The Masala Murder: Reema Ray Mysteries

by Madhumita Bhattacharyya

  ‘This was found in sa’ab’s office the morning we found him unconscious. I saw memsa’ab pick it up and throw it into the dustbin in the kitchen.’

  ‘Are you sure it is not Mrs Agarwal’s?’

  Dhyan nodded. ‘Maybe you could give it to the police? I saw you speaking to Inspector sa’ab just now. Memsa’ab was in the room the whole time they were speaking to me, so I was too afraid to give it to him myself.’

  ‘Did Mrs Agarwal say anything to you about it?’

  He shook his head. No.

  ‘Do you know who it belongs to?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did your sa’ab receive any visitors the night before he got sick?’

  ‘There were a couple of his men who work in the warehouse.’

  ‘Anyone else? Someone who may have worn this earring?’

  ‘There was a lady. She came to the house at night.’

  ‘Who was she?’

  ‘I don’t know. She was waiting for sa’ab—he was out—in his office. But then I went to the store and by the time I came back, the door to sa’ab’s office was closed. I didn’t see anyone leave.’

  ‘Could you describe her?’

  He shrugged. ‘Memsa’ab let her in, and then she sent me away. I didn’t get a good look at her.’

  That meant Mrs Agarwal was lying about not knowing any of her husband’s visitors. ‘Could she have left by the outside door after you came home?’

  He nodded. ‘She could have. Don’t know. She could have left before I got back also.’

  ‘Did you remember finding any food or boxes of any sort when you cleared the office the next day?’

  ‘No, nothing like that.’

  I looked at the earring again. It was very pretty, though probably not very valuable. It was a little silver cone from which peeked out a pearl. The kind of thing you could get at any number of stores in New Market. I didn’t know what kind of a lead it was, but what it did tell me was that a woman had visited Agarwal the night before he was ill, and her presence was something Mrs Agarwal wanted to hide. Why?

  ‘Thank you, Dhyan,’ I said.

  He nodded his head and walked away, bag in hand.

  twelve

  I was in a rattling, incense-filled cab headed home, trying to block out the sensory assault to process what I had learned that evening. But before long, I was interrupted by the shrill peal of my phone.

  It was Amit. ‘Someone’s been in my apartment,’ he announced without preamble.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Things have been moved around.’

  ‘Don’t touch anything. I’ll be there in half an hour.’

  After a brief stop at home to pick up my evidence collection kit, I was at Amit’s house. I walked in to find Amit pacing the room, things strewn everywhere. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I have no clue. I was at work and when I came home, I found this mess.’

  Amit had severely understated the situation over the phone. The place had been trashed. ‘Did you touch or move anything?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. The door was closed, so I pushed it open as I always do. The moment I stepped in, I called you.’

  I first took a look at the lock on the door. It was a standard deadbolt. There were a few scratches around the keyhole. I examined it for trace evidence, and then dusted it for prints. Then I began looking around. There were clothes everywhere; books had been tossed to the floor, even the tiny fridge looked as though it had been rummaged through.

  ‘Do you know what they might have been looking for?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘What do I have that anyone might want?’

  ‘Don’t think in terms of value. Think in terms of information.’

  ‘I still don’t see what a kidnapper might hope to gain,’ Amit said with a shrug. ‘Unless they wanted to take something from here to incriminate me, to plant at the place where Aloka is being held.’

  ‘You think he would go that far?’

  ‘He has enough thugs and fixers on his payroll to get the job done. Maybe he’s decided that casting suspicion on me and ruining my marriage isn’t enough. Maybe now he wants me in jail as well.’

  ‘That still doesn’t explain why whoever broke in felt the need to make such a mess. It seems personal.’

  Amit merely shrugged. I started to take photographs of the wreckage and dusted around for prints. Then we started clearing things away. When order had at last been restored, Amit still could not say what may have been taken. It was certainly nothing of monetary value—they had nothing of value to take.

  I thought through the implications of the break-in. I still couldn’t understand the long silence from Aloka’s abductors but the way it was looking now, it was Amit who needed my protection, not Aloka. For if the Mohtas were about to escalate events, then the next target would be him.

  ‘Do you have somewhere you could stay for a few days?’ I asked.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Whoever did this might be back for more.’

  ‘Then wouldn’t it be a good thing if I were here?’

  ‘What would you do faced by an armed attacker?’

  ‘I think I’ll take my chances.’

  ‘And what if the cops swing by with an arrest warrant?’

  ‘Then it’s all over, isn’t it?’

  ‘You’re ready to give up so soon?’

  ‘What choice do I have?’

  ‘Lie low for a couple of days. Go somewhere inconspicuous. How about a hotel? There are plenty of holes in this city to burrow in.’

  ‘No money, Reema.’

  I bit the inside of my cheek. ‘Ditto.’

  ‘I can hardly go to my mom’s place.’

  ‘No, that’s the first place they’ll look.’

  ‘Then here is fine; it has to be.’

  ‘No, it’s not.’

  ‘Well, there is nowhere else I could go.’

  There was an edge in his voice. I knew that after he had broken up with me, a lot of my friends—who had been our friends—stopped speaking with him. But I hadn’t realized he had become so isolated.

  ‘How about my place?’ I offered.

  For once, Amit’s face registered shock. ‘No.’

  ‘Why not? If I am okay with it, what problem do you have?’

  At last, Amit was speechless.

  ‘Can you think of a better solution?’ I said, challenge loud in my voice. I didn’t stop to think what my bravado was attempting to cover.

  He looked at the ground. It might be evil to feel satisfaction under the circumstances, but I couldn’t help it. I felt pleased to be the bigger person. ‘Just till Uncle Kumar comes up with something. Or they go public with a new demand.’

  ‘You think they’ll do that?’

  ‘It’s possible. They have to make it look like a real kidnapping for the cops to take them seriously.’

  ‘What happens if the cops already know exactly what is going on? That they are all acting in this charade?’

  ‘I know you’ve always been fond of your conspiracy theories, but I doubt it. And we have Uncle Kumar on our side, remember? Come on, Amit, pack your things. Two days, maybe three, tops.’

  Amit, looking frustrated, ran a hand through his hair.

  ‘Relax, I won’t bite.’

  ‘I might feel better if you did. You’re too good to me.’

  ‘That’s true. So just remember not to push your luck.’

  The auto ride home was a silent one. From the moment we walked in, my flat felt way too small for the two of us. It was one floor of an old house that was built till the very edge of the land it stood on yet was still tiny. A bedroom, a bathroom and a large room that packed in a seating area, a small table where I usually worked and an open kitchen that was little more than a counter and stove with a chimney over it. When the urge hit me to cook properly, I’d go to one of my parents’ homes to muck around in their kitchens. Then I’d bring home the fruit of my labour a
nd reheat. It was the fridge and my teeny toaster oven that saw the most traffic.

  ‘It’s not much,’ I said. ‘You can have the futon. It’s not too uncomfortable.’

  ‘It’s actually quite charming,’ said Amit.

  The furniture was functional at best, but I had attempted to make the space my own with prints of photos from my travels, happy cushions and cheap rugs on the floor.

  I rummaged through the fridge but didn’t find anything inspirational for a quick meal, so I opened the freezer and found some lasagna I had made a couple of weeks ago at my dad’s place. I had frozen it in individual servings; I took out a couple and also discovered a log of cookie dough that I had stashed away. I put the lasagna in the toaster oven and left the dough to soften a bit.

  ‘Are you always this well stocked?’ Amit asked. ‘Where do you find the time?’

  ‘When I get busy, I don’t feel like cooking. So when I have the chance, I get innovative.’

  ‘And do you always have cookies at hand?’

  ‘You never know when the craving might strike.’

  Amit gave me a strange sort of smile, part rueful, part sad.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘You were always good at managing.’

  ‘Managing what?’ I asked, pulling out some veggies from the fridge.

  ‘Everything. Always on top of things.’

  ‘I don’t know about that. I’m organized about the cooking because I don’t have the money for a cook or to go out all the time, and while I would love to subsist on chicken rolls, I try to avoid the treadmill as much as possible.’

  ‘Via cookies?’

  ‘Merely an occasional treat.’

  ‘See, you think of everything. And you have self-control. While the rest of us are prepared to roll around in our fat and filth and mountains of empty Maggi packets.’

  I cut up some cucumbers and carrots, calling it a salad, and carried it over to the coffee table.

  ‘Have a snack,’ I said, sitting down.

  ‘Once again, most people would have opened a packet of potato chips.’

  ‘I would have thought you’d approve. What happened to your dream of growing your own vegetables, rearing your own chickens and living off the land? Where do Maggi and potato chips fit into that?’

  Amit looked at me with his eerie intensity, as though he were remembering the day he first told me his dream. I remembered, too. It had been a different living room; my mother had been out of town, and he had come over. We had spent a lovely, awkward afternoon with each other, testing the boundaries of our relationship, which had only recently deepened beyond the friendship we had shared so far. That afternoon had told me I wanted more from Amit. We were seventeen.

  I felt as though Amit could hear the memory hum through me, like the notes of an old song. I stood up, impatient to break the moment, to change the conversation that had led to this precarious place.

  ‘I have a bottle of wine that I purloined from my mother. Would you like some?’ I said. Only this urgent need to fill the silence could have prompted me to offer up the Bordeaux which I had been saving for a far more special occasion than this.

  ‘Sure.’

  I opened the bottle and checked on the lasagna, which was ready. I brought them both over to the couch and went back to cut wheels of chocolate-flecked cookie dough and pop them into the oven.

  As we ate and sipped our wine, once again I felt compelled to speak. ‘You said that you and Aloka were thinking of moving to Delhi. What are you planning to do there?’ I asked.

  ‘I have some friends in the media there for whom I have been freelancing a bit. They said they could help out with some sort of job. Aloka has an aunt who is not on talking terms with Aloka’s father. She was willing to give her a job in her business. It wasn’t much but it would have given us the security we needed to get out of this place and away from her father’s influence.’

  I was sure I hadn’t been able to keep the flash of pity off my face. I quickly got up to clear our plates.

  ‘You never lacked for drama,’ I said, pulling the cookies out of the oven. The room filled with the aroma of buttery goodness. ‘And this business has finally given the rebel a cause.’ I looked up just in time to see the smile drop out of Amit’s eyes, and then a flash of anger. ‘Here,’ I said, walking over to him. ‘Have a cookie.’

  Amit didn’t move, sitting still on my blue sofa. ‘You must think I’ve been a fool.’

  I took a cookie and put the plate down on the coffee table. ‘I didn’t say it.’

  He let out a half laugh and stood up. ‘You didn’t have to. Here I am, with no one to help me but you. I was crazy to let you go,’ said Amit, turning to look down at me. His eyes were filled with sadness, and I closed mine to shut him out. And then, I found myself on my feet and in his arms. I didn’t know how it happened; I had had no intention of letting it. But there were his hands, cupping my face like the old days, lips on mine like they had never whispered to another. Despite every cell of my brain telling me to pull away, the rest of me was instantaneous in my betrayal. His hands homed in on all their favourite places—the small of my back, the nape of my neck, the leaping pulse at my wrist—and I let them as though they had never strayed.

  ‘Amit,’ I said, as his lips wandered to where jaw gave way to soft, responsive skin.

  ‘Hmm?’ he murmured.

  ‘Amit,’ I said again, this time more insistent. ‘We can’t do this.’

  And yet he seemed to disagree. As his mouth showed no sign of stopping, I pushed him away.

  ‘Reema …’ he began.

  I could see the desire in his eyes, could see the words spinning in his mind; I jumped in before he could justify what had just happened, what was about to happen.

  ‘No.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear that you still want me, that you need me to get through this. You made your choice and when you did, you lost me for good.’

  ‘But you reached out to me even before all this.’

  ‘I don’t owe you anything because of a drunken phone call!’

  ‘Can you say you’ve got me out of your system?’

  Whatever he had done to me, I found I could not lie to his face. I could not answer.

  ‘I still dream of you, Reema.’

  ‘A dream is just a dream.’

  ‘You can’t really believe that.’

  ‘What if I don’t? I am allowed to lie to myself, to you, seeing as how you left me for someone else. That is far more real than any dream.’

  Desire fled Amit’s face, replaced by a haughty smile. ‘The Reema I remember didn’t believe something as frivolous as a piece of paper should get in the way of love. As I remember, you had little time for marriage.’

  ‘I didn’t. And I don’t. But I had assumed that you did, since you went through with it in an awful rush.’

  ‘That was a mistake, I know that now. Aloka’s father had been raising hell about us every chance he could, and I think it was my way of trying to protect her.’

  So he had stomped on me to save another. He had thought me unbreakable. Well, I could certainly act the part. ‘Now you need my help to protect her, again.’

  Amit said nothing, standing there with his mask back in place. He had given me all that he would. Now it was up to me.

  ‘I agreed to help you, didn’t I? I haven’t changed my mind—yet. You might want to do your best to keep it that way.’

  Amit turned away and I tried my hardest not to flee the room. I retreated as far as the kitchenette to clear up. Just as I was finishing up, my phone rang. I answered gratefully.

  ‘Hello, sweetheart,’ purred my father.

  ‘Baba! Where are you?’

  ‘Sweden. Off to Finland tomorrow.’

  ‘How has the trip been so far?’

  ‘Fabulous! I wish you’d come.’

  In that moment, I wished I had as well. He had offered to take me on h
is two-month tour of Scandinavia and east Europe, but I had turned him down, pleading work commitments. I had been terribly tempted, but even if I had been able to clear my schedule, how could I pay rent for the time I was away if I wasn’t working? I couldn’t touch him for the trip as well as my landlady’s monthly pound of flesh. ‘I wish I was there too, Baba.’

  ‘Tell me how you’ve been.’

  ‘Oh, same old, same old.’

  ‘That’s not what I hear.’

  ‘And what is it that you hear?’

  ‘That you’ve been busy with a new case.’

  ‘Then I suppose I need not ask who you’ve been talking to.’

  ‘Kumar called, but only because he was concerned about this whole Amit situation. I wish you had told me yourself.’

  ‘You’re on holiday. There was no reason to disturb you.’

  ‘There was every reason.’

  ‘We can talk about this when you are back.’

  ‘We will talk about this now. It’s happening now, isn’t it?’

  I was silent. I looked at Amit, who was browsing my bookshelf. If only my father could have seen us five minutes ago, he would have been on the first flight back home with bloody murder on the mind. I went into my bedroom and closed the door behind me.

  ‘What is going on?’ Baba continued. ‘Why is he back in your life?’

  ‘You heard about the kidnapping?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you know why he is back in my life.’

  ‘I didn’t realize you were in touch.’

  There was no reason to conceal the truth anymore. The old wounds had already been reopened, and they weren’t mine alone. ‘He got in touch with me about three months ago. He wanted to see if we could be friends. We’ve talked a few times since then. That’s the extent of it.’

  My father didn’t ask why. He knew well enough how close we had been, and for how long. When we broke up, I had lost more than a boyfriend. There was a lifetime of memories that had nothing to do with our love, and with it all suddenly out of bounds, I had been bereft.