The Masala Murder: Reema Ray Mysteries

by Madhumita Bhattacharyya

  After a ten-minute wait, I was greeted by Dr Mitra, an attractive man in his forties, wearing a button-down navy shirt with a designer label that even I recognized and beige flat fronts. A smattering of grey at the temples set off his distinguished features. I could just see him with Mallika on his arm, oozing urbane class, the very essence of middle-aged success and poise.

  ‘Good morning, Reema,’ he said. ‘How can I help you?’

  I smiled as best I could. Even his impeccable bedside manner couldn’t put me at ease now. ‘I am working on a story about how health problems can be reversed by weight loss.’

  I had chosen my subject with care. A Google search had revealed that the topic was close to Dr Mitra’s heart. He was a frequent speaker on the need for lifestyle modification in managing early signs of cardio-vascular disorders.

  As he set out detailing exactly how it all worked, I took diligent notes. I also stole glances around the office. I could find no personal touches: no photographs, no certificates, no books, nothing to tell me more about the man. It was probably an office shared by other doctors during their clinic hours.

  I asked a few more questions—hell, I thought I might even get a good piece out of this for the magazine after all—while I tried to think of the most discreet way of getting to my real point. Eventually I decided I had to employ brute force.

  ‘Doctor,’ I began. ‘There is also another issue I would like to discuss with you.’

  He smiled at me. Quotes were always good for business, and Mitra didn’t look like he was new to the sound bite. ‘Of course.’

  ‘I am also a food writer, and I am doing a follow-up story about the death of Mr Prakash Agarwal for the magazine. I was told that he was your patient.’

  After a brief moment of confusion, Dr Mitra’s face arranged itself into a mask, giving away nothing. ‘Yes, he was my patient. But why is a magazine like yours concerned with his death?’

  ‘He was something of a lifeline for all of the restaurants in town that served international food.’ I made no mention of the doctor’s wife’s own restaurant, which was notable as the exception.

  ‘Okay,’ he said deliberately.

  ‘Our police sources said you had contacted them shortly after his death as you believed his symptoms were suspicious.’

  ‘At the time I thought so, yes.’

  ‘But then you changed your mind.’

  ‘Yes. I was called in during the final hours of his treatment, after the attending doctors in the emergency ward were alarmed by his rapid decline. He suffered from asthma and also had a pre-existing cardiac condition, having had a heart attack three years before. To begin with, it seemed to me that the illness had moved very fast, from food poisoning to respiratory distress and cardiac failure. It was unusual, but when we ran a toxicology screen, we came up with nothing, and in the light of his existing illnesses, it made sense.’

  So it would seem that Dr Mitra had suspected poison and had ruled out the common ones. But even my basic knowledge of forensics told me that there were many other compounds that would be outside the purview of the usual hospital diagnostic tests.

  ‘Did you have a theory as to what may have caused the symptoms?’

  ‘Not really. All I can say is that it was unusual. But it could have just been that his general ill health had been compounded by the food poisoning.’

  ‘Isn’t that strange?’

  ‘Reema, contrary to the picture presented by TV shows, very little about medicine follows a script, particularly in the emergency ward.’

  ‘But you yourself said that it was odd, which is why you called the police in the first place.’

  ‘Yes, and then I spoke to his family and the emergency-room staff and learned that he had been ill for two days before they came to us. The food poisoning he suffered had severely compromised his system by that time. If they had brought him in earlier, I am confident we would have been able to save him.’

  ‘And so you told the police that you were mistaken in your suspicion?’

  ‘Yes, after I received the last lab reports which convinced me that the death, though possibly preventable had he received more timely treatment, was natural. I saw no reason to cause the family additional grief.’

  I could of course think of no further questions to ask within the framework of my deception. ‘Dr Mitra, thank you for your valuable time,’ I said, getting up.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ he said, giving me a curt nod.

  I had been dismissed. And should I ever need a cardiologist, I would do well to look elsewhere, judging from the temperature of Dr Mitra’s parting smile.

  Everything the doctor had said had sounded reasonable. Then why was it that I didn’t quite believe him?

  I left the hospital and got into a cab, all the while grappling with a growing unease. Overwhelmed—yes. Out of my league—yes. Two crimes: a murder and a kidnapping. One client, in a manner of speaking. One vague request for information, since recanted. I had no trouble believing there was plenty of potential for damage to self. But wasn’t it preferable, in a matter of life and death, to overdo it rather than under-do it, to choose action over inaction?

  In my hunt for real clues, I had to venture once more to the scene of Agarwal’s death. Of course, once the cab had pulled up outside the complex, I asked myself what I had been thinking. Had I really believed I could waltz into the Agarwal residence and start filling up evidence bags?

  I called Mrs Agarwal. ‘I am in your area and was wondering whether it would be okay if I came by?’ I said.

  Once again, she surprised me with her response. ‘Actually, I was hoping you would call. Please come over any time.’

  ‘How about now?’

  ‘Of course.’

  The Agarwal household had reverted to tranquillity, as had Mrs Agarwal’s demeanour. She wore a lovely blue-and-yellow floral crepe sari, her meticulously set hair forming a frame for her face which had been painted on with an artistry born of experience. She wore no jewellery and, at least before me, she chose to rid herself of the adornment of sorrow she did not feel.

  We sat in the living room, where there were no more flowers or incense tingeing the air.

  ‘I have arranged hotel rooms for all the guests. I couldn’t bear to have them around, it just felt so unnatural—all that dripping grief.’

  ‘You need your space.’

  ‘Yes. I always have.’

  Given her lack of artifice, I saw no need to further delay bringing up the point of my visit.

  ‘Mrs Agarwal, I have been thinking a good deal about what you said to me,’ I began.

  ‘Yes, Reema, that is also why I wanted to meet you. I feel I should apologize for my abrupt behaviour the other day during your visit, and also over the phone.’

  She paused to weigh her words. ‘I was upset, naturally. And later I realized how unfair it was of me to ask you for information about this case. After all, you write about food, am I right?’

  No apology for her hate-filled words about her husband. ‘You don’t have to worry about that. I understand your need for information, under the circumstances. In fact, I wanted to ask you whether you are still satisfied with the police having dropped the case.’

  ‘I think I am. Why?’

  I considered telling her about my training as a detective. But something told me that the only reason she was confiding in me was because I had nothing official to do with the investigation. I decided to stick with one lie instead of inventing a second. ‘My editor wants me to do a follow-up story, since your husband was so important in the local restaurant scene.’

  ‘I see.’ She looked marginally unsettled by this.

  I ploughed on. ‘Can you think of anyone who may have wanted your husband dead?’

  A grim little smile twisted her glossed lips. ‘How about almost everyone who knew him? You will be hard-pressed to find a woman he hasn’t offended, a friend he hasn’t betrayed and a business associate he hasn’t cheated. In fact—’ she broke of
f.

  ‘Yes?’ I prompted.

  ‘Speaking of business associates, I find it very odd that I haven’t heard from his partner, Mayank Gupta, yet. He is based in Hong Kong and from what little I have seen of him; he is a decent man. He called immediately after he heard the news but that was the last contact, despite the fact that he must have numerous business matters to tie up. My husband ran a one-man operation. In his absence, they would have to contact me.’

  ‘But you weren’t involved in the business?’

  ‘I am a partner on paper. And I know enough to be of assistance in this situation.’

  Agarwal had mentioned his Hong Kong partner during our interview but hadn’t gone into detail about the nature of their association. ‘Perhaps he is giving you time and space before intruding on you with work?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Will you be taking over the business now?’

  ‘Oh no. I have never really worked before.’

  ‘Could you give me Mr Gupta’s contact details? I would like to know more about his plans in Calcutta now, whether he will be continuing with a new partner or wrapping up operations.’

  ‘Certainly.’ Mrs Agarwal walked to a small writing table at a corner of the living room. From the silk rug under my feet to the chandelier above my head, it was clear that a great deal of money had been spent decorating this room alone. And with taste that could only belong to Mrs Agarwal. This was a woman who had clearly enjoyed the benefits of her husband’s wealth. Could that explain why she stayed with him despite detesting him? Or did it point to motive most foul?

  Mrs Agarwal returned with a sticky note in her hand. With more questions on my lips, I was surprised by a sound at the door to an adjoining room. A young man opened it and came in.

  ‘Memsa’ab, chai?’ he asked.

  ‘Reema?’ asked my hostess.

  ‘Yes, please,’ I said.

  ‘That’s Dhyan. He’s been with the family for years.’

  ‘He lives here?’

  ‘In a room adjoining the kitchen.’

  ‘There is a service entrance?’ I asked.

  Mrs Agarwal seemed to sense where my mind was moving.

  ‘We’ve known Dhyan since he was a child. His father has been with Prakash’s family since he was a young man. I can assure you they are all above suspicion.’

  I nodded and couldn’t help wondering at the disparity between the husband and wife. Agarwal I had to try hard to tolerate; his wife I had to try just as hard to dislike.

  ‘And trust me when I tell you that the police checked all of us out that first day when they had come. As they did Dhyan’s room and that entrance.’

  ‘Could you tell me a little more about the events leading to your husband’s death?’

  ‘We were gone for most of the evening my husband took ill and when we came back, I ate dinner and went to bed. He fell asleep, or perhaps unconscious, at his desk in the course of the night.’

  ‘You didn’t realize he had taken ill?’

  ‘Not till morning. My husband and I stopped sharing a room years ago. Dhyan and I had to force open the door to the office when we realized his bed had not been slept in.’

  ‘In what state did you find him?’

  ‘Barely conscious.’

  ‘But you didn’t take him to the hospital till the evening?’

  ‘On Prakash’s insistence. He was diabetic, and thought it was blood sugar fluctuation.’

  ‘He didn’t say anything about food poisoning?’

  ‘He complained of indigestion, nothing more.’

  ‘Mr Agarwal didn’t come out of his office for dinner either?’ I asked.

  ‘No, he had a heavy tea and often ate very late. So Dhyan had left his dinner on the table and had gone to bed.’

  That seemed unusual, but I reminded myself that this was not a happy home with its comfortable rituals.

  ‘There is a second entrance to the office from outside the apartment?’

  ‘Yes, for official visitors.’

  ‘Mrs Agarwal, could I ask what the police asked you when they came for questioning?’

  ‘About our relationship, primarily. They were suspicious about my claim that I hadn’t heard anything and hadn’t noticed that my husband had not returned to the room all night. Once it became clear that we did not share a room, the obvious questions followed, particularly as I stand to inherit almost all of my husband’s ill-gotten gains.’

  ‘Ill-gotten?’

  ‘Oh, you know what I mean. He was not involved with anything necessarily illegal—or if he was, I didn’t know about it—but Prakash Agarwal was hardly known for playing by the rules.’

  ‘Did they indicate what they believed had killed him?’

  ‘When I asked, they said they couldn’t be sure.’

  ‘What about the timeline?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Did they say anything to give you an idea of when they felt the poisoning—if that is what it was—occurred?’

  ‘No, but they did ask if I knew who his visitors were in the two to three days before his hospitalization.’

  ‘Could you share that with me?’

  ‘As I told them, his visitors mainly used the other door that leads directly to the office, so I don’t really have any idea of who came and who went.’

  I didn’t linger much longer after that. By the time I left, I was happy to have a better idea of what happened that night. But I was also convinced of one more thing: Mrs Agarwal was trying to play me. Her openness, charming and useful though it was, could not be explained otherwise. I just needed to figure out why. But as of now, she was also my only point of access into this sordid business.

  On my way out, I observed what I could of the building. There was only one entrance into the building itself as far as I knew, and there were two entrances into the complex. There were surveillance cameras in the lobby and the elevators. It wasn’t likely that an intruder would have been able to hide behind a discreet disguise given the amount of security. It was just as possible that the murderer was known to Agarwal and hadn’t required a disguise to enter. Or had managed to obscure his or her face from view. Or that he or she lived with him. And if Agarwal had indeed been poisoned, there was no telling when the event had occurred. The police had asked about Agarwal’s visitors in the days preceding his death, so for the moment, it was impossible to establish a timeline for when a poison may have been administered.

  Just as I was leaving the building, I saw a police car on its way down the driveway. I was quite certain that an upmarket area couldn’t have two crime scenes at the same time. I approached as the policeman stepped out of the car. But as the uniformed man came into view, I wished I had walked away instead: it was Ravi Sharma. But he had already seen me.

  ‘Reema Roy, what a surprise!’ he said.

  I had met Sharma at Uncle Kumar’s annual New Year’s party, when things were still pleasant between them. I was shocked he remembered me at all. ‘Hello, Uncle Sharma. How have you been? It’s been years.’

  ‘The last time I saw you, you were still at college in the States. You decided to come back?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What are you doing now?’

  He didn’t know about my ill-fated PI stint. And why should he? ‘I write about food.’

  ‘How lovely.’

  ‘In fact, I had done an interview once with a man in this building, who died just the other day.’ I gave a theatrical gasp and covered my mouth. ‘That’s not why you are here, is it?’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘I had heard that the police were investigating it as a possible murder.’

  ‘My, my, you stay well informed,’ Sharma said, his eyes narrowing.

  ‘I work at a magazine.’

  ‘Yes, you are right. We were looking into the Agarwal death. But we have dismissed the notion.’

  ‘Could I ask why?’

  ‘Of course you could. But that doesn’t mean I’d
tell you.’

  ‘Oh, Uncle Sharma!’

  ‘Believe me, it is nothing exciting. There is simply no evidence that a crime was committed.’

  ‘I just met Mrs Agarwal, in fact, to pay my respects,’ I said. ‘Such a tragedy.’

  ‘I’m on my way up there now to conclude some business,’ he said. ‘It was nice seeing you, Reema.’

  I had been waiting for a cab for a few minutes when I spotted the young man, Dhyan, the Agarwals’ help. He was watching me from a distance.

  ‘Hello,’ I said.

  He didn’t reply.

  I noticed a bag in his hands. ‘Going to the market?’ I asked.

  ‘Mrs Agarwal and you are friends?’ he asked by way of response.

  I was unsure of how to react. ‘Yes, you could call me that.’

  ‘I have never seen you before.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And Agarwal sa’ab?’

  ‘I met him only once. I am a journalist. I wrote an article about him.’

  ‘Is that why you ask so many questions?’

  I felt a rush of blood to my face. I nodded.

  He watched me with intensity burning bright in his small face. He hardly looked over fifteen. It then occurred to me that he had come out here with the hope of speaking to me.

  ‘Is there something you want to say to me?’ I asked.

  ‘You shouldn’t believe everything memsa’ab says.’

  I couldn’t help but show my surprise. He had obviously been listening to our conversation. ‘Why?’

  ‘She and sa’ab were …’ he trailed off.

  ‘Always fighting?’

  ‘No, but …’

  Mrs Agarwal may have been willing to give Dhyan a glowing endorsement, but it was not a favour her employee wished to return.

  ‘What will you do now?’ I asked.

  Dhyan shrugged. ‘Will you be writing about sa’ab again?’

  ‘I hope to.’

  ‘About the murder?’

  ‘You think he was murdered?’ I asked.

  He nodded his head slowly, and then held his hand out towards me. At first, I thought he wanted to shake hands, but then I saw he was holding something. I put my palm out and he dropped a small object into it. It was a pearl-and-silver earring.