Chhotu likes carrots. He grasps her hand and together they emerge into the winter sunshine and walk down to the kitchen garden. They pass the tennis courts, very busy at this hour, cut through the cluster of guest cottages and come out near the rustic wooden fence of the kitchen garden. As they do, they hear the steady beep-beep-beep of a hazard horn, and the sound of a heavy engine reversing.
Ganga falters, then stops.
‘It’s the police,’ says an old sweeper, who happens to be leaning on his long-handled broom near the path.
Chhotu gives a little wriggle of excitement, phlegm rumbling wetly in his throat. ‘Police!’
‘They’re digging up the kitchen garden,’ the sweeper reports with relish. ‘They’re saying there’s a laash there.’
Ganga’s hand goes to her bosom. ‘What!’
Chhotu starts jumping from foot to foot. ‘A laash! Didi, didi, let’s look! I’ve never seen a laash! Didi, come!’
She gives him a little shake. ‘No, Chhotu! Let’s go back!’
But he shakes off her hand and goes sprinting down the path. Ganga gives an exasperated cry, picks up her sari pleats and chases after him.
They both arrive breathless and panting, within seconds of each other, at the kitchen garden.
‘Oh!’ Ganga’s lips part in a little exclamation of surprise.
The gate to the kitchen garden has been cordoned off in yellow tape marked POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS.
Beyond the cordon, a sinister-looking, mustard-yellow earth mover with massive, whirring wheels and a long, slender neck ending in an iron claw is feeding upon the ground like a giant, fantastic bird. The erstwhile pretty, peaceful garden appears disembowelled – spilling entrails of trailing roots, squelchy, dark dirt, snails, and muddy vegetables. There is a rich, overripe smell of dankness in the air. An earthworm wriggles by Ganga’s foot and she steps back with a gasp of horror.
‘Chhotu, let’s go back.’
But the excited child shakes his head, wriggles out of her grasp and ducks through the cordon. Ganga curses and follows him determinedly.
Inside the wounded garden, a crew of stubbly, sunburnt workmen, all wearing orange helmets and neon green jackets stand at the lip of a dark hole, talking and gesticulating over the sound of the earth mover. They all seem to be working under the supervision of the tall, handsome policeman who had come into Ganga’s store the other day – but today, he looks more intimidating, with his moustache very clipped and his dark sunglasses glinting in the sun.
Ganga grabs the collar of Chhotu’s shirt and yanks him backwards, out of the sight of the police crew. They both land with a thump on a lichen-covered rock at the edge of the garden, half obscured by the tulsi leaves they had come to pluck.
Chhotu squirms angrily. ‘I want to watch!’ he hisses.
Ganga finds she has lost the will to fight him. A peculiar paralysis has gripped her limbs and all she can do is stare, with a thumping heart and a sick, horrid sort of fascination as the slender neck of the mighty machine dips gracefully into the ground and the clawed head emerges, loaded with a mouthful of dark earth. The necks swivels, groaning a little, and the head dribbles out its gritty load. Then the neck swivels back to its original position, and the head bends again to take another voracious bite out of the ground.
Ganga and Chhotu are not the only audience. The plump grey-and-brown gauraiyas are watching as well, their heads cocked to one side, their eyes bright and inquisitive as they hop about in the wake of the digger, pecking for worms and insects in the huge upended mound of rich, brown earth.
Above and behind them, in the branches of the ancient neems, several yellow-eyed, hook-nosed cheels swoop down too to observe the proceedings with haughty, soundless interest.
The digger gives a low keening groan and dribbles out what look like the swollen mishappen limbs of hastily buried corpses onto the muddy ground.
Ganga gasps in horror.
‘Didi, it’s just mooli!’
And indeed it is nothing but a load of muddied white radishes.
‘Oh,’ she says faintly.
Chhotu shakes his head in disgust at her squeamishness.
The neck swivels back into the hole in the ground, and suddenly, the workmen begin to shout hoarsely. The neck freezes mid-air, hovering, as the crew discusses something animatedly, until the tall, fair policeman blows a whistle and the claw descends slowly, almost tentatively into the darkness.
Her nerves electrified by some sudden instinct, Ganga covers Chhotu’s eyes with her hand.
‘I want to see!’ he cries, struggling.
‘Shh!’ She places a hand lightly over his mouth.
And then has to bite down on her lower lip to strangle the scream of revulsion rising from her own throat.
Because the giant claw has just risen from the hole in the ground again. And this time something is dangling from it. A macabre, mocking thing, with stick-like white limbs, a semi-dismembered pelvic girdle, and what are clearly ribs. A thing with a gleaming bald pate, two hollow, staring eye sockets, a dark hole where a nose should be and two rows of yellowed teeth bared in a wide, grisly grin.
11
A Gun in the Mud
Roshni is staring down at Cookie’s messages on her phone blankly, when Aryaman walks into the room. He looks heavy-eyed with sleep – and in dire need of a shave, a haircut and a purpose in life.
‘Ma, can I get some dosh?’ he says dully. ‘I want to order a new router. The one I’ve got is too slow.’
‘Maybe you’re too slow.’ Her words come out with so much suppressed violence that he blinks, vaguely surprised.
‘What’d I do now?’
Roshni stares at him mutely for almost a minute, then says, ‘The police have dug up the DTC kitchen garden and found a dead body buried there.’
‘Huh?’ Aryaman looks at her blankly. ‘No way!’
‘Yes way.’ She copies the teenage lingo ironically. ‘Has your brain processed that information yet? Or should I wait half an hour for it to reach?’
He looks injured. ‘You’re using language that demeans me. The therapist said you should use language that builds me up.’
She takes a deep, calming breath. ‘Arya, did you hear what I said? A body has been found. Dead. In the kitchen garden. By the police.’
‘But who told them to go digging there?’ he asks, puzzled. ‘Were they looking for vegetables and dug too deep?’
She throws out her arms. ‘How the hell do I know, Arya!’
He draws back. ‘Why’re you looking at me like that, Ma? Do you think I—’
‘Shhush,’ she cuts him off fiercely. ‘Actually, don’t tell me anything. Don’t speak another word.’
They stare at each other in silence for a while. Then his eyes skitter away guiltily.
She draws a deep breath. ‘It’s my own fault! I was the one who had bete-ka-bukhaar, and kept hankering for a son in spite of having such lovely daughters! Your sisters are both so, so much better than you—’
He cuts in. ‘Yes, Ma, we all know how much you love your daughters and what a little shit I am! Are you going to give me the money for the new router or not?’
She stares at him in speechless fury for a moment, then lunges forward, moving with Zumba-honed speed, grabs him by the shoulders and shoves him against the bedroom wall.
‘What the hell, Ma!’
‘Back to your room,’ she says roughly. ‘No internet. No money. No wandering around. Just go back in there and let me handle it.’
‘Urvi?’
Urvashi Khurana is sipping a cup of chamomile tea, swinging gently in the white wicker daybed on the terrace of their beautiful Vasant Vihar home, staring out at the silk-cotton trees, which are in full, riotous bloom.
‘Hmmm?’
‘You heard?’
She looks around. ‘What, Mukesh?’
He says hesita
ntly, ‘Did you know?’
Her beautiful face grows inscrutable. ‘Did I know what?’
He blunders forward. The bruise around his eye, the mark of the dead Leo, has still not faded entirely.
‘About the body! In the kitchen garden! Did you know it was there?’
‘Oh that,’ she murmurs and sips her tea.
Mukesh stares down at her. The silence lengthens.
‘And if you did – who told you?’
She turns more fully towards him and gives a light musical laugh. ‘No, Mukesh! How would I know?’
‘Leo.’ He continues doggedly, ‘He knew for sure! That’s why he got offed! Matlab, it’s only logical! You two were as thick as thieves. Always exercising together!’
Urvashi puts down her teacup. ‘How many times, Mukesh Khurana?’ Her voice has a pained edge to it. ‘How many times have I asked you to exercise with me? Yoga, tennis, cycling, walking, anything! And how many times have you told me no?’
‘Don’t make this about my fitness!’ He is immediately defensive. ‘You ghumao things, and twist my words, and somehow always manage to put me in the wrong! Don’t I go to the gym and train with Thampi?’
‘You could train with me.’ Urvashi’s calm is definitely stirred now. ‘I’m a qualified yoga instructor, for heaven’s sake!’
He shakes his head, stubborn. ‘I can’t learn from you.’
Her face grows bitter. ‘Chauvinist.’
‘No!’ The word emerges like a maddened bellow. ‘I am not a chauvinist! I’m proud of your achievements – and your work ethic. I’m proud of our girls!’
Urvashi stares at him, bewildered, hands on her hips. ‘Then what’s the problem, Mukesh?’
There is a pause. Mukki is clearly trying to gather his thoughts.
‘Problem yeh hai, Urvi,’ he says finally, slowly, ‘that you have been wanting that kitchen garden dug up for months! You claimed it was for the rainwater-harvesting plant – but that could have been placed somewhere else also! So my question is – did you know there was a body in there?’
‘Of course not,’ she says crossly.
‘That snoopy item number didn’t tell you anything?’ he asks her. ‘Your Leo?’
She rounds to face him, pale. ‘Show a little respect for the dead, Mukesh!’
He lets out a loud, neighing laugh. ‘That’s a good one! Respect for the dead? How much respect did the police show for the dead – digging up some peacefully sleeping corpse today?’
‘Just what are trying to imply anyway?’ Her voice is icy-cool. ‘Why am I being interrogated in my own home, by my own husband?’
He’s walking agitatedly about the room now, whirling around every time he reaches the exquisitely papered walls.
‘You have secrets from me! You’ve always had secrets from me! A husband and wife shouldn’t have secrets!’
‘Can we please stick to the point? Which precise secret are you alluding to?’
‘You’re trying to phasao Mehra!’
‘Mehra is trying to phasao you,’ she says coolly. ‘He was clearly in cahoots with that club secretary, Srivastava, who rigged the tambola to start a fight between you and Leo. They’ve been keying you up for ages, going on about a non-existent affair between me and Leo. And you succumbed to their chaabi-ing and fought with Leo – then went to the gym five hours before the murder! They all think you poisoned Leo’s protein shake. That square, smiling policeman definitely does.’
‘I didn’t kill him!’ Mukki bellows agitatedly. ‘I would never poison a man! I’d take him in a fair fight!’
‘A fight between you and Leo couldn’t possibly be fair. He was so much younger and fitter than you,’ she says pityingly.
Mukki deflates slightly. ‘I know.’
He stops pacing, and sits down beside her on the daybed with a dejected thump.
‘I’ve made a total mess of things, haven’t I. You won’t win the election now, because of me …’
She turns to face him. ‘I believe you’re innocent,’ she says earnestly, ‘but they may not – and so—’
‘And so you’re trying to get them to suspect Mehra? Is that the game? If it is, then it’s a damned dicey game, Urvi …’
It is a very exhausted Bhavani Singh who pushes in the small gate and enters the house in Police Colony several hours later. Shalini, back from school some time ago, freshly bathed, and sipping a cup of tea in the jute swing-chair, takes one look at his face and gets to her feet.
‘I’ll get the cold milk.’
He shakes his head, his eyes tired but twinkling. ‘It’s Friday.’
She smiles understandingly and goes into the house. When she emerges, carrying two iced whisky-sodas, he is sitting in the rope swing and staring at the jasmine hedge, his mind clearly miles away.
She hands him his drink, and sits down on a moodha beside him.
Bhavani glugs it down like he’s drinking plain water. Shalini raises her eyebrows, then takes his glass and hands him her own.
‘We found the skeleton exactly where Guppie Ram said we would.’
She gasps. ‘Bhavani! That’s a huge breakthrough!’
‘Yes.’ He sips her drink slowly, savouring it this time, and his expression changes. ‘What is this, Shalu, why did you give us the Johnny Walker? The VAT 69 would have been just fine.’
‘Nonsense!’ she says firmly. ‘You’ve had a tough day. Spoil yourself a little.’
‘Chalo theek hai.’ Bhavani sinks back into the swing with a sigh of satisfaction. ‘Like you said, it’s a big breakthrough. President Bhatti can’t talk about self-inflicted drug overdoses any more! Leo was clearly murdered – that too because he knew about a previous murder! It’s all starting to add up!’
‘Fantastic,’ she replies. ‘So this was the body Leo was alluding to in the “Secrets” song!’
‘Yes.’
‘How easy will it be for you to identify the remains?’
‘Krishnan is on it,’ Bhavani replies. ‘He said he would phone as soon as he has something concrete. We will nat hold our breath though – it is a Friday night.’
The call comes when Bhavani is finishing his 5BX workout in his tiny garden the next morning. He picks it up while running on the spot.
‘Jai Bhavani,’ says the sardonic Tamilian voice.
‘Daaktar sa’ab!’ Bhavani beams, waving with one arm even though Krishnan can’t see him.
‘You’re panting like a carthorse, Bhavani. Call me back.’
‘No, no,’ Bhavani puts the phone on speaker. ‘Tell us please – we want to know everything.’
‘Well, there’s not much to tell,’ Krishnan replies. ‘We work best with taaza maal, and your offering wasn’t exactly daisy fresh.’
Bhavani waves all this aside. ‘What can you tell us about the body? Could the cause of death be ascertained?’ he demands. ‘Poison, like the previous time? Or something more violent? A blow to the head, a bullet in the back? Stab wounds?’
‘It’s a thirty-something male. But the man was in a compost heap, Bhavani,’ Krishnan says wearily. ‘All the soft tissue has decomposed or been chewed through. We’ve pieced the bones together, and there doesn’t seem to be any injury.’
Bhavani’s jumping jacks grow a little half-hearted. ‘So you have nothing for us?’
‘I didn’t say that,’ Krishnan replies. ‘There is one interesting thing. Are you done with your silly bunny-hopping yet?’
‘Yes, yes.’ Bhavani has reached the end of his workout, and is wiping his face with a hand towel. ‘Tell us, please!’
‘I think he may have been wearing some sort of costume jewellery – there are shards of some sort of blue stone in the mud that came with him.’
Bhavani is conscious of a tremendous feeling of anti-climax. ‘A blue stone? Like a neelam? A sapphire?’
‘Perhaps. We’ve washed it out nicely and it appears to b
e bluish. There are several large shards. About as big as sugar cubes.’
‘And that is … it … daaktar sa’ab?’ Bhavani knows he’s sounding petulant but he can’t help himself. ‘We sent you a tractor-trolley full of evidence and this is all you’ve got?’
‘Send a fresher corpse next time,’ Krishnan replies. ‘I’m not an archeologist.’
A bright red Mini Cooper drives up to the Crime Branch’s Tees Hazari office around noon, and a curvaceous yet slender young woman, all sweet smiles, doe eyes and softly curling brown hair emerges from it and enquires with pretty diffidence for ACP Bhavani Singh’s office.
An eager crowd of volunteers leads her to the office at once. She thanks them with a sweet effusiveness, then sticks her head into the door.
‘Psst, ACP!’
He looks up startled. ‘Bambi ji!’
She grins, walks in and takes the seat opposite him. ‘Nice cabin! You’re quite a big shot, huh?’
He wriggles modestly. ‘In a very small well.’
She fiddles with the pictures on his desk. ‘Oh, is that your family? They’re all so pretty!’
‘Thank you.’ He twinkles. ‘The girls have grown up and moved out though. It’s just mama bear and papa bear in the bear cave now.’
She gives a peal of laughter. Several people sitting just outside the cabin turn around. Bambi pulls a comically contrite face and leans in.
‘How’s your new corpse?’ she whispers.
Bhavani smiles wryly. ‘It is our old corpse, actually. Nothing but pearly bones. Therefore not very talkative.’
‘Oh! Then maybe it’s got nothing to do with Leo’s death at all?’
He nods. ‘That is a possibility too.’
She smiles at him encouragingly. ‘I’m sure you’ll get it to talk! I mean, there’s modern science and all now! Forensics!’
He waggles his head ruefully.
‘You’ve been watching too many Hollywood shows.’
‘Not me! I watch CID. You’re much better looking than ACP Pradyuman, by the way.’
Club You to Death Page 20
