‘And Christabel?’ Chupplejeep asked.
‘She’s friends with someone I know – Bhumika. Bhum asked me if I would include her in the session.’
‘And that’s it, you just accepted her in. Bhumika must be a good friend.’
‘Something like that,’ Sneha said, looking away. ‘I give them all crystals,’ Sneha added, tilting her head slightly as she spoke. ‘The rose quartz is one of my favourites. It attracts love, unconditional love. It makes you trust again in your relationship; it opens up your heart to possibilities you didn’t think about before. We all need a little bit of rose quartz in our lives,’ she said pointedly, staring at Chupplejeep.
‘And was Jackpot a special student?’ Chupplejeep asked.
‘Look, Detective,’ Sneha said, ‘I’ve given you enough of my time, considering what has happened. I must get back to my press officer so we can make a statement soon.’ With that, Sneha stalked off in the direction of the administrative office at the rear of the building.
Chupplejeep walked back to the lobby, looking for Christabel. As he did so, he took his mobile phone out of his pocket and dialled Kulkarni’s number. He asked him if he could gain access to examine Tim’s body. Kulkarni made a fuss, but eventually agreed. He knew his friend would find a way.
~
‘So what did she have to say?’ Christabel asked as she walked with Chupplejeep back to their villa, his arm securely around her shoulders.
‘You’re interested in the case?’
‘I knew Tim.’
‘She didn’t say much.’
‘I see. You two were chatting for quite some time.’
‘Are you okay? You seem irritated.’
She scowled. She was annoyed, but she didn’t want to be. She wondered if this was karma coming back to get her. ‘I saw her flirting with you.’
‘Who?’
‘That woman.’
‘Who? Sneha.’
‘Yes, Sneha. Don’t think I didn’t see her laughing and touching your arm like that.’
‘That was flirting?’
Christabel stopped walking. She turned and looked at her boyfriend. She could always tell if he was lying. ‘You oaf, of course that woman was flirting.’ She scowled.
Chupplejeep laughed. ‘That woman? That same woman who was the “wonderful Sneha” before, unblocker of the energy of life.’
‘Whatever,’ Christabel said, shrugging his arm off her and storming off ahead. She’d had enough of the retreat, unblocking her prana and that boyfriend stealer!
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Vadish considered his two clients, both of whom had a healthy interest in Jackpot, each with their own reasons for wanting the boatwalla dead, or so he had initially thought. But after thoroughly investigating both clients, he had come to the conclusion that only one would truly benefit from Jackpot’s death, and he knew that letter of Jackpot’s was the key to everything.
He had been asked to stage a burglary at Jackpot’s house to worry the ferryman, but Vadish wasn’t sure this outcome had been achieved. Jackpot had taken the burglary in his stride. Vadish, who had been monitoring the boatwalla’s moves, had seen no change in his demeanour. Was his apathy the reason why he was now dead?
Clients rarely acted so quickly on their own, especially after having sought out his services before. It could only mean one thing – they were desperate, and Vadish knew he had to be wary of such people. If they were not afraid to do their own dirty work, they were not troubled by the repercussions either. This client seemed so calm and collected on the outside. He had to ask himself if this client had anything planned for him. If that pesky detective cornered them, would the killer’s finger point towards him? Is that why they had used the bandana over the strangulation marks like his uncle had often done, to set him up? The murderer was smart. He supposed it was an insurance policy.
Everyone locally knew that Vadish was the go-to thug, and that irritating detective had already been on the phone to him. A local, who he could only assume was the U.S.-returned Dilip Mendonca, had passed on his name in connection with knowing about the more unsavoury matters of the village. Maybe he should tell the detective about his friend and what he had been getting up to. Dilip Mendonca was not as innocent as he liked people to believe. Chupplejeep wanted to meet him, and he wouldn’t take no for an answer. This detective was not as bumbling as he appeared. He was smart and persistent. It was detectives like him that one had to stay away from.
Vadish rubbed his forehead with his fingers. It wasn’t just Jackpot’s death that he had to be wary about; there was that other matter as well.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Pankaj slipped the key into the rusty padlock on the police station door and let himself in. Manju was either having a siesta somewhere or finding out where Mr Da Costa’s watches were. As much as he wanted to think the new office assistant was working hard, he could picture him sitting under the shade of a banyan tree, sketching. Pankaj walked over to the kitchenette, put the kettle on and checked his mobile phone. Still no message from Shwetika. He wondered if the new telephone mast they had erected in the area had a fault. It wouldn’t be the first time, but this was wishful thinking; his mobile phone showed full reception. He scrolled through his messages and sighed. His last message asked her when she was free to meet. The previous one asked if she was okay. And the message prior to that had come from Shwetty, cancelling their date for ice cream at the beach.
The message upset him. It didn’t end with her usual three kisses either. The more he studied it, the more she sounded indifferent to them meeting. Was that why she didn’t want her family to know about him? Her excuse was that they would pressure her into marriage, but maybe she was using them as a defence to cover up her real feelings for him. Did he like her more than she liked him? His heart sank. He wanted a marriage as strong as Mr Da Costa’s. He knew that fellow had a strong marriage because as he was leaving his house, Mr Da Costa’s mobile phone, lying on the console table in the hall, had lit up, displaying a message. Miss you, baby, the message had said. Mr Da Costa and his wife had been married for over seventeen years. He knew that from the picture hanging in the stairwell, the date of their nuptials engraved on the silver frame. And still they loved each other.
Pankaj hoped that he and Shwetty would be sending each other such messages after seventeen years of marriage, but, considering the current state of their relationship, it seemed unlikely that they would even get married. She wasn’t even interested in signing off with a kiss now; soon she might not want to see his face. The day she had stood him up, he had spied one of her few friends that knew about their relationship at a table in the Cafe Coffee Day, and he had questioned her, but her friend had passed it off. ‘She’s busy, I guess,’ she said as she played nervously with her dupatta, avoiding his gaze. Then she quickly made her excuses and left.
The kettle clicked. Pankaj poured hot water into a mug, adding a peppermint tea bag. He took his phone out of his pocket again, walked to his desk with his tea and settled himself on his chair. He started typing a message to Shwetika. How many messages would make him sound desperate, or was he already there? He deleted the message he had started typing and quickly put the phone on his desk. He crossed and uncrossed his arms as he stared at the phone, willing it to ping with a message from her.
No luck.
He would send just one more message. Three messages to her one didn’t sound too desperate, he reasoned. It sounded concerned, although he was desperate. Was she thinking of dumping him? He shuddered at the thought.
He was just about to pick up his phone when he heard the door to the station open.
‘Manju,’ he said. ‘You’ve been out all day. It’s nearly clocking off time.’
‘Sorry, P.’
‘P?’
‘You don’t mind if I call you that, do you, Officer? When I was out today, I thought, I can’t call you ‘sir’. We call Sir, sir, and it will be very confusing, don’t you think?’
&
nbsp; Pankaj nodded. The boy had a point. They both called Detective Chupplejeep ‘sir’. But P he did not like. P sounded like something you did in the toilet.
‘How about you continue to call me ‘Officer’?’ he suggested.
Manju shook his head from side to side, that typical Indian expression of agreement, and smiled, exposing the gap between his front teeth. ‘Officer, I’ve struck gold,’ he said.
‘You have?’ Pankaj slid his phone back into his pocket. Shwetika would have to wait. If Manju had a lead, he needed to hear it, because he had no suspects and no idea how the crime had been committed. The door to Mr Da Costa’s office, where the watches were kept, had been closed, with Mr Da Costa standing right outside, and the drawer with the watches had been locked.
Someone could have taken the spare key for the drawer from Mr Da Costa’s room and made a copy; that was a possibility. But how did they access the room in the first place to be able to use it? He had no idea. He had made some serious decisions whilst his boss had been on leave, namely he had given Manju a sort of promotion, but what good was it making such big decisions if he couldn’t solve a simple case like this? Chupplejeep had placed his faith in him when he decided to take a well-deserved holiday, telling Inspector General Gosht that he was most capable of holding fort so that they didn’t have to get a temporary detective inspector in. He had to prove himself and live up to Chupplejeep’s expectations – which meant solving this case without calling his boss every five minutes. Although he wished he could. Chupplejeep had a way of looking at cases, turning them inside out and then solving them.
‘I went to visit my contact.’
‘You have a contact?’
‘Oh yes, but I cannot name him. He’s what you call an informant. And he is very reliable, but in return for the information he gives me, I have to keep his identity a secret,’ Manju said, pushing his curls away from his eyes.
He pronounced ‘secret’ like ‘cigarette’, and Pankaj was about to correct him but then thought better of it. Instead he nodded, and an unfamiliar sensation washed over him. He realised this feeling was jealousy. He didn’t have any reliable informants. Friends who he could call on for favours, yes, but an actual informant, no. For a moment, he wondered if Manju would be better than him at solving crimes, but then he quickly swept aside the thought. He was the one who had passed out of the Police Training School with a distinction.
‘Go on then,’ Pankaj said, resuming his usual relaxed manner.
‘I paid a visit to my informant, because you know what these people are like. They tell you more when you make the effort to see them. I even took some ladoos from the mithaiwalla with me. You know, to sweeten the deal, literally.’
Manju was right. Face to face you could usually tell if they were telling the truth or spinning a yarn. Most people could, and officers and detectives most definitely could, unless the informant was truly Machiavellian.
‘I didn’t buy any sweets for the office, but next time I pass, I will surely get some to celebrate you allowing me to do some real investigating of my own. Anyway, my informant was in a good mood. Why do you think that was, Officer?’
Pankaj wanted to tell Manju to hurry up with giving him the information, but he bit his tongue. Some people needed to take their time, and why did he really want him to hurry up with his story? So that he could solve the crime or text Shwetika? He took a sip of his peppermint tea, trying to ignore the mobile phone burning a hole in his pocket.
‘He was happy because he was coming into some money. The watches have most definitely been stolen, because they are for sale on the black market.’
‘They are?’ Pankaj asked incredulously. Who did Manju know that had information like this at their fingertips? Finding out something like this would usually have taken him days, by which time the watches would have been sold and long gone. He had to applaud his assistant in getting the information so quickly. He was just about to congratulate Manju when he had another thought. What sort of people did Manju hang around with to have this information to hand? Did he have a criminal past? They had taken a reference at the station before he was employed, but everyone knew a reference wasn’t worth the paper it was written on.
‘They are for sale with a man who is known for dealing with stolen goods.’
‘Who’s this broker? Let’s get him in.’
Manju shuffled over to his desk and sat down. ‘We can’t do that, Officer. My informant won’t give me his name. He called him though, when I was there. That sweet ladoo did the trick. The man confirmed the watches. “It isn’t every day you get two such highly priced goods come onto your books,” he said.’
‘But we have to get him in. He may not just be dealing in stolen goods; he may be stealing to order. Did you think of that?’
Manju scratched his head. ‘I didn’t,’ he confessed. ‘But my informant guarantees that he is only a trader of such items, that he would never get his hands dirty by breaking into someone else’s property.’
Pankaj made a face. Criminals had their own idea of what getting their hands dirty meant. This fellow’s hands were already dirty when he decided to deal with stolen property. He closed his eyes. Now what? He was tempted to call his boss, but then he had an idea. His eyes snapped open. ‘Call your informant and tell him to halt the sale of the watches.’
‘What? He won’t do that.’
‘He has to. It’s an order.’ Pankaj knew as soon as the words left his mouth how foolish they sounded. They wouldn’t listen; they were thieves. They thought themselves above the law.
Manju was silent. Pankaj wondered what Chupplejeep would do in this situation. He put his head in his hands. ‘What do we do?’ he muttered.
‘We could purchase the watches.’
Pankaj shook his head. ‘That idea is even more stupid than mine,’ he said. ‘Do you think this station has the money to do that? Look around you.’
Manju did as instructed. Sweat dripped off his brow. His eyes were fixed on the slow-moving fan when Pankaj said, ‘And anyway, they are stolen goods. We shouldn’t have to buy them back. That isn’t solving the case. Is there no way your informant will disclose who this fellow is?’
Manju shook his head. ‘No chance.’
‘At least it proves the watches were stolen and that Mr Da Costa isn’t making this up.’
‘Why would he make it up?’ Manju asked.
‘There isn’t insurance on the watches, we’ve checked that, so it wouldn’t be for a claim. But some people just like the attention,’ Pankaj said, thinking back to a case he was involved with not so long ago where the victim of an arson attack was no such victim at all, just a lonely widower looking for some attention.
‘If Mr Da Costa had lied about standing outside the room while the watches were taken, that would make the most sense.’
Pankaj agreed. Although Da Costa seemed far from someone who did things for attention. He was a secretive man, someone who kept his private matters private, and it was for that reason Pankaj concluded that the complexity of the burglary was part of the plan. For a man who liked order as much as Mr Da Costa did, it would drive him crazy to know that the watches were stolen from under his nose. Pankaj looked up. That was how he needed to look at the case. Who would want to drive Mr Da Costa mad?
‘How much are the watches going for?’ Pankaj asked.
‘Less than half of their retail value.’
It was still a lot of money, but now Pankaj was certain it wasn’t just money the thief was after. He walked over to the window and looked at the blossoming hibiscus, instantly relaxing as he focused on the vibrant red petals. Something moved next to the flower, catching his eye. It was a brown-and-white banded bay cuckoo. The kind he was certain were nesting on Da Costa’s roof. He was right, they were common in these parts, not that Mr Da Costa wanted to know. He stood watching the bird as Manju mumbled something.
Pankaj turned on his heel and looked at Manju. ‘What did you say?’ he said, tilting his head and giving
Manju a curious look.
‘I said, let’s hope she gets her price.’
‘Who?’
‘The woman who the broker’s selling the items for.’
‘Why didn’t you say this earlier?’
‘You didn’t ask.’
‘What else?’
‘Nothing!’
‘That’s all?’
‘Well, he said one thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s nothing, really.’
‘Just tell me.’
‘This broker told my informant that this woman was hot – hot, hot, hot.’
Pankaj turned back to the window and looked out. The cuckoo adjusted itself on the branch it had perched on. He recalled the wedding photograph of Mr and Mrs Da Costa hanging in the stairwell, the phone call Mr Da Costa had left his office to take while the watches were taken, and the text message he had seen flash on Da Costa’s phone.
‘Oh my goodness,’ Pankaj said, looking back at Manju, a smile forming on his lips.
‘What?’ Manju said. ‘Tell me, what?’
‘I think I’ve cracked it. I really think I have.’
‘What? What?’ Manju asked. But Pankaj wasn’t listening to him. He was at Chupplejeep’s desk, the old green telephone handset pressed firmly to his ear as he carefully dialled a number he had etched in his memory.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Chupplejeep put down the copy of Arjun Chopra’s The Tide that he had purchased from the local mini mart. He hadn’t been surprised to see the book there. The author lived in the village, so he had probably supplied the shop with the copies. He was three-quarters through the book, but it wasn’t holding his interest. The atmosphere was flat, the plot was weak and the only female character in the book irritated him. Only the delicate relationship between the two brothers had been well-executed, possibly because this Chopra fellow had a brother, or so his author biography at the back of the book claimed. The two brothers, born equal, were now worlds apart. One brother was rich and powerful, the other penniless. The way Arjun had portrayed their mannerisms and dialogue conveyed an undercurrent to their relationship, one that Chupplejeep was sure would end in murder. Still, it wasn’t enough to sustain him. He certainly wouldn’t be buying any further books by this Arjun fellow.
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