by Vaseem Khan
‘You wanted to punish him,’ said Chopra. ‘Even after death.’ It reaffirmed his belief that Engineer had premeditated the murder. ‘But there is one problem with that scenario. Cyrus is a big man. You are not strong enough to have moved his body. Which means that someone helped you. But who? Boman? Darius? Both had motive and neither has an alibi for that night.’
Silence.
‘Or perhaps it was Anosh Ginwala? He discovered the corpse the next day, and planted the convenient notion with the authorities that a trespassing drug addict may have killed Cyrus. The trouble is, he was ill, confined to his bed, with a reliable witness testifying to that.’
‘Ginwala has nothing to do with this,’ croaked Engineer. ‘Nor Boman or Darius. I acted alone.’
Chopra did not believe the man, but it was clear Engineer would not reveal the identity of his accomplice. A new thought occurred to him. ‘It has been three months since Cyrus died. Why haven’t you gone public with his plans? After all, he can no longer kick you out of the club.’
‘What would that achieve except to throw a noose around my neck? Besides, as I said to you earlier, I do not want to provide ammunition to those who, like Cyrus, wish to see the Towers of Silence moved elsewhere.’
Engineer leaned back, closed his eyes. ‘When I was seven my father brought me to the club, and stood me before the waxwork of Rustom Zorabian. “Look at him, Zubin,” he told me. “That man enshrines everything that makes us Parsee. Integrity, industry, philanthropy. These are the pillars by which we live, and by which we are known. Take away any one of those and we no longer have the right to call ourselves Parsee.” Cyrus stopped being a Parsee the day he decided to sell the Towers of Silence. He betrayed not only himself but all of us. He betrayed the legacy of a thousand years of Parsee endeavour.’ The old man rose from his seat. ‘I have only one request. That when they come for me, I am permitted to walk out of this club for the final time with my head held high. Not cuffed like a common criminal.’
Chopra hesitated. ‘I will do what I can.’
Of vultures and elephants
The wedding of William Buckley and Perizaad Zorabian took place on a blistering hot weekend a month after the arrest of Zubin Engineer for the murder of the bride’s father. The marriage – attended by close relatives of the Zorabian family – was a relatively simple affair, a ritual Parsee ceremony at the fire temple in Juhu, the bride and groom stiff and self-conscious in traditional dress. The venue for the nuptials had already caused a stir. Tradition decreed that non-Parsees were not permitted entry to the fire temple. But Perizaad, in line with many reformers within the community, had decided that she would not be bound by such old-fashioned attitudes. She had declared an intent to shake up other aspects that she felt had no place in the modern world, and had started as she meant to go on.
With the ceremony complete, the wedding party moved en masse to the Vulture Club where the evening reception – a star-studded affair attended by the city’s elite – was scheduled to take place.
It was to this latter event that Chopra and family had been invited. Inside the wedding card, Perizaad Zorabian had scribbled the words: ‘You must attend! And please bring your little elephant, too.’
And so now, as he tugged at the starched collar of his shirt, and twitched his shoulders inside his well-worn black suit, looking around at the packed hall with its sea of refined gentry, the bride and groom seated, rictus-grinned, on the distant stage, Chopra found his thoughts drifting.
Cyrus Zorabian was foremost in his mind. There was still so much he could only guess at. The man had proven to be corrupt, avaricious, morally reprehensible. He had caused the deaths of Arushi Kadam and Vijay Narlikar. Had he regretted that? Is that why he had held on to the newspaper clipping? They would never know. And what of Doongerwadi? Had Cyrus’s belief in the old ways been nothing more than a pretence? Or had he shed those beliefs in the face of necessity? Once again, he was confronted by the greyness of morality. He searched inside and realised that, in the court of his own opinion – the only one that really mattered – Cyrus was guilty. Of causing death and incalculable loss – the slum dwellers whom he had purported to help would never see their promised home in New Haven. That project was now suspended, perhaps irredeemably crippled.
Did all this make Zubin Engineer less guilty?
Chopra thought not. Justifying murder was a slippery slope, one that he could never condone, even if he might, at times, understand.
He dwelt on Engineer.
He was certain the man had had help in planning and executing the murder of Cyrus Zorabian. But neither he nor the authorities had made any headway in discovering who that accomplice might have been. And with Engineer insisting that he had acted alone, the police had eventually taken him at his word. The case was closed. But for Chopra, this was the one loose end that continued to nag at him.
He shook away these sobering thoughts and glanced at his wife.
Poppy was in her element, wrapped in a new sari, a vision of gaiety and good humour. Beside her, Irfan – dressed in his own glossy suit and clip-on tie – was leaning down to pat Ganesha on the head. The elephant, reclining on all fours, had attracted much attention, with guests stopping by every so often to take a picture with him. Though usually a maven for the limelight, Ganesha largely ignored these selfie-seekers. He was preoccupied with the conveyor belt of delicacies making their way to him from the kitchen.
Chopra turned back to Poppy as she heaved her enormous handbag on to the table, and took out a thick stack of leaflets.
The familiar face of Mr Poo grinned up at him.
‘Poppy,’ he said, ‘you cannot distribute these here. We are at a wedding.’
Poppy merely smiled at him. ‘I cannot think of a better time. Look around you. Eight hundred people in one place with nothing to do but eat six kinds of dhansak. This will give them something to talk about.’
‘I do not think they wish to talk about’ – he lowered his voice – ‘excrement over dinner.’ He cut his eyes to either side in case anyone had overheard him.
‘I disagree. This is a community that believes in philanthropy. They will be delighted to learn more about this important initiative.’
‘But – but they are not the ones who have a problem with this sort of thing.’
Poppy’s face hardened. ‘Precisely,’ she said. ‘They never have to think about where they should do their business. But for those who have no access to clean facilities, or have never been shown another way, it is a daily struggle to conform with the rules society says they must follow. We call them stupid, but we have no right to call others ignorant if we are not willing to put in the effort needed to educate them. Those at the bottom are powerless to change their environment. But the people in this room – they have the wealth and influence to make that change happen.’
He was about to protest, and then realised that his wife was right. He gave her a rueful smile. ‘Well, if you’re going to do it, you will need helpers.’ He turned to Irfan. ‘Why don’t you give her a hand? And take Ganesha with you.’
Poppy beamed at him, adjusted her sari, then sashayed away, the leaflets tucked under her arm, Irfan and Ganesha trailing her.
Chopra felt a twinge of sympathy for those she was about to accost. Like skiers before an avalanche, they had no idea what was coming.
He looked around the hall again, spotting Darius Zorabian and his wife Lucy. He knew that Perizaad had made a concerted effort to return her brother to the fold. Her overtures had not been entirely successful – Darius was a proud man. But a beginning had been made, and his presence at the wedding augured well, for the family and for Darius’s unborn child.
Chopra was not a sentimental man, but a part of him hoped that the pair – Darius and Lucy – might find their way through their recent troubles. His instincts – based simply on the fact that a man as unyielding as Darius had finally surrendered enough of his own ego to participate in his sister’s happiness – told him that this
might well be the case.
‘Ah, Chopra, the man of the hour.’
He turned to see Forhad and Dinshaw advancing, Forhad wheeling his catheter stand beside him. They collapsed into chairs, caught their breath, then proceeded to fix him with equally belligerent glares.
‘I suppose you feel virtuous,’ said Forhad. ‘Getting old Zubin pinched.’
‘He committed murder,’ said Chopra sternly.
‘That’s one way of looking at it,’ said Forhad.
‘I hadn’t realised there was another way.’
‘You know what they say,’ said Dinshaw. ‘One man’s murderer is another man’s martyr.’
Chopra frowned. ‘You don’t believe that Engineer’s actions deserve censure? What would happen to society if everyone with a grievance decided to settle their issues with violence?’
‘Society, schmiety,’ poo-pooed Forhad. ‘Zubin did what most of the people in this room would gladly have done. Cyrus sold his soul; he betrayed the legacy of his ancestors. Zubin found out. Instead of creating a public scandal, he did something about it himself. Frankly, I never thought he had it in him, the old goat. He was always such a milksop. Just goes to show.’
‘Because of his bravery,’ continued Dinshaw, ‘we now know what Cyrus was up to, and we can organise a defence. We may not look like much, but we have power, and wealth, and we will kick up such a stink that it will be a hundred years before anyone else tries to kick us out of Doongerwadi.’
Chopra knew that Perizaad had already assured the Parsee community that no such thing would happen during her stewardship of the hallowed site. Yet he marvelled at the divergence between his own thoughts and those of the two ancient Parsees. He had always viewed the world in black and white – each time he was confronted by the ugly grey of reality it caused him to step back and re-examine his convictions.
Engineer’s involvement in the murder of Cyrus Zorabian had shocked the club, the greatest scandal in its one-hundred-and-twenty-year history. But the biggest shock had erupted as word spread of Cyrus’s plan to sell Doongerwadi. The cloud of rumour had moved outwards, enveloping the BMC, and gradually rippling around the upper echelons of the city’s power structure. When the newspapers finally got hold of the story, it ignited a fury of tabloid rhetoric with some hailing Cyrus’s alleged plan as ‘visionary’ and ‘long overdue’, and others tearing him down as a ‘heretic’ and ‘the ultimate con man’.
The coverage had given wings to the CBI investigation into Om Kaabra.
Kaabra had been arrested at the Indira Gandhi airport in Delhi attempting to flee the country. He was now safely ensconced in an out-of-sight-and-out-of-mind CBI dungeon enjoying the brutal hospitality of various state and federal law enforcement agencies. Inspector Kelkar had obtained full cooperation from John Reddy and Geeta Lokhani, as well as various others willing to testify against Kaabra in desperate bids to save themselves. It was all but certain that the man would spend the rest of his life in prison. Arushi Kadam, Vijay Narlikar and the thirteen dead souls buried beneath Hasan Gafoor’s building could finally find peace. As a result, Gafoor himself would soon be released from prison – a matter Rangwalla was pursuing with unusual diligence. In that sense, much good had come from the death of Cyrus Zorabian. And yet . . .
‘I am afraid I cannot agree with you. A man has been murdered. That is not something to be taken lightly. Engineer went beyond the bounds of not only the law, but of what is moral. He will pay the price for his actions.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Forhad.
Chopra stared at him. ‘He has confessed.’
‘He is a seventy-five-year-old man with a gimpy leg and a tenuous grasp of the world at the best of times.’
‘That was not my impression of him at all.’
‘Well, then, it’s lucky that you are not the one defending him. For the record, the club has appointed Bastavar Screwwalla. Perhaps you have heard of him?’
Chopra’s moustache twitched.
Screwwalla.
The most renowned defence lawyer in the country, a man routinely employed by the rich and shameless when they fell into hot water with the authorities. ‘Why would Screwwalla—’ he began but was cut off by a grinning Dinshaw.
‘Screwwalla happens to be the son of a very prominent club member. A true Parsee patriot.’
Of course. Screwwalla was a Parsee.
‘Engineer killed a man in cold blood. He will not walk free.’ But some of the certainty had slipped from Chopra’s voice.
‘Nonsense,’ said Forhad. ‘Engineer is too frail to have killed anyone. Cyrus was hit with old Rustom’s mace, right? Well, anyone could have got hold of that. And bashing in the skull of a man as big as Cyrus is no easy matter. Zubin could never have done that – not with his wrist.’
‘Wrist? What do you mean?’
‘I mean, Chopra, that young Bastavar Screwwalla, defence lawyer extraordinaire, will categorically show that this frail old man, who barely has the strength to lift his cane, could not possibly have wielded that mace. Zubin suffered a car accident years ago which left him with shattered wrists. They have never healed properly.’ He gave a smug look. ‘This is not as open and shut a case as you may think.’ He staggered to his feet, grasped his catheter stand; Dinshaw rose with him. ‘You can take consolation from the fact that without your investigation Cyrus’s duplicity might never have come to light. I suppose we owe you a debt of thanks.’
He watched them shuffle away, the old Parsee’s words still ringing in his ears.
Could it be true? Could Zubin Engineer really escape punishment for his crime?
Chopra had himself lifted the mace that had been used to kill Cyrus Zorabian. It was a heavy instrument, at least seven kilos. He tried to picture Zubin wielding it, with his supposedly weak wrists, repeatedly swinging it above him – for Cyrus was considerably taller than the club’s former secretary – and failed.
His mind went back to the autopsy report. What had the pathologist written? The killer had tried to disguise himself, by hitting the victim with blows from both left and right hands. One blow with the right, two with the left.
What if that was an incorrect assumption?
And now Chopra had the image of another man, wielding a different type of weapon, repeatedly hacking down with it . . . using his left hand.
It took him thirty minutes to reach Doongerwadi.
It was a further ten minutes before Ramin Bulsara, Anosh Ginwala’s deputy, materialised at the gates. He peered myopically at Chopra. ‘What are you doing here?’
Chopra explained his mission. On the way to Doongerwadi he had considered how Ginwala could have been in two places at the same time – confined to his bed, while simultaneously helping Engineer to kill Cyrus Zorabian. Bulsara had said the man had been dead to the world . . . Dead to the world . . . Eventually, a grotesque idea had occurred to him, the only plausible way Ginwala could have managed it. ‘You told me before that Ginwala was in his hut the night Cyrus died. Did you actually speak with him when you visited him?’
‘No.’
‘But you called out to him?’
‘Yes. He didn’t reply.’
‘Did you enter his hut?’
‘Why would I do that? He gets wild if anyone enters his home without permission.’
‘Then how do you know it was him on the charpoy?’
‘Well . . . He was wearing his usual clothes.’
‘You saw his face?’
‘No. He had his back to me. But it was him.’
‘You saw a big, dark-haired man on the charpoy, with his back turned to you?’
‘Yes.’
Chopra took a deep breath. ‘You said that a number of corpses had come in late that day. That’s why you went to talk to Ginwala. Tell me, was one of them a big, dark-haired man?’
Bulsara paled as understanding dawned. ‘But that is—’ He stopped, incredulous.
‘Where are the corpses stored?’
‘In a refrigerated outhouse,
well away from our homes.’
‘So Ginwala could have taken a body from there, dressed it in his own clothes, set it up in his bed, then later returned it, and no one would have known?’
Bulsara nodded. ‘It is possible, yes.’
Not possible, thought Chopra. Probable. ‘Take me to him.’
Bulsara led him past the cluster of huts near the gate, and into the crepuscular gloom of the forest, his lantern flinging waxy shadows before them. When they emerged into a clearing, Chopra held him back. ‘I will take it from here.’
Chopra advanced into the pool of light cast by a row of lanterns hanging from the Tower of Silence before him. He saw that the wooden door built into the circular outer wall at the top of the ramp was ajar. Atop the rim of the tower, clustered like gargoyles, were the dark shapes of roosting vultures.
He moved up the ramp and walked into the dakhma.
Standing at the lip of the central well, three tiers down from him, was a large man in a corpse-bearer’s uniform peering down into the cavity, a lantern raised aloft, beating back the darkness.
As Chopra’s feet scuffed the stone, the man jerked up, then spun around to face him.
Anosh Ginwala’s eyes gave away his amazement at the sight of the former policeman standing by the doorway; and then shadows closed around his hard features once more.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Zubin Engineer could not have murdered Cyrus Zorabian. At least not on his own.’
Ginwala’s eyes narrowed.
He moved forward, labouring up the tiered stone walkway, until he was standing before Chopra. His piercing gaze examined the private detective.
‘The CBI already interrogated me. I was sick in bed all night.’
‘Your alibi no longer holds. You used a corpse to pretend that you were in your home at the time Cyrus was murdered.’
