The Case of the Deadly Butter Chicken (9 page)

Tubelight continued north, past dense, suffocating townships of bare concrete blocks. And soon, above the otherwise flat terrain, he spotted the mountain. The air turned foul, a toxic stench catching in the back of his throat as the massif loomed larger. He could make out a road cut into its side, a dump truck heading towards the flat-top summit. A black cloud of birds wheeled overhead like a portent of doom. There were figures picking their way along the escarpment - women, the reds and pinks of their saris bright against a crumbling, unstable terrain the grey of nuclear ash.

The English word for the place was 'landfill' but this was a misnomer, Tubelight reflected as he turned off the highway on to a rough track. An open 'drain', or sewer, with garbage-strewn banks led to a tangle of tumbledown shacks blackened by dirt and pollution. He stopped to ask a kabari wallah if a rag picker with a dead dog had passed that way. By a miracle the man knew his name: Raju. Finding this Raju, however, didn't prove easy. The area's geography was defined, indeed as most of Delhi is by the majority of its inhabitants, by landmarks and narratives.

'Turn down the lane where the old blind man sits,' Tubelight was told.

When he came across the blind man (who, fortunately, was where he was supposed to be), a woman hanging wet clothes on a barbed-wire fence pointed in the direction of a communications tower jutting up above the tin roofs. 'Beneath that you will see the place where the men have been digging these past days and where another died when he fell off his ladder.'

Eventually, he found the rag picker's shack, built against the exterior wall of a crematorium. Tubelight saw him crouched amidst a pile of gutted computers. His wife sat nearby, baby cradled in one arm, stirring a big metal basin sloshing with a soup of nitric acid and circuit boards. A teenage son panned for bits of copper, gold and lead.

'I sold it,' said Raju when asked about the dog.

For a small fee, he agreed to take Tubelight to the buyer and led the way deeper into the jugghi. They passed more rag pickers bundling and weighing recyclable refuse - cardboard, newspapers, tin cans, bags of plastic bottle caps - until they reached a compound surrounded by a brick wall. The smell was different here: the stench of death hung in the air, and for the first time, Puri's operative felt the urge to retch.

Stepping into the compound he spotted a couple of men lowering a bloated dog carcass into an oil drum of boiling liquid. Another dog lay nearby, equally bloated. Raju the rag picker recognised it as the one he'd brought from Rabies Control.

Fifty rupees, a little more than the price the animal's bones would fetch from the agro fertiliser industry, gave Tubelight possession of the dog, and ten more went to procure a large piece of dirty plastic sheeting to wrap it in.

Once the stinking carcass had been loaded into the back of the auto, Tubelight handed Raju thirty rupees. He took the payment without a word and set off back through the slum.

Not once had the rag picker queried why someone would want the animal. Everything had a value in Delhi. Even a dead dog.

SIX

WHILE TUBELIGHT WAS ingratiating himself with the dhaba wallah and the coolies outside Kotla Stadium, Puri returned to the Delhi Durbar Hotel. He found the banquet hall cordoned off and three jawans guarding the main doors. That is to say they were sitting around, drinking tea and talking idly amongst themselves - three vocations at which jawans the length and breadth of India could justifiably claim to excel.

Through the banquet hall's open doors, the detective could see two forensics officers in white jumpsuits examining the round dining table where Faheem Khan had met his fate. He dearly wanted to slip inside and find out if they had come across a delivery device for the poison. Getting past the jawans would not present too much difficulty. But doing so would risk his involvement in the case becoming known.

Besides, the detective had other means. Half an hour ago, he'd spoken to his friend and occasional collaborator Inspector Jagat Prakash Singh, who'd agreed to meet him in the evening and let him know what the official investigation had discovered. Assuming, of course, that the Chief had discovered anything aside from his own shadow.

For now, Puri would settle for a copy of last night's dinner seating plan and went in search of the resourceful young waiter who'd sprung him from the Mattu table last night. Gunny was his name, and the detective found him in the Sea of Tranquillity, the hotel's Thai restaurant.

'What can I do for, sir, this time?' he asked in a conspiratorial manner, making it clear that he was willing to be of assistance in any way he could.

'I'm not here to eat,' said Puri, who sat down at one of the tables nonetheless. 'Some information is required.'

He went on to explain what he needed.

'Not a problem, sir,' was Gunny's response.'I've one copy of the seating plan in my locker. It's got Sanjay Sala's autograph on the back. So it is worth one thousand at least.'

'Understood.'

Gunny eyed his manager who was standing over by the entrance to the restaurant.

'Sir, it would be best if you ordered something. Perhaps a drink.'

'Bring one bottle water - room temperature.'

Gunny returned with a bottle of mineral water and presented it as if it was a fine bottle of wine. The detective gave a connoisseur's nod and the waiter poured him a glass. He also slipped the seating plan on to the table before heading off to attend to some other customers.

Puri took out his notebook and began to write down the guests' names, adding the odd annotation of his own.

Left of Faheem Khan clockwise:

Satish Bhatia, 'Call Centre King'.

Jasmeet Bhatia, elderly mother of Satish Bhatia.

Sandeep Talwar - politician, President of the Indian Cricket Board, crook.

Mrs Harnam Talwar, elderly wife of above.

Nilesh Jani - ICT Chairman.

Mrs 'Mini' Jani - page three type, twenty-something.

Neetika Sahini - 'public relations' power broker.

J.K. Shrivastav - PM's cabinet secretary.

Mrs Shrivastav.

Sanjay Sala, Bollywood 'actor'.

Mrs Sanjay Sala - known as 'Bubbles'.

Kamran Khan - son of murder victim.

Ram Dogra - industrialist, known as the 'Prince of Polyester'.

Mrs Megha Dogra, elderly wife of above.

Gunjan Bhangu - construction.

Mrs Anita Bhangu, elderly wife of above, sat on right side of Faheem Khan, victim.

Gunny returned as Puri finished copying the list. 'Tell me. You were serving that table, is it?' asked the detective.

'Yes, sir. Filling glasses and all.'

'Everyone was seated exactly and according to the plan?'

'Yes, sir. Name cards were provided.'

'Some guests were getting up and down, no? Like the murdered gentleman. He left the hall for some time before eating.'

'Yes, sir. He left for ten minutes.'

'Anyone sat in his seat meanwhile?'

'No, sir.'

'Sure?'

'His food was sitting there getting cold and I was wondering should I cover it.'

The waiter was obviously telling the truth, yet Puri was certain he would never share anything incriminating about the guests. Not consciously, at least. They were powerful people and he was but an aam aadmi.

'Anyone else approached the table - while Mr Khan's food was sitting idle?' asked Puri.

'By then all the other guests had taken their seats and were eating. The photographers had been sent away.'

Puri paid for the water and then took two one-thousand-rupees note from his wallet.

'Anything further you wish to tell me?' he asked, fingering the bill.

Gunny glanced nervously round the restaurant to ensure his manager wasn't watching. 'One thing, sir,' he said, keeping his voice down. 'That model, Dippy: she lost one earring during dinner. Said it was worth two lakhs. She was crying and all.'

'It was found?'

'One of the cleaners picked it up on the emergency stairs, handed it in.'

'Emergency stairs? How it got there?'

Gunny gave a shrug. 'No idea, sir. They're at the back of the hotel.'

Puri left the notes under his napkin.

His next stop was Defence Colony, C Block, home of his parents-in-law.

Theirs was a large detached house, three floors in all, built in the early 1970s with the intention of leaving an equal portion to each of their children. The architectural antithesis of the Taj Mahal, the Mattu residence, with its chunky bungalows and concrete slab window awnings, looked as if it had been designed by the same architect as Hitler's bunker.

Every effort had been made to soften its harsh appearance. Lovingly tended flower beds ran along the outside wall, and the old peelu tree that burst out of the pavement shrouded half the facade with its umbrella canopy. Beyond the wrought-iron gates, marigolds and snapdragons in little terracotta pots lined the marble forecourt; and rosewood planter's chairs graced the edge of a small lawn.

The bell summoned the Christian maidservant, Alice, to the front door, and Puri greeted her, as he always did, with the words, 'Namaste! How is Wonderland?' This elicited a shy giggle (as it always did) and Puri stepped inside.

The living room had changed little from the first time he had visited the house in 1981. The rattan couch and armchairs remained in the same position around the Rajasthani cart-style coffee table. The British railway station clock up on the wall was still keeping good time, despite being a replica. The collection of curios the Mattus had picked up on their travels in various parts of India (an Assamese Japi hat; a pair of clay ornamental horses from Gorakhpur) and the two holidays they had taken to Europe (Eiffel Tower and Swiss cowbell) remained on the sideboard along with the family photos. Everything wore a faded look, like an old sepia print. But then - by God! - it had been some twenty-five years or more.

Puri had been in his mid-twenties at the time - pencil thin and somewhat nervous. He and his parents had sat in a row on the couch, and Brigadier - then Captain - Mattu and his wife had sat directly opposite them. Although the two mothers had met on three occasions in the weeks preceding the meeting and laid their plans, they were careful to let their husbands take the lead.

Formal introductions were made, tea and savoury biscuits were served, and the prospective groom's credentials and prospects were discussed. Mattu addressed him as 'young man', wanting to know details about his army career and where he saw himself in ten years. Puri answered confidently, explaining that he had recently been recruited into army intelligence and saw it as a lifetime career.

This was a truthful answer. It had never been Puri's ambition to become a jasoos, private detectives being little thought of in Indian society (down there with midwives). It was the Shimla Affair that changed all that, forcing him to resign in the early 1980s.

However, Puri did tell a lie that day - 'Yes, sir. Absolutely, sir. No doubt about it at all, sir,' he'd stated when asked whether he was ready to marry.

And then Meena walked into the room.

She was wearing a simple cotton sari and a string of fragrant jasmine in her hair.

Puri was rendered completely inarticulate.

Two months later, they were married.

The detective returned to the present, pausing by the sideboard to pick up the framed, black and white photograph taken of him and Rumpi on their wedding day. They were seated in front of the holy fire - he in a three-piece suit and a sehra. Through the curtain of flowers that hung in front of his face, you could make out his young moustache and thin features. Rumpi's eyes were cast down, a silk chunni draped over her head and a large nose ring chain encircling her right cheek. They both looked apprehensive; quite miserable, in fact.

Funny. That had been one of the happiest days of his life. He'd loved Rumpi from the first. Proof that arranged marriages made for the strongest unions - for individuals and their extended families.

He put the frame back and knocked on Brigadier Mattu's study door.

'Enter!'

Being a creature of habit and given that it was now exactly six o'clock, the Brigadier sat behind his desk sipping a cup of packaged tomato soup and listening to the news headlines in English on All India Radio.