The Masala Murder: Reema Ray Mysteries

by Madhumita Bhattacharyya

  ‘Name aside, the address is also a match. It would be a hell of a coincidence if it wasn’t. Do you have anything else?’

  ‘The complaint was dropped soon after it was filed.’

  So it was likely that the police had done nothing at the time—the New Market businessmen would have kept their pockets jangling through the year, and an allegation like this would be buried before you could say ‘pujor bakshish’.

  ‘Did you find anything else on Mallika or her family?’

  ‘No, do you need me to look?’

  ‘I think this will do for now,’ I said. ‘Thank you, Uncle Kumar. Things are beginning to make sense.’

  ‘Happy to help.’

  ‘Will you be sharing this with the police?’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘I don’t know—it is possible motive in a recent murder investigation.’

  There was a long silence at the other end. ‘So far, all the evidence is purely circumstantial. Why don’t you pursue this angle on your own? If you come up with more, you can always go to the police with it yourself.’

  ‘Uncle Kumar, are you telling me that I should interfere with an investigation on the basis of a hunch and a name in a twenty-five-year-old police complaint?’

  ‘No, I think you should substantiate your suspicion with fact, using the skills I know you have and should have respected a long time ago.’

  ‘Uncle Kumar—’

  ‘Don’t you dare thank me again!’

  ‘Just don’t tell my parents.’

  I rang the doorbell and waited. It was finally time for some real answers.

  Mrs Agarwal opened the door herself and didn’t seem surprised to see me. ‘Come in,’ she said, leading the way into the living room where it had all started.

  Mrs Agarwal appeared more and more self-possessed every time I saw her and now her poise was softened by something like relief. Her eyes were bright as she looked at me.

  ‘Mrs Agarwal, I have some questions and I need you to answer them honestly.’

  She nodded.

  ‘But before that, I have a confession to make, one that I should have made some time ago.’

  Confusion flickered across Mrs Agarwal’s face, but I ploughed on. ‘I am a trained private investigator. I am now primarily a journalist, but I still take some cases on the side. I should have mentioned it that first day when we met but at such a time, it didn’t seem right. And later, I became somewhat invested in this whole business and I suppose I was afraid that you’d tell me to back off.’

  The sparkle in Mrs Agarwal’s eye hardened. ‘Yes, I probably would have. But at least that explains all the questions.’

  A mild reaction compared with what I may have received, which only served to reinforce my theory. ‘I have been wondering from the beginning why you chose me to confide in. Yes, as a journalist I might have been privy to some information, but how would that benefit you? Unless it was you who had killed your husband, of course. And from the beginning, I have to admit, I didn’t quite buy into that theory.’

  Mrs Agarwal sat perfectly still, her eyes never leaving my face.

  ‘But there was another possibility—that you were protecting someone other than yourself. And that person was Mallika Mitra, wasn’t it?’

  The blood drained from Mrs Agarwal’s face. ‘How did you know?’ she asked, voice icy.

  ‘Dhyan showed me something he found the day after your husband died—an earring recovered from the dustbin in your kitchen.’ I held it up for her to see.

  Mrs Agarwal’s eyes widened. ‘He shouldn’t have done that.’

  ‘It was the only thing he could do.’

  ‘It was so silly of me,’ said Mrs Agarwal, shaking her head slowly. ‘I panicked and threw it the first place I could find. I realized later that I should have just left it amongst my own jewellery. Who would have even noticed?’

  ‘You knew the earring belonged to Mallika?’

  Mrs Agarwal nodded. ‘She had come to the office the evening before we took my husband to hospital. He had gone briefly to the warehouse close by and I had seated her in his office. It was the first time she had ever been here or approached us in any way. Given their history, I just assumed she had to be somehow connected with what happened to him. She was the last outsider in his room that night.’

  It was finally starting to make sense to me, but Mrs Agarwal’s confusion was a long way from being dispelled. ‘I thought I was helping her.’

  ‘Because your husband had hurt her all those years ago?’

  ‘Because he continued to hurt her every chance he got till he died!’ she said, eyes flashing. ‘Every time he bumped into her, I saw the way he looked at her. It was vile. It was as though he were taking revenge on her for making those accusations public. The ultimate power trip for him, watching her suffer whenever they happened to be in the same room, till she started to do her best to avoid him. But he could be charming when he wanted to, and … But what a fool I’ve been!’

  ‘No, Mrs Agarwal, you’ve been anything but. Mallika too believed that suspicion would fall on her if she was connected to the scene. That’s why she left town.’

  Mrs Agarwal shook her head. ‘What exactly happened here?’

  ‘I still have a little way to go before I can say for certain.’

  Mrs Agarwal closed her eyes, unable to face the mess her husband had left even after his death. ‘I don’t know why I didn’t leave him!’

  ‘Why didn’t you?’

  ‘Oh, you know. Same old sob story,’ she said with a harsh laugh. ‘My parents wouldn’t hear of a divorce, and I had no way out without their help. I got married when I was twenty. No college degree. Who would employ me? Where would I go?’

  ‘Your family wanted you to stay with him even after the dowry incident you reported?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course. Even after they coughed up the money. Even after I had a miscarriage following a particularly bad encounter. So, I did what I could to make him unhappy. I made sure Prakash Agarwal would have no children. But I couldn’t stop him from inflicting harm elsewhere.’

  ‘You knew about Mallika when it happened?’

  ‘Oh yes! It was soon after my miscarriage. I managed to piece together what was going on, though the family tried its best to hush it up. I knew what my husband was capable of. I was sure there had been many more like her. But I think that incident scared him, and for a time he kept himself happy with his whores. The high point of my life has been that he hasn’t touched me for years. No doubt I rapidly became too old for his taste anyhow,’ she spat out.

  ‘Why do you think Mallika came here that night?’

  ‘I knew my husband was involved with someone of late, and I thought that it might have been her.’

  ‘Your husband was having an affair?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fairly certain of it. Not one of his usual flings or prostitutes.’

  ‘And what made you think it was Mallika?’ That seemed a rather improbable jump to me when she couldn’t stand to be in the same room as him.

  ‘I thought she was looking for an opportunity to get her peace. That she had got close to him for a chance at revenge at last.’

  Now it was my turn to close my eyes. How could I have been so blind! How could I forget that all crime is essentially the same, that in all crime, it is the details that give away the big picture; that what is missing is often more important than what is staring you in the face?

  I began to create a timeline of events. Agarwal is ill for at least twenty-four hours—quite possibly more—before he is taken to hospital. But not so ill that he can’t go about his work, even making a trip to the warehouse. Sometime around then, Mallika visits, but leaves without seeing Agarwal. Agarwal doesn’t emerge from his office for dinner and is discovered still at his desk the next morning. By evening, his wife forces him to the emergency room. When Agarwal does not respond to treatment, Dr Mitra is called in, but to no avail. Agarwal dies, and Dr Mitra alerts the police. Mrs Agarwal
comes to the conclusion that Mallika must have had something to do with it and rushes the body away for cremation. The doctor too changes his story. The police, with no evidence to go on, drop the case.

  What was increasingly clear now was that the action triggering this chain of events—the poisoning of Prakash Agarwal—happened well before Mallika’s ill-fated visit. The two people who had feared that Agarwal’s death was a murder both suspected Mallika, but they were both wrong—they must be.

  Once again, my phone had rung out on silent mode while I was at Mrs Agarwal’s home. As soon as I stepped out, I saw that it was Mr Ojha and called him back. I was feeling particularly generous towards the CCC right now, thanks to Santosh da’s role in my current state of enlightenment.

  ‘Reema ji? I thought you would want to know that tomorrow they are launching a search for your friend Amit.’

  I bit my lip. It had only been a matter of time, and I had already set the wheels in motion to prepare for just such an eventuality.

  ‘Thank you for the information.’

  ‘How is your other case going?’ he asked. ‘What about the old molestation accusation you were looking up?’

  If I expected Ojha to continue to give me information, I knew I would have to give some myself—even though I suspected DDG had instructed Ojha to play nice. ‘It could be nothing more than a coincidence, but it was the molestation victim’s husband who treated Agarwal at the end. I am looking into the angle.’

  ‘Oh my! Reema ji, very good work.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Ojha. I am not sure what any of it means yet, but at last I am getting somewhere.’

  ‘Do keep me posted on anything else you learn.’

  I arrived at the gate of the Mohta residence once again, but this time I rang the bell. A guard opened a small window within the door and peered out at me.

  ‘Kisko chahiye?’ he said. All I could see were his eyes.

  ‘Mrs Mohta, please.’

  ‘Aap kaun?’

  ‘Reema Ray. Friend of the family.’

  ‘Please wait.’

  I stood outside. I was not surprised by the security, given the circumstances. In a few moments, the guard reappeared with a cordless phone and opened a larger gate within the gate to hand it to me.

  ‘Hello?’ I said.

  ‘Yes? Who is this?’ replied a woman’s voice.

  ‘Mrs Mohta?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is Reema. I am a friend of Aloka’s from school. I wanted to come in and meet you if possible.’

  ‘Reema?’ Not surprisingly, it didn’t sound as though she remembered me from that solitary Digha holiday. ‘I am sorry, but we aren’t receiving visitors now. If you can leave your number …’

  I knew it was pointless but I gave her my number and hung up. I had to stretch into the small portal to hand the phone back to the guard; he had stepped back into his booth, giving me enough time to spot a police jeep parked in the driveway, behind which was a fleet of cars that must belong to the family.

  I handed over the phone and then stepped away from the gate, walking a little down the pavement and standing behind a tree.

  I kept an eye on the gate and fiddled with my phone. Now was the time to multitask. I tried to call Mallika once again. No answer. I called Abhimanyu next. ‘Have you heard from Mallika at all?’ I asked.

  ‘She did call to say she’d be gone for a couple more days.’

  ‘Did she say where she is?’

  ‘No, just that she had to get away for a while. Can I be of any help?’

  ‘Um, no, I just wanted to check how she was doing.’

  ‘She sounded better, to tell you the truth.’

  I saw the gate opening. ‘That’s great. Chat later?’

  I hung up over Abhimanyu’s friendly goodbye just as the police car drove out. In the back seat was Ravi Sharma. Beside him was Shayak Gupta.

  I was grateful for the shelter the tree provided, for exposed, with my mouth hanging open, one of them would have been sure to see me.

  Then, for once, my luck held: just when I needed it, there was a cab, and the driver didn’t ask where I wanted to go before I stepped in, and when I asked him to follow the police car, he didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow.

  We drove for a long time. My state of confusion and not knowing where I was going made every moment stretch even longer. Why was Shayak Gupta at the Mohta home? No explanation made itself clear. Twenty-five minutes of open road later we took a turn off the highway and onto a narrow, pot-holed road that led to Green Acres Golf Club.

  The car disappeared inside the gate, and I released the cab outside and quickly made my way in. I found myself not far behind Ravi Sharma and Shayak who had parked and were headed for the greens.

  And that is when my luck ran out.

  ‘Ma’am, are you a member?’ asked a young man in a black suit.

  ‘No but—’

  ‘Then I am sorry, but the clubhouse is out of bounds. You can use the driving range if you like.’

  ‘Driving range?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, pointing to the large netted area to his right. ‘Would you like me to show you around?’

  I followed him to the counter, where he gave me a rate chart. ‘Half an hour—Rs 200.’

  The upside was that I could get a fairly decent view of the course from where I stood, as well as the exit.

  I took a club and a bucket of balls and headed for the bay. I was inappropriately dressed, in black shirt, jeans and wedges, but it would have to do. And though I had never held a golf club in my life, I felt that there was enough angst bubbling just beneath the surface that whacking a few balls into oblivion couldn’t but help.

  I have always prided myself on being quicker on the uptake than most people you might encounter in the general course of things, so it only took me a couple of minutes to realize that hitting a ball any distance took much more than a golf club and suppressed rage. Time and again, I brought the club down, and completely missed.

  No matter, I told myself. The range was relatively empty, and no one was watching. Besides, I had a job to do. Shayak and Sharma were still within sight, though well out of earshot. But I wasn’t in the mood to budge. I brought my club down again. The ball didn’t make it far, but at least there was contact. Progress!

  In about fifteen minutes, I hit as many balls as I could with varying degrees of success, none making it farther than five feet away from me, though one may have gone a considerably greater distance—behind me—had it not been for the net it encountered.

  I am still not sure how that had occurred; my only consolation was that the presence of the net indicated I was not the only one who was directionally challenged.

  That was around the time when Shayak and Sharma moved out of sight. With the guard standing behind me, there was no way I could slink outside to the course. But then I realized that the last hole was beside the first hole and, if I was patient, they would loop around back to where I could see them. I kept at it and soon began to make consistent contact: the ball headed in roughly the right direction. If I couldn’t catch a killer/kidnapper, I could at least work on my game.

  ‘You can hire an instructor, you know.’

  The words were dangerously close to my right ear, threatening to throw me off balance. I turned to face the speaker, knowing full well who I would see there.

  ‘I am beginning to think that you are following me,’ I said with a smile. All the reasons I had to be suspicious of Shayak came back like a montage in the movies. Though now I fancied I knew better, there was surely much to be wary of.

  ‘I could say the same about you,’ said Shayak.

  ‘What happened to your golf buddy?’ I asked.

  ‘He was called away.’

  ‘How does a venture capitalist know a police officer?’

  ‘He’s an old friend. How would a food writer happen to know one?’

  ‘Who said I did?’

  ‘You recognized him, didn’t you?’
/>   ‘He’s in the papers all the time.’

  ‘If you saw us, why didn’t you say anything? You could have joined us.’

  ‘I’m still a novice.’

  Having seen my swing, he couldn’t argue with that one.

  ‘I’d better be going,’ I said.

  ‘Me too.’

  I handed the near-empty bucket over to the attendant and walked quickly down the steps that led to the path to the lobby. And then I saw a familiar rotund frame, hobbling on dangerously small feet, approaching me.

  It was Manoj Chakravarty. ‘Reema ji!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Hello, Mr Chakravarty. I didn’t know you played golf.’

  ‘I don’t, I don’t. But my son is learning now. He is on the hole.’

  Then he saw Shayak standing beside me.

  ‘Arre wah! You and Shayak ji know each other! How splendid!’

  I turned to Shayak. ‘Another old friend?’

  ‘Mr Chakravarty and I had some business.’

  ‘Venture capitalists do seem to get around, don’t they?’

  ‘Why don’t we go to the coffee shop downstairs? It has some lovely snacks,’ said Mr Chakravarty, grabbing hold of my arm. Shayak fell into step behind us.

  Mr Chakravarty seized the opportunity to wax eloquent about my articles to Shayak. ‘Some people didn’t like that last one of yours, where you talked about how mediocre most of the Continental restaurants in town are, but what kind of a journalist are you until you have ruffled a few feathers, eh?’ he said with a chuckle.

  ‘So how is it you know each other?’ I asked Mr Chakravarty.

  ‘Shayak? Oh, we are in talks about—’ he began.

  ‘Mr Chakravarty is very well connected. I’ve been picking his brain about some boring business matters,’ said Shayak, interrupting. I was certain he didn’t want Mr Chakravarty to finish whatever he was going to say. And nothing like flattery to do the trick.

  But there was an upside to the exchange—Mr Chakravarty had called the man by my side ‘Shayak’.

  A waiter arrived and we ordered tea and spring rolls. I barely listened as Mr Chakravarty rattled on about his son’s golf. Soon, he looked at his watch. ‘Oh dear, it is quite late, quite late. My son must be finished by now,’ he said.