The Masala Murder: Reema Ray Mysteries

by Madhumita Bhattacharyya

  But when Mrs Agarwal spoke next, she swung the door wide open for my morbid curiosity and wild imaginings.

  ‘Reema, will you promise if you hear anything about this case that you will give me a call?’

  Not exactly the sort of help I had had in mind. ‘I will see what I can do,’ I said.

  She nodded. ‘Whatever else, don’t hold back to spare my feelings. Prakash Agarwal was a bastard who deserved to die. But if he was indeed murdered, I would like to know who did it. And why.’

  I left the Agarwal residence in a daze. I was relieved to find that the sidewalk outside the home had cleared and that I was steady on my feet despite being thoroughly winded. I walked about aimlessly for a few minutes, my mind racing, Mrs Agarwal’s words ringing in my ears.

  I walked on till I found myself a few metres from my favourite bar. If ever there was a night to break the never-drink-alone rule, this was it.

  Inside Ginger, the Filipino cover band was hard at work in an almost empty room. There was only one table of five foreigners—backpackers by the looks of it—in the corner. It was early yet, though on a weeknight it was possible that this was all the action the place would get. Ginger had seen better days, and that’s probably why I liked it as much as I did. I had been a regular when it was the most happening place in town, and after all the fickle folk passed it by, it stood there, battered and bruised, but still beating away.

  I bypassed the tables with their slightly faded green tablecloths and headed for the bar. It was far from the band, and I needed to think. I sat on a barstool and ordered a beer and a plate of nachos and tried to focus on what had transpired in the past few hours. For the moment, none of it seemed to make sense. Mrs Agarwal’s calm assertion that her husband had been a bastard had been shocking enough, and her request for me to pass on information to her was strange, but too good to resist.

  All the years I had played at detective, anything near the adrenaline-activating excitement of a murder had eluded me, and here I was, minding my own business—sort of—when the wife of a murdered man asks me to investigate her husband’s death!

  Well, close enough.

  Was this a sign, one of those cosmic shout-outs that I always told myself I didn’t believe in? Was I silly to resist it? Despite all my internal pep talk that I was doing the decent thing, earning an honest wage doing a job I kind of liked, could I deny that getting to the bottom of a murder was more rewarding—and more honourable—than waxing eloquent, on a bad day, about fast-food hamburgers made from a mix of polymer and lard?

  Was it wrong to fight it when I could possibly be of use?

  I took a long sip of beer. The music from the band hardly filtered through till I heard the familiar tune and the badly pronounced but still recognizable lyrics of Dhoom Machale. I looked up and raised my glass to the band. Luke, the drummer, gave me a little wink. It was terrible, but it hit the spot with the foreign crowd, which now quickly filled the handkerchief of a dance floor.

  My mind wandered back to Prakash Agarwal. All I could see were his bulbous eyes screaming his lasciviousness, the tap-tap-tap of the snuff box, his pan masala-stained lips moving around the words that made their way into my article. ‘Every restaurant serving Western food has to come to me, at some point. I take care of all their everything.’

  All except Mallika Mitra. She didn’t patronize Agarwal’s business. She brought in all her everything, down to her chilli peppers.

  Did that make sense? It could hardly be economical. Was Mr Agarwal so unpleasant that she preferred to let profits suffer rather than do business with him? Why was she so shaken by the news of his death?

  And why did Agarwal’s own wife hate him so much? I had no trouble believing that he was capable of all kinds of offences, having left his office myself feeling defiled despite not even shaking his hand. But she had offered no real explanation for her strong words, and I had felt that it was the wrong time to dig deeper.

  It was possible that his wife hated him enough to kill him. But then why ask me for information? Was Agarwal as slimy in business as he was with women? Did he cheat someone? Did someone cheat him?

  ‘This is the third song they are playing for you, and you haven’t as much as twitched a toe.’

  I jumped at the words that came from just behind me. I swivelled around and found myself looking into black eyes dancing with humour. They belonged to a man wearing a navy suit and purple striped tie. Mid-to-late thirties. Six feet tall or in the neighbourhood. Grey just beginning to streak a head of neat, thick hair.

  ‘Not for me; for those white, Bollywood hungry tourist types over there.’

  ‘Are you sure? The drummer looks like he wouldn’t mind playing a tune on my head if you so much as dared to stand up with me.’

  ‘I don’t dance,’ I said, smiling back. I resisted the temptation to look at Luke who, I had to admit, carried an Olympic-sized torch for me.

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ he replied, raising his beer and waiting for me to do the same. ‘But I hope you’re not the band’s manager because if you are, I would have to berate you for letting them do what they are doing to Hindi,’ he said.

  I shook my head energetically. ‘No, I’m just a fan.’

  ‘Is that a full-time occupation?’

  ‘Are you suggesting that I am an alcoholic? I usually don’t drink alone.’

  He smiled. I smiled back.

  ‘Shayak,’ he said, putting out his hand.

  I took it and received a good, firm shake.

  ‘Reema,’ I replied. But I could hardly recognize myself. I never spoke to strangers in bars, no matter how very tall-dark-handsome.

  ‘New in town?’ he asked.

  ‘Nope. You?’

  ‘Passing through, as I often do.’

  ‘And what is it that you do as you pass through?’

  He smiled again, cocking his head ever so slightly to the right, shedding his distinguished air and looking like that boy in school that almost everyone, even some of the teachers, would have a crush on. ‘I am a venture capitalist.’

  I wasn’t quite sure what that would involve, outside of providing capital for ventures of some sort. I had dozed through the one solitary business class I had taken in college and was certain that any questions would cause me to look irreversibly idiotic. I nodded knowledgably instead.

  ‘And what about you?’ he asked.

  That was easy. ‘I write about food.’

  ‘Enviable job. For a newspaper?’

  I shook my head. ‘Magazine. Face.’

  He managed to look like he knew what I was talking about, though he was hardly our typical reader.

  My nachos arrived. The platter looked embarrassingly large, and I quickly offered Shayak some. He took a smothered chip, and I took an uncharacteristically dainty piece and nibbled. I hated eating in front of strangers. It was a problem I had not managed to overcome, despite the fact that nowadays I made my money doing just that.

  ‘What kind of food do you write about?’

  ‘Every kind. Preferably global.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘I take it you have little interest in such mundane matters?’

  ‘Far from it. You gotta eat, after all.’

  ‘My thoughts precisely.’

  I looked at him popping another chip into his mouth. He apparently had no qualms about eating my food. I was pleased, though I didn’t know why.

  ‘Does your knowledge of food extend to the kitchen?’ he asked.

  ‘I bake.’

  ‘Cakes?’

  ‘Yes, and anything that can be baked. Cakes, muffins, breads, tarts, quiches, pasta. How about you?’

  ‘I am quite the chef,’ he said with a smile.

  ‘And not at all modest about it.’

  ‘I see no need to be,’ he said, taking another nacho. It seemed to suddenly occur to him that he was eating up my food. ‘Can I get you something else?’

  ‘Not for me but if you are thinking of ordering, I would recommen
d the chicken wings.’ And then a horrific thought struck me. ‘Unless you are vegetarian, of course,’ I said with trepidation.

  ‘I come from a long and proud line of meat eaters,’ he said.

  I masked my relief by draining my glass.

  ‘Can I buy you another beer?’ he offered. ‘It’s the least I can do after polishing off your nachos.’

  I was tempted, but I was also torn. This was a stranger, I told myself. He was good-looking, but I knew nothing about him. I couldn’t afford my head to be muddled further than it already was by alcohol. And I had enough to do the next day. I looked at my watch.

  ‘It’s getting late, isn’t it?’ he said softly.

  I nodded and eased off the barstool. I put my hand out and he shook it again. Warm, strong, confident.

  ‘It was nice meeting you, Shayak,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, it was.’

  I turned around and walked out of the bar. I found a cab and jumped in, wondering why he hadn’t given me his number. He’s probably married, my cynical PI heart suggested, or had several other perfectly good reasons. I was surprised by how disappointed I felt.

  ‘Reema Ray, snap out of it,’ I mumbled.

  seven

  My head was still stuck in the bar as I pushed open the small gate to enter my flat, which occupied the ground floor of a tiny house off Hazra Road. But what I saw there drove all thoughts of mysterious, dishy strangers from my head.

  There was Amit, sitting on my stoop.

  ‘Surprised?’ he said, his smile as sardonic as ever.

  What else could I be? The ice in our relationship had hardly thawed enough for him to show up unannounced on my doorstep. ‘You sure know how to make an entrance.’

  ‘Sorry for not calling. I wasn’t sure that you’d see me if I did.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. The commissioner called on the Batphone to warn me trouble was coming.’

  Amit ignored the jibe. ‘I hope I am not disturbing you.’

  And since when had he cared about that? ‘How did you know where to find me?’ I couldn’t remember telling him where I lived.

  ‘I got your address from your mother.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ I snapped. She too was angry, she still felt betrayed by his desertion. To say nothing of how I felt about the subject. ‘I am surprised she gave it to you.’

  ‘I must confess to resorting to subterfuge.’

  ‘You didn’t tell her it was you?’

  ‘I had a friend call.’

  I was speechless. Why was he saying these things? Why was he here?

  ‘I had no choice, Reema. Believe me’

  ‘Why?’ I asked, my brow making my displeasure known.

  ‘You haven’t been watching TV?’

  Dread fluttered in my stomach. ‘I don’t own a TV set. What happened?’

  ‘It’s Aloka—they’ve got her.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Amit watched my confusion with a disconcerting stillness.

  ‘May I come in?’

  I led Amit inside. I picked up the paper, which I had left untouched on my coffee table that morning before heading out.

  ‘It happened too late at night for it to make the morning edition,’ Amit said.

  ‘Tell me what happened.’

  ‘It was last night, around 10 pm. Aloka had just left Forum after watching a movie with her friends when two masked men drove up to them, pulled out guns and herded her into a waiting van.’

  The truth suddenly dawned on me—while I had been drunk dialling Amit, his wife was being held hostage somewhere.

  I continued before I could dwell too long on my shameful behaviour. ‘And?’

  ‘And nothing. That’s it. That is precisely what happened.’

  ‘No call? No ransom note?’

  ‘Nothing has come to me. But what can I give?’

  ‘To her parents, then?’

  ‘I believe so. But as you know, I am not exactly welcome in that house. One of our friends who has been there since morning has kept me in the loop. The ransom demand is allegedly ` 2 crore.’

  ‘How was it made?’

  ‘Over the phone, I think.’

  ‘When is the payment supposed to be made?’

  ‘I really don’t know.’

  ‘What is being done?’ I asked.

  ‘Kishan Mohta, her father, has pulled out the big guns—cops, lawyers—to try and track her down. But as far as I can tell, he’s not paying up just yet.’

  Two crore was a substantial sum for most people, but not Aloka’s father, a steel baron. Perhaps the kidnappers had given them time to come up with it.

  ‘Any suspects?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, putting a cigarette between waiting lips. ‘Me.’

  ‘You?’ I thought I must have heard wrong.

  ‘According to the police,’ said Amit, lighting up and taking a long drag.

  ‘What are you talking about? Why do they think it is you?’

  Amit continued in his matter-of-fact tone, as if he was narrating nothing more than the plot of a story. ‘When Aloka and I decided to get married, her parents refused permission. They thought I was after her money.’

  ‘And were you?’ I asked. Despite myself, despite the situation, I couldn’t resist. And it was a valid question if he had come to me for what I thought he had.

  He looked at me with an unfaltering gaze, the smoke from his cigarette diffusing. ‘You think I would have done what I did to you for money?’

  I looked away, watching the tendrils of smoke rise upwards. The truth was that I did not think Amit had married Aloka for her money; I never had, though I had dearly wanted to. Amit had never seemed to have the pressing desire for wealth that I saw in almost everyone else I knew. Money did not motivate him—he wanted to be a poet or failing that, a writer of some kind. He seemed to know exactly what he wanted for himself long before the rest of us did and that was perhaps what I missed most about him. He used to talk for hours about his dream to earn just enough money to buy a small house with a large plot of land in a village. It would be close enough to the city to ensure he wasn’t cut off completely, but for the most part he dreamed of self-sufficiency. If he needed anyone at all, it was me, he used to say. Later, I assumed the honour had passed on to Aloka.

  She had also been at school with us. It had been years since I had met her. We had not been part of the same circle—she was the very rich child of very conservative parents. My guess had been that she would be hitched by the time she was twenty-three, with babies not far behind. I had not been far off the mark—except for the babies, and except for the fact that I had never imagined that it would be my boyfriend she’d marry.

  Amit and I had been living on different continents for the four years I was away at college. Had he come clean earlier than he did, I could have attempted to understand. But instead, he started seeing Aloka, who still lived in Calcutta, on the sly. And I, the woman who had made a career—okay, a half-career—out of detecting deceit, had suspected absolutely nothing.

  Even when he broke up with me, I refused to believe rumours that he had been cheating. But I could no longer kid myself when, months later, ridiculously young and ridiculously poor to aspire to such a wife, Amit and Aloka got engaged amidst much scandal. We had enough friends in common to fill in the blanks. I had not spoken to Amit for almost three years after that, till he had reached out to me a few months ago.

  ‘So now what?’ I asked at last.

  ‘My only hope of getting my wife back is to prove them wrong. They have to see that it isn’t me, or else she’s gone. I just know it.’

  Try as I might I could not see how Aloka’s parents—however much they hated their son-in-law—had him pegged as a kidnapper.

  It was hardly a fitting image—the kurta-clad, idealistic Amit I had known had always been far from menacing—in fact, with his tall, spare frame, his stubble, hair worn slightly long and unkempt, exhaustion showing in every expression
, he looked almost ascetic.

  ‘What are the police doing?’

  ‘Very little, it seems, apart from following my every move. They haven’t even bothered to question me. You must understand the kind of pull Aloka’s father has with almost every crooked cop in town.’

  ‘Why have you come to me?’

  ‘I want you to investigate this on your own.’

  ‘A kidnapping case may be a little out of my league, don’t you think?’

  ‘Not really. You see, I think I know who did it.’

  ‘Who?’

  Amit paused to take another drag. ‘Aloka’s father.’

  I shook my head as if that would help to clear it. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Think about it. A kidnapper would have done his homework well enough to know that relations were strained between Aloka and her father after our wedding. They barely speak, and whatever little contact they do have is at Aloka’s mother’s insistence. Aloka has been disinherited and she gets no help from him now—in fact, quite the reverse. Why kidnap the out-of-favour daughter when there is a perfectly eligible son to do the job? The only reason someone would want to kidnap Aloka is to harm me.’

  What Amit said made a twisted kind of sense, the kind straight out of a Bollywood blockbuster. ‘Perhaps the kidnapper didn’t know about all this. Perhaps this information isn’t common knowledge outside the family circle.’

  ‘Hardly,’ said Amit with a wry smile. ‘You know what these offensively rich people are like. Gossip is their intoxicant of choice. I—and by extension Aloka—have been positively and very publicly shunned. And besides, everything points to an inside job.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

  ‘No one knew where Aloka was supposed to be that night except the friends she was with, her mother and me. She was supposed to meet her mother for a late dinner at a restaurant, since her father didn’t like her going to their home. Her mother’s driver was supposed to pick her up after the movie but failed to show up. Her friends had decided to drop her to the restaurant but before they could find a cab, these men appeared out of nowhere.’