The restroom was upstairs. Just across the narrow hall was Mallika’s office. I hoped to find what I was looking for there—some indication of where she was now. I could then track her down and tell her what had happened and warn her to lie low till I was able to sort out the mess I had created.
I finished my meal, paid my bill and waited for the servers to leave the area in which I was seated, which I had chosen specifically because it was far enough from the kitchen and sufficiently obscured to be inconspicuous. As soon as the dining room was empty of staff, I slipped up the stairs, treading as gently as possible on the hard ceramic tile, soft-soled shoes making barely a sound.
I entered the restroom and flipped on the light. After an appropriate pause I left, closing the door behind me. If I managed to return quickly, my reappearance downstairs wouldn’t arouse suspicion. But if I couldn’t find what I needed, I would have to slip inside Mallika’s flat. I knew that the level with the office and restroom were connected to the rest of the house. I hoped that her staff would simply assume that I had left or, if they had heard me going up to the restroom, they would think I had finished my business and exited when no one was around.
The lock was of good quality but luckily, I had spent my idle time during my detective agency days well, mastering the kind of tricks they hadn’t taught in college. In under twenty seconds, I found myself inside Mallika’s dark office. The only light was streaming in from between blinds on the solitary window. As my eyes slowly regained focus, I was able to distinguish the outline of the desk. I walked around and found the switch to the table lamp. I turned it on and quickly scanned the surface for anything out of place.
There was nothing except a pen stand, a ledger and a diary with a few scribbled recipes. If Mallika had left in a rush, there was no sign of it here. I went through the three drawers and found little of interest—a draft for a food-festival menu, some loose change, a well-thumbed copy of the Gitanjali.
I looked around and saw that in the corner of the small room was an armchair beside which stood a small, beautifully crafted antique Chinese table. The woman undeniably had taste. There were a few books on top of it and, as I approached it in the dim light, I saw what looked like an appointment book.
I picked it up and began to leaf through the pages. I flipped to the day before Agarwal’s death; there was no mention of a trip to his house. I moved forward to the day after the dinner—the day that she had stopped taking my calls. She had penned in some sort of engagement or task to carry out every day. So leaving town had definitely not been on the cards.
Then I heard a noise. I moved towards the door but before I could make my exit, I heard footsteps. I stood perfectly still, listening. No need to panic; it was probably just the waiters checking the bathroom. They’d see the light on, think someone was in there and go back downstairs.
But no, something was terribly wrong. The steps were getting louder, and closer, and coming not from outside the door I had entered but from the other corner of the room, from Mallika’s flat.
I desperately looked for a place to conceal myself, but I was too late. The door swung open. I had nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.
I was too afraid to look up, so I gazed at the floor. I knew at once that the shoes were familiar. And the white of those pants left me in no doubt.
Sharma. The man who had made it clear that if he’d see me anywhere near anything to do with his cases, he would teach me the lesson I seemed to have missed in biology class: that my nose belonged firmly on my face and not in his murder investigation.
There was nothing to do but stand my ground—and lie, lie, lie.
Eye to eye, Sharma saw no need to mask his reaction. ‘You!’ he said.
‘Nice to see you, Uncle Sharma,’ I said, smiling my warmest smile.
‘You! What are you doing here?’
It seemed Sharma was content to let me hog all the good lines in this latest act of our ongoing drama. ‘Quite a coincidence, isn’t it?’
‘What are you doing here?’ he repeated.
‘Mallika sent me.’
‘Mallika?’
‘Yes. The owner of this office.’
‘I am aware of that! But what has she sent you for?’
‘This,’ I said, holding out the diary for him.
He narrowed his eyes at me, deeply suspicious—as usual.
‘Why?’
‘I suppose she needs it.’
‘Why you?’
‘It seems that not everyone thinks I am as irresponsible as you do.’
‘How did you get in?’
‘Through the door.’
He glared. I pointed.
‘Check it for forced entry. I can guarantee that you won’t find any.’
‘What does she want the diary for?’
‘I don’t know, she didn’t tell me that.’
‘Where is she?’
‘I don’t know that at the moment.’
‘Then how will you get it to her?’
‘She said she would call later tonight to let me know.’
Sharma glared. He walked up to me, an inch or two closer than necessary, and took the diary. He quickly glanced through it.
Thankfully, Sharma seemed indisposed for further conversation. He looked around the small room, rifled through some drawers and picked up a ledger. His eyes then rested on the small antique table in the corner, and he crossed the room as I had done minutes earlier. Finding nothing more of interest, he continued to glare at me, and I could only guess what was going on behind those contemptuous eyes.
‘Come with me,’ he said at last.
‘Where?’
‘You’ll see.’
Sharma, hot on my heels, led me through Mallika’s flat and to the ground floor; a squad car was parked just outside the building. I was going to see the inside of a jail after all.
My shoulders threatened to slump as I was led away. But then I remembered my mother’s words of advice to me, when I was auditioning for a high school play. ‘Never let them see your discomfort. Head back, chin up. Even if you are dying inside, it’s the illusion of confidence that matters.’
What was this if not a stage? What was I doing if not playacting? For it was becoming increasingly clear that a real detective I was not.
But I would rather spear myself with my lock pick than let the inspector see my doubt.
If Sharma’s strategy was to bore me into a confession, it was working. After we got to the police station, he had me sit in a back room and sternly instructed me to not move an inch. I wouldn’t have dared, of course. I may not lack for courage, but suicide wasn’t on the day’s agenda.
I had a feeling I was being watched, but I could not for the life of me figure out how. There was no tell-tale mirror—which decades of police shows had taught me were one-way glass—and there was no camera in sight. But I knew Sharma had his eye on me.
I reached into my pocket and felt for it: the pearl earring. It was such a pretty little thing, girly in the way that Mallika Mitra was and I was not.
Who knows what other evidence she had left behind the night she was there?
It didn’t take me long to grow restless. I may have been quite content under different circumstances to play Sharma’s game of patience, but I knew the longer I was here, the harder it would be to get to Aloka in time. Sharma had even taken away my phone, so I had no idea whether Shweta had managed to get a copy of the ransom video I had asked for. That was the key to this whole thing: I needed a better look at that video.
It must have been a good two hours later when the door finally opened. I didn’t have the energy in me to look up, to take on Sharma again.
So much suspicion. That is what my days of work amounted to.
So many dreams. That is what my whole life could be reduced to.
Once again, I started with the shoes. But those didn’t belong to Sharma, who wore round-toed, black, chunky schoolboy regulation issue. These were brown, beautifully crafted and tapering. I
looked up.
Shayak.
I groaned. Out loud. I couldn’t help it. If there was one man who trusted me less than Sharma it was Shayak Gupta.
‘What are you doing here?’ I asked. ‘Dropped by to rub it in?’
Shayak glared at me without saying a word. After a brief, blank second, a flash of—what was it, could that actually be approval? —he took a step forward and Sharma followed on his tail.
‘Yes, Inspector. I sent Reema to try to find out Mallika Mitra’s whereabouts.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I don’t believe Mallika is guilty. In fact, I am sure she is not.’
‘But till yesterday, you hadn’t mentioned Reema was working for you!’
‘Sir,’ Shayak interrupted, ‘I assure you, I would have had it come up. But right now, the need is to locate a woman who may hold the key to this case. Reema is a detective by training and quite a good one at that.’
‘A detective!’ exclaimed Sharma, looking at me with a mix of disbelief and surprise.
I didn’t respond.
‘But she is a journalist.’
‘That is merely one of her many talents.’
Sharma seemed far from satisfied, and my own confusion mounted with every word Shayak spoke. But I maintained my stony silence, looking with what I hoped was some degree of assurance from one man to the other.
‘And how exactly did you plan to get out of there?’
Shayak was livid. No sooner had we stepped out of the police station did he fling those words at me with barely concealed fury.
I didn’t answer.
‘Are you incapable of paying heed to advice?’ he said.
‘Advice? What advice? And whose?’
‘I am referring to our chat at the driving range.’
‘Advice!’ I laughed. ‘More like condescending officiousness.’
Shayak’s lips formed a thin line. I realized too late that my words could be interpreted as lacking gratitude for his saving my hide.
Too bad. I hadn’t asked to be saved.
‘Get in the car,’ he said coldly.
He pointed at a black sedan by the curb.
He stood with the driver’s side door open, looking at me with clear impatience. ‘Get in the car.’
‘Why should I?’
‘Are you aware, Reema Ray, of how close you just came to becoming a serious suspect in the murder of Prakash Agarwal?’
‘Me?’ I let out a dismissive laugh, feigning amusement when I felt nothing of the sort.
‘Hardly a laughing matter, I would think.’
‘It’s a ludicrous suggestion. Give me one reason why.’
‘Why not? You were seen coming and going from the victim’s house, lurking around on other occasions, asking questions of the police and anyone else who would listen, at complete odds with your professed profession of food writer. Add to that a break-in and you have been displaying pretty suspicious behaviour in anyone’s books.’
I was guilty as charged, but I would not dream of letting him hear me say that. ‘And what about you? You obviously have more to do with this business than you have let on. You are working with the cops!’
‘For which you should be grateful! This was not the first conversation I have had to have with Sharma about you—who is hardly at fault here, by the way—and I have had increasing trouble convincing him that you are a well-intentioned, if overly inquisitive, young journalist. Thus his surprise at suddenly finding us suddenly “working together”.’
By this time, I needed a seat, so I finally sat in the car are ordered, trying to process what I had just heard.
‘But—’ I began.
Shayak sat in the driver’s seat and pulled away from the curb.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I tried. Without revealing my own position. You weren’t very receptive, were you?’
I let that sink in.
‘Only incidentally, of course, but how were you planning on getting out of that spot, exactly?’
‘Just like I got in—through the front door. He hadn’t charged me with anything.’
‘He could have.’
‘I would have liked to see him make it stick.’
‘Believe me, you wouldn’t. Why were you in Mallika’s office anyway?’
‘Why were you at the police station?’
‘I happened to stop by to speak to Sharma. Lucky for you, I would say.’
Silence.
‘Coming back to you,’ he said pointedly. ‘What possessed you to break in?’
‘I didn’t—the door was unlocked. I merely turned the handle,’ I lied.
He took his eyes off the road to glare at me.
I glared back. ‘Why have you been following me?’
Shayak exhaled a long, pent-up breath. ‘When I first arrived here—’
‘Which was when?’ I interrupted.
‘Three days before I met you.’
‘Before Agarwal died?’
‘Yes. I was at the house when you showed up, presumably to pay your respects. The door was open—some guests were leaving—and I let myself in. I was speaking to Mrs Agarwal’s brother—I didn’t know if I would be welcome in their house, as my brother and Agarwal had parted ways under rather bitter circumstances. Still, I thought I would visit to make my position clear, as there was a lot of unfinished business that needed to be concluded, including a large amount in dues. And then I overheard what Mrs Agarwal said to you about hating her husband and wanting information about his death.’
‘But I was as shocked by that as you were!’
‘I didn’t know that at the time. I wanted to know why Mrs Agarwal chose you to confide in.’
Shayak stopped talking. We had reached the gate to my home and he parked just ahead of it before turning in his seat to face me.
I looked at him expectantly. ‘You know you can trust me, right? Now I need to know I can trust you. Who are you?’
Shayak handed me his business card. It was a simple white rectangle with only the words:
Shayak Gupta
CEO
Titanium Securities
‘You are a detective?’ I asked.
‘Something of the sort.’
‘You are the private security expert consulting in the kidnapping of Aloka Mohta?’
‘How do you know about that?’
‘You aren’t the only one who has sources. And I followed you and Sharma from the Mohta residence to the golf course, remember?’
Shayak nodded. ‘I happened to be in town to help out my brother and it is a rather high-profile case, so my friend called me in to consult on the matter.’
‘Friend meaning Sharma?’
‘No. Higher than him.’
‘Like the commissioner?’
Shayak merely shrugged.
I moved on. ‘How do you know that I am trained as a private investigator?’
‘There aren’t that many detectives in India, and fewer who write film reviews.’
I gaped. ‘You have read my crappy reviews? You’ve known all along?’
‘They aren’t crappy, by the way. And the introduction to your first piece was quite memorable: “Reema Ray, a real-life gumshoe on the reel-time dicks”.’
Ooh, I could kill Shweta about now. ‘That was not my doing, I can assure you.’
‘The first night I met you, I hadn’t made the connection. But it came to me fairly soon after that.’
And here I was thinking that I was being mysterious.
‘To answer your question, yes, I know I can trust you,’ said Shayak.
‘Well, that’s progress.’
‘Though I really can’t understand what possessed you to get so deeply involved in either of these cases.’
‘I guess it had been a while. I needed my fix,’ I said flippantly.
‘Why did you quit in the first place?’
‘I haven’t given it up entirely, at least not yet. But the whole private practice thing hasn’t
worked out as well as I may have liked.’ I glared out the window in silence, a lump in my throat. I felt his fingers brushing a strand of hair away from my flushed cheek.
And then he dropped them, as though the world had not just skipped a revolution. He reached behind me to the back seat, from where he retrieved a brown manila folder.
‘I think it’s time to talk.’
‘Talk,’ I said somewhat blankly.
‘About both these cases. Can we go to your place?’
My place? I nodded.
Walking towards the gate, I tried to concentrate on what might be inside the folder in his hands to avoid thinking about his fingers on my face.
But before we made it inside, my phone rang. It was Shweta.
‘Reema, I have your tape.’
Finally, things were beginning to move! ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you! When and where can I pick it up?’
‘We’re working late today. Swing by the office any time.’
I looked at Shayak. ‘There is something I need to take care of. It’s important.’
‘More important than murder?’
Shayak Gupta had, somehow, become entwined in both my cases. There was no need to hide the truth any longer. ‘Aloka Mohta. Come with me,’ I said. ‘I need a lift.’
We returned to the car. I gave Shayak directions.
‘Do I get to know what is going on?’
‘It’s a hunch right now. I’ll find out soon.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘To pick up a copy of the ransom tape that has been on air all day.’
‘Why do you need that?’
‘To enhance the background. You are an investigator. You don’t by any chance have image enhancement software, do you?’
‘No, but I could send it to Mumbai.’
‘No time,’ I said, taking my phone out of my bag. I had already started walking back towards the car. Shayak and I got in and I gave him directions before pulling out my phone to call Terrence. He had always claimed to have access to high-end surveillance equipment. Now was the time to see whether or not he was all talk.
The Masala Murder: Reema Ray Mysteries Page 21
