Last Victim of the Monsoon Express

by Vaseem Khan

  She looked away, out of the window, at the crop fields swaying under the blowtorch of the sun as far as the eye could see. The remains of an old fort flashed by, cow dung patties drying on the walls.

  ‘How could this happen?’

  The question seemed rhetorical and Chopra did not bother to reply.

  Following Rawal’s departure, he asked a steward to fetch Aparna Sen.

  Sen, a petite, attractive woman in her early fifties, reacted with shock at the news of Bannerjee’s death. For an instant Chopra thought the woman might succumb to weeping, but she managed to retain her composure. He asked her about Kimi Rawal; Sen confirmed that she had indeed spent the night in her cabin, citing her husband’s insomnia.

  ‘Did you see her leave in the night? More importantly, did you see her return?’

  Sen shook her head. ‘I take sleeping tablets, I’m afraid. The train could have crashed and I would not have known.’

  ‘What can you tell me about her?’

  ‘Not a great deal. I didn’t know her well. We’ve become acquainted since I was selected to be part of Mr Bannerjee’s team, but we don’t really socialise.’

  ‘How would you characterise their marriage?’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand your meaning.’

  ‘Ms Sen, you are clearly an intelligent woman. I doubt you would have been selected for this mission otherwise.’

  She stared at him, then seemed to collapse inward. ‘It would be indiscreet of me to say anything.’

  ‘Don’t you think it is a little late to worry about discretion?’

  ‘You are right, of course. God knows how they will react back in Delhi once they find out about Mr Bannerjee’s death.’

  ‘Which is why it is all the more important that we have an explanation ready.’

  She gulped, the enormity of the situation once again striking her. ‘I believe there were some issues. Kimi – Mrs Bannerjee – confided in me once that she wished to have children. Mr Bannerjee did not. He felt that he had left that part of his life behind. He wished to focus only on his career. Many in the Congress Party believed he was the right man to lead us into the next general election.’

  ‘I suppose that sort of ambition doesn’t sit well with fatherhood, not at such an advanced age,’ mused Chopra. He almost found himself sympathising with the murdered man. His and Poppy’s childlessness meant that, for most of his life, fatherhood had remained an abstract concept. But the arrival of not only Ganesha but ten-year-old Irfan, a boy from the streets who had joined the restaurant a year ago, had changed all that.

  Irfan now lived at the restaurant and had become firm friends with their elephant ward. Poppy had all but adopted the boy, not that Irfan would accept all that she wished to do for him. He had grown up on the mean streets of Mumbai; a streak of independence would always remain a part of him and for that Chopra was glad. Irfan had given him a sense of what fatherhood might have entailed, but he had no wish to become an overbearing presence in the boy’s journey to adulthood.

  ‘What was he like to work with?’

  A grim smile clamped itself around her mouth. ‘He was a dynamic man. He led by example. He will be a great loss to us all – to the Congress and to the nation.’

  Chopra wasn’t so sure that others would be so ready to paint such a shining portrait of the murdered man.

  A kerfuffle at the entrance to the dining car broke into his thoughts.

  He stood as a trio of men dressed in identical green jackets approached, the breast pocket of each embroidered with the Pakistani flag. The leader of the pack, the thickset man Fairbrother had pointed out to Chopra the evening before as Hassan Sher Agha, charged forward with brisk, angry steps. He jabbed at the air under Chopra’s nose as if punching the buttons inside an invisible elevator.

  ‘This is outrageous,’ he said. ‘You have no authority over us. You cannot take our phones.’

  ‘I am afraid this is a matter of national security. As such I am empowered to take any measures I deem fit.’

  ‘What are you talking about? What matter? Have you any idea who I am?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Chopra. ‘I do. You are Hassan Sher Agha, Neil Bannerjee’s counterpart in the Pakistani delegation. I regret to inform you that Mr Bannerjee passed away in the night.’

  Agha stared at him. ‘Impossible.’

  ‘He was murdered,’ said Chopra calmly. ‘In his suite. Did you, by any chance, visit him there after dinner?’

  Agha turned as one of his deputies, Moeen Elahi, pulled at his elbow, then whispered urgently into his ear.

  Agha straightened. ‘No. The last I saw him was at dinner.’ He blinked again. ‘This is terrible. How could this happen?’

  ‘That is what I have been tasked to find out.’

  ‘But why must you take our phones?’ asked Imran Reza, another of Agha’s compatriots.

  ‘Because he doesn’t want anyone outside of this train to know what has happened,’ supplied Agha. Then to Chopra: ‘Surely, you don’t suspect any of us of involvement in Bannerjee’s death?’

  ‘I warned you not to trust them,’ interrupted Elahi.

  ‘It is too early in my investigation to jump to conclusions,’ said Chopra firmly.

  He was prevented from asking anything further by the breathless arrival of Singh, the security chief. ‘We’ve found something,’ he said.

  The right man in the wrong place

  Singh led him back up the train to the second of the sleeping cars. Here he found Homi waiting for him. They entered the cabin, the Nizam Suite, together. It was all but identical to the Maharaja Suite at the front of the first carriage. One of Singh’s men stood beside a marble-topped table. On the table was a towel, and on the towel lay a knife. It was distinctive, with a long, heavy blade, and a handle tooled in black obsidian with a Japanese inscription etched into it. A splash of colour had soaked into the towel.

  Blood.

  ‘Where did you find it?’ he asked.

  ‘It was hidden inside the wardrobe,’ replied the security officer, ‘behind a suitcase.’

  Chopra steeled himself. ‘Whose suite is this?’

  ‘Hassan Sher Agha’s,’ said Singh.

  There was a gasp from James Fairbrother, who had just entered the room.

  Chopra turned to Homi. ‘Is there any way to determine if that is Bannerjee’s blood on the knife?’

  ‘Not without a lab, there isn’t,’ said Homi. ‘But what I can do is test to see if it is the same blood type. I have test kits in my medical supplies.’

  ‘Let’s make that the first order of business.’

  They waited, anxiously, as Homi carried out the test. He had previously taken a vial of blood from Bannerjee’s corpse, storing it in the galley’s fridge so that it might be used later.

  Once he was done he peeled off his gloves. ‘Definitely the same blood type as Bannerjee. AB negative. Relatively rare on the subcontinent. I should also add that there are no prints on the knife.’

  ‘So we can assume – for now – that this is the murder weapon,’ said Chopra. He turned to Singh. ‘Please go and find the chef.’

  Singh returned in short order, the chef – a man named Belzoni – trailing behind him. Quickly, Chopra explained the situation, then said: ‘Do you recognise this knife?’

  The chef blanched. ‘It is one of a set from the galley.’

  ‘Are you certain?’

  Belzoni hesitated. ‘I can check for you, but, yes, it looks identical.’

  They waited as he made his way back down the train to the dining car. When he came back he gave Chopra the confirmation he had been seeking. ‘Yes. One of our knives is missing.’

  ‘Do you lock them up at night?’

  ‘No,’ replied Belzoni. ‘What would be the point? Who would steal a knife on a train?’

  ‘Someone did,’ said Chopra. ‘And then used it to murder Neil Bannerjee.’

  He turned to Fairbrother, who had been joined by the American, Ellen Howe. ‘I am afraid
I have no choice but to bring Agha in.’

  ‘On what basis?’ protested Fairbrother. ‘Anyone could have put that knife in here.’

  ‘I can only go by the evidence at hand.’ He turned to Singh again. ‘Can you bring him here? Do not tell him why, just say that I have some follow-up questions.’

  Singh returned quickly, Agha charging ahead of him like a bull with toothache. His colleagues from the Pakistani delegation trailed in his wake.

  ‘We did not finish our conversation,’ he huffed as Chopra met him in the corridor. He seemed to realise where he was and his face swelled. ‘What the hell are you doing in my cabin?’

  ‘Please step inside, sir,’ said Chopra woodenly. He led Agha into the suite, and showed him the bloodstained knife. ‘We found this in your wardrobe.’

  Agha blinked. ‘Impossible,’ he finally managed. ‘That is not mine.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Chopra. ‘It was stolen from the galley last night and used to murder Neil Bannerjee.’

  Agha stared at him and then comprehension dawned. ‘And you think I was responsible? Have you lost your mind?’

  ‘I am afraid that I have no choice but to confine you to your suite. One of Singh’s security officers will stand guard at the door.’

  ‘You do not have the authority,’ bellowed Agha. His fists clenched and unclenched by his side.

  ‘He is correct,’ chimed in James Fairbrother. ‘You cannot arrest him.’

  ‘I am not arresting him,’ said Chopra calmly. ‘I am restricting him to quarters while I continue my investigation. If he is innocent we will find out. If not, I cannot permit a possible killer to move freely among the other passengers.’

  ‘My God, man, you really are insane,’ exploded Agha. ‘Have you never heard of diplomatic immunity? I could slaughter everyone on this train and you could not touch a hair on my head.’

  It was an unfortunate turn of phrase.

  ‘You see!’ came a cry from the doorway. ‘Finally, they show their true colours.’

  Chopra turned to see a tall, heavy-bellied man blotting out the light. He recognised him from the interviews he had conducted just a short while earlier. His name was Jagmohan Panday, and he was another member of Bannerjee’s Indian delegation. Panday’s moustache quivered with rage. He pointed a finger at Agha. ‘You say you could kill everyone on this train and escape justice? That is exactly what your people did in 1947.’

  ‘It wasn’t us who escaped justice,’ came a voice from behind Panday. ‘It was you!’

  Panday stepped aside to reveal Agha’s compatriots, Imran Reza, Moeen Elahi and Rabiya Baig, in the passageway. The man who had spoken, Imran Reza, Agha’s second-in-command, was a full head shorter than Panday, his stomach straining at the lower buttons of his shirt, his dyed hair as black as liquorice.

  The two men exchanged venomous glares, and might well have come to blows had Chopra not intervened. With Singh’s help he separated the scuffling delegates before sending the Indian contingent away with Ellen Howe.

  The Pakistani delegates crowded into Agha’s room. ‘Are you going to stand by and let this happen?’ asked Rabiya Baig, directing herself to James Fairbrother.

  Fairbrother looked helplessly at Chopra. ‘Is this really necessary?’

  Chopra spoke directly to Agha. ‘What choice do we have? Word of the knife being found in your cabin will spread. What do you think will happen then? We have three security officers aboard. They can’t police everyone. What if some hothead decides to confront you? What if matters get out of hand? Can any of us guarantee such a scenario won’t happen?’

  The truth of his words filtered through the anger in the room.

  ‘Confining you to your suite is as much for your safety as it is for the security of the other passengers. As a politician, surely you can understand that this is the best course of action?’

  Agha shook his head. ‘Clearly you are not a politician. Otherwise you would realise that it is never a matter of practicalities but always a matter of sensibilities. Allowing you to follow your supposed best course of action will be interpreted as either an admission of guilt or a verdict of the same. My government could never countenance that.’

  ‘But we are not dealing with governments now, are we?’ countered Chopra. ‘We are dealing with people. And if history tells us anything it is that our people cannot be trusted when jingoism is involved.’

  These words seemed to affect Agha deeply. He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. ‘My father lived through Partition. He was born in a small village in Punjab, right on the border. His best friend was a Hindu, a man called Raj Bhadwar; they grew up together, ate in each other’s homes, celebrated each other’s festivals. My father thought of Raj as his brother.’ Agha paused, eyes gazing at the knife. ‘When the trouble started, at first they ignored it. That sort of racial enmity was nothing to do with them. Then, one day, he came home from school – he must have been fifteen, sixteen at the time. His uncle was outside in a tonga. He told them that the village was about to be attacked by Hindu mobs. He said they had to leave immediately, move to Pakistan, the new country that had just been created for the Muslims of India. Until that moment it had been a joke. But his uncle was not laughing. In all the neighbouring villages the Muslim inhabitants had been slaughtered, the women raped, their houses burned. He gave them no time to pack or consider; they left with whatever they could carry. It was a matter of life and death.

  ‘They ended up on an overcrowded train headed for Lahore. Once aboard, rumours began to circulate about brutal attacks on the trains, about Muslims being butchered wholesale. The train began to slow down as it approached Amritsar. As it pulled into the station, gangs of Sikh men brandishing swords, spears and daggers began climbing onto the train. Luckily, the doors of the cabins were locked and the windows barred. My uncle remembers looking through the bars, at the mindless fury on their faces. He sat there as they banged on the doors and windows, cursing them, cursing all Muslims, cursing Pakistan. He never understood it. He would ask us: where did such fury come from?

  ‘My father was sure he would die that day. It was a scene of horror. Everyone around him was weeping, screaming, praying. But then: a miracle. The train picked up speed again, making it impossible for the attackers to hold on to the doors. My father couldn’t believe their good fortune.

  ‘In the dozens of trains transporting Muslim migrants before and after theirs, everyone was killed. The compartments ran with blood. Sometimes they just burned the trains, looking on from the platforms as those inside screamed through the bars, the flames gradually consuming them.

  ‘Of course, we later discovered that Muslims were doing the same, killing thousands of Sikhs and Hindus fleeing Pakistan. There was no rhyme or reason to it, just madness. Utter madness.’ Sadness infused his words. ‘Some two decades later my father found out that his friend Raj had died in the rioting, killed while trying to burn down a mosque.

  ‘He always wondered what had made Raj join the rioters. And he wondered, too, that if the situation had been reversed, if he had been swept up by the violence, whether he would have done the same. Just gone along with it. Become a monster, another mindless killer adrift in all that madness.’

  A silence descended on them as they contemplated that terrible past, the echoes of which continued to fracture the present. Agha looked up at Fairbrother. ‘It astonishes me how little blame for that slaughter has attached itself to your ancestors.’

  Fairbrother coloured. ‘That’s rather unfair.’

  ‘Is it?’ said Agha. ‘The one thing that Indians and Pakistanis agree on is that the British made a mess of Partition.’

  ‘It wasn’t us who advocated it,’ protested Fairbrother. ‘Jinnah insisted on a country of his own, a safe homeland for India’s Muslims. His call for direct action sparked riots across the country. The only way to stop the slaughter was to accede to his wishes.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Agha, ‘you gave him what he wanted. You pushed the Partition plan throug
h as fast as you could with almost no consideration for the consequences. There might have been no killings aboard the death trains if British soldiers had guarded them. But no. You opened Pandora’s box and left us to it.’

  Fairbrother lapsed into a troubled silence.

  Agha looked at Chopra. ‘Very well. For the time being I will stay within my suite. But I promise you this. Once this train reaches the Wagah border I will find a way to contact my government. And then we shall get to the bottom of what has transpired here. If there is even a hint of Indian conspiracy no force on earth can stop what will follow.’

  As Chopra walked back towards the dining car he dwelt on Agha’s words. He had no doubt that the man would find a way to make good on his threat. But was his bluster the attempt of a guilty man to cover his tracks or the indignation of a man wrongfully accused?

  ‘What will you do now?’ asked Fairbrother, trailing in his wake.

  ‘Firstly, I am going to check on Ganesha,’ said Chopra. ‘After that I will continue interviewing the remaining passengers and staff. In the meantime, Singh’s men will finish searching the train. Let us talk again once that is done.’

  ‘What should I do?’

  Chopra considered this. ‘By now everyone on the train knows that we are in the middle of something that might have major repercussions. People will be frightened, confused, angry. The pressure to have the train stopped will increase. It is your job to ensure that does not happen.’

  ‘How exactly do I do that?’

  ‘Reinstate a sense of routine. Ask the chef to serve lunch as usual once I have completed my interviews.’

  In the luggage compartment Chopra discovered Ganesha turning in circles on the floor. There wasn’t much space for him and he kept bumping into the walls and luggage.