by Vaseem Khan
‘The older man is Justice Kadir Khan,’ replied Howe. ‘Former Pakistani Supreme Court judge. He retired from the bench last year but remains a very powerful man in judicial circles.’
‘Why is he on the train?’
‘Because he requested it. His family has ancestral links to Kashmir and he has been a staunch advocate of Indo-Pak détente in the past. He has the ear of the Pak foreign minister – they went to school together. All he had to do was make a phone call.’
‘And the woman accompanying him? Is that his wife?’
‘Hardly.’ Fairbrother chuckled. ‘The judge is a widower, known for his rigid sense of correctness. Dallying with a woman half his age is not his sort of thing. The young lady he is dining with is Mary Ribeiro. She runs a blue-chip biotech firm in Bangalore, one of those superheated ventures that have shot out of nowhere in the space of a few short years, making her a very wealthy woman.’
Chopra’s gaze lingered on the pair, the patrician-looking judge with the greying hair and the dark-skinned woman impeccable in a vintage Gatsby cocktail dress. Clearly, Mary Ribeiro had a sense of style to go with her business prowess.
‘And how did she end up on this train?’
‘Money talks, Chopra,’ said Fairbrother obliquely.
‘I believe the word James is looking for is patronage,’ said Ellen Howe with a smile. ‘The rumour is Ms Ribeiro made a sizeable donation to the party coffers, in return for a berth aboard the Monsoon Express.’
‘Why would she do that?’
Fairbrother snorted. ‘Look around you, Chopra. This is the most significant event on the subcontinent in at least a decade. Have you any idea of the news coverage we’re getting? Not just in India but around the world. By the time this journey is over we’ll be able to write our own tickets, no pun intended. Ellen and I have had to fight off hundreds of chancers trying to get aboard.’
A wave of noise alerted them to the arrival of another guest. ‘Ah,’ said Fairbrother, ‘the man of the hour. Neil Bannerjee, the leader of the Indian delegation.’
Chopra had seen Bannerjee in the media plenty of times, but in person he seemed larger, loose-limbed yet powerful, like a bear. Dark skinned, in his early sixties, he possessed the dissolute features of a man used to fine living. He stopped momentarily by the Pakistani table, exchanged greetings, then moved further along to take up a seat with another delegate from the Indian contingent.
He immediately picked up a wine glass and waited for a fine red to be poured for him.
There was no doubt who was in charge there, Chopra thought. If you did doubt it, Bannerjee appeared the type to swiftly set you straight.
‘I wonder what sort of man he is?’ he mused.
Fairbrother said nothing for a moment, then, ‘He’s very sure of himself. That’s the sort of man he is.’
‘Very detail oriented,’ added Howe. ‘Borderline obsessive compulsive, from what James tells me.’
Chopra lingered on Bannerjee for a moment longer, before turning back to his companions.
The waiter arrived and they ordered dinner, a sumptuous affair prepared by a renowned Italian chef. Chopra could make little of the menu so relied on Homi to guide him. When the first course arrived, he examined, with incredulity, the tiny portion of duck nestled in the very corner of his plate.
‘Where’s the rest of it?’
The white-jacketed waiter smiled. ‘Sir jokes, of course. Duck perfetta is one of Chef’s finest creations. Your duck today was hand-reared on a small farm in Tuscany where each day it was bathed in scented lotus water and sung to by Franciscan monks. It has been poached in a water bath, infused with frankincense, and then lightly tossed in a bowl of liquid nitrogen.’
Chopra stared at the man, resisting the impulse to shake him by the throat until he regained his senses. Back in Mumbai, Chopra himself ran a restaurant, a humble affair, named after his wife Poppy. He tried to imagine what his own chef, Azeem Lucknowwallah, a hard-nosed traditionalist, might say if asked to lightly toss anything in liquid nitrogen.
‘Go away and get me some tandoori chicken,’ he growled. ‘Tell the chef that I want the whole chicken, not just one of its tail feathers. And if he molests it in any way, he shall answer to me. I have a gun.’
With dinner out of the way Chopra walked through the dining carriage, into the galley, then through the servants’ car, and finally into the goods car at the very rear of the train. The Monsoon Express rocked gently under him, a not unpleasant sensation.
Darkness had fallen.
As he looked out into the night he saw lights twinkling in the vast Indian hinterland, a reminder of the many villages that lined the route, tiny blisters of civilisation untouched by time. They were travelling north to New Delhi, where they would stop for a brief publicity splash in the morning, before continuing on to Amritsar. Here they would turn west and head directly towards the border at Wagah to make their historic crossing into Pakistan.
Ganesha stirred as he entered the luggage car, heaving himself to his feet and trotting over to wrap his trunk around Chopra’s midriff.
‘How are you, boy?’ He examined the mess of half-eaten fruit and vegetation strewn around Ganesha’s spot. ‘I see they’ve been feeding you. Or perhaps overfeeding might be more accurate.’
The compartment was lit with low-level lamps. He peered into the gloom at the rear. There wasn’t a great deal of luggage here. Most of the guests had their suitcases in their cabins. But for some that had clearly not been enough. He knew all the passengers were expected to attend a variety of functions along the route, especially once they crossed the border, but how much clothing could anyone possibly need?
Shaking his head, he turned and headed back to his cabin.
A case of insomnia
Chopra couldn’t sleep. The rocking motion that had seemed so soothing earlier now served only to keep him awake. He felt a sudden irrational desire to be back home, tucked up in his own bed with Poppy. His wife had always been a deep sleeper, but he was now so habituated to her presence that being away from her for any length of time was discombobulating.
Both hailing from the same village in the Maharashtrian interior, they had been married for twenty-five years. They had weathered much together – most significantly the fact of their childlessness – but had discovered in each other a love that had grown steadily with the passing years. He now thought of it as a banyan, a tree so sturdy and deeply rooted that it could survive anything fate might throw at it. The arrival of Ganesha had filled a vacancy in their lives. Poppy’s maternal instincts had erupted like a long-dormant volcano; Chopra had simply got out of the way. She had already called him half a dozen times to assure herself that Ganesha was being well treated.
‘Remember, if his dung is off-colour it means he is distressed.’
He had refrained from telling his wife that examining Ganesha’s bowel movements was not on his list of immediate priorities.
He sat up and turned on the bedside lamp.
It was just past 2 a.m.
He swung his legs off the bunk, pulled on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, and headed out. He walked to the end of the car, then on to the next of the sleeping cars. There were three of these in total, followed by a short, covered viewing platform – open on either side – that separated the sleeping cars from the driver’s cabin at the very front of the train.
Here he discovered that he was not the only one suffering from sleeplessness aboard the Monsoon Express.
A slim, dusky woman leaned over the railing, smoking a cigarette. Her attractive profile was bathed in moonlight. She looked familiar, but he couldn’t place her.
She turned as Chopra emerged into the night.
‘Hello.’
‘I am sorry to disturb you,’ he said. ‘I did not realise anyone else was awake.’
‘I couldn’t sleep.’
He hesitated, then moved to the railing.
‘Cigarette?’ She held out a pack of Camels, but he declined. She re
turned to staring out into the sweltering darkness.
‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Rustic, simple. A land that knows its own worth.’
Chopra agreed with the sentiment. ‘In the cities, we have lost that connection.’
‘You’re right, of course. Even when I am on location the scenery isn’t real. They’ll spend a fortune to turn some godforsaken village into a Bollywood version of what they think a village should look like.’
Now he knew who she was. Kimi Rawal, a middling movie star whose career had enjoyed its zenith a decade earlier. He hadn’t bothered to study the Monsoon Express’s guest list in any detail and wondered briefly why she was aboard what was, in essence, a diplomatic mission. Perhaps one of the PR people back in Delhi had wanted to add a little glamour to proceedings.
Something about the woman bothered him. She seemed upset, a tremor in her voice, an air of tension about her. ‘I’ve always felt that India was what one makes of it,’ he said. ‘There is no such thing as a typical Indian. The differences between north, south, east and west are so profound that we might rightly be called a collection of countries.’
‘Well said.’ She gave a grim laugh. ‘My name is Kimi, by the way.’
‘Chopra,’ said Chopra.
‘And what brings you aboard our travelling circus, Chopra? Are you in politics or show business? Though I dare say they are one and the same thing in our country.’
‘Neither,’ he replied. ‘I am – was – a policeman.’
She stiffened, then stubbed out her cigarette. ‘I think it’s time for me to turn in.’
He watched her leave. The woman’s abrupt departure was puzzling. Then again, for many in India, particularly women, the police were an institution to be feared, if not outright loathed. Perhaps she had had a bad experience with some of his former colleagues.
He turned back to the railing. The warm night billowed around him. A mosquito buzzed by his ear.
It was already proving to be a more interesting journey than he had anticipated.
Dead man’s cabin
Chopra awoke to a thunderous knocking. Blearily, he pulled aside his damask sheets and slipped off his bunk. Light seeped in from around the blackout curtains. The air conditioner made a soft hum in the background as he stumbled to the cabin door.
James Fairbrother’s blond figure crowded the frame. Over his shoulder Chopra saw the worried face of an Indian man he had been introduced to the evening before. What was his name now? Something Singh . . .
‘Something terrible has happened,’ spurted Fairbrother, without bothering with a greeting. ‘Could you come with us?’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘It’s easier if I show you.’
‘Very well. Give me a moment to dress.’
Briskly they made their way along the train to the first sleeping car. Here, in the corridor outside the furthermost cabin, Chopra found Homi Contractor. His old friend looked distinctly green around the gills and not in the best of moods. Homi had a fondness for fine liquor and a hair-trigger temper, a dangerous combination at the best of times. His bloodshot eyes hovered on Chopra’s beige duck pants, smart white shirt and newly shaved chin.
‘What are you dressed for? A date?’
‘I take it you’re the reason I’m here?’ said Chopra impassively.
Homi didn’t bother to answer, merely waved him into the cabin.
‘Whose suite is this?’
‘Neil Bannerjee, head of the Indian delegation,’ supplied Fairbrother, following them into the room.
The cabin was larger than Chopra’s own, a double to his single. This was the Maharaja Suite and the opulence reflected the grandeur of the title: a sofa, a shower and toilet complete with marble washbasin, silk sheets, a desk, and fittings in hand-carved mahogany. A champagne ice bucket sat on a side unit. On a coffee table set before the sofa was a chess set, mid-game, a whisky bottle, two whisky glasses and a marble ashtray in the shape of a turtle. He noted that the desk was buried beneath papers, though all arranged in neatly regimented piles. He’d seen that sort of maniacal neatness before; he remembered Ellen Howe’s comment about Bannerjee being an obsessive compulsive.
Chopra turned to the bed. On it lay the room’s designated occupant, Neil Bannerjee. The man’s lifeless face was turned to the cabin’s ornate ceiling, where a fan slowly turned.
‘He’s dead.’
‘Well done,’ said Homi. ‘You must be a detective.’
Ignoring his friend’s sarcasm, Chopra bent closer.
Bannerjee was still dressed in his dinner shirt and trousers, a cummerbund around his ample waist. His bow tie had been discarded and the open buttons of his shirt revealed short wires of greying chest hair. A bloodstain flowered over his heart.
‘Murdered?’
Homi nodded. ‘A preliminary inspection would suggest so.’
‘This is a disaster,’ said Fairbrother. ‘Have you any idea what this means?’
‘I can guess.’ He turned to the Englishman. ‘Why am I here?’
Fairbrother seemed puzzled. ‘I don’t understand. Your friend said you could help.’
‘I am a private detective,’ said Chopra. ‘This is a police matter. You must stop at the nearest train station and inform the authorities.’
‘And say what precisely?’ said Fairbrother. ‘Bannerjee was more than the Indian face of the goodwill mission. He is an exceptionally powerful man, a senior figure in the Congress government.’
‘Was,’ said Chopra. ‘Was an exceptionally powerful man.’
Fairbrother stared at him. ‘I cannot summon the police until I understand what happened here. If I bring in the authorities now, the press will have a field day. They will paint this as evidence of Pakistani underhandedness. Such speculation alone will derail the peace process. There are many – on both sides of the border – who have campaigned against the Monsoon Express and everything this voyage hopes to achieve. Hardliners who will use any opportunity to prevent the thawing of relations between India and Pakistan. All our hard work will be undone.’
‘The man has a point,’ said Homi.
‘Let me see if I understand you correctly: you are asking me to find out what happened here?’ Chopra sighed. ‘Have you any idea how difficult that will be?’
‘You must try,’ said Fairbrother desperately. ‘Please. For all our sakes.’
Chopra glanced at Homi, who shrugged. ‘Noblesse oblige, old friend.’
He turned back to the body of Bannerjee, his thoughts already leaping ahead to the road that now lay before him. Of all the murder investigations he had conducted during his lengthy career this would be unique and, if Fairbrother was correct, the one with the most dramatic consequences should he fail.
Wars between India and Pakistan had broken out for less.
It was a sobering thought.
First steps, first principles
The first order of business was to determine the exact cause of death.
Homi set to work.
He called for a plastic sheet and his medical bag. Snapping on latex gloves, he laid out the sheet on the bed beside the body and then – with Chopra’s help – rolled the body onto it. He next undressed the corpse, carefully bagging the clothes and any items found in Bannerjee’s pockets. These included a wallet containing credit cards, some cash, an Aadhar identity card, and a political affiliation card. He handed these to Chopra who examined them, then slipped them back into their evidence bags.
Homi, meanwhile, bent to examine the corpse, running his fingers over every inch of the man’s skin and under his hair. Next, he extracted a selection of steel instruments from his bag and laid them out on the bed. He picked up a scalpel and, with a roll of the shoulders, bent to the wound in Bannerjee’s chest.
Fifteen minutes later he stood back.
‘Without a proper autopsy there is little I can say with any degree of medical certainty. Nevertheless . . . Bannerjee was killed with a bladed instrument, a large, heavy knife woul
d be my guess. There is only one wound, which appears to have penetrated the right ventricle of the heart, causing death to occur almost instantaneously. There are no other wounds on the body, in particular no defensive wounds. Body temperature and the state of rigor mortis tell us that death probably occurred between eleven p.m. and two a.m. last night. He appears, on the surface, to be a relatively healthy male, in his early sixties. A little overweight, but nothing dramatic for a man of his age.’ He leaned over to the deceased politician’s face. ‘There’s something odd about his throat.’ Opening the dead man’s mouth, he peered inside. He straightened, grabbed a pair of surgical forceps, then bent back to Bannerjee’s mouth. ‘Something in here,’ he grunted. He pulled the forceps out and held them up to the light.
Caught in the ends was a small metallic object.
He set the object down on a porcelain plate.
Chopra moved closer to examine it.
The object was round, about three centimetres in diameter, two flat discs connected by a short spindle. The discs were each perforated by four holes. The object seemed vaguely familiar but he couldn’t place it. There was something wound around the spindle.
‘Can you get that loose?’
Homi picked up the object again, then, using a pair of needle-nosed grippers, set to work.
‘Paper,’ he said eventually, setting the thin, rolled-up cheroot onto the tray. Using the grippers, he slowly opened out the paper, which was beginning to disintegrate, having been lodged inside the dead man’s mouth for the best part of the night.
Peering closer, Chopra saw that there was a single word on the paper, written in Hindi. He read it out loud: ‘Aparigraha.’
He felt that he should know the word, but could not recall it.
‘I think we can safely say that that didn’t get in there by accident,’ remarked Homi.
‘You’re implying the killer put it there?’ said Fairbrother. ‘But why? What does it mean?’
