Bhavani, who has wisely used this long speech to finish his sandwich, finally manages gets a word in.
‘Sir, please can we ask – why is everybody so eager to pin this on General Mehra?’
‘Nobody’s trying to “pin” anything on anyone, Bhavani,’ the chief says virtuously. ‘I grant that this Aggarwal angle seems worth pursuing, but the Khuranas have no link whatsoever to the older corpse, unlike the general who definitely does.’
‘Yes, sir. We just feel all angles should be investigated, sir.’
The chief sighs heavily. ‘There is only one angle here. You’re going to have to put Mehra away, you know. Somebody much higher than you and I is moving the pieces.’
Bhavani wipes his hands on the small tissue provided by the sandwich seller. The gesture feels very Pontius Pilate-ish.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Don’t sulk, Bhavani. If you can find any concrete evidence against these others, bring it to me. If you can’t, let’s just reel Mehra in. With this tambola-rigging evidence in place it should be a piece of cake.’
Flights over the low-pressure area of the Bay of Bengal are notoriously turbulent and Bhavani’s is no exception. The aircraft bucks like a bronco bull with hiccups, and he has to grip the arms of his seat to keep himself from being flung about towards either the matronly lady on his left or the skinny teenager on his right, while deeply regretting the mayonnaise-laden sandwich now sitting uneasily in his stomach.
And of course, there’s all the turmoil inside his head. When he closes his eyes he can see a tiny Aryaman Aggarwal flashing his privates at Cookie Katoch, the pink flashing gums of Ajay Kumar on his wedding day, Ganga Kumar’s blue plate full of jasmine flowers spinning below the statue of Saraswati, a young Urvashi Khurana in the throes of labour, Behra Mehra at the frontline, the Poddars and the Todis taking a boat ride on the Banaras ghats at dawn …
The feeling that he has articulated to his chief several times comes back to him even more strongly. Somebody is leading the investigation up the garden path – very elegantly, very smartly. This somebody, who thought to obscure the gym camera with a bunch of gas balloons, and to bury an inconvenient body in an already dug up compost pit – is the real killer. Not Behra Mehra who is essentially a blunt instrument, but somebody else – with a sharper, subtler mind and, perhaps, some animosity towards the general.
Judging from the scene at the Daily Needs this morning, Mehra isn’t too popular anyway …
It has to be one of the hotties on the horticulture sub-committee, Bhavani thinks, shifting about in his seat and earning dirty looks from the matronly lady on his left.
Love ... and dosti – and equal-equal trust.
Roshni Aggarwal seems a likely candidate, but she is too cold to be friends with old Guppie Ram. No, he is clearly describing a friendlier person, a warmer person, a person who inspires loyalty!
Urvashi Khurana fits the profile of the killer, but she seems to have no motive. No matter how hard Bhavani and Padam dig, they can find no deep dark secret in either her life or her husband’s. None of Leo’s many camera recordings feature her doing anything that crosses the line. The Khuranas – father, mother and the two daughters (whom Roshni Aggarwal had described rather uncharitably as buffaloes swathed in Chantilly lace) – seem to have led an entirely blameless life.
The plane hits another air pocket and everybody gasps as weightlessness sucks at their belly. Bhavani’s chunky body rises a few inches into the air inside its belted seat, then lands back with jarring thud, and just like that several pieces fall into place inside his head with the dramatic ka-ching! of a slot machine hitting jackpot.
He sits riveted in his seat, a little thrill running right through his square, stolid frame.
Of course! There it is. Right before his nose. The only possible explanation.
He has finally divined Urvashi Khurana’s ‘secret’.
15
Killer on a Hat-Trick
‘What d’you mean I’ve been writing them to myself? Are you fricking insane?’ Bambi Todi demands of ACP Bhavani Singh at her residence on Aurangzeb Road the next day.
He sighs.
‘Bambi ji … please, we are very close to cracking the case. In fact, we will go so far as to declare it already cracked. All we need to do now is tie up some loose ends. Pardon us for saying this, but you have actually been wasting taxpayers’ money and our time with all this childish letter-writing. Do you know we had to travel to Kolkata to talk to Shri Poddar?’
She looks at him in complete horror. ‘What d’you mean you’ve cracked it? How could you have cracked it without finding out if these letters are from Anshul or not?’
Bhavani sighs again. ‘We have spoken personally to Shri Poddar. Face to face. We have collected handwriting samples of Shri Anshul from the house in Alipore, and had them analysed by handwriting experts. The writing is nat at all similar to the letters you have shared.’
She stares at him like she’s talking to a moron. ‘But the injuries could have altered his handwriting! Maybe he writes with his left hand now!’
Bhavani regards her with a mixture of exasperation and pity. ‘Anshul Poddar is dead and cremated, Bambi ji. Please make your peace with that.’
‘But I’m being stalked!’ she says as tears fill her eyes and stream unchecked down her face. ‘I’m being followed! I can feel it!’
But Bhavani just shakes his head.
Then, as she continues to stare at him in angry disbelief, he slides a pen and pad towards her. ‘Write down something here, for the handwriting experts. Ideally the text of one of the letters you received. We are sure you know them by heart.’
Bambi dashes the tears from her face, gives him an angry, fulminating look, then gets to her feet and flounces out of the room.
‘It’s weak, Bhavani.’
‘What are you saying, sir? We are nat saying it is the perfect solution, but it is worth investigating!’
The chief shakes his head gravely. ‘No, no, no. All these … theories of yours … are too airy-fairy, and not grounded in any kind of solid evidence! Here we have solid evidence! There is a revolver found buried with the victim. A revolver with one bullet missing. Mehra’s revolver. Ajay Kumar’s body. And from Srivastava’s phone recording, we know Mehra was trying to incriminate Khurana! It is an open and shut case!’
Bhavani, mindful of the first of his four tenets – that violence is futile – nods calmly and attempts a reasoned reply.
‘But sir, we do nat even have confirmation that the body in the beetroot patch is Ajay Kumar. It is all conjecture!’
‘Rubbish! We have Cookie Katoch’s video of the Aggarwal boy arguing with Ajay Kumar. And Ajay Kumar subsequently vanished.’
‘But he was nat arguing with General Mehra was he, sir?’ Bhavani says persuasively. ‘He was arguing with the Aggarwal boy. Where does the general fit into it?’
The chief gives an exasperated exclamation. ‘Arrey, this Aggarwal had been arguing with Ajay Kumar – about the price or the quality of the drugs or something else drug-related – so Ajay Kumar was already in a bad mood – then he must have found the general canoodling with his wife, lost his cool, pounced on the wife to beat her, prompting the general to play the hero and shoot him! Everybody was clearly getting high and happy at this big engagement party! No, Bhavani, you’ve been given a long rope on this one, you’ve had your little junket to Kolkata, now the time has come to bite the bullet.’
‘Sir, but what is the hurry?’ Bhavani asks. ‘We have only been on the case for two weeks—’
‘Yes, but it keeps coming up in the news, and it looks bad for the department if we don’t crack it soon!’
Bhavani’s expression grows stubborn. ‘But we are nat cracking it, sir, we are crooking it.’
‘Enough!’ the chief thunders. ‘I have been given my orders and I have given you yours! You will arrest General Mehra tomor
row. Is that quite clear?’
‘It is because he is too popular, hain na, sir?’ There is a peculiar, mocking edge to his subordinate’s voice.
The chief looks up sharply. The old ACP is sitting back in his chair, his expression sardonic. There is nothing genial about his face now. His eyes – wise, all-knowing eyes – are glittering strangely.
‘Rubbish!’ the chief says uncomfortably.
‘No, no,’ Bhavani says mildly. ‘We completely understand. It is nat the Pakistanis and the anti-national elements in the Opposition party who want to destroy General Mehra’s reputation and legacy, it is his so-called friends and supporters in the ruling party! He is invited to every news channel debate, he is hailed as the architect of the surgical strikes wherever he goes, he is applauded louder than the esteemed defense minister, Govardhan Ruia sa’ab at public meetings, and of course Govardhan Ruia cannat have that. So he himself has issued instructions to have Behra Mehra taken down a peg or two, and that is why the general’s service revolver has ended up in the kitchen garden mud. Are we nat correct, sir?’
The chief’s face is pale with suppressed rage. He looks furtively about the room, leans forward and lowers his voice. ‘Bhavani, we could both lose our jobs. Just go out there an—’
‘Yes, yes, we know,’ Bhavani Singh replies resignedly. ‘Just go out there and arrest the general tomorrow.’
In the sunny, potted-plants-filled living room of their Sector-44 house in Noida, Kashi and his sister are trying to revive a teenage ritual upon a Sikkimese carpet festooned with snow lions and dragons.
‘I’m tilting! Kashi, I’m scared! Stop it, you choot. Stop! Or you’ll give yourself a hernia. I’m calling Ma – Maaaaaaaaaa!’
Natasha is sitting cross-legged, precariously balanced on her brother’s back as he does push-ups.
‘Five … six … seh … seh …’ He collapses onto the carpet with a groan. ‘What the fuck, Nattu, you got fat!’
‘Haw!’ She tilts nimbly off his back. ‘You got weak, you poor fish, don’t blame me.’
‘Maybe I did,’ he admits, still lying face down on the carpet, flushed and out of breath. ‘Shit, I used to be able to do ten push-ups with you on my back, easy.’
She tousles his hair affectionately. ‘You got older, Kashua, it happens to everybody.’
Kashi sits up, scowling. ‘It’s all this soft-living and drinking on the weekends. I’m going to practice—’
‘Law,’ she tells him firmly. ‘You practice law. Not weird work-out routines, okay?’
He gets to his feet, massaging his shoulders gingerly, rotating his arms forwards, then backwards.
‘Okay.’
She leans against the legs of the sofa and watches him with narrowed eyes as he walks about the room, sipping from his cup of coffee, then raising his shirt to check out his abs in the sideboard mirror.
‘Spit it out, little bro,’ she says. ‘It’s your last chance. And you know you want to. Why have you crawled back to mummy–daddy’s house with your tail between your legs? Kya hui?’
He flops down on the carpet beside her, and stares up at the ceiling. ‘You think you’re so smart, Natti-the-tatti.’
‘Is it Kuhu?’ she asks sympathetically. ‘D’you think she’s swinging some hot tribal contractor up in the Kalahandi hills?’
His jaw drops. ‘What the hell, I never even thought of that! Wow, thanks a lot, bro!’
‘Don’t mention it, bro,’ Natasha says airily. ‘She’s such a smart girl, I thought she would’ve got bored with you. What has it been? A year?’
He nods. ‘Yeah.’
‘Ask her to marry you,’ Natasha says seriously.
‘But I’m only twenty-five!’
‘Yeah, well, she won’t say yes right away, obviously! Just let her know that your intentions are long-term. They are, aren’t they?’
Kashi nods. ‘Oh yes …’
Natasha looks at him critically. ‘Then why’re you looking so fucked?’
His eyes grow troubled. ‘I just wish … I wish I had met her earlier, you know? She’s so simple to love, so straightforward.’
‘You make her sound like a moron.’
‘She’s not a moron. I think my whole life would’ve been different if I’d met her earlier. But it may be too late now … I may never be able to love her with all of my heart – like she deserves to be loved.’
Natasha pokes his ribs with her big toe sympathetically. ‘It’s Bambi Todi, isn’t it? You’ve been hanging out with her again. After you met at the club that day.’
He nods.
‘You’ve had sex?’
He rears up, revolted. ‘No! I have a girlfriend! Christ, Nattu!’
‘Well, thank God, you remember!’ She rolls her eyes. ‘And?’
He glares at her. ‘And what?’
‘And is it as bad as before?’ she presses.
His eyes are agonized. ‘I don’t know!’ He lies back on the carpet again, raking his hair off his forehead and staring at the ceiling. ‘Nattu, is it possible to love two people equally at the same time?’
‘It’s possible,’ she allows. ‘But it’s incredibly painful. You’ll get completely fucked, and sucked dry emotionally, and eventually both of them will dump your sorry ass.’
‘Jesus! You’re not much hel—’
‘Balbirrrr! Kidsss! Look! General Mehra is being arrested on TV!’
Mala Dogra’s piercing scream brings everybody rushing to Dadi’s bedroom, where mother-in-law and daughter-in-law are having their mid-morning tea. The old lady looks bemused but flattered as they all collapse onto her double bed and stare riveted at the TV. Very hospitably, she increases the volume to max. Everybody winces.
Khooni General Hai Hai!
#ArrestMehra
Fauji nikla Mauji! Hawji Hawji!
These dramatic headlines appear in quick succession over shaky footage of the front gate of the DTC, where a thin, militant-looking female reporter in a red bandana is standing next to the moustachioed guards and speaking shrilly into the mic.
‘After two weeks of ceaseless, in-depth investigation, New Delhi’s Crime Branch is finally set to arrest the sinister double murderer who has claimed two victims inside India’s oldest, poshest and most exclusive club – the Delhi Turf Club! Our sources reveal that this cold-blooded, remorseless killer is none other than the architect of the surgical strikes and popular military hero, portrayed in last year’s superhit film Jhelum Bridge by Amitabh Bachchan – Lt. General Om Prakash Mehra himself!’
After flashing several images of the general – in uniform, in a pink Lacoste T-shirt and tennis shorts, holding a drink in a suit and tie at a party – the camera cuts to a congested lane in Greater Kailash II, and a narrow, double-storeyed house with an ornate gate, behind which an elderly golden spaniel is drowsing in the sun.
‘And here is the home of the killer general, ladies and gentlemen!’ hisses a manic looking male reporter with a heroic moustache. ‘A man so desensitized and immoral that he has named his dog Whisky! This is the den of vice he resides in!’
Whisky barks valiantly but even he cannot prevent the camera from zooming in through the gate and revealing glimpses of the Mehra front porch. There is a framed photograph of Guru Nanak, with an incense stick guttering before it, a sign in pretty tiles which reads ‘Savitri & Om Mehra’ and a friendly looking clay turtle sitting on a mushroom. The porch – and perhaps even the house inside – is spick and span, but somehow manages to look bereft and abandoned.
Now the shot veers sideways to capture the square homely face of ACP Bhavani Singh, dressed in unobtrusive plain clothes, speaking to the sea of cameras patiently.
‘Yes, yes, we have a non-bailable warrant for General Mehra’s arrest. It is for the murder of Sri Ajay Kumar, late husband of Mrs Ganga Kumar, three years ago, and for the subsequent murder of Leo Matthew, Zumba trainer at the DTC, two weeks a
go.’
‘Sir! More details please, sir!’
Bhavani raises both palms in a calming gesture.
‘We cannat contribute anything new! You people know everything much before we do! It is all already in the public domain. Three years ago, the general was enamoured of a young lady who had a troublesome, jealous husband, so he got rid of him in full fauji fashion with his fauji revolver, misused his position as head of the horticulture sub-committee of the DTC to have him buried in a composting pit at the Club and then grew beetroot over him for three whole years! Then somebody found out about this murder and started blackmailing him, so he poisoned this person with an overdose of popular party drug Pinko Hathni. We are going inside to arrest him and we urge that the lawyers do nat let us down, but put him away for a long time nat only for these double murders but also for besmirching the reputation of the armed forces and robbing our young children of a role model they looked up to!’
Kashi frowns. ‘Why is he talking like that? So insensitively? Almost flippantly? Bhavani is better than that …’
‘Being on national television does strange things to people.’ Natasha sighs. ‘And anyway, most cops are assholes. Just totally desensitized.’
‘You can’t make sweeping statements like that, Nattu! Bhavani’s a decent guy.’
‘Well, this arrest is preposterous!’ frets the brigadier. ‘Wasn’t this ACP excitedly pursuing some other angle, Akash?’
‘Yes, he was.’ Kashi nods, frowning. ‘I don’t get it—’
‘Oh look,’ says Mala Dogra. ‘They’re somewhere else now.’
The scene has shifted to another – incredibly familiar – location: the back gate of the DTC. Ganga can be seen sitting inside her little red car, gheraoed by the press. The wide, looming form of Inspector Padam Kumar is in the frame, standing in front of the bonnet, frowning at the journalists.
Club You to Death Page 28
