sat up straight in her chair. 'Correct,' she said.

Over the course of the next twenty minutes, Mummy divulged everything she'd discovered in Haridwar.

Harnam Talwar, wife of the infamous politician, was not who she claimed to be.

Jasmeet Bhatia, mother of the Call Centre King, had been born in Rawat, close to Faheem Khan's native place.

And Megha Dogra, wife of the Prince of Polyester, had grown up near Lahore, but strangely, there was no record of what had become of her relatives since.

'None of this is at all conclusive, Mummy-ji,' said Puri.

'It's a start, na,' she retorted. 'Now we can do follow-up.'

The mention of 'we' sat uncomfortably with him. She would drive him crazy with her so-called auntie's intuition and half-baked clues. And yet on this occasion, given everything she had revealed, he couldn't bring himself to shut her out.

'Fine, Mummy-ji, we'll do teamwork - but on this case only,' he stressed. 'How do you wish to proceed exactly?'

'Simple, na. Just I'll do checking in National Archives. Must be Kiran Singh's father, Manjit, got registered and all in 1947.'

'How will that help?'

'Obvious, na. His relatives can do identification of her.'

'Tip top,' said Puri, not in the least convinced that this line of investigation would work, but happy for Mummy to be safely tucked away in the archives while he tested Aslam's claim about Aga being in the hands of the Americans.

'You're certain you've told me everything?' he asked.

'Actually one thing is there, Chubby. Harnam Talwar, wife of that goonda politician, is not the one.'

'You mean you don't believe she killed Faheem Khan, Mummy-ji?'

'Correct.'

Puri asked her how she'd reached that conclusion.

'It's come to my attention Harnam is not her real name,' she said.

'What then, Mummy-ji?'

'She was born Fatima.'

'A Muslim? How you found out?'

'I came to know she's going to Old Delhi every Friday, Chubby, for prayers and all.'

'You followed her?'

'Just I happened to go to Old Delhi this past Friday also, na,' she said, all innocence.

Puri shook his head from side to side. His astonishment was derived as much from his mother's brazenness as the revelation about Sandeep Talwar's wife.

By God, no wonder Sahib had warned him off his wife. In all likelihood he'd abducted her in 1947 and forced her to become a Hindu - hence her continuing devotion to Islam. Most probably not even the Talwars' own children knew the truth.

'Anything else, Mummy-ji?' he asked, his tone a mix of exasperation and incredulousness.

'No, Chubby, that is all,' she answered. 'Just I was trying to do research on last remaining two suspects, Jasmeet Bhatia and Megha Dogra. But time was totally lacking. Energy also. No longer I'm twenty-one, na.'

TWENTY-THREE

PURI BADLY NEEDED some meter down. The journey to Pakistan had been exhausting enough, but dealing with Mummy left him spent. His mind was still reeling from the revelations about her past. It was simply incredible to think that his mother, the woman who'd bathed him, fed him that bloody iron tonic all the time, had once worked as a satri, an undercover operative.

It wasn't only fatigue keeping him in bed that Monday morning, however. Before leaving for Pakistan, he'd forgotten to remove the peg from Rumpi's scales. It was only a question of time before she asked to check his weight, and with the scales stuck on 90 kilos the impressive progress he'd made thanks to the miraculous diet pills would be for nothing. He needed five minutes alone in the bedroom to undo his handiwork.

Unfortunately Rumpi was busy washing her hair in preparation for their grandson's mundan ceremony later that afternoon. It was a lengthy and complex process; she began by oiling her long mane and applying a 'herb tea' (a mix of warm water, shikakai, aritha, neem and sandalwood). This needed to sit for roughly fifteen minutes, after which her hair would be rinsed in cold water and then dried until damp. Finally coconut oil would be added as a conditioner and she'd spend ten minutes or so seated in front of the dressing table, brushing her shiny tresses.

In normal circumstances, Puri found the whole ritual powerfully alluring, a display of raw Indian femininity. The aroma of all the herbs and oils had been known to render him as giddy as a love-struck teenager. But not today. The detective lay in bed, willing his wife downstairs, groaning silently into his pillow when she decided to also treat her scalp to a little amla oil, to help strengthen the roots, and then attended to her eyebrows.

'Chubby?' she asked, talking to the reflection in her mirror in the vague, dreamy tone she adopted while engaged in her personal grooming. 'Before you go off today, we mustn't forget to weigh you. It's been over a week.'

He pretended to be half asleep. 'Yes, my dear,' he murmured, racking his brains for a way out of his dilemma. Perhaps if he just lay there long enough . . .

And then his prayers were answered: her mobile phone rang. It was her father. She had to pass Puri the phone.

'Good morning, young man,' said Brigadier Mattu, sounding fresh and alert. 'I woke you? Could you meet me at the club in one hour? I've got bridge at ten. There's something I need to show you beforehand. It's not good news, I'm afraid.'

'You're not able to solve the code, sir?'

'No, no, that was easy. This is something else. A grave matter. It would be better if we didn't discuss it over the phone. Nine o'clock in the ballroom.'

Salvation.

'The answer's been staring me in the face all these days,' said Brigadier Mattu when the two sat down a little over an hour later. 'Someone with my experience should have seen it a mile off. I'm afraid old age is setting in.'

'Not at all, sir,' said the detective. 'You're a spring chicken, actually.'

'More like a headless chicken now that I'm retired,' joked the Brigadier. 'Too much time on my hands. My advice to you, young man, is never hang up your hat - or should I say cap in your case? Retirement is a kind of surrender. Life should be a fight to the death.'

They were tucked away in a corner of the ballroom, the heart of the Gymkhana's main building. During the day, it functioned as a lounge where tea, dry chicken sandwiches and oily samosas were served. The regulars were mostly elderly gentlemen killing time until the bar opened. Sometimes aunties in silk saris as crinkly as wrapping paper gathered there as well, but never alone.

'You cracked it then, sir?' asked Puri, barely able to contain his anticipation.

'Yes, yes, the basmallah was the key - a value of 786.'

He reached into the inside pocket of his tweed jacket and took out four or five pieces of crumpled paper. These he laid on the coffee table that sat between them and smoothed out the creases with the palm of his hand. They were covered in his workings, a jumble of numbers and letters, some Perso-Arabic, others Roman.

'Yes, it's quite simple, really,' said Mattu. 'Your cricket-betting friends have been using the Abjad System.'

'Abjad, sir?' asked the detective.

'Derived from abjadiyyah. It means "alphabet" in Arabic,' he added. 'Abjad's been around since the eighth century, since the time of the Prophet Muhammad. Urdu uses more or less the same script, so our Pakistani neighbours are naturally familiar with its intricacies.'

The Brigadier picked up one of the pieces of paper. 'See here,' he continued. 'The first letter, "a", is given the value of one. The second, "b", equals two. The third, "j", is three - and so on. Ya is ten; "k" equals twenty; "i" makes thirty and so on. In standard Arabic there are twenty-eight letters. In Urdu there are thirty-eight but that's not relevant to the matter in hand.' Mattu listed the rest of the letters with their numerical equivalents. 'So let us take the word "Allah",' he continued. 'In the Arabic script it's written thus: . So it has a value of one plus thirty plus thirty plus five. That equals sixty-six. Follow?'

Puri nodded repeatedly.

'Now,' said Mattu. 'Phrases can be assigned a numerical value, also. Let us take the basmallah, which is repeated in Muslim prayers and at the start of each sura in the Koran, apart from the ninth - "b-ismi-llahi r-rahmani r-rahimi. It translates as, "In the name of God, most Gracious, most Merciful." Now let's look at how it breaks down mathematically.'

The total was 786.

'Now, where is the copy of the paper you took from Mr Faheem Khan?' asked Mattu. 'Aah yes, here it is. The first sequence reads 12, 11 and 6. So let us deduct 7, 8 and 6 and we get 5, 3 and 0.'

He took out his scorecard from the ICT match played the previous Sunday just hours before the murder.

'On the fifth ball of the third over, Kamran Khan bowled a no ball. See how it corresponds?'

'By God!' exclaimed Puri. He slapped the palms of his hands on his thighs in a playful manner. 'Sir, you've done it! Hearties congratulations!'

His words echoed around the ballroom. Newspapers were lowered. Necks turned and twisted.

'So the same formula can be applied to these other sequences?' asked the detective.

'Seems the third digit indicates what kind of ball is to be delivered,' he explained. 'Zero for a no ball. One equals a wide. Two stands for bouncer. Six for a full toss.'

'Mind-blowing,' muttered Puri. 'Sir, you're a genius, actually.'

'It's nothing, young man, really,' said Mattu with a shrug as the waiter finally brought their tea.

The liquid was dark and acidic, the milk separate, just as the Britishers liked it. Puri and countless others before him had tried to get the club's cooks to make it properly, 'ready-made' in other words. But for some sixty years they had failed. Club tea was supposed to be prepared this way, the kitchen always argued. It had been ordained. Anything else would be a break with tradition.

The little stainless steel pots, which invariably dribbled their contents all over the table as the tea was poured, were another part of that same system. Puri saw them as a metaphor for Partition: another British legacy still causing a mess on the subcontinent.

'Now there's something else,' said Mattu, a sudden gravitas to his voice. In his excitement, the detective had forgotten about the other matter. 'It has to do with the second set of numbers you provided me,' added his father-in-law.

He was referring to the paper Puri had taken from Full Moon's study.

'These relate to another match, the one played on the day your bookie was murdered: the Goa Beachers, Mumbai Bears showdown.'

Mattu moved closer to his son-in-law and said in little more than a whisper: 'There's another Pakistani bowler involved, Hamid Pathan. 'And' - he hesitated - 'an Indian batsman also.'

'Don't tell me.'

Mattu brought Puri's attention to his scorecard from Wednesday's match. One name was highlighted: star batsman Vikas Patil.

'Aaarey!' exclaimed Puri in disbelief, causing another flutter of newspapers across the ballroom. 'You're certain, sir?'

The Brigadier nodded gravely. 'I got hold of a recording of the match and watched it again,' he said. 'There's no doubt that he's in league with Hamid Pathan.'

'But why?' asked Puri. 'He's making so much of money from sponsorships and all.'

'I would hazard a guess at blackmail,' replied Mattu. 'He's married, as you well know. But I've heard it said he's very taken with the ladies. There are stories about him and some of these cheerleaders. At the after-match parties.'