The Case of the Deadly Butter Chicken (7 page)

Puri invited Scott to take a seat.

'India hasn't changed one bit, has it?' observed the Britisher as he occupied one of the armchairs. 'It's still like Kim. Great Game, disguises, cleft sticks - all that stuff.'

'Some changes are there,' said Puri. 'For one thing we have Angrezi liquor these days.' He produced a bottle of Johnnie Walker from beneath the table. 'As I recall, you were not at all keen on our Indian whisky, isn't it?'

'Let's just say it's an acquired taste,' said Scott.

Puri mixed them each a glass of whisky and soda and they toasted one another's health.

'So all is well with you, former Deputy Commissioner?' asked Puri.

'Please just call me James, Vish.'

'Absolutely, Sir Jaams. And tell me, how is the lovely Mrs Scott?'

Scott shifted uneasily in his seat. 'Um . . . well, fine I suppose,' he said, looking faintly embarrassed. 'I mean . . . we got divorced. She . . . she's married to another man now, you see.'

'Is it?' responded Puri, placing his drink on the table. 'Sir, I don't know what to say.'

Scott gave a shrug. 'Worse things can happen,' he said, staring down into his glass, missing Puri's wide-eyed reaction. 'Now, look,' he continued. 'I understand you were there at the Durbar last night when Faheem Khan was murdered.'

It took Puri a moment to recover from the revelation about the divorce. He had never met Mrs Scott to whom Scott had been married for thirty-odd years, but he had always asked after her. It felt as if he'd lost a friend.

'Right, yes, correct,' said the detective, trying to collect his thoughts. 'It happened there before my eyes.'

'Have the locals got it right? He was poisoned with aconite?'

'That I could not say, sir. The laboratory report has not come into my possession. But it was poison. No doubt about it at all.'

'Any idea how it got into the curry he was eating?'

'Butter chicken,' corrected the detective.

'Sorry?'

'It's a Delhi dish popular all over these days - one of my personal favourites, actually. The Durbar version is really wonderful. Creamy and delicious. I myself was eating some last night minutes before the victim succumbed.'

'There was a buffet, I understand.'

'Correct. But waiters served those at the centre VVIP table. Faheem Khan was seated there himself, only.'

'So given that you suffered no ill effects and presumably no one else did either, we can safely say that only Faheem Khan's plate was poisoned,' concluded Scott.

The detective indicated his concurrence with a nod.

'Think the son did it?' The Britisher's tone was breezy, but it suggested an inherent cynicism.

'Fact is any number of persons present could have done the needful,' answered Puri.

'You mean poisoned his food?'

'It was lying untouched on the table for some time.'

'He left the table?'

'Ten minutes exactly,' answered the detective, keeping his knowledge of the Faheem Khan/Full Moon rendezvous to himself for the time being.

'But surely if the aconite was added to his food at the table, someone would have noticed.'

'Sir, has been my experience over these many years having investigated so many of cases that often people such things go unnoticed. Especially with so many of people getting up and down from their chairs like yoyos.'

Puri sipped his Scotch. It wasn't as good as Indian whisky, he reflected. But then Britishers enjoyed bland things. Like toad in the hole and depressing poetry about damp valleys and all. Such a strange people: highly civilised in many ways, yet with no fire burning in their bellies. Still, there was something gratifying about helping them out when they turned up in Delhi. Despite their inherent conceit, their fundamental belief in the superiority of Western civilisation, they were always out of their depth here in India - trying to operate in a world that was impenetrable to them. 'Welcome to the real world!' he often felt like saying to them. 'Welcome to India!' And yet somehow Puri always found himself adopting a subservient manner when dealing with the British. India was free and independent, had been for more than sixty years now, but he couldn't help trying to impress upon them that he, too, was civilised. 'Sir, I take it your visit here is not a coincidence,' he said. 'Evidently you left London last night only and in something of a hurry, isn't it?'

Puri had concluded as much from the fact that Scott had shaved with a plastic razor - no doubt supplied by his airline or hotel. There were no less than six nicks to his face and neck. He was also wearing odd socks.

'I see you're as sharp as ever, Vish,' said the Britisher looking somewhat uncomfortable with the fact that his appearance was so easily interpreted. 'Yes, as it happens, I left London as soon as I heard the news. I had about five minutes to get my things from home. As for what I'm doing here, I'll come to that in a minute. I'm sure you heard that I resigned from the ICF.'

'Yes, sir, after seven months in the job, only,' replied the detective who gave no indication that he had only come by this information earlier today.

'It was eight. But that's hardly the point. It was a mistake to take the job. The ICF has no teeth and I found myself in an untenable position. I'm working for another organisation now, but I'll come to that in a minute. Firstly, I need to fill you in on what I got up to at the ICF. Obviously I do so in the strictest confidence.'

'Confidentiality is my watchword, sir,' said the detective.

'Yes, I know, Vish. You're a good man - which is why I'm here. We've had our differences in the past with regard to procedure. I'm thinking of the Jain fraud case, of course. But I want you to know that I've always had the highest regard for your abilities.'

Puri took this as a compliment despite the patronising undertone.

'I saw it as my job at the ICF to get to grips with the illegal betting business here on the subcontinent,' began Scott. 'It's a vast enterprise as you know, worth billions of dollars a year, with bookies in every town and city from here to Peshawar and Colombo. The Syndicate, as it's often called, is run by the individual known as Aga - the underworld kingpin, who's believed by most intelligence agencies, including the CIA and your Indian RAW, to reside in Pakistan under the protection of that country's intelligence agency, the ISI.

'Aga has his fingers in a lot of other pies as well - gunrunning, terrorism, prostitution, you name it. But no one has ever satisfactorily identified how he runs the Syndicate. Are all the bookies in India, Pakistan and beyond part of the same outfit, as the conventional wisdom holds? Do they all pay Aga a remittance for operating in their given zones? Frankly, there are a lot of unanswered questions.'

Scott went on to explain that in his view the only way to get to grips with Aga's organisation was first to identify the bookies working for him. And the only way to do that was to ascertain which players were on the take.

'Number one on my list was young Kamran Khan,' continued the Britisher. 'There are times when his bowling's erratic. He's about the best fast pacer I've ever seen - up there with Curtly Ambrose, I'd say. He'll bowl two or three flawless overs and then suddenly a wide or a no ball. At times he'll also offer up an easy delivery as well - a four on a platter. It's a similar story with his batting.'

Outside the ATM, a woman had stepped up to the door and was berating Jagdish, wanting to know why the cash machine wasn't working. The guard held his ground, insisting that the repairs would take at least an hour, until, cursing, she stormed off.

'Please continue, sir,' said Puri. 'Coast is clear.'

'Are you sure, Vish? It doesn't seem right somehow - us sitting here.'

'This is India, sir,' said Puri with a flick of his hand.

'Right, well, if you say so.' He took a glug of his Scotch before continuing. 'So as I was saying . . . at first, I made progress. By cross-referencing the names of attendees of international matches around the world - the UK, Dubai, Australia - with airline and hotel records, I identified a number of individuals who've stayed in hotels occupied by the teams. Two of these individuals were Indian nationals. The first was a certain Mohib Alam from here in Delhi. The second was from Mumbai, Vikas Sengar, whom everyone knew as "The Spade".'

Puri smiled broadly.

'Did I say something funny?' asked Scott.

'Apologies, sir. But if we are talking about the same individual - and I believe he is familiar to me - he was known as "Fawda". Means he had buckteeth sticking out.'

'Oh. Right. Well now that you come to mention it, he did have buckteeth - very prominent ones, in fact. Funny. I just imagined the nickname had to do with something sinister - like digging graves . . . Now where was I?'

'You had identified two individuals, sir.'

'Right. So I kept an eye on Messrs Alam and Sengar. Discreet surveillance. And where should they both turn up during the World Cup last year? Faheem Khan's hotel room in Hyde Park.'

'They came together, sir?'

'Separately.'

Another swift swig of whisky and the Britisher continued: 'A few weeks later - June of last year - Sengar was supposedly found hanging from a ceiling fan in his luxury pad in Mumbai. The investigating officer said it was suicide, but I have my doubts.'

'Such as?'

'He didn't leave a note, he'd just eaten a large meal and there was a good deal of cocaine and alcohol in his system. He was also a big lad - about 220 pounds. I don't believe any ceiling fan could have taken that weight.' Scott paused for a beat. 'When it came to finding out more about these two individuals here in India - I was after financial records, phone taps, that sort of thing - I got stonewalled. No one would lift a finger to help. I certainly couldn't count on the ICF's India investigator who was supposed to be working for me.'

Puri asked for his name.

'A former senior police inspector called Johri Mal,' answered Scott, at which the detective let out a hollow chuckle.

'A total scoundrel. Could not organise a game of bingo in a bingo hall.'

'Yes, well, naturally I made an official complaint, but my boss, the ICF President, told me not to "rock the boat". Worse, he said he saw no grounds for any further investigation of Mohib Alam or Vikas Sengar.' Scott drained his glass again and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. 'The fact is, Vish - and I don't need to tell you this - when it comes to cricket, Britain might be the home of the sport, but this is where all the money is being made. The ICB has grown - very quickly, mind - into the richest cricket board in the world. The Indian Cricket League Tournament alone is worth billions. That makes the Indians very powerful. And they're starting to flex their muscles. The ICB has started laying down the law when it comes to scheduling of international series, appointing umpires, taking on advertisers--'

'And naturally ICB is totally corrupt,' interrupted Puri.

'I didn't say that,' said Scott.

'Sir, you did not need to. The ICB is unlike any other cricket board in the entire world, actually. Its members are not appointed by any higher body like a sports minister and such. It is a private syndicate. Like a kind of mafia, we can say. Members are elected by other members, only. Thus no accountability is there. Many of these individuals are total goondas. Take the current president, Sandeep Talwar, who, by the way, was seated at the table along with the victim. He is a crook. Of the highest order. Most probably he's in league with the bookies, who are providing so much of black money during elections. So he will not want any Indian bookie unmasked, that is for sure, and he will make sure that charlie Johri Mal does not do any singing for his supper.'

The two men drank in silence for a minute.

'You said you were working for another organisation, sir?' asked Puri.

'It's relatively new, Vish, so you wouldn't have heard of it. We don't even have an office yet. But we're calling our campaign Clean Up Cricket.'

'We, sir?'

'Retired players, umpires, coaches, senior commentators - all concerned individuals. Concerned that all this over-commercialisation and the illegal betting industry are ruining the great game of cricket. We want to see it cleaned up - something the ICF is failing to do and in our view will carry on failing to do.'

'And you want my help, is it?'

'We'd like to hire you to investigate this murder. Find out who did it.'

'That will not be at all easy, sir. We are talking about a can of worms. Many cans in fact. And it will be dangerous, also.'