The Case of the Deadly Butter Chicken (36 page)

Flush's assignment was to get a camera inside Kamran Khan's suite and the only way to do so was to send in Gordon. Hence the need for an adjacent room on the fourth floor.

'Sir, would be needing your bed turned down?' asked the bellboy who'd carried up Flush's cases - four heavy pieces in all, containing monitors, a couple of laptops, his (illegal) direct-to-satellite communications system and the latest edition of CHIP magazine, which featured a cover story on 'The Power of DLNA'.

'"Turned down" means?' asked Flush.

'The top sheet pulled back - so, um, well, you can get into bed.'

The operative frowned. He might have grown up in a village, but he'd lived in the city since he was fifteen.

'No need,' he said. 'I know how.'

Flush handed the bellboy a woefully inadequate tip, saw him to the door and then started to unpack. Once he had his direct-to-satellite system up and running and the jamming protocol operational, he checked that the scanning software he was using to monitor Khan and Vikas Patil's mobile phone signals was still active. Mrs Chadha in the communications rooms in the office was monitoring both lines and Tubelight was keeping abreast of the cricketers' emails on his smartphone.

Lastly, Flush opened the case that contained Gordon and gave him an affectionate pet. He was three inches long, remotely controlled (range: fifty feet) and equipped with night vision, a pinhole camera and a transmitter housed in his tail. The most ingenious thing about Gordon, however, was the suction system Flush had designed for his little feet. This allowed him to crawl up walls and ceilings and hang around - literally - pretending to be hunting insects. The fact that he was green with beady black eyes and a realistic little tongue meant that no one took much notice of him. Just like a real gecko.

'Happy hunting,' Flush told him as he placed his cre-ation in the air conditioning vent. He returned to the desk, booted the remote control software and plugged in his joystick. Gordon the Gecko came to life and a green night vision image of the inside of the air conditioning duct appeared on his screen. Flush eased the joystick forward and his animatronic creation began to move. There were some thirty feet of duct to cover, the length of four rooms in all. Flush estimated it would take him three hours to reach his destination, assuming he didn't encounter any obstacles along the way. Then would come the most challenging part of the operation: manoeuvring Gordon down through the air conditioning outlet and into position on the ceiling.

Handbrake, who'd spent the day visiting most of Delhi's five-star hotels without coming across any newly appointed mustachioed doormen, drove Boss out of Khan Market at eight-thirty.

The silver sedan followed them down Lodhi Road towards the gardens and it was here that Puri suddenly ordered his driver to stop.

'You forgot something, Boss?'

'Not at all. I want a word with our friends back there. Better you keep this.' The detective wrapped his pistol in a handkerchief and handed it to the driver. 'Might be required later. I'm counting on you to follow behind.'

Puri exited the car and walked back down the road. When he came to the silver sedan, he knocked on the passenger window. It went down an inch and a pair of mirrored sunglasses surmounted by a thick pair of eyebrows appeared in the gap.

'Tell him I believe we can do business. Five minutes is required only.'

Puri had known for a couple of days now that these were Sandeep Talwar's men. They were there as a form of intimidation, a reminder that he shouldn't go poking around in Sahib's business.

The window closed again and the detective waited on the pavement, guessing that Talwar's goons were phoning for instructions. Presently, the back door swung open and he climbed on to the empty seat.

Neither of the two men up front uttered a single word as they drove north. Their abstention from speech coupled with their immutable expressions were rendered all the more forbidding by the surreal quality of streetlight that penetrated the car's tinted glass windows. The city's familiar landscape, too, looked distinctly spooky, the pedestrians on the pavements like zombies marching through a cloying Transylvanian mist.

Puri was expecting to be escorted to the Hotel Lakshmi again or perhaps Talwar's residence, but soon the sedan reached the deserted streets of Old Delhi. They turned on to Asaf Ali Road, where rats scurried through litter and blanketed figures lay on parked wooden carts. Puri caught glimpses of unloved havelis smothered in cobwebs of phone lines and power cables, and packs of battling street dogs.

And then, like a mirage, it appeared in a blaze of light: an art deco building lit up like a giant gumball machine. THE DELITE announced a neon sign above the grand entrance, and above this was a film poster for a remake of a remake.

The sedan pulled up in front of the entrance, one of the goons leaned back and opened the door, and Puri took his cue. He made his way up the steps, remembering all the times he'd come here as a boy to watch some of his favourite films - Waqt, Aradhana and the unforgettable curry western Sholay. The hall had been packed in those days for every show, but after TV and VCRs came along, the Delite, like so many of India's single-screen theatres, had fallen on hard times, condemned to Bollywood B movies for rickshaw wallahs - mostly semi-pornographic flicks about sexually perverted Indian werewolves.

Puri hadn't been back since the theatre had undergone a complete renovation and started screening mainstream Bollywood again. Beyond the glistening doors, he marvelled at the transformation - it was all Italian marble, teak wall panelling, polished brass handrails and art deco lights. The food counter looked like something out of a classic American diner, with an old-fashioned popcorn maker and soda machine manned by staff in vintage uniforms.

He found the ticket booth unmanned, a SOLD OUT sign hanging in the window. The usher in the foyer was expecting him, however, and led Puri to the auditorium.

It was deserted save for one occupied seat - a single figure sat near the front.

Puri made his way down the aisle and sat down next to him. Sandeep Talwar made it clear he did not want to be interrupted by keeping his eyes glued to the screen, his hand feeding his mouth with popcorn. The movie was not the one advertised on the programme outside; Sahib had apparently demanded an oldie, the old Dev Anand classic Guide. It was a favourite of the detective's too and he could not help but relax into his chair, enraptured by Waheeda Rehman's beauty and the accompanying lyrics. 'Day recedes, oh, night remains. You won't come, but your memory haunts me!'

By the intermission, when the lights suddenly came on, Puri had become lost in the tragedy of the story.

'One of my favourites,' said Sandeep Talwar, finally acknowledging him. 'You know, it was in this very theatre that I watched it for the first time: 1965. God only knows how many times I've seen it since. Probably a world record. I should get my name in Limca.'

The usher appeared carrying a tray. On offer were some of the theatre's famous maha samosas.

'Heard you had some trouble,' said Talwar as he munched on the first of three.

'One comes to expect such things in my line of work,' said Puri, who'd restricted himself to just one samosa.

'Must be better ways of making a living. I understand you served in our armed forces, Puri. Then there was some trouble in Shimla, I'm told.'

Sahib had obviously been doing his homework, gathering what ammunition he could. It was what he excelled at - exploring people's weaknesses and exploiting them to his advantage. Not for nothing was it whispered that he retained a cabinet post because of his stockpile of smut.

That Puri (thanks to Mummy) had discovered Sandeep Talwar's greatest secret and could, with the dial of a number, send him into a tailspin provided the detective with a good deal of gratification, not to mention reassurance. But he hadn't come to make threats. He wanted a trade. The two of them had a mutual enemy, after all.

'I was present at Mohib Alam's satta party when his paan was poisoned - as you are very much aware,' began Puri.

There was subtext to this statement: Talwar had been the one who'd tipped off Full Moon, warned him that he might get a visit from a certain jasoos. In doing so, he'd almost gotten Puri killed. But that hardly mattered now.

'There and then I assumed Alam was done away with on Aga's orders - one of those mafia vendettas over territory or some woman or whatnot. Normal thing. But then I came to know that Aga is out of commission, so to speak.'

Puri had Talwar's full attention now, even if the man maintained an air of detachment.

'Means he was murdered by someone here in India, only. And I've the key to finding out who exactly,' added Puri.

Sahib absorbed the information at his leisure. 'I take it you need some information,' he said eventually, before sinking his teeth into another samosa.

The detective explained about the Liechtenstein bank account held by a trust and how the name had been passed in secret to the Indian government.

'Seems you should be having it somewhere in your files,' said the detective.

The lights dimmed. The second half of the film was starting.

'I'll get you what you want,' said Talwar. 'But in return I'll expect a name. That is, before anyone else.'

Dev Anand's face appeared up on the screen - young, dashing, his dark quiff swept back. Puri was tempted to stay and watch but thought better of it.

Facecream brought two female colleagues, Lovejit and Mini, along to the MIRAGE, the hotel's nightclub. With their curvaceous figures, short skirts and long manes of dark hair, they turned heads while making their way to the bar. Their target, the Indian batsman Vikal Patil, was sitting over in one of the booths with a couple of his teammates and soon sent them a bottle of champagne. But then disaster struck: the Delhi Cowboys cheerleader troupe arrived. They were all blonde and blue-eyed with bared midriffs and flirtatious smiles. And the Indian men, including the players, couldn't keep their eyes off them.

'What's with our guys and these gori girls?' complained Lovejit, incensed at all the blatant gawping and wolf whistling.

'They're complete bimbos,' said Mini with a sneer. 'I overheard a couple of them talking in the ladies' room and one of them said, all excited, '"Did you realise, like, there's actually a place called Kashmir? I just thought it was a kind of wool!"'

The three women burst out laughing. However, things were not going to plan. Vikas Patil had taken to the dance floor with one of the cheerleaders.

After a couple of songs, he took her back to his table, where they started kissing.

Facecream decided to go to Plan B. She called Tubelight and then waited until her mark stepped back on to the dance floor with the cheerleader. Mini and Lovejit joined them, flailing their arms around and pretending to be drunk. The latter bumped into Vikas Patil, almost knocking him over.

'Oh my God so stoopid of me!' she screeched. 'I'm so, so sorreeee! I just can't believe it's you! Amaaazing! I'm like your biggest faaan. You wanna dance? No? OK, but later maybe? OK, but can I get your autograph? OK, well nice meeting you, gorgeous!'

Facecream made her way out of the club with the cricketer's room keycard in her possession.

Having updated Tubelight and taken the lift to the seventh floor. As she approached room 702. On cue, the hotel fire alarm went off. Within seconds, she had the door open.

It took her less than five minutes to install a pinhole camera and transmitter in the AC duct.

She called Flush to check if he was receiving a clear picture.

'Crystal,' he said.

Five minutes later, Facecream was sipping an 800-rupee mojito at the bar and the keycard was back in its rightful pocket.

Puri received the information he'd requested from Talwar shortly after midnight.

'Rawat Trust,' read the SMS.

The detective repeated 'Rawat' over and over again, sure there was something familiar about the name. He searched through his notebook and found it mentioned in his jottings from his interview with Satish Bhatia, the Call Centre King. His mother had been born there.

'By God!' exclaimed the detective. And without a moment's hesitation, he called his mother.

To elicit Rinku's help again, Puri had to sit up drinking Royal Challenge with him all night and exchange a lot of extremely bawdy sardaar-ji jokes.

At 6 a.m. he drove to the Maharajah Hotel where he found Flush eating his fifth plate of chicken nuggets.

'There's a problem with Gordon, Boss,' he reported.

'The gecko?'

'He dropped through the AC outlet on to the floor in Khan's room. He's still making his way up the wall. See there.'