by Tarquin Hall
'Turn down the lane where the old blind man sits,' Tubelight was told.
When he came across the blind man (who, fortunately, was where he was supposed to be), a woman hanging wet clothes on a barbed-wire fence pointed in the direction of a communications tower jutting up above the tin roofs. 'Beneath that you will see the place where the men have been digging these past days and where another died when he fell off his ladder.'
Eventually, he found the rag picker's shack, built against the exterior wall of a crematorium. Tubelight saw him crouched amidst a pile of gutted computers. His wife sat nearby, baby cradled in one arm, stirring a big metal basin sloshing with a soup of nitric acid and circuit boards. A teenage son panned for bits of copper, gold and lead.
'I sold it,' said Raju when asked about the dog.
For a small fee, he agreed to take Tubelight to the buyer and led the way deeper into the jugghi. They passed more rag pickers bundling and weighing recyclable refuse - cardboard, newspapers, tin cans, bags of plastic bottle caps - until they reached a compound surrounded by a brick wall. The smell was different here: the stench of death hung in the air, and for the first time, Puri's operative felt the urge to retch.
Stepping into the compound he spotted a couple of men lowering a bloated dog carcass into an oil drum of boiling liquid. Another dog lay nearby, equally bloated. Raju the rag picker recognised it as the one he'd brought from Rabies Control.
Fifty rupees, a little more than the price the animal's bones would fetch from the agro fertiliser industry, gave Tubelight possession of the dog, and ten more went to procure a large piece of dirty plastic sheeting to wrap it in.
Once the stinking carcass had been loaded into the back of the auto, Tubelight handed Raju thirty rupees. He took the payment without a word and set off back through the slum.
Not once had the rag picker queried why someone would want the animal. Everything had a value in Delhi. Even a dead dog.
SIX
WHILE TUBELIGHT WAS ingratiating himself with the dhaba wallah and the coolies outside Kotla Stadium, Puri returned to the Delhi Durbar Hotel. He found the banquet hall cordoned off and three jawans guarding the main doors. That is to say they were sitting around, drinking tea and talking idly amongst themselves - three vocations at which jawans the length and breadth of India could justifiably claim to excel.
Through the banquet hall's open doors, the detective could see two forensics officers in white jumpsuits examining the round dining table where Faheem Khan had met his fate. He dearly wanted to slip inside and find out if they had come across a delivery device for the poison. Getting past the jawans would not present too much difficulty. But doing so would risk his involvement in the case becoming known.
Besides, the detective had other means. Half an hour ago, he'd spoken to his friend and occasional collaborator Inspector Jagat Prakash Singh, who'd agreed to meet him in the evening and let him know what the official investigation had discovered. Assuming, of course, that the Chief had discovered anything aside from his own shadow.
For now, Puri would settle for a copy of last night's dinner seating plan and went in search of the resourceful young waiter who'd sprung him from the Mattu table last night. Gunny was his name, and the detective found him in the Sea of Tranquillity, the hotel's Thai restaurant.
'What can I do for, sir, this time?' he asked in a conspiratorial manner, making it clear that he was willing to be of assistance in any way he could.
'I'm not here to eat,' said Puri, who sat down at one of the tables nonetheless. 'Some information is required.'
He went on to explain what he needed.
'Not a problem, sir,' was Gunny's response.'I've one copy of the seating plan in my locker. It's got Sanjay Sala's autograph on the back. So it is worth one thousand at least.'
'Understood.'
Gunny eyed his manager who was standing over by the entrance to the restaurant.
'Sir, it would be best if you ordered something. Perhaps a drink.'
'Bring one bottle water - room temperature.'
Gunny returned with a bottle of mineral water and presented it as if it was a fine bottle of wine. The detective gave a connoisseur's nod and the waiter poured him a glass. He also slipped the seating plan on to the table before heading off to attend to some other customers.
Puri took out his notebook and began to write down the guests' names, adding the odd annotation of his own.
Left of Faheem Khan clockwise:
Satish Bhatia, 'Call Centre King'.
Jasmeet Bhatia, elderly mother of Satish Bhatia.
Sandeep Talwar - politician, President of the Indian Cricket Board, crook.
Mrs Harnam Talwar, elderly wife of above.
Nilesh Jani - ICT Chairman.
Mrs 'Mini' Jani - page three type, twenty-something.
Neetika Sahini - 'public relations' power broker.
J.K. Shrivastav - PM's cabinet secretary.
Mrs Shrivastav.
Sanjay Sala, Bollywood 'actor'.
Mrs Sanjay Sala - known as 'Bubbles'.
Kamran Khan - son of murder victim.
Ram Dogra - industrialist, known as the 'Prince of Polyester'.
Mrs Megha Dogra, elderly wife of above.
Gunjan Bhangu - construction.
Mrs Anita Bhangu, elderly wife of above, sat on right side of Faheem Khan, victim.
Gunny returned as Puri finished copying the list. 'Tell me. You were serving that table, is it?' asked the detective.
'Yes, sir. Filling glasses and all.'
'Everyone was seated exactly and according to the plan?'
'Yes, sir. Name cards were provided.'
'Some guests were getting up and down, no? Like the murdered gentleman. He left the hall for some time before eating.'
'Yes, sir. He left for ten minutes.'
'Anyone sat in his seat meanwhile?'
'No, sir.'
'Sure?'
'His food was sitting there getting cold and I was wondering should I cover it.'
The waiter was obviously telling the truth, yet Puri was certain he would never share anything incriminating about the guests. Not consciously, at least. They were powerful people and he was but an aam aadmi.
'Anyone else approached the table - while Mr Khan's food was sitting idle?' asked Puri.
'By then all the other guests had taken their seats and were eating. The photographers had been sent away.'
Puri paid for the water and then took two one-thousand-rupees note from his wallet.
'Anything further you wish to tell me?' he asked, fingering the bill.
Gunny glanced nervously round the restaurant to ensure his manager wasn't watching. 'One thing, sir,' he said, keeping his voice down. 'That model, Dippy: she lost one earring during dinner. Said it was worth two lakhs. She was crying and all.'
'It was found?'
'One of the cleaners picked it up on the emergency stairs, handed it in.'
'Emergency stairs? How it got there?'
Gunny gave a shrug. 'No idea, sir. They're at the back of the hotel.'
Puri left the notes under his napkin.
His next stop was Defence Colony, C Block, home of his parents-in-law.
Theirs was a large detached house, three floors in all, built in the early 1970s with the intention of leaving an equal portion to each of their children. The architectural antithesis of the Taj Mahal, the Mattu residence, with its chunky bungalows and concrete slab window awnings, looked as if it had been designed by the same architect as Hitler's bunker.
Every effort had been made to soften its harsh appearance. Lovingly tended flower beds ran along the outside wall, and the old peelu tree that burst out of the pavement shrouded half the facade with its umbrella canopy. Beyond the wrought-iron gates, marigolds and snapdragons in little terracotta pots lined the marble forecourt; and rosewood planter's chairs graced the edge of a small lawn.
The bell summoned the Christian maidservant, Alice, to the front door, and
Puri greeted her, as he always did, with the words, 'Namaste! How is Wonderland?' This elicited a shy giggle (as it always did) and Puri stepped inside.
The living room had changed little from the first time he had visited the house in 1981. The rattan couch and armchairs remained in the same position around the Rajasthani cart-style coffee table. The British railway station clock up on the wall was still keeping good time, despite being a replica. The collection of curios the Mattus had picked up on their travels in various parts of India (an Assamese Japi hat; a pair of clay ornamental horses from Gorakhpur) and the two holidays they had taken to Europe (Eiffel Tower and Swiss cowbell) remained on the sideboard along with the family photos. Everything wore a faded look, like an old sepia print. But then - by God! - it had been some twenty-five years or more.
Puri had been in his mid-twenties at the time - pencil thin and somewhat nervous. He and his parents had sat in a row on the couch, and Brigadier - then Captain - Mattu and his wife had sat directly opposite them. Although the two mothers had met on three occasions in the weeks preceding the meeting and laid their plans, they were careful to let their husbands take the lead.
Formal introductions were made, tea and savoury biscuits were served, and the prospective groom's credentials and prospects were discussed. Mattu addressed him as 'young man', wanting to know details about his army career and where he saw himself in ten years. Puri answered confidently, explaining that he had recently been recruited into army intelligence and saw it as a lifetime career.
This was a truthful answer. It had never been Puri's ambition to become a jasoos, private detectives being little thought of in Indian society (down there with midwives). It was the Shimla Affair that changed all that, forcing him to resign in the early 1980s.
However, Puri did tell a lie that day - 'Yes, sir. Absolutely, sir. No doubt about it at all, sir,' he'd stated when asked whether he was ready to marry.
And then Meena walked into the room.
She was wearing a simple cotton sari and a string of fragrant jasmine in her hair.
Puri was rendered completely inarticulate.
Two months later, they were married.
The detective returned to the present, pausing by the sideboard to pick up the framed, black and white photograph taken of him and Rumpi on their wedding day. They were seated in front of the holy fire - he in a three-piece suit and a sehra. Through the curtain of flowers that hung in front of his face, you could make out his young moustache and thin features. Rumpi's eyes were cast down, a silk chunni draped over her head and a large nose ring chain encircling her right cheek. They both looked apprehensive; quite miserable, in fact.
Funny. That had been one of the happiest days of his life. He'd loved Rumpi from the first. Proof that arranged marriages made for the strongest unions - for individuals and their extended families.
He put the frame back and knocked on Brigadier Mattu's study door.
'Enter!'
Being a creature of habit and given that it was now exactly six o'clock, the Brigadier sat behind his desk sipping a cup of packaged tomato soup and listening to the news headlines in English on All India Radio.
'Come, young man,' he said with a welcoming smile, motioning Puri into a cane armchair.
The lady announcer, her dulcet voice a reminder of the more civilised days before the advent of hysterical 24-hour TV news presentation, spoke calmly about a massacre of police recruits by Maoist rebels in Chhattisgarh State. A politician from Uttar Pradesh had been accused of rape and of trying to cover up his crime, she went on to explain. And in the ICT league, the Hyderabad Hyenas had beaten the Bangalore Bears.
'Those are the headlines. And now we continue with our Hindi drama Life Gulmohar Style. In today's episode, Aruna and Chanchal have a chat about marriage and expectations of life after marriage. Why is it that some women seem to think that marriage is the ultimate aim of life?'
Brigadier Mattu looked as if he might like to carry on listening but reached over and turned off his radio nonetheless. 'How is Mummy?' he asked. 'She's not well, I'm told.'
'Some fever is there, actually,' replied Puri, who'd only come to know she was ill an hour or two ago. 'The doctor has given medicine and she's taking rest. I'll be paying her a visit later, only.'
'Must have been the shock of last night,' commented Brigadier Mattu.
'Must be,' agreed Puri. 'It's not every day one sees a murder right before one's very eyes. And at her age--'
'At any age,' interrupted Brigadier Mattu, who was only three years younger than Mummy. 'Believe me when I tell you, Puri, I did not sleep one single wink last night.'
The Brigadier sipped his soup. A smidgen of tomato soup clung to his grey moustache.
'Sir, there is something I would want you to look at,' said the detective, coming straight to the point.
'What are you mixed up in this time?' asked Brigadier Mattu with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.
'I've been asked to put the murder of this Pakistani fellow under the scanner,' said Puri. 'Seems he and his son are in the dock for match fixing.'
He reached into an outer pocket of his safari suit and took out one of the sealable sandwich bags that he always kept about him, mostly for collecting and preserving evidence at crime scenes. They also came in useful for storing emergency samosas.
This one contained a crumpled piece of paper.
He handed it to the Brigadier and explained how he'd 'found' it in Faheem Khan's pocket.
'This is evidence stolen from the scene of a crime,' pointed out his father-in-law, looking alarmed.
'Not stolen, exactly, sir,' replied the detective. 'Liberated is more like it.'
Mattu cocked an eyebrow in his direction.
'Sir, let me assure you the paper was sticking out of his pocket,' insisted Puri. 'What is more, such evidence would be one hundred per cent wasted on our Chief of Police. Doubtless, he would imagine those numbers written there were Faheem Khan's suit measurements. Probably start rounding up all Delhi tailors.'
But Brigadier Mattu wasn't listening; he was already studying the piece of paper.
Written on it was a series of numbers:
12, 11, 6
15, 9, 12
22, 14, 7
'Perhaps they correspond to overs and balls?' he wondered out loud.
'That would certainly make sense, sir,' replied Puri. 'The suspicion is there that Khan has been bowling no balls and wides and offering up easy deliveries. Thus a bookie can place bets on individual balls and overs and make a fortune. They call it spot betting.'
The Brigadier opened his desk drawer. 'I have the scorecard here,' he said. 'Let's see if the numbers correspond.'
He ran his fingers over the rows of meticulously recorded figures. 'Khan's first no ball came in the fourth over. Second delivery. Does that correspond with the number on the paper you stole?' he asked.
It did not.
He got the same negative result when he tried to match Kamran Khan's first wide ball.
'Perhaps they've reversed the numbers, balls then overs,' he suggested next.
Again the numbers didn't correspond.
'Could be these are instructions for the next match,' said Puri. 'Delhi is playing again day after.'
'In which case, we must watch the match carefully. Meantime I will keep trying different permutations.' The Brigadier's gaze remained fixed on the numbers.
'Most kind of you, sir,' said Puri.
He made his way out of the study, not entirely convinced that his father-in-law had noticed him leave.
En route to the Gymkhana Club, Puri made a quick stop at his usual chemist. He found six customers crowded around the counter, all of them simultaneously reeling off long lists of drugs with names that all ended in 'nox' or 'ozil'. Behind the counter, eight shop assistants fetched and carried their orders from shelves stocked to the ceiling with hundreds of white cartons containing every conceivable type of drug - a testament to the cavalier manner in which medicine was
prescribed and eagerly guzzled down in India.
Mr Joti, the chief pharmacist, was sitting in his usual place behind the till. Puri elbowed his way past the other customers to reach him.
