‘There still isn’t, is there, apart from this?’
‘A few places come close, but they end up heavily customizing for local taste.’
‘And you have resisted that?’
‘As much as possible. You haven’t seen chilli chicken on our menu, have you?’
‘Not the Indian variety, at least.’ There was a fabulous dish of fried chicken tossed with a mountain of dried chilli and peanuts, but it bore little resemblance to the Indo-Sino khichdi classic.
‘Luckily, we found the city was receptive to it, even at our relatively high price points.’
‘Everyone remarks on how consistent your restaurant has been. How have you managed that?’
‘From the beginning we have as our chef Abhimanyu Sinha, who worked at a five-star coffee shop in Shanghai. With his exposure to authentic food from across the country, he’s been able to train his deputies well.’
‘Retaining him hasn’t been a problem?’
‘He’s just become a partner,’ she smiled.
There was an interesting angle to be explored there. A chef with an international track record content in a mid-sized Calcutta kitchen? ‘I would really like to speak with him. Is he here now?’
‘No, he won’t be in till later in the evening,’ Mallika said. She tapped on the table thoughtfully. ‘Why don’t you come to dinner tomorrow at my place? Chef will be there too, and you can speak to him then. Nothing fancy, just me and a couple of friends,’ she suggested.
‘I’d love that,’ I said.
We were interrupted by a waiter who brought out tea, this time green, and egg tarts.
‘Try these. These are a dim sum classic: Portuguese-inspired treats from Macau.’
I bit into one of the glistening golden discs, smiling like a happy sun in a child’s drawing. The tender yet crisp puff pastry crust yielded to creamy, delicately sweet custard filling, with a brown-tinged top providing a burnt sugar bite. I closed my eyes with pleasure brought on by the contrast of sweet and savoury.
‘These are fabulous, Mallika.’
‘Thanks! We’ve been trying to get these right for a couple of weeks now as I am thinking of starting a Chinese tea set on weekend afternoons.’
I tore myself away from the food to tell her how wonderful the plan was and to continue with my questions.
‘Where do you source your ingredients from?’
‘Vegetables and meats have always been relatively easy. We work with suppliers in New Market. It is just a few spices that need to be brought in. And it is all quite simple because of my contacts in China.’
‘Some Chinese restaurants are sourcing from a local businessman, Prakash Agarwal,’ I said. I had met him for a story as he was considered one of the most important people in the restaurant business, being Calcutta’s main importer of gourmet provisions.
‘I am not really sure … I don’t think I know him ...’ Mallika trailed off, fiddling with her earring. In her big, kohl-lined brown eyes I thought I saw a sudden flash of distress.
The question had been straightforward enough, and I was surprised by Mallika’s reaction. It was a small city, and the food circle was even smaller. But it wasn’t really relevant, so I moved on.
‘How did you assemble such an eclectic mix of dishes?’ I asked.
The menu was divided by region with a selection from Sichuan, Hunan, Guangdong or Canton, Shanghai, Beijing. It was a comprehensive list of contemporary Chinese classics.
‘I thought about all the misconceptions surrounding Chinese food the world over and wanted the menu to be representative of the country as a whole. It was a bit of a gamble but as I said, it has worked.’
As we chatted over the next half hour or so, Mallika described to me the catering venture she had branched into. It became clear that Mallika’s business was growing steadily. She was also contemplating a second branch of Middle Kingdom.
‘What is holding you back?’
‘In part, fear. Abhimanyu and I are quite hands-on in the kitchen and I’d need to hire someone with experience with the same sort of food, which means bringing someone else over from China or Singapore. One wrong step and things can go terribly wrong. Restaurants open and close all the time—it is harder to stay in business than you might think.’
I nodded ruefully. I had had a half-baked dream once, in between breaking up a potential marriage and complete unemployment, of starting a patisserie. Why be a detective, I had asked myself, when food was so much easier, so much more elemental? But then I found
out how much money was required and the dream slinked away.
Just then my phone rang. It was Shweta.
‘Sorry, I need to take this,’ I said to Mallika. ‘Hello?’
‘Reema, can you come into office?’
‘Now?’
‘It’s kind of urgent.’
‘What’s going on?’
‘Someone you interviewed a while ago has died under somewhat suspicious circumstances.’
I felt a stab of fear. ‘Who?’
‘The gourmet food importer Prakash Agarwal.’
I looked at Mallika sitting across the table from me, my mouth open in disbelief. ‘How?’
‘Don’t know. He died this morning in hospital. Apparently, the doctor recommended an autopsy and called the cops, but by then the body had been released. He was cremated before they responded.’
‘So quickly?’
‘Exactly the question the police are now asking.’
‘Give me half an hour,’ I said, hanging up.
‘Is everything alright?’ asked Mallika.
‘Someone I know, in fact the food importer we were just talking about, Prakash Agarwal … he’s dead.’
Mallika’s teacup slipped from her hand and shattered as it hit the table.
‘Oh my,’ she said, grabbing for napkins as a waiter hurried over. ‘What a mess.’
‘I thought you didn’t know him?’ I asked, trying my best to help.
‘I don’t. Not really,’ she said, a deep blush spreading across her cheeks. ‘But I know of him. What happened?’
‘They are not sure yet,’ I said.
Mallika scrambled to pick up the slivers of white, her manicured hands trembling.
six
‘What the hell happened?’ I asked, swinging into the chair beside Shweta’s desk.
‘They aren’t sure. He was admitted to Calcutta Medical yesterday morning with severe diarrhoea and other symptoms. He died in the early hours today.’
‘It’s so strange—I was just talking about him a few minutes before you called.’
‘Really?’
‘I was interviewing someone I thought might know him. Do they suspect foul play?’
‘I am not sure,’ shrugged Sweta. ‘What I told you is pretty much all the news guys told me.’ Face didn’t do news, but it had a sister magazine housed in the same building that did. ‘As far as I could tell, they aren’t sure either and want to know if you have any info that might be useful.’
I had interviewed few people in my brief food writer career who I had liked less than Prakash Agarwal. Mostly people who got involved in the food business, I had found, were nice. They loved food, they loved feeding people. But Agarwal was the exception.
‘I really don’t know much about him … But I have to say, he gave me the creeps the one time we met. He was seriously slimy. The whole time during our interview he barely glanced at my face, staring about a foot lower the whole time. And then when I was about to leave, he kept offering me free stuff and saying I was like his daughter.’
‘Gross,’ said Shweta. She scribbled on a piece of paper and handed it to me. ‘This is Paresh Patel’s number; he came looking for you. Give him a call and tell him what you know.’
I called Paresh, reporter at OpenSource magazine. ‘Hi,’ I said, introducing myself. ‘Shweta told me you had called for information about Prakash Agarwal?’
‘Yes, Reema, thanks for calling back. Did you know him well?’
>
‘Not really. I met him once for a profile I did on him.’
‘I pulled that from the archives already,’ he said.
‘Do you know what happened to him?’
‘He was ill, apparently. Seemed like food poisoning at first, but he wasn’t responding to any kind of treatment. The doctor wanted to bring in the police. He seemed to think an autopsy would be a good idea.’
‘Why?’
‘The symptoms apparently spiralled out of control when he should have got better.’
‘Does he suspect poison?’
‘Said it was a long shot, but worth a closer look. They couldn’t find anything in the toxicology reports to suggest it, but they thought a forensics team might be able to find out more.’
‘Then why was he cremated?’
‘The family did not want to involve the police and have a mess of an autopsy, and somehow the body was released without the doctor’s knowledge. An outside physician was brought in who issued a death certificate and the family immediately went ahead with the cremation. This is all according to the police, who the doctor contacted sometime in the course of the morning.’
‘Unusual.’
‘Yes. The hospital is launching an internal investigation to find out how the body was allowed to be released in such a manner.’
It seemed like the cops had responded with their usual sense of urgency. ‘What are the police doing?’
‘A preliminary investigation is under way to establish if there was wrongdoing.’
‘A little late for that, isn’t it? How far can they get without a body?’
‘I don’t know. Not far at all, is my guess. But what I wanted to ask for is your opinion of the man.’
‘To be honest, he didn’t make a good impression.’
‘Why not?’
‘He was the unsavoury sort. And a serious lech.’
‘Was he?’
‘I would have expected some amount of savvy from someone in his line of work, but I got the feeling it was just a business to him, like any other. He could have just as well have been selling ball bearings as gourmet products. No passion for food at all.’
‘So how do you explain his success?’
‘Lack of competition, for one. And then there aren’t many restaurants serving cuisine that would qualify as out of the ordinary. To give Agarwal credit, I think he understood his limitations and took advice from those around him. He also cultivated relationships with some of the best restaurateurs in the city, who must have been quite specific about what they wanted. He learnt the ropes over the years.’
‘Did you ever meet his wife?’
‘I did, in fact.’ She was home the day I visited his office, which adjoined their flat. She let me in when I rang the wrong doorbell and showed me into her husband’s office, which was connected to the house as well as having a separate, public entrance. ‘She was quite different. Polished yet somehow cold.’
‘How did they seem as a couple?’
‘Strange. But I don’t think it’s fair to say more based on my first impression. I really know nothing about her.’
‘Would you call me later if something else comes to mind?’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘And could I ask you to keep me in the loop as the case progresses?’
‘Sure thing,’ he said.
I hung up. Everything Paresh Patel told me sounded odd—the underhand death certificate, the rushed cremation. The police, I imagined, would be searching his house and office, looking for anything out of place. Perhaps they would question his wife and family, even his business associates. It seemed unlikely that anything would come of it. With so many open cases, how could the police afford to waste time on the unsubstantiated suspicion of a doctor? And the internal hospital investigation would most likely result in nothing more than a wrist-slap. At any rate, Paresh Patel seemed to be my best shot at the story—official and unofficial.
Or was he?
The clock struck 5 pm, a perfectly respectable hour at which to make my departure. I had completed a copy I had to file, chatted with a couple of colleagues about story ideas and researched the specific characteristics of Sicilian recipes versus northern Italian recipes for a senior columnist.
It was all well beyond my freelancer brief and thus, freed from guilt, I set off to pay a visit to Prakash Agarwal’s widow.
I found a flower shop on the way and hopped into the Metro. Should I be ashamed of my rubbernecking? Wouldn’t I just be adding to the poor lady’s grief? I knew the Agarwals didn’t have children. She would be all alone with her pain, and wouldn’t I only be compounding it?
But the truth mattered, I told myself.
And wasn’t that best left to the cops?
If they bothered to look for it. And besides, this would only be a visit—a common courtesy to a tragedy-struck woman.
It didn’t take me long to find the place. I had been there recently, and the long line of cars and groups of huddled visitors on the pavement inside the large, secure compound gave it away anyhow. The scene did away with my lingering compunctions—at least I wasn’t the only intruder.
I rode the lift up to the flat. The front door was open, the smell of flowers and incense overpowering me as soon as I stepped into the hallway. Inside, a few people were gathered in the living room; at their centre sat Mrs Agarwal. A strained silence was broken only by a soft word here and there.
There was a moment when I hesitated at the threshold of that room. I could no longer ignore the inappropriateness of my trespassing at such a moment. But I was egged on by a need to know.
I approached the sofa where Mrs Agarwal sat sipping a cup of tea. She looked at me with eyes free and clear of tears. They would come later, I thought.
‘Mrs Agarwal, you may not remember me,’ I began.
She waved at me to sit down. ‘Of course I do, Reema. From the magazine.’
She nodded to the other visitors who then left us alone.
‘I am very sorry for your loss,’ I said, setting the lilies down on the table and trying my best to smile as I took a seat.
‘Thank you for coming,’ she said. ‘He was very happy with your write-up. He bought at least 200 copies and distributed them to all our friends. It is up on his office wall. Would you like to see it?’
She didn’t wait for my reply. Instead, she stood up and led me to Agarwal’s office, the last place I had seen him alive. My eyes immediately went to the article that had been framed and hung on the wall behind his desk. There were still a half dozen copies of Face sitting beside his computer.
‘He had a party for his friends and handed out copies,’ said Mrs Agarwal.
‘I am glad he liked it.’
A silence fell between us. I didn’t know if I should ask what had happened. Murder seemed like a dirty word to bring up in a house of mourning. But it turned out that I didn’t need to.
‘You are in the media,’ Mrs Agarwal said abruptly.
‘Yes?’
‘You must get to know things.’
A common perception I had faced through my short career.
Journalists knew it all—election outcomes before the votes were cast, bandh dates, party venues. I didn’t contradict her.
‘I won’t lie to you, Reema. My husband was not very well liked. The police came here asking all of these questions about him today, like they thought he had been murdered.’
I nodded sympathetically.
‘They asked why we took the body away so quickly. But it was hardly quick! We were in the hospital for two hours waiting for a death certificate. When none was given, we brought in our own doctor. How were we to know they would want to investigate! Dr Mitra wasn’t clear on why he wanted us to wait, and when he mentioned an autopsy, I thought he merely wanted to establish the exact cause of death. We—his family and I—didn’t see much point in cutting him up because of that.’
‘Did you say Dr Mitra? At Calcutta Medical?’
‘Yes.’
Hadn
’t Mallika mentioned that her husband was a cardiologist at that very hospital? ‘Would he by any chance be married to Mallika Mitra, owner of Middle Kingdom?’ I asked.
Mrs Agarwal’s face froze. ‘I have no idea.’
‘Of course, there could easily be another Dr Mitra at the hospital. He wasn’t your regular doctor?’ I asked.
‘No. Our family doctor was travelling, so we rushed him to Calcutta Medical as it had the closest emergency ward.’
‘It would be a curious coincidence if it was Mallika’s husband,’ I said.
‘Not really,’ she shrugged. ‘We don’t know the Mitras.’
‘I see.’ As another silence fell between us, I looked around the room. It didn’t seem as though the police had been through here at all. The desk was neat and orderly, with a computer and phone on top. Behind it was a swivel chair, and to the left was a small chest of drawers, on which sat a tray holding a few opened envelopes. There was the silver snuff box I had seen during the interview. He had been fiddling with it the whole time and I had half expected him to snort away as we spoke. He thankfully had saved me from that final ignominy. Right beside it was a small oblong object, in some sort of white metal and plastic. It looked like a paperweight.
‘What’s this?’ I asked.
‘It’s a snuff dispenser.’
I took a closer look. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’
‘Neither had I. It was a gift from—you might have met her—Vineeta Solanki. She runs a restaurant as well.’
‘I don’t think I have.’
‘She was a friend of my husband’s,’ said Mrs Agarwal.
On the wall opposite was a filing cabinet, a printer, a fax machine and a shelf of products he kept on hand to show clients. His stock was kept elsewhere—he had promised me a trip there to pick up whatever I wanted, an offer I had done my best to sidestep.
I toyed with telling Mrs Agarwal that I could help uncover the truth, if she so desired. But then I felt a stab of familiar self-doubt. I was jumping to an awful lot of conclusions. A man had died. So what? People died all the time and normal, non-detective people didn’t go about poking their food-aroma-obscured noses into it.
The Masala Murder: Reema Ray Mysteries Page 5
