by Tarquin Hall
A roar rose from inside Kotla Stadium - the crowd welcomed the batsmen to the field.
'Match is about to begin, sir,' said the usher.
It was now or never. Puri took out his invitation card, the complimentary one Satish Bhatia the Call Centre King had sent to him after their meeting, and gave it to the usher. But as the doors swung open, a voice called out from down the stairs.
'Chubby, you wait, na!'
Puri turned around to find his mother making her way towards him. 'What are you doing here? I told you to wait in the car,' he said.
'But I saw her, na. She and her husband. They're very much present!'
'Doesn't matter. We agreed. Now go home. I'll call you later.'
'No, Chubby, you listen,' she insisted, reaching the top of the stairs. 'Visiting Hardeep Singh's house unaccompanied - it was my mistake no doubt about it. Your getting so angry was totally one hundred per cent justified, also. But I've every and all rights to be here. Without my assistance her identity would not be known. It is only proper we two do conclusion of the case together.'
Puri shook his head. There was too much at stake to risk having his mother coming inside with him: the resolution of three murders and, with any luck, the breaking up of the Syndicate.
'The invitation is for one and one only,' he said.
'Actually, sir, the invitation is for two,' interrupted the usher. 'See here . . . it says "for yourself and one guest".'
'See,' said Mummy with a smile, offering her son her arm. 'Now come.'
Puri didn't have time to argue with her. But he wasn't about to agree to her demand without driving home his advantage once and for all.
'Mummy-ji, I want your word that after today you will not get involved in any further investigation.'
She responded with a wounded expression. 'How you can say that, Chubby? I did solution of the case after all.'
'That's not the point, Mummy-ji.'
'You don't think I proceeded in a right and proper way?'
'You've done well - better than well, in fact.' His voice sounded sterner than he intended and he tried to soften his tone. 'But I've told you before, no? At your age and all you should not be running around. It is not a mummy's role, actually.'
Mummy folded her arms. 'Fine, na,' she said in an indignant tone. 'If that is your wish, Chubby. You've my word and such.'
Another roar came from the stadium. The first ball of the match had been bowled. Puri took his mother by the arm.
'Just one question is there, Chubby,' she said before they entered the box. 'If and when, that is after today, any small matter should arise . . . there's nothing stopping me bringing it to your attention, na?'
He eyed her wearily.
'What type of small matter, exactly?'
'Someone facing difficulty or requiring assistance, for example.'
'Wanting professional assistance, in other words.'
'Correct.'
'Then I'll do whatever is in my power to help, Mummy-ji. It's my duty, after all. Now come. We've a mystery to conclude.'
Inside the VVIP stand, they found themselves in distinguished company once again. Many of the great and the good who'd been at the Durbar dinner were present, most of them gathered around the bar. Puri spotted Sandeep Talwar and his wife, Harnam, chatting to that foul-mouthed woman Neetika Sahini. Industrialist Ram Dogra was in attendance, as was his wife, Megha - both in conversation with Mrs Anita Bhangu, the pooch lover.
The detective found Satish Bhatia, the Call Centre King, relaxing in one of the armchairs in front of the floor-to-ceiling glass pane that overlooked the field.
'Hearties apologies for the interruption, sir,' said Puri as he greeted him. 'Just I wanted to extend my greetings - and thank you, actually. For the invitation, that is. Most kind of you.'
'The least I could do,' said Bhatia as he stood up to shake the detective's hand. 'I'm glad you could make it.'
'This is my Mummy-ji,' continued Puri. 'She's a number one fan of cricket, actually.'
Bhatia greeted her with a polite namaste. 'Pleased you could be here, Auntie-ji,' he said.
'Your own mother is present, also, na?' asked Mummy.
'She was.' Bhatia looked around the stand but couldn't find her. 'Must have gone to the ladies' room.'
There were two empty armchairs next to him.
'Don't mind if we join you?' asked Puri.
'Well, actually, I'm waiting--'
'So kind of you,' said the detective as he sat down and and took in the view. He could make out troupes of cheerleaders performing along the boundary. Ripples passed through swathes of fans like wind through a wheat field.
Somewhere down there was Rinku, waiting.
'This is the life, no?' added Puri as Mummy took the empty armchair to his left.
'It has its perks, Mr Puri,' said Bhatia, who had one eye on the match and the other on his BlackBerry. 'But sometimes I miss being in the stands surrounded by all the fans. You feel closer to the game down there, a part of it. Up here . . . well, you quickly lose touch.'
Puri watched one of the opening batsmen smack a delivery for six and the stadium's giant screen light up: BAZOOKA! The euphoria sounded muffled through the glass. Bhatia was right: it wasn't the same up here in this ivory tower.
'Looks like Kamran Khan's next,' he commented as the Pakistani prepared to make his approach from the south end of the field.
Puri checked his mobile phone. Still nothing from his father-in-law.
'Any progress, Mr Puri?' asked Bhatia.
'With my investigation, sir?'
'What else?'
'Undoubtedly, sir. The pieces of the puzzle are coming together, actually. Just one or two remaining to be put in place.'
'You sound confident.'
'Always.'
Khan delivered his first ball, a perfect delivery that forced the batsman on to his back foot.
'Well bowled!' called out Bhatia with a clap of his hands that was somewhat hampered by his BlackBerry. 'He's in good form. Amazing that he's back in the game so quickly after what happened.'
'I believe he's returned out of fear for his life,' said Puri. 'Someone is threatening him. Making him believe he'll meet the same fate as his father if he doesn't play.'
'Why do you say that?' asked Bhatia.
'I was in Pakistan few days back and met with him.'
'You were in Pakistan, Mr Puri? Didn't you call it enemy territory? I'm amazed.'
'Sir, I do not mind admitting that I was full of apprehension. So long I've lived with hatred for that nation, actually. Reality on the ground, though, was quite different. I found the people most accommodating and hospitable. No animosity was there. One distinguished gentleman provided me with a most important breakthrough in the case, also.'
'Well I'm glad to hear it.'
'Yes, sir. Whole thing - going there, crossing the border - was a life-changing experience we can say. Made me realise something, actually. We people carry around baggage we don't even realise we're carrying.'
'That's very profound, Mr Puri,' murmured Bhatia, eyes still fixed on his BlackBerry screen.
Mummy had turned in her chair and was surveying the company, searching for Kiran Singh. Puri placed one hand on her arm and gave it a pat as if to say, 'All in good time.'
Finally, his phone rang.
'Don't mind, haa?' he said to Bhatia, answering it as he stood up.
The detective began to pace up and down in front of the window. 'Haa . . . haa . . . haa,' he said, blocking his host's view.
Bhatia, visibly irritated, signalled for him to move out of the way.
'So sorry, sir, foolish of me,' Puri apologised, one hand over the receiver. He shifted to one side. 'Haa . . . haa . . . haa,' he repeated, adding in a loud voice, 'Very good, very good! Send me SMS with the details, sir . . . Good of you. I would be coming round later. We'll celebrate. Something stronger than your usual tomato soup.'
The text message came through a minute later. Puri forwar
ded it to Rinku and resumed his seat. The tension in his gut began to ease.
'Seems I've got hold of another piece of the puzzle,' said Puri, perfectly sanguine.
'Oh?'
'Yes, the identity of the killer is now known to me, in fact.'
'Someone at the dinner that evening?'
'Undoubtedly.'
'But why kill the old man?'
'Seems he did not.'
Bhatia sent Puri a puzzled look. 'I'm confused. Didn't you just say you know who killed Faheem Khan?'
'Actually, I was referring to the gentleman who ordered the death of the two bookies.'
'Bookies?'
'Yes, sir. See, they were involved in match fixing and all. Faheem Khan, also. The night he met his fate eating butter chicken, he had one meeting with a bald gentleman, name of Mohib Alam. It took place - the meeting, that is - on the lawn of the Durbar, directly outside the banquet hall. By chance I was witness to it. Another gentleman was, also. That gentleman put two and two together so to speak and thus realised Khan and Alam were engaged in match fixing.'
'And this individual poisoned Khan?'
'No, sir. Seems that murderous act was carried out by another individual.'
Bhatia's smile was coldly sceptical. 'Two murderers, Mr Puri?'
'Delhi bookie Mohib Alam was poisoned by a hit man posing as a paan wallah. He used aconite - a cunning ploy of the gentleman who hired his services. It was his idea to make it look as if Alam's murder and that of Faheem Khan were connected.'
'But they weren't?'
'Mummy-ji believes the motive for Faheem Khan's death was another one, totally unconnected to cricket in fact.'
Bhatia's mouth twitched into a smile. 'With all due respect, Mr Puri, is your Mummy-ji really in a position to know?'
'That we will know for sure within the hour.'
The ball was knocked deep into the stands again and everyone in the VVIP seats began to applaud.
'I'm still confused,' said Bhatia. Puri noticed his left foot tapping on the floor. 'You said there were three murders.'
'Correct. Another bookie was murdered in Mumbai, also. He was killed on orders of the same gentleman present on the terrace.' Puri paused for a beat. 'That individual in question is a most cunning and capable person - a topper,' he continued. 'In the past six months, only, he's taken over the running of the entire illegal gambling syndicate in India.'
'You've strayed into the realm of Bollywood,' said Bhatia, smiling indulgently. 'Everyone knows Aga controls the gambling business.'
'Used to, sir. Past tense. Seems our American friends grabbed hold of him. As of now he's rotting in some cell. The topper I mentioned came to know this. He's a computer genius, actually. Thus he was able to access the Pentagon system where he read certain top secret files.'
'Pentagon? Hacking? It all sounds pretty far-fetched to me.'
Down on the field, Khan was preparing to bowl his fourth over. Puri had timed his revelations perfectly.
'Allow me to prove it to you, sir. The second ball of this over will be a wide.'
'You couldn't possibly know that,' said Bhatia, with a dismissive, peremptory snort. But his eyes remained fixed on the field nonetheless. He watched Khan make his approach, as graceful as ever - watched as the delivery bounced a good two feet wide of the crease.
'You see, sir, I've a topper working for me, also. One hour back, only, he discovered the message in the Times classified pages.'
Bhatia didn't flinch. His gaze remained fixed on the field.
Puri continued: 'Most ingenious, sir - the whole operation, in fact,' he said. 'A call centre is the perfect cover for running a gambling operation. Rows of operators sitting at desks in front of computers and wearing headsets and all. Those on the top floor of your building are not selling life insurance or booking airline tickets, but taking bets directly from punters across India. Fact that you are offering more favourable odds means that most of Aga's bookies started passing on their risk to you. But one thing you would not tolerate was match fixing. Certainly not by others. Thus you hired a hit man. That left the field open, so to speak. You knew which players were involved. You cracked their encryption code, also. And thus earlier today you sent them coded messages - which I had the good fortune to intercept.'
'These are dangerous allegations you're making, Mr Puri,' said Bhatia, his tone distinctly menacing.
'I believe you are the one who should be more concerned.'
'You're threatening me, Mr Puri?'
'Not threatening, sir - promising. That is, unless you can pay your debts.'
'Debts?'
'Allow me to explain. See, I happen to know a certain individual who is most fond of betting on cricket. When he came to know I'd come by certain match-fixing information, he was naturally interested to know more. Unfortunately this individual is fond of Indian Made Foreign Liquor, also, and last night, only, he got to drinking a good deal. Thus his tongue started wagging and he passed on what was naturally confidential information to his buddies - and seems they in turn shared it around also. Right across India, in fact.'
Puri paused for a moment. 'You remember Khan's last wide ball - one I predicted earlier? That one proved my information is one hundred per cent correct. Therefore my friend and many of his buddies, also, will be placing large amounts on the next delivery, a full toss going for a sixer, I believe.'
Bhatia gave a sharp glance at the field, where Khan was about to make his approach. He pressed redial on his phone and held it to his ear. His foot was tapping at double the pace now. His glasses had slipped down his nose and he pushed the rims back up against the bridge, his Rolex jangling loose on his thin wrist. The ball went for a full toss. Vikas Patil knocked it clear over the boundary for six. Bhatia let his arms fall down on to the arms of his chair. A tinny-sounding voice came out of the BlackBerry. 'Hello, hello? Sir, are you there?' It went unanswered. Bhatia's finger pressed the disconnect button. He turned in his seat to face the detective and said, 'You don't know who you're dealing with, Mr Puri.'
'That is something of a stale line, no? And furthermore, it is one hundred and fifty per cent inaccurate. Even the existence of your Liechtenstein account is known to me. The name, Rawat Trust, gave you away actually. You told me yourself Rawat is your mother's native place.' Puri sounded triumphant as he added, 'No, sir, I regret to inform you it is over for you. I've taken the bails off your wickets, so to speak. Umpire's decision is most definitely "out".'
The Call Centre King leaned towards him. 'Believe me, Mr Puri, I'll get even with you if it's the last thing I do,' he said.
'Sir, I believe you have tried once before and failed. Better you look to your affairs, only.'
Bhatia stood up abruptly and stormed off through the throng of VVIPs, making for the exit without his mother.
'You're letting him get away, na,' said Mummy.
'Not to worry,' Puri answered, signalling the waiter to bring him a drink. 'With his identity out in the open, he's in hot water. The hottest, actually. I would not want to be in his chappals for one minute.'
'He'll make a full confession, na?'
'Most probably to the Americans, Mummy-ji. They want him for hacking their computers, after all. Here in India his life is not worth two paisa. Police, netas, corporators - entire Nexus will be after him, also Sandeep Talwar will want his head on a platter. Bhatia was his bag man, Mohib Alam killed. All India is into gambling these days and no one likes a match fixer.'
The waiter returned with a large whisky and a fizzing nimboo paani.
Mummy now had a clear view of Kiran Singh.
She found it hard to believe that this was the same woman who'd been imprisoned in that foul hole by Faheem Khan sixty-odd years ago. Ageing was the best disguise of all and it had done its work effectively. All traces of her rural origins had been expunged. She had become a woman of refinement with a distinguished bearing. Watching her, Mummy could believe that her reputation as a caring individual who gave generously of her ti
me and wealth to the less fortunate had been well earned. Certainly no one would ever have guessed the tragedy she'd endured - witnessing the execution of her mother and sisters at the hands of her own father; escaping death by what must have been a matter of millimetres; being abducted and violated by that animal.
