by Tarquin Hall
That, though, was for tomorrow. There was still today's unfinished business to deal with.
Mummy took out her daily diary and began to write. This was a discipline she'd adhered to religiously since her sixteenth birthday.
'Ritu saw a gecko on the ceiling of our hotel and said it portends success,' wrote Mummy in Hindi using the elegant Perso-Arabic script she had been taught as a child. 'Let's hope she's right.'
Tubelight called Puri late at the office. He and his boys had spent the day doing background checking. When it came to Sandeep Talwar, they'd struck a rich seam. There was nothing 'Sahib' wasn't into. He controlled something in the region of 400 companies, many of them money-laundering fronts with pretend directors. Through these companies he owned thousands of acres of sugar-cane fields, numerous sugar-cane processing plants and at least four trucking companies. His illicit portfolio also included an IT park, a handful of hotels, a software development company in San Diego, an import-export business and a coal mine. Tubelight had it on good authority that he also got a 30 per cent cut from the petrol mafia in his home state of Madhya Pradesh.
Talwar was also a big gambler.
'One, two lakhs minimum. Goes to Dubai often.'
'Any direct connection with Aga?'
'Doubt it - fiercely patriotic.'
'Willing to screw India just as long as he's doing the screwing.'
'Exactly, Boss.'
'How about Talwar Madam?'
'First name Harnam. Comes from a village near Indore. Sixteen when she married. Numerous assets to her name. They've five children total.'
Tubelight had much less to say about Ram Dogra, the Prince of Polyester. He had his detractors, those who said he exploited his workers and had done all kinds of shady deals to secure land upon which to build his factories. But he gave generously to all the political parties and was on good terms with the country's major newspaper proprietors as well.
As for Satish Bhatia, the Call Centre King, he was a golden boy.
'Pays his income tax, gives to charity, campaigns for child literacy.'
'Keep checking. No one does business in India without getting stains on their kurta,' said Puri.
Satya Pal Bhalla, the former moustache raja, called ten minutes later. Puri held the phone away from his ear as he listened to his tirade, this time about how Gopal Ragi had been released without charge.
'I'm aware, sir,' said Puri, although he doubted his client heard him.
He put the phone down on his desk. It continued to crepitate for another few minutes until, finally, the detective picked it up again and delivered a string of platitudes, assuring his client that he was on the case and would contact him 'in coming days'.
He hung up and reread the fax that had been delivered earlier by his secretary. The message was typed on a blank piece of paper - no letter heading or signature. Just:
Dear Sir,
It has come to my attention that you are engaged in the investigation of the murder of the late Mr Faheem Khan. I am writing to inform you that I have in my possession important information regarding the case. For reasons of my own, I am only prepared to provide you with the aforementioned information in person.
Provided you are able, I suggest you travel to Pakistan this coming Friday so that we might meet and discuss the matter further. Please take a room at the Pearl Continental in Rawalpindi, where I will find you.
It was signed 'A Friend' and the sender ID in the top left-hand corner of the page was a London number. Puri tried it but got a disconnected message.
It was a trap, obviously. Aga had come to know that Puri was nosing around in his business and planned to lure him to Pakistan, where one of his henchmen would put a bullet through his head.
There: that was a good enough reason for not travelling to Pakistan. Final. Decided. Thank the God!
Puri locked the fax away in the top drawer of his desk and decided to head home. It was getting late. Rumpi would be wondering where he was.
He got only halfway down the stairs when, suddenly, he stopped, shouted out at the top of his voice, 'Bugger it all!' and gave the wall a hard kick. Storming back up the stairs and into his office, he retrieved the fax and read it again. The language was polished, old-fashioned, written by an older man. This was not the work of Aga. Nor the Pakistani intelligence service. This 'friend' might well be able to provide vital information about the case.
Puri slumped back in his chair, defeated by his own conscience. He poured himself a drink and finished it quickly. Then, with grave reluctance, indeed with a sense of impending yet unavoidable doom, he called his client James Scott in London.
'I would be needing that visa we talked about in a jiffy,' he said.
It was 10 p.m. by the time Puri left the office. The Khan Market bhel puri vendor was still open for business. A few youngsters stood around his stand in the car park devouring plates of puffed rice laced with tamarind chutney. The detective tried to will himself to his waiting car, but the sight of all the crisp papdis and yoghurt proved too much for him.
'Usual, sahib?'
'Extra chutney and chilli.'
His order was soon ready and he joined the other customers, eating in silent solidarity. It was broken by the sound of an Ambassador pulling up. The car had government plates. A short, pudgy assistant-type got out.
'Shri Vish Puri?' he asked.
The detective answered with a mouth full of sevpuri. 'Present and correct.'
'Sahib sent me.' Puri was being summoned by politician and all-round crook Sandeep Talwar.
'It's a sin to waste good sevpuri,' said the detective, holding up his half-finished plate.
The PA looked unmoved. 'Sahib is waiting,' he insisted.
Puri crammed in a last mouthful, threw away the rest and got into the car.
Their destination was the Lakshmi, a hotel owned by the Ministry of Tourism and one that clung faithfully to its kitsch 1980s decor. The lobby, a vast expanse of grey marble as polished as an ice rink, was dotted with atolls of brown leather couches upon which the occupants sat, as if stranded. The reception desk was half the length of a football field, the dozen or so staff members standing behind it as dwarfed as Soviet leaders watching a military parade in the vastness of Moscow's Red Square.
Sandeep Talwar's suite was on the top floor.
Puri was led through a series of rooms, each occupied by businessmen, lawyers, junior ministers and bureaucrat clones in white shirts - all waiting patiently to meet the minister, many of them with stacks of papers on their laps. A final set of doors opened and disgorged over-fed, suited men with briefcases. The detective was shown into a sitting room where Sahib lounged in an armchair, drink in hand. A coffee table groaning with files stood in front of him.
Sandeep Talwar was almost eighty and obese, his grey suit trousers pulled halfway up his stomach like clown pants. His lower lip was weighed down by a crumpled chin scoured with lines. Drooping jowls obscured the edges of his mouth so that even when he smiled his whole face looked turned down. His sunken eyes completed the picture of a cunning, duplicitous individual racked by greed.
Puri could barely conceal his contempt. Talwar hadn't garnered power because of his ideas or inherent wisdom. Nor because he gave two damns about his constituents, most of whom lived on less than two dollars a day. No, Talwar had risen to power, prominence and wealth thanks to his abilities as a deal maker. He was a horse trader, nothing more.
'My PA says you came to my home this morning asking to see me,' he said, studying Puri through steel-rimmed glasses.
'I happened to be passing, sir.' Puri stood with hands held behind his back like a petulant schoolboy.
'Happened to be passing,' repeated Talwar, his tone mocking. 'You usually just drop in on ministers and request to meet their wives, also?'
The detective countered with flattery: 'You've a reputation for being an open individual, sir, accessible to the aam admi. No offence was intended, I assure you.'
Talwar's eyes blin
ked slowly like an iguana's. He looked half asleep. But it would be a mistake to underestimate him, Puri reflected. He could be dangerous, this man.
'What's your game exactly, Mr Puri? What is it you want?' asked Talwar, careful not to sound too concerned.
'I'm investigating the murder, sir - of Faheem Khan.'
'That's the job of the police.'
'I'm a private investigator.'
'And you're working for?'
'That I cannot say, sir.'
Talwar showed startled dismay. 'You're refusing me, Mr Puri?'
'Confidentiality is my watchword, sir.'
'I see,' said Talwar, as if he finally had the measure of the detective. 'You're one of these do-gooders, no? Like an NGO type? Think the system is not working properly so take matters into your own hand.'
'This is my job, sir,' answered Puri, putting it as bluntly as he could.
'And I suppose I'm on your list of suspects, am I?'
'You and Madam, also.'
'You're suggesting my wife murdered that man?' The politician's words were liquid indignation.
'Sir, she is a suspect, that is all.'
'Now you listen to me,' said Talwar, his tone controlled but menacing. 'I'm a politician and must therefore put up with a certain amount of scrutiny of my affairs. My wife on the other hand is a private person and she is not in good health these days. She's made a statement to the police and that's an end to the matter. Is that understood?'
'Most certainly, sir. Thank you, sir.'
Talwar dismissed him with a perfunctory gesture.
Puri left the room in no doubt that he had made a powerful enemy. The encounter had been worth it, however. Sahib was getting sloppy. He'd made the mistake of warning Puri away from his wife.
Mrs Harnam Talwar had something to hide - no doubt about it at all.
TWELVE
'WE MAKE THE dream of having a loved one's cremated remains (cremains) scattered in the Holy Ganges a reality!' read the brochure for Sacred Rights, a travel agency that doubled as a kind of Hindu funeral home. 'Now even Non-Resident Indians can send us their cremains from any location in the world by secure shipment and we'll take care of the rest! You'll receive a custom-made DVD of the ceremony. Alternatively we offer our exclusive "Secure Air Express Brahman Priest Escort Service" from any country of your choice! That's right! A genuine Indian priest will fly out and collect your ashes and deliver them safely to the bosom of Mother India.'
Mummy handed the brochure back to Ritu. They were standing in the small foyer of their hotel.
'This is for NRI types, na,' said Mummy, confused.
'Not that part,' said Ritu, turning over the brochure. 'There. Where it talks about the boat. It says here they'll take us out into the middle of the Ganges to scatter the ashes.'
'A priest and helper will accompany you at sunset,' said the hotel manager, who was standing behind the front desk. 'It is experience of the lifetime, I can tell you.'
It had taken the manager all of three or four minutes, the time Mummy had used to visit the WC, to sell Ritu on the boat scheme. It was a nice idea but obviously flawed.
'You're doing seasickness,' pointed out Mummy.
'Madam, seasickness only comes at sea,' admonished the manager. 'On Ganges there is hardly a ripple. So smooth it is.'
'Honestly, I think it should be fine,' said Ritu.
'You were getting sickness in a paddle boat on Sukhna Lake in Chandigarh, even.'
'I had eaten so much of barfi beforehand, no?'
Mummy stood resolutely by her opinion. 'Listen, na,' she said. 'This evening, only, we'll take Bal's ashes to Har ki Pauri. That is the proper way.'
The manager could see his prospective customer (and presumably his commission) slipping away. 'Sacred Rights is offering ten per cent discount,' he said. 'One videographer first class is provided who will capture the ceremony for all eternity.'
Ritu's ears pricked up again. 'That does sound nice,' she said.
Mummy took her by the arm and led her away.
'Come,' she said as they stepped out of the hotel and hailed an auto. 'Better for all concerned persons we keep you here on land. Otherwise it would not only be Bal's ashes ending up in the holy Ganga, na?'
The three-wheeler squeezed up Haridwar's narrow lanes, straining against the mid-morning tide of pilgrims, ash-smeared sadhus and Western Hindu converts. Had Mummy reached out the side of the flimsy vehicle, she could have scooped up handfuls of chunky black cardamoms from open gunny sacks sitting outside spice shops or plucked plump marigold flowers from barrows stocked with the paraphernalia required for Hindu ceremonies.
The walls of the narrow buildings closing in around them had a waxy sheen, the grime that clung to the brickwork and plaster having been buffed and polished by generations of passing elbows and shoulders. Monastic doorways revealed steep stairways winding up into rooms that had been subdivided and then subdivided again. In one window, two tailors sat stacked one on top of the other like competitors in the game show Hollywood Squares, false ceilings only inches above their heads.
The lane soon fell down the hill and the auto shuddered over ruts and bumps, listing perilously when it sloshed through an open drain, and came to a halt in a small square. A banyan tree stood in the middle, gnarled and ancient. The prop roots growing from its branches had attached themselves to the facades of the surrounding buildings like the tentacles of a giant squid. Three or four cows grazed on freshly cut grass beneath the thick trunk. Nearby, three women with dupattas covering their heads, the ends between their teeth, were making patties out of manure and leaving them to dry in the sun.
'Banyan tree and cows - so far so good, na,' said Mummy as they dismounted from the auto.
'But I don't see a barber,' commented Ritu.
They were following directions that had been given to them fifteen minutes earlier at the home of the Panda responsible for keeping the records of the Ghatwal family, Ghatwal being the declared maiden name of Mrs Megha Dogra, wife of the Prince of Polyester and the first of Mummy's three suspects.
Mummy, who'd told Ritu that she was doing some research on behalf of a friend living in Canada, walked around the banyan and found the barber on the other side. His salon was arranged between the tree's roots with a mirror and washbasin attached to the trunk. Behind him lay the alley. It was too narrow for Ritu, given her girth, and she was unable to walk sideways thanks to her hips, so she elected to remain in the square.
'Pukka?' asked Mummy, hiding her relief.
'Don't worry about me. I'll be happy sitting here watching the cows. Such beautiful colours. Oooh, perhaps I'll buy some fresh milk! It's very good for you, no?'
The alley led into another smaller courtyard. From there Mummy was directed into a lopsided building. The floors sloped at a 15-degree angle and the doorways were all crooked like those in a fairground house of fun. The room in which she was asked to wait was bare save for a couple of dhurries and a bookstand.
Behind this sat the Panda - tall, lean, sixty plus, with a head of white hair pulled back into a ponytail. A red line ran from the edge of his scalp down to the bridge of his nose, an unusual tilak and one that somehow lent him a sinister air. His courteous greeting and pleasant demeanour immediately dispelled any sense of threat, however, and he called down into the courtyard for refreshments to be brought for his guest.
'Your family name is Ghatwal?' he asked.
'Actually not,' answered Mummy, who gave him the same story she'd told Ritu.
'You know which village your friend's paternal family originated from?' he asked. 'Without that information it will be very hard to help.'
Mummy got out her notes. Her friend Preeti, who worked in the National Archives, had done some research on her behalf and found Megha Ghatwal's 1947 refugee certificate. She'd been listed along with her mother, Harjot, a widow, who'd hailed from the village of Singhpuria in present-day Pakistan.
'That's north-west of Lahore,' said the Panda. 'Yes I believe
I can help.'
He took a set of keys from his pocket, selected a large old brass one and opened a door at the side of the room. Beyond lay a chamber that looked like some secret monastic library full of forbidden gospels, the shelves packed with scrolls and parchments. The Panda spent a good fifteen minutes searching through them. When he emerged it was with an armful of dusty papers, which he proceeded to unravel on the floor before him.
Written on the brittle pages were the names and details of Ghatwals spanning back seven, eight generations. The newest writing belonged to his hand, but the earlier entries had been made by his father, grandfather, great-grandfather and so on.
