CHAPTER TWELVE
Sneha scrubbed her body with her signature rose aryuvedic shower gel. Just thinking about Bhumika’s sweaty face made her feel dirty. How had the woman worked up a sweat with just a couple of basic asanas? She shook her head. She had to be nice to her. That was the deal.
Stepping out of the shower, Sneha wrapped a towel around her body and another around her hair. She sat at her dressing table, glanced over at the clock and sighed. If she didn’t hurry, she wouldn’t be on time, and she hated being late. She wasn’t quite sure why he wanted to meet her, but he had asked and she had agreed. She owed him one. Correction, she owed him more than one; she owed him her life. She looked in the mirror and ran her finger along her hairline on the right side of her face. You wouldn’t see the scar unless you looked for it, but it was there. It reminded her every day of that beast of a man and her horrid ex-mother-in-law. It also reminded her how lucky she was to be alive. But it wasn’t just luck, crystals or her positive energy that had saved her. It was more than that. He had saved her, so she felt obligated to help him out.
It had started out as a mutual benefit, an exchange. He would supply her with a little hashish for the teacakes they made on site and she would pay. It was high-grade stuff; she only used the best. It gave her residents a little lift and more importantly it relaxed them. Most of them needed it to get rid of the stresses they faced at home and at work, and this worked without them having to have hours of therapy and massage. She didn’t tell her clients what was in the teacakes; she knew how righteous some people could be about recreational substances. She was doing them a favour and saving them time and money. In any case, they had entrusted their bodies to her by coming on the retreat. Some students, the more astute ones, caught on. They realised why the retreat cost what it did. The others, the ones with more money than sense, or the truly naïve ones, just thought they were unblocking their prana, like that woman in the purple sweatpants who Bhumika brought along to the tearoom.
Sneha applied some coconut oil to her face. She had to be careful when meeting him; she couldn’t afford for anyone to see them together. He had a reputation and so did she, one she had to preserve at any cost. She sighed, realising they were a partnership. An unlikely one, but a relationship had been established. They were tied together now, and she would have to do what he asked. Up until now, he supplied and she distributed, but now he wanted to try something else. He had talked at length of a guinea pig, someone to test out his product, and she knew it would be up to her to find this person. ‘I have to keep diversifying,’ he said. ‘To survive, one must diversify.’ But it wasn’t just the drugs he wanted to talk to her about, and that was what worried her. He said he had to talk to her about something serious, and the tone of his voice had made her tremble. She knew then that it had something to do with Jackpot. She steadied her hands and took a breath.
She would have to follow his orders as he had followed hers. Sneha stood up and walked to her wardrobe. She selected some simple grey trousers and a thin linen shirt. She didn’t often wear western dress; it didn’t give the right impression to her students. Most of them, tourists, liked to be fully immersed in India – the idea they had of India, of yoga retreats and ashrams. Saris, shalwaars and harem pants were traditional, exotic. They gave the right impression, so she wore them, even though she didn’t necessarily like them. She changed into her clothes and took a scarf from her wardrobe to wrap around her head. This along with her bug-eyed sunglasses would provide the cover she was looking for.
Sneha closed the door behind her and slipped out into the evening. As she walked through the gardens to the rear access of the retreat, she thought again about Bhumika’s friend Christabel. She was nice enough, well suited to the detective inspector, if what Bhumika said was true. But with someone like Christabel and her boyfriend around, Sneha knew she had to be careful. Christabel was someone else that she would have to watch. But for now, she had to deal with Vadish.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Chupplejeep stared at the autopsy report Kumar had left for him earlier that day. It was impossible to complete a report in such a short space of time. It made no mention of the bruising he had seen on the victim’s neck, no mention of the swollen face that would give any forensic pathologist reason to consider strangulation. He had asked Kumar about the contusions, but the detective had shrugged them off. They were old bruises, made at least twenty-four hours prior to death, he had said. Surely that in itself should have been mentioned in the report. It proved that someone was angry enough with Jackpot to attempt strangulation. But as Chupplejeep said this to Kumar, he knew he was wasting his breath. Those marks were recent, and his gut told him they were the true cause of death.
The report in front of him was nothing but a work of fiction, citing high blood alcohol levels of 0.35% and evidence of a myocardial infarction – a heart attack. Jackpot’s doctor had confirmed that the ferryman had high blood pressure, high triglycerides at 400 milligrams per decilitre and alcoholic cardiomyopathy, which prevented the heart muscle working effectively. His heart chambers, particularly the left ventricle, were dilated, stretched and thin. It struggled to pump. The weakened muscle gave out, and Jackpot died. He had complained of shortness of breath and his ankles had been swollen, or so his doctor had said. He had prescribed a diet of fresh fruit and vegetables only and regular exercise. Chupplejeep could sense Kumar smiling as Jackpot’s doctor confirmed these things. It all supported the decision of closing the case down with a simple verdict of a natural death. Kumar’s last days on the force could be spent drinking feni with his sub-officers and planning his retirement party, not investigating a murder. He would probably get a big pay-out as well from whoever had committed the crime.
Talika had paid Chupplejeep a visit shortly after Kumar had called on her with the results. Technically Kumar should not have disclosed to Jackpot’s wife the autopsy findings until it was finalised and signed off, but someone like Kumar would not be fazed by such protocols. On the veranda of his villa, she had spat at Chupplejeep’s shoes. ‘This is what you wanted to prove?’ she had asked, her eyes red, raw from crying. ‘That my husband was a drunk, that he killed himself through his inability to stop himself having another drink.’ She turned to walk away then, and Chupplejeep knew he had to bite his tongue and let her go, but something stopped him. Instead he asked if Jackpot had complained of any physical ailments before his death. Talika had turned on her heel, narrowing her eyes at him. ‘What exactly are you trying to do, Detective?’ she had asked.
‘I’m trying to establish what really happened,’ he said. He didn’t want to mention the bruising on Jackpot’s neck. Talika turned back towards her villa but then stopped. She turned back and walked towards the detective. ‘He complained of dizziness,’ she said, ‘and he was tired. But then he was always tired. You take tourists for a trip on the lake in a boat, a boat without an engine, one that you have to row yourself in the heat, sometimes in forty-degree temperatures, and that too after all that drinking. You tell me if you wouldn’t be tired.’
Chupplejeep nodded. ‘And he drank regularly? Even after what the doctor had told him?’
‘Yes,’ Talika hissed. ‘He drank all the time.’
‘At home?’
Talika shook her head. ‘He mostly went to the taverna. Came home at all odd hours, smelling of aarak.’
‘Aacha,’ Chupplejeep said, although he knew that with just one drink of aarak you could smell of the fermented cashew drink for days, especially the home-brewed stuff they sold in the local taverna.
‘And he liked Old Monk rum?’ Chupplejeep asked.
Talika shook her head. ‘I never saw him drink that.’
‘I see.’
‘I don’t think you do, Detective. You’re seeing what you want to see. I see that I have no husband. I see the shame I will carry from his death, the way that he died, which you have now proved.’
‘He didn’t drink,’ came another voice. There was no mistaking the vo
ice. Chupplejeep had heard it the other night – the woman dressed in dark colours he had overheard talking with a man by the lake.
Talika turned. ‘You know nothing,’ she said to the woman standing behind her.
‘He told me that he’d cut down on his drinking. That he only had one or two drinks a day now, as a maximum.’
‘A fox can say that he does not eat chickens just before he devours an entire brood.’
‘Oh Mother, why do you only want to see the worst in baba?’ she said.
‘You’ll never see any bad when it comes to your father. You were the apple of his eye. He gave you whatever you wanted but even that wasn’t enough for you. I see you’ve finished talking with the author.’ Talika looked in the direction of another lakeside villa.
‘What’s it to you?’ Roshni said.
‘You’ll never learn.’ Talika shook her head and stalked off towards her villa.
‘Detective, we haven’t met. I’m Roshni, Ranjit’s daughter. I left Belgaum as soon as I heard the news. You know my father as Jackpot. The whole village does.’
Belgaum. He knew of the city in Karnataka, but still, every time someone mentioned the place, he couldn’t help but think of Belgium, where his favourite detective Poirot was from. Chupplejeep took a step towards Roshni and shook her hand as she approached. He introduced himself, explained he was not the detective on the case but believed that her father’s death should be looked at more closely. He had to be careful with what he said. He couldn’t give her too much hope. Because what if he was wrong, what if those bruises were old and what Talika had said was true, that he was seeing what he wanted to see. Was he trying to inadvertently divert his attention away from his relationship with Christabel and his biological parents? It was why he had called Kulkarni, asked him to pull a favour with the lab technician he knew in the Panaji forensics lab.
‘Can I ask why everyone called him Jackpot?’
Roshni laughed. ‘Everyone said he did well when he married my mother. She was young and beautiful. The local villagers joked. They said my father had won the jackpot. That’s how the pet name started. Not many people know that. But he was lucky, my father, lucky in many respects.’
He hadn’t been that lucky, Chupplejeep thought, not recently, but he kept that thought to himself. Instead he asked if Jackpot had married for love or if it was an arranged marriage.
‘Arranged? My father didn’t believe in things like that, but perhaps it should have been. My mother’s dowry comprised some money her parents gave her. Another reason for the name Jackpot.’
‘But they were happy, your parents?’
Roshni shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t say he won the jackpot. He was a simple man, like I’m sure people have told you, but he loved life. Despite what my mother said, he had stopped drinking excessively after his doctor gave him that warning. He didn’t want to shorten his life. Not when he knew what was coming.’
‘And what was coming?’
Roshni hesitated then and looked away. ‘You know, my marriage, grandchildren.’
‘Oh, you’re engaged to be married?’
‘N-no, but that would follow naturally, in good time, and a father would want to see his daughter get married.’
‘I don’t deny that.’
Roshni looked up. ‘Good, I’m glad you understand. Anyway, I must be off,’ she said, turning to leave.
‘Of course,’ Chupplejeep said, thinking about what Jackpot’s daughter had just told him and her animosity towards her mother, her hesitation when he asked what Jackpot was anticipating. He thought of the brief conversation he had overheard last night. Her curiosity at his arrival, his interest in her father’s death. Roshni was keen to tell him she only left Belgaum when she heard of her father’s death. Was there something more to that?
He looked towards the track, anticipating his friend. He was keen to hear Kulkarni’s report of what really happened to Jackpot that night on the jetty.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
‘It’s a beautiful spot here, eh!’ Kulkarni said. ‘I lived in Goa for most of my life, and I never even knew this existed.’
‘You didn’t.’
‘But then when do I have time to take holidays.’
‘Just last month you were unavailable when I needed you,’ Chupplejeep said.
‘Eh, that was nothing. My wife wanted me to take some days off for some faltu reason. I can’t even remember for what. That’s how useless it was.’ Kulkarni slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand.
Chupplejeep poured Kulkarni a glass of water from the bottle he had retrieved from the fridge. ‘I would offer you something stronger, but I know you’re on duty.’
‘A Kingfisher is not really strong though, eh,’ Kulkarni said. He grinned, exposing his white teeth, which contrasted sharply against his dark skin.
‘If you’re sure.’
Kulkarni looked at his watch. ‘On second thoughts, I had better not. I have to get back before someone notices I’ve been gallivanting all morning.’
Chupplejeep took his seat on the veranda and pointed to the empty chair. ‘Sit, then tell me. You have kept me in suspense for long enough.’
‘What I’m curious to know is why you’re taking extra tension on your holiday.’
‘I can’t resist a suspicious death, and there’s reason to be suspicious, unless you tell me otherwise.’
Kulkarni opened the notebook that he had been holding on to. He held it in his left hand and lifted his glass of water with his right. ‘It’s hot. What d’you think, the hottest summer we have had yet? The mangoes and guavas will be getting ripe.’
Chupplejeep shrugged. ‘Stop delaying, Kulkarni. Tell me about the body.’
Kulkarni smiled, enjoying the attention. ‘The initial report was correct in that Ranjit, or Jackpot, as you are calling him, had heart disease. There was evidence of muscle wastage in his heart. He had suffered from a heart attack in the past. A small one; he may not even have realised it. But it caused damage to his heart.’
‘But that wasn’t what killed him?’
‘Patience, my friend. I will get to that in good time.’
Chupplejeep retrieved a cold Kingfisher from the blue cool box by his feet.
Kulkarni licked his lips. ‘Perhaps I will have one of those, after all. Slyly conducting my own autopsy, with only the help of a rogue trainee medical examiner, is thirsty work.’
‘No questions were asked?’ Chupplejeep asked, realising that what he had asked his friend to do had been a big ask.
‘None that I couldn’t handle. Although after what I tell you, you will be asking some of your own questions, and then people will want to know how you found this out when it isn’t written in the official autopsy report.’
‘Let them ask. If they do, I can easily call for an independent examination of the body, claiming that I suspected foul play. They won’t do anything to jeopardise their careers. And they won’t take this any higher.’
Kulkarni laughed. ‘What makes you think the higher powers are bothered? With a small case like this, where the family are not even making a fuss, they’ll let their officers do what they want. The problem won’t be with them, the problem will be with the busybody detective that exposed them. You’ll never learn that though, will you? This won’t help you get a promotion, if that’s what you think.’
‘I could take it to Gosht.’
‘Your inspector general?’
‘Yes. He’d do something.’
‘Perhaps. But he’s been known to bend the rules to suit himself also.’
‘But he too wants a promotion, and this could benefit him. If another inspector general ignores a blatant miscarriage of justice and Gosht exposes him, it’d show him in an extremely good light.’
‘We’ll soon find out if that’s the case.’
‘What about getting back to the office?’ Chupplejeep asked.
‘My technician can cover for me. Only last week I stitched up his dog’s paw after it had been hit b
y a car. I can take my time.’
‘So you’re a vet now?’
‘What to do? The boy couldn’t afford to take his dog to the vet. You know how much they charge.’
Chupplejeep pulled out another bottle from the cool box, opened it with his keyring and handed it to the forensic pathologist. ‘Maybe this will loosen your tongue,’ he said. ‘Tell me about the bruising and the blood alcohol level.’
‘I don’t do my own bloods. I send them to the serology lab. So right now I can’t verify what was written in the report.’
‘Oh.’
‘Don’t look so disappointed. I’ll look into it. I have friends in that lab too. In fact, my wife’s best friend’s son works in the Margao lab.’
‘So what did you find out?’
‘The contusions around the neck were not old bruises like Kumar had suggested. And a good medical examiner would have mentioned the bruising even if they were not considered to be the cause of death. In my opinion the marks were definitely made around the time of death. In fact, all evidence points to death by strangulation.’
Chupplejeep leaned towards Kulkarni. ‘I knew it! Tell me more.’
‘You were correct when you said you saw the bruising,’ Kulkarni said, referring to his notes. ‘There are definite bruises from the murderer’s fingers and thumbs on either side of the trachea – the windpipe. The assailant’s thumbs were on the front, with finger bruises on either side of Jackpot’s neck.’
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