I chose pristine white plates and layered the beautifully browned pastry with strawberries and dollops of cream. Three individually plated tiers, covered by a final snowy dusting of icing sugar.
I carried out the plates to a chorus of oohs and aahs. Taking her first bite, my mother looked at me with awe. ‘Reema, this is fabulous.’
‘Really?’ I said.
‘You’ve come a long way, sweetheart,’ said Hema Masi with a smile. And she would know. Many of my holidays during my four years of college involved staying with Hema Masi for weeks. We’d spent so much time in the kitchen—I’d be at the oven while she cooked for the family. Muffins, brownies, cakes, many of which had set off the smoke alarms and ended up in the trash can. ‘This is restaurant quality.’
I took a bite. I had to agree with her. Silently, of course.
‘Reema, wake up! Wake up!’
I opened a bleary eye and saw my mother’s anxious face inches from mine, her hands raised, poised for another shove.
‘What? What’s happened?’
‘Aloka Mohta is on TV!’
I sped to the living room where Hema Masi was seated on the couch.
Aloka’s distressed face filled the flat-screen. It looked like she was reading from a script.
‘We have kept her safe for this long,’ she said, voice trembling ever so slightly. ‘If you don’t pay the ransom within twenty-four hours, that will no longer be the case.’ Aloka looked into the camera, eyes filled with distress.
And then there was darkness.
‘How horrible!’ my mother said. ‘I had read about the kidnapping, of course, but this—this is just awful! No matter what she has done to you!’
‘What has she done to you?’ asked Hema Masi with alarm.
‘Nothing at all,’ I said.
‘What do you mean? She stole your boyfriend—your fiancé!’ my mother objected.
‘That is the woman Amit married? She’s been kidnapped?’
‘He married her only for her money,’ said Ma.
‘Even if that were true, this is hardly the time to discuss it.’
‘Poor girl,’ said Hema Masi.
We continued to watch the news broadcast. The words ‘Breaking News’ filled half the screen; the newscaster was doing a recap of the events that had led to the dramatic airing of the tape.
Aloka Mohta is kidnapped from one of the main thoroughfares of Calcutta a little after 11.30 pm by a masked man. The following day, a phone call is made to Aloka’s father, a steel baron, for a ransom of Rs 2 crore. Then silence till ten days later, when the video arrives at the studio of News Now, hand delivered to the lobby by an unknown person. It is left on the stairs of the building in an oversized box in the early hours in a package guaranteed to arouse suspicion. A security guard opens it to find a note saying that the CD contained in the box is of the utmost importance. The guard alerts the chief of security, the chief of security alerts the chief of news and the video is on air almost continuously ever since.
And now, it was back on. This time I saw it from the beginning. There was Aloka on a cheap plastic chair, with a blank white wall behind her. She looked straight into the camera, and apart from her weary look and a few dirt smudges on her face and arms, she looked unharmed. She wore a pink T-shirt and jeans. It had a handheld-camera, reality-TV kind of feel.
She cleared her throat and began to read. ‘It has been ten days and we have been very patient with you. Just because we have chosen not to make threats of violence, you seem to think you will get your daughter back somehow, without making the payment. What we ask for is not much, and is surely nothing considering it is in exchange for the life of your daughter. And yet you seem unwilling to pay. So, if it is threats that you want, it is threats that you’ll get. As you can see, we have kept her safe for so long. If we don’t get the ransom within twenty-four hours, that will no longer be the case.’
Cut to the studio. There sat Barsha Das, Calcutta’s hottest news anchor. ‘What will the Mohta family’s response be to this latest video? Keep watching News Now to find out.’
Ad break. I ignored my mother’s searching look as I walked out of the room to the bedroom. I shut the door and called Amit. ‘Are you watching the news?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Have you heard anything apart from this?’
‘No. But I have to do something.’
‘What can you do? And now, with the police officially looking for you.’
‘I don’t know, but I have to think of something. I can’t let this charade go on any longer.’
I hung up and called Ojha. Perhaps he could tell me what the police intended to do after this latest threat. The phone rang and rang and, just as I was about to disconnect, he answered. First there was silence.
‘Hello?’ I said.
‘I’ll call you back,’ he whispered, hanging up.
I paced my old bedroom as I waited, considering what I had just seen. Something, I wasn’t sure what, was bothering me about the video. Finally, in about five minutes, Ojha called back.
‘How are Sharma and crew reacting to this ransom video?’
‘We are at the house now; that is why I couldn’t talk. The family are panicking. For the first time, I think they feel it may actually be another gang that is behind the kidnapping, not the husband.’
‘Finally.’
‘Yes, Sharma is not very happy.’
‘Are they getting ready to pay?’
‘I think so.’
‘When?’
‘I am not sure. A text message has also come with instructions on how to pay, where to pay. There is a drop point somewhere. I think the time is noon tomorrow. I don’t have those details. They are keeping that information very secret for now.’
I returned to the living room and found that the news channel was playing the ransom video almost on loop. I kept watching, trying to figure out what it was that was bothering me about it. The anchor was interviewing everyone the station could find—distant relatives and friends of the family, none of whom knew anything but pretended to—and then finally, about an hour into the non-stop coverage, they seemed to find time for something else.
‘While the city waits with bated breath for the safe return of Aloka Mohta, there have been sudden developments in the investigation into the death of Prakash Agarwal, a prominent city businessmen,’ Barsha Das began. ‘Agarwal died eight days ago after a brief illness. The police had looked into the events surrounding his death but soon dropped the case, citing insufficient evidence of foul play. But new information has surfaced, casting a shadow over the very doctor who had treated Agarwal on the day of his death. In a dramatic turn of events, a twenty-five-year-old case has been unearthed in which the doctor’s wife accused the deceased of sexual molestation, though the charge was eventually dropped. The connection, say the police, is enough for them to reopen the investigation. Though with no dead body for autopsy and enough time for any physical evidence to have been possibly destroyed by now, one police insider confessed, on condition of anonymity, that it may be too late for justice.’
I felt a shock through my system. How had this happened? Had the police made the connection between Prakash Agarwal and Mallika Mitra independently? It seemed highly unlikely, especially coming so soon after my own discovery.
Who else knew what I had learnt? Uncle Kumar and possibly the underling he had sent to physically search for the case files. I first had to rule out his office as the source of the leak. I called Uncle Kumar.
‘Did you hear what they said about the Agarwal case?’
‘Yes. How did that information get out?’
‘That is what I wanted to ask you.’
‘I assumed you had decided to take it to Sharma.’
‘No. I needed some more time before I did anything with it. I am not even sure what it means yet.’
‘Well, I can assure you the information didn’t leak out at our end. I have no time for these Barsha Das types.’
‘What about the officer you sent to dig out the files?’
‘I doubt he would even connect the information he found with the Agarwal case.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Quite. But I will still ask. I’ll let you know if I hear anything noteworthy.’
‘Thank you, and sorry for hurling these accusations at you.’
‘Not at all. You need to know how your lead ended up on the morning news.’
I hung up and thought fast. Shayak had seemed to have some inkling of what I had learnt when I met him yesterday afternoon, only hours after I had found out myself. And he had been hanging out with Sharma. That would explain his irritation with me if he thought I was the source of the leak, especially as he seemed annoyed that I had discovered that link at all.
If Sharma himself was behind the news flash, that left me with one question—how did he get wind of it? And there was only one possible answer.
I dialled again. ‘Mr Ojha, did you tell Ravi Sharma about my break in the Agarwal case?’
Silence.
‘Mr Ojha?’
‘No, actually, you see … actually I mentioned it to DDG sir, and he mentioned that it was a good lead, police would look like fools when it came out.’
‘And then what did you do?’
‘Then I met sir, and I told him that there was something he might want to look into.’
‘Mr Ojha, that was my lead! Why didn’t you at least check with me first?’
‘But Reema ji, I didn’t see the harm. Our group, you know, we always aim to help the police, isn’t it? So now police can find Mallika Mitra, who is absconding, and they can arrest her, no?’
‘Mallika Mitra is not the murderer!’
‘She isn’t? But I thought … Then it is the husband?’
‘No, it isn’t him either! It has almost nothing to do with either of them!’
‘Then what—’
‘I am not sure yet. But what I do know is that I have to figure it out fast, before Mallika Mitra is arrested and put through hell because of our meddling!’
I tossed the phone onto the bed and shook my head. While I knew I was on the verge of a breakthrough, there was still some distance to go before I came to a definitive conclusion. On top of that, everything had escalated all at once. But the living always came before the dead, so the kidnapping case would have to come before the murder.
I had to get my hands on Aloka’s ransom video.
When I finally came into the living room, my mother and Hema Masi were still watching the drama unfold on TV. My mother looked up at me. ‘Reema, tell me what is going on.’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked, sitting down.
My mother pursed her lips. A powerful action, in an instant able to remind me of her constant dissatisfaction, a memory I had carried with me for as long as I could remember. And now those lips in a still almost painfully pretty face moved to renew their censure. ‘You are worried about something. I can tell.’
‘It’s just work, Ma,’ I said, looking at Hema Masi for support. But this time, she seemed to be on my mother’s side.
‘Don’t look at your biggest cheerleader. You can’t hide from me,’ said Ma.
‘It is nothing to do with you … It’s just …’
‘Nothing to do with me? What is that supposed to mean?’
I quickly interjected. ‘I don’t mean it like that. What I am trying to say is—’
‘You have a case, don’t you?’ Hema Masi had spoken. Always saw too much, did Hema Masi.
My mother stared at me with round eyes, aghast. ‘Oh Reema! Is that true? Are you involved in Aloka’s case? Are you having an affair with Amit?’
‘Ma! Of course not! What’s wrong with you?’
‘Then what?’
There was no point in denying it any longer. ‘Amit came to me for help.’
‘You are in touch with him? How can you let him near you after what he did?’
‘We met again a few months ago. He wants to be friends.’
‘Why? Why would you let him back into your life?’
‘We’ve known each other since we were babies.’
‘And then he treated you like you meant nothing.’
‘We were young.’
‘You were in love!’
‘Without really knowing what any of that meant.’
‘You are helping him?’
‘Yes. What kind of person would I be if I didn’t?’ How many times would I repeat those words before this thing was through?
‘I don’t understand you.’
‘Why not?’
‘You’ve been doing so well in your new job!’
‘It’s not new any longer. I’ve been doing it for two years now and—’
‘And what?’ she interrupted. ‘You are bored of writing about food, too?’
‘Too? I don’t remember ever saying that I was bored of being an investigator,’ I scowled.
‘So then why did you stop?’
I had never gone into the details of my failed business with my parents. ‘I didn’t stop. Not really. I work on whatever cases I can find.’
‘And this is the only case you could find!’
‘Why can’t you ever be happy about anything I do?’
My mother turned to face me at last, and even through my anger I could see I had hurt her.
‘What makes you say that?’
‘What was the last decision I made that you were actually happy with?’
My mother’s expression turned to dismay. ‘I am not unhappy with you! I am just worried—I want you to be happy in your career, in your life, that’s all! If this is what makes you happy, then do it. I am only wondering why you left it in the first place.’
I said nothing. I had assumed they would be so happy that my PI chapter had ended that they wouldn’t care what had brought it about. ‘But you hated my being a detective!’
‘At first, maybe. But once I realized that you weren’t putting yourself in danger, I came to terms with the fact that you were just following your heart. Just as I had when I decided to become an actress. In my day, it was just as unacceptable a choice. But it was my dream. So how could I hold your dreams against you?’
‘Oh, Ma.’
‘Why else do you think I stopped badgering you! Not only did I approve, I was so very proud! And I still am.’
My mother gave my hand a tight squeeze and I could stop the tears no longer. She reached over to wipe them away. ‘Why should that make you cry?’
‘You’ve never said that to me before.’ Now it was my turn to watch a tear roll down her face.
‘Well, that was very, very stupid of me,’ she said, handing me a tissue. ‘I am so proud that my beautiful daughter can do anything she sets her mind to. What mother wouldn’t be?’
But then all conversation came to a halt, for on the news was Amit.
‘What!’ I cried.
‘What is the matter?’ asked Ma.
‘The police are looking for him! What is he doing there?’
Barsha Das blabbered on, but I had eyes only for Amit. Since I had seen him last, he had shaved his beard, had a haircut and found a nice kurta. He’d also lost the air of anxiety somewhere. He looked angry, alone, vulnerable and determined.
‘BREAKING NEWS’, the screen screamed.
‘A News Now exclusive. The prime suspect in the kidnapping of Aloka Mohta—her husband Amit Majumdar—is now in our studio.’
‘That swine,’ my mother said.
‘Shh.’
‘Amit, why did you choose to come to the News Now studio despite the fact the police have launched a city-wide manhunt for you?’
‘Because my priority right now is finding my wife.’
‘But the police have been treating you as the prime suspect in her kidnapping. You were believed to be in hiding.’
‘I was not in hiding, and if they want me, then they should come and get me right now. But before that, I want Kishan Mohta to know that his da
ughter is at risk. He has stuck to the belief that I am the man behind Aloka’s disappearance. I am here to say that I am not, that I want my wife back as badly as he wants his daughter back. If I had the money, I would pay the ransom myself, but I do not. If he wants the police to arrest me, I am here, in the studio; they can come here and I will make no effort to escape or resist. But please, please, do whatever it takes to bring Aloka back to safety.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Hema Masi.
Even my mother, despite herself, seemed moved by this dramatic appeal. ‘What are you going to do?’ my mother asked me.
I shrugged. ‘I have to wait for some information. I hope to get it by the end of the day, but till then there is nothing much I can do.’
‘That will be cutting it close. They have given the family till tomorrow to pay up. Final deadline, apparently,’ said Hema Masi.
‘Poor boy,’ Ma said. ‘Up against the crass Mohta family with all the money in the world.’
Despite my anger at Amit, I had to suppress a smile. If he could move my mother with that little performance, he could move mountains. Yes, a public appeal had been quite the PR masterstroke.
‘You were right, Reema, what kind of a person could resist trying to help him through this?’
Not Amit’s ex-girlfriend, for sure, the one with the superhero complex.
Amit was right about one thing: I hadn’t changed at all. How well he knew me.
nineteen
As I waited, I found it impossible to sit at home and watch the endless drama unfold on TV. I knew that once the kidnapping case was resolved, Sharma would waste no time in shifting his attention to Prakash Agarwal’s murder now that the spotlight was back on. That didn’t leave me very long to right the wrong I had done to Mallika Mitra.
I walked into Middle Kingdom through the front door. No disguise: the all-black outfit was usual enough for me. It was late for lunch—there were just two other tables occupied. It was also late enough that I knew that Abhimanyu would have most likely left—in fact, I was counting on it. But there was another unexpected problem: the waiters, who still recognized me from my meetings with Mallika and the chef, were very attentive, so attentive, in fact, that I couldn’t help a moment’s hesitation. But I reminded myself that if I was patient, an opportunity was bound to present itself.
The Masala Murder: Reema Ray Mysteries Page 20
