The Murder Suspect

by Rani Ramakrishnan

  From his sources, he obtained a copy of the anonymous email message that had contained the incriminating evidence against the five IndeGeners. The email had been sent to the media immediately after the watch was found. Sukhbir had sent the email. Why?

  The Creep questioned him about this. At first he resisted but when presented with the evidence against him, he spilt the beans. He admitted that he had emailed at Pakhi’s behest—sweet, sugary Candy Floss. On further questioning, he admitted that he had been working for her on the sly.

  He had an ugly secret about which nobody knew: he had embezzled money from one of his previous employers before shifting to Pune. His silent, shy manner served as a brilliant cover. After one or two attempts, people left him alone to his devices. Discussions about his past never came up.

  One of Bharat Desai’s henchmen had tipped off Pakhi about Sukhbir. She used the knowledge to blackmail him into getting inside information on Chirag’s work at IndeGen. For this, she paid him handsomely. His most recent task had been to share the documents pertaining to the other IndeGeners with the media, which he had done. He had received payment for that too.

  How I had misjudged him! I could not expect a 100% score on all hires, but I had personally vetted Sukhbir and yet had missed the telltale signs. I was not ready to forgive myself yet, considering what all I had lost.

  The Creep had already been keeping an eye on Pakhi. As the victim’s wife, she was also a suspect. She appeared to be the perfect wife and daughter. She had told him that she loved Piyush even though she knew that he was unfaithful. She had informed him that the circumstances of their marriage were acceptable to her and that she was happy.

  Everything was too good to be true. So he had kept a close watch on her.

  When Manav had said that five of my potential CEO candidates were politically connected, he had them all checked out. One of them was a Bharat Desai loyalist and Pakhi’s good friend. That immediately raised suspicion. He kept all five under his scanner.

  Bharat Desai’s candidate was qualified for the job and had known Piyush too. He had been present by the family’s side at Piyush’s funeral, and Pakhi, the grieving widow in white, clearly trusted him. Was something going on there?

  The Creep found all the different angles to the whole conspiracy utterly confusing. Why would Pakhi want to disgrace the five IndeGeners? She didn’t even know them personally. Her willingness to give me a character certificate was another bewildering fact. Was she doing all this to misguide the investigation? What was her secret? He was desperate to find out.

  Shooting in the dark, he spoke to Chirag about everything that had happened that night. During their conversation, Chirag told him that he had exchanged his favourite orange juice in return for Piyush’s watch. He said that Piyush wanted to give him his watch for free, but he could not accept it because it was a favourite of Piyush’s. To make the exchange fair, he had given Piyush his favourite item: orange juice. Their transaction had thus become a fair transfer.

  This piece of news stunned the Creep. The poison had been in the juice—Chirag’s juice! This meant that he was the intended target. Nobody had imagined that possibility. Why would anyone want to kill Chirag? He was only a child.

  The Creep probed further and tried to find out more about the juice from Chirag. He was happy to talk about it. Realising that Chirag had been the intended victim, his lawyer, who was present during the questioning, encouraged him to reveal more. Innocently, Chirag told the Creep that his sister always packed orange juice for him, and, like a good boy, he always drank it fully. The only thing he threw away was the Tetra Pak carton it came in.

  On the way to the resort, he had accidentally opened the carton of juice but was in no mood to drink it. Piyush had found a container to pour it into so that he could drink it later. That was the canister later found in Piyush’s room. The accusing finger was pointing dramatically at Pakhi, but the Creep was still unsure of her motive. Why would she want to kill a brother who was almost a son?

  Since his statement was recorded in the presence of his family lawyer, the Creep felt compelled to question Pakhi. He spoke to her too in their lawyer’s presence. She denied any knowledge about the datura in Chirag’s juice and seemed genuinely distressed to learn that he had been the target.

  All this had happened late Wednesday evening.

  In the meantime, his team dug out a valuable piece of information: Bharat Desai had officially registered his will a few months before. In the will, he had bequeathed his entire estate to his son, Chirag, and after him to his two grandsons.

  Pakhi could continue to live in the house for as long as she wished, but she could not sell it. She would receive a monthly income to sustain her lifestyle. She stood to inherit her mother’s jewellery and other smaller properties, but the bulk of her father’s wealth was to be Chirag’s and thereafter her sons’.

  The decision to exclude Pakhi from the will appeared harsh, forcing the Creep to wonder if she was unhappy with the arrangement.

  He requested a meeting with Bharat Desai, who replied that he was too busy. The Creep was not one to back off easily. He informed the minister that his son had been the actual target of the murderer. That was enough to grab his attention. He agreed to speak to the Creep right away.

  They met at the airport where he was waiting to board a flight to the national capital. He was in a hurry so only questions pertaining to Chirag’s wealth were posed. He admitted that he had left a huge chunk of his wealth to his son. He nonchalantly commented that sons were the torchbearers of one’s family. Daughters were not.

  It was his fate that his son was mentally slow, but he was still a son. While his daughter was sharp, her rightful place was in her husband’s house. He proudly declared that even though she was part of her husband’s family now, he had included her too in his will and had ensured that everything went to her sons after Chirag’s passing. In his opinion, he was doing her a favour by embracing her sons.

  Armed with this information, the Creep boldly approached Pakhi. This time, he accused her of wanting to kill her brother out of bitter jealousy. He asked her about Bharat Desai’s will and she continued to maintain that she was fine with everything. The tipping point was the inflammatory recording on Piyush’s watch.

  He played the audio piece for her, and she was unprepared for it. It undid her faster than even he had hoped. Apparently she could not stop herself from cursing Piyush for being a cheating bastard. She even said that all men were alike. They were leeches in her life, just as Chirag was. She did all the hard work, managed the house, cared for Chirag, supported her father’s political campaigns—and still to her father she was not family.

  Chirag would always be a child, but despite that he was his father’s son—his pride and joy. He was entitled to all his father’s property and good wishes. Her father, she claimed, was even willing to embrace her children because they were boys, but he refused to give her the same respect.

  At home, everything was done to suit Chirag’s needs. When he had to stop school, she too had to quit. Luckily for her, she had cleared her tenth-grade exams by then. Sadly, that had been the end of her education. Even the food prepared at home was always as per the taste of the boys and men.

  For marriage, her father found a man who needed money so he could be forced to give his son a job and a stake in the company. Chirag, in those days, wanted to work in ‘his own company,’ away from their family owned businesses. Therefore Piyush was dumped on her. It appeared she had no say in the matter.

  Then Bharat Desai had done the unthinkable. He had committed his entire property to his son and after him to his grandchildren. At no point would Pakhi—the person slogging behind the scenes— ever own any of it.

  That was the last straw.

  And so, she had plotted to kill Chirag. She believed that if he died on an official trip, no one would suspect her. Her plan backfired and her husband died instead. After that, everything spiralled out of control and none of her di
version tactics meant to highlight likely suspects— issuing a character certificate for me, leaking my team’s past to the media, etc.—were enough to save her.

  Chapter 27

  Once he had recorded her confession, the Creep wasted no time in getting an arrest warrant. Though the news of her arrest spread like wildfire, he kept her original plot a secret, even from her father.

  When he heard of his daughter’s arrest, Bharat Desai returned to the city in haste. The scene I witnessed at the CBI office on Thursday was the immediate consequence of his arrival in town. Later, when he learnt that she had intended to murder his only son, he reversed his stand.

  He refused to arrange bail for her. In fact, he was batting for her to get capital punishment. He was playing every card in the book, even Chirag’s state of mental health, to achieve this goal.

  I felt sorry for Pakhi. She had grown up in an environment where she was always unwanted. I understood that. I had endured the same rejection.

  But we dealt with the situation in different ways. I had rebelled and broken free. She had endured until matters became unbearable. She became a criminal. She killed somebody.

  This morning, seeing the news made me realise that no matter how wealthy and modern she appeared, her life was more backward than a regular person could imagine. Many men and women in her community were supporting Bharat Desai and had issued a fatwa of sorts against her. I feared for her. Someone or the other would surely kill her if she came out.

  Jail, it seemed, was the safest place for her right now. She too must have come to the same conclusion because she had decided not to apply for bail.

  ◆◆◆

  My phone beeped. The Creep had replied to my message. He wanted to know if I was free to grab dinner. I was free, but was it in my best interests to go out with the man who was investigating Piyush’s murder?

  On second thought, maybe the idea wasn’t all that bad. He trusted me, and I knew his weaknesses. It was okay, I decided. I replied in the affirmative and then headed to the restroom to freshen up. I wanted to look good... much better than I felt!

  One last time I thought about Pakhi, the woman who had given me a character certificate. The woman whose personality was as flawed as mine when examined in the right context. All these years she had worn a mask, the mask of Candy Floss, ever so sweet and understanding. Today her face was bared and the ugly truth beneath starkly visible. She had lost the one refuge she had had all these years: her mask of being the sweetest one.

  I stared at my reflection in the mirror. Pakhi was in jail and she would stay there. I was now CEO and was soon to have a baby: Piyush’s baby! This was not the time to remove my mask. True, it had slipped a little in the past month or two, but now it was back in place more firmly than before. This was not the time for people to meet the real Nalini Bose.

  They should never meet the Nalini Bose who didn’t care two hoots about anything that did not result in her own well-being. The Nalini Bose who thought nothing of leaving ropes lying around for old people to stumble to their death. The Nalini Bose who could drug her lover, make him an addict, and maybe even assist in his murder. The Nalini Bose who could engage in a relationship if it served her purpose.

  The dark, conniving, real Nalini Bose hidden beneath the smiling, aloof CEO whose passion for her company and her job inspired people to outdo themselves. The street-smart devil who still had links to the underbelly of law and abuse.

  That Nalini Bose had to remain hidden beneath the twenty-first-century woman who lived life on her own terms and flaunted it proudly.

  That was my mask.

  Tucked away in a safety deposit locker was a document that bequeathed Piyush’s IndeGen shares to me. A few months ago, when a crisis hit us and we needed money, Piyush had done the unthinkable. He handed me his shares and asked me for money in return. I told him that there was no need for the shares. I would lend him the money anyway.

  He silenced me, saying business was not done like that. There were no guarantees in life, and there were too many sharks swimming in the seas for him to do something stupid like borrow money from me without giving me collateral. He had been wise, as always. Now he was gone, but I still had his shares and mine. It gave me a controlling stake, something bound to keep me safe in this unsafe world.

  I remembered the baby. Maybe it was for the best. Most of the muck in our lives had been cleared. It would still be a bastard child, but it would learn to cope as I had and Piyush had, I hoped. Otherwise, I would find a way. I always did.

  As I stood looking at myself, one thought kept nagging me. Something I could never say aloud, even to myself, lest the walls should hear and betray me.

  The aspirin that had aggravated Piyush’s condition and possibly the bleeding—I had given it to him.

  Piyush had been under great stress, especially after I announced to the board that he was inadequate to lead us to the IPO. My views hurt him more than I had expected. I knew it would devastate him, but I hadn’t expected him to bottle up everything. He had, though, and because of that he was constantly complaining of headaches and other pains.

  I had tried to help, but he was unwilling to accept any assistance. He refused to seek professional help either. The problem was that he understood my perspective and agreed with my stand. The knowledge killed his spirit and his ability to ideate. It affected his productivity manifold and his confidence took a hit.

  To ease his extreme stress, I got him a mild drug from a local dealer I knew. Instead of telling him it was dope, I told him it was a local variant of aspirin. Soon I noticed that he was taking over one tablet a day. This spooked me. The last thing we needed was a drug scandal, that too involving the CEO.

  When he exhausted his last bottle of the drug, he begged me for more. Every day I made a different excuse and postponed the replenishment in the hope that he would learn to live without it. He kept insisting and also began to show some signs of withdrawal. That was when I knew that he was addicted. He had a major meeting the next day, and I needed him fit for it. So I procured a milder dose of the drug for him.

  Turns out that wasn’t the best decision.

  He increased his dosage. In fact, he was taking those pills as though they were candy. As a New Year resolution, I decided I would stop getting him drugs. Before leaving on our trip, I replaced the drugs with a bottle of actual aspirin. He didn’t know about the switch and must have consumed it just as he would the drug he was used to.

  On that fateful night when everything went wrong, he overdosed on aspirin.

  Soon after realising what was recorded on the device in his watch, he must have drunk Chirag’s orange juice. The poison’s effect would have kicked in, making each second more agonising than the one before. Worry, physical pain, high body temperature—everything must have made him take multiple doses of the only drug at his disposal: aspirin.

  When delirium hit, he must have felt even more anxious and emptied the full bottle.

  The dope I had him addicted to might have saved his life. While the datura poison caused extreme anxiety, the dope would have done the exact opposite. But I had switched the drugs and had given him actual aspirin this time, and it cost him his life.

  If I had told him what I had been feeding him, he would willingly have stopped himself whenever craving took over. He was strong-willed and honest like that. But he would also have left me. He was anti-drugs and always had been. Even our decade-long relationship would not have survived his sentiments on drug abuse.

  So I kept him in the dark. I needed him in my life, even if he were an addict and former CEO. In my own way, I loved him.

  I was prone to causing accidents for those who loved me. I had wanted to stop my grandparents from falling over the edge and had accomplished the exact opposite by sticking the rope in their path. I had wanted to rescue Piyush from depression and had made him an addict. I had effectively killed three people. Thankfully, there was no proof of that except in my conscience, which seldom showed up on a norm
al day.

  For the millionth time, I wondered if I should come clean and tell the Creep about being the source of the aspirin. Even as I thought of it, I knew it was a bad idea. Nobody would believe that I had not plotted to kill Piyush. I had made him an addict without his knowledge, they would say. I was capable of anything, including murder. In reality, maybe I was.

  I could not spend another night in that dreary jail cell with all those creepy hands feeling me up and mauling me. I had to take these truths to my grave, no matter what. If I had to be in full control of my senses at all times for that to happen, so be it.

  I would give up drinking and smoking. I would pray for Pakhi to rot in jail, and I would do everything in my power to help the CBI prove what a bad woman she was.

  I would do everything to protect myself, including befriending a CBI officer. I would don my mask and become the Nalini Bose people believed I was.

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you, my dear reader, for stopping by to read The Murder Suspect. Without you, I wouldn’t write at all.

  Thanks, Mum and Dad, for having my back. You are the reason I write. You inspire me to start each day with positivity and carry on even when things get tricky. You are the best.

  Sangamithirai, I can never thank you enough. You believe in me even when my faith in my abilities wavers. Few people are lucky to have friends like you, and I am truly blessed to have you in my life. This book is for you and for your trust in me.

  A special thanks to all my friends. You are always my first readers and best fans. Your critical feedback helps me improve my craft, and your faith in me motivates me to experiment each time.

  Thank you, Shivani Adib, for editing and proofreading The Murder Suspect. You not only corrected my language but also pointed out inconsistencies in the manuscript. With your help, I was able to put out the best version of the book. Thank you.