by Tarquin Hall
It would have destroyed most women. But she was strong. Strong enough to smuggle herself into India. To build a new life for herself. To take revenge when the opportunity finally, unexpectedly, presented itself all these decades later.
Mummy guessed that it had probably been in Delhi that she'd met her adopted mother, Harjot Ghatwal. Bereft of her husband and children, the widow had mistaken Kiran Singh for her own daughter. Or perhaps the two women had adopted one another, come to a mutual understanding. Either way, Kiran Singh had become Megha Ghatwal, later marrying businessman Ram Dogra.
But no one could ever fully escape their past.
'It's always there, na, like a ghost doing haunting,' said Mummy as she and Puri sat discussing how to proceed. 'Myself, I've tried to forget - memories of those terrible times and such. But it is hard. Just they're popping up from time to time. Sometimes in my dreams. Other times while going to buy milk.'
Mummy's throat had gone dry. She wetted it with a sip of her drink before continuing. 'Every time I can see clearly his face,' she said, referring to her brother, Anil. 'Just a boy he was, na. Never hurt a fly. So scared and terrified. Begging those boys to let him go. I can see their faces also. So much hatred is there. Then he is gone, dragged away. Just I hear his screaming - and . . . it's over.'
Puri closed his eyes. 'Mummy-ji, I'm sorry. What all you went through I cannot imagine in a thousand years,' he said.
'I was not alone, Chubby. Everyone did suffering, na. Hindu and Muslim. Our people were killing so many of their people, also. Children, babies, old women - no one was spared. Responsibility is on our heads also.'
'How can you say that, Mummy-ji? They murdered your brother,' said Puri, almost pleading with her.
'Those who did that thing were human beings, na. We should ask ourselves why human beings behave in such a way. Otherwise nothing can change.'
Puri frowned. 'You've forgiven Anil's killers, is it?' he asked.
'Not at all. I want justice, same as Kiran Singh. But doesn't mean I have hatred of all Pakistani or Muslim people, na.'
The match was still being played. Indifferent to the game, she watched the batsmen running up and down.
'Mummy-ji, one question is there,' asked Puri.
'Would I do revenge?'
He nodded.
'Answer is no, Chubby. Definitely. But for Kiran Singh it is different, na.'
'Why exactly?'
'To this very day, the names of Anil's murderers, they remain totally unknown to my good self. But she . . . she got abused by this man personally in the worst way. That is something different. Just imagine coming face to face with this man after so many of years.'
'They met at the drinks the night before the match,' added Puri. 'Faheem Khan came directly from the airport - his first time in India.'
'Then only she decided to do the needful. Next morning, na, she got hold some aconite.'
'Motive is there but rest is guesswork,' said Puri.
'Come now, Chubby. You know she did this thing.'
'A detective does not go by feelings, Mummy-ji. He goes by facts.'
'Fine. Then let us get them once and for all.'
Mummy stood and crossed the room with swift efficiency, reaching the table where Megha Dogra was now sitting on her own, her husband having gone up to the bar.
'Sorry for the interruption, na, but I would need a word,' said Mummy.
'Do we know one another?' replied Megha Dogra with a gentle, quizzical smile.
'We met long time back, na. It's been some sixty years in fact.' Mummy switched to Punjabi. 'My name is Koomi Pabla,' she said. 'I was the one who rescued you. From that hole behind his house.'
A look of astonishment swept over Megha Dogra's face, swiftly followed by tender recognition. In an instant, however, this too gave way to perplexity. 'I . . . I . . . don't know what . . . what to say,' she stuttered. 'I think you must have me confused with someone else.'
'No mistake,' said Mummy. 'Now that I'm standing here, I'm sure. You were the one he called Saroya.'
Puri, who'd been caught off guard again by his mother's manoeuvre and had struggled to get up out of his armchair, reached the table. Megha Dogra's eyes moved between the two of them, making the connection. A shadow seemed to pass over her face.
'My son,' explained Mummy, the clarification redundant. 'We've been working together.'
'A most effective team we've made, I must say,' added Puri as he pulled up a chair. 'Indeed, Mummy-ji has been able to offer unique insight into the case. Having been part of events sixty years ago or more, she suspected the motive for Faheem Khan's murder might have to do with his past, not his present. Thus she searched for the woman he abducted in 1947. That trail has led to you, madam.'
'I see,' said Megha Dogra in a diminished tone. 'And you want to see justice done, I take it.'
'That is my duty, madam.'
'And what if I told you that justice has already been done, Mr Puri?' She was looking the detective in the eye, not a hint of remorse or compunction in her voice. 'It may seem cruel now, an old man poisoned in such a way,' she continued. 'But to his victims - and there were many - he was anything but helpless. His punishment was well deserved, let me assure you.'
Mummy and Puri exchanged a long, knowing look. They had their answer. And in that instant, without a word passing between them, they both came to the realisation that proving Megha Dogra's guilt would be impossible. There were no witnesses to her poisoning the butter chicken. No clues left at the scene of the crime. Even the link between the culprit and the victim couldn't be corroborated. It would be her word against theirs.
Still convention dictated - at least in Puri's book - that he should be the one to have the last word.
'Allow me to inform you, madam,' he began, sounding like a seasoned judge summing up in court, 'it is my belief that no one, under any circumstance, has the right to put the law into their own hands. Also, I would wish to state for the record that if the means and all were at my disposal, I would not hesitate for one minute or second, even, to pass the evidence to the proper authorities - in this case the Delhi police.'
Megha Dogra seemed to sense that she should allow him to continue with his homily uninterrupted. She sat with her hands folded in her lap, her chin held in perfect alignment with her straight shoulders, a portrait of calm composure.
'Furthermore,' continued the detective, 'I should like to add that it is my belief that ultimately we must all account for our actions to a high power. Therefore, madam, I leave it for the God to pass judgement at some later date. It is Vish Puri's intention to take the matter no further.'
Megha Dogra acknowledged his words with a gracious nod.
They left her sitting at the table surrounded by celebrating Delhi fans who'd just seen their side add four more runs to the scoreboard.
Puri and Mummy walked solemnly towards the exit. They passed Ram Dogra along the way. 'I wanted to ask if you'd made any progress with the case,' he said.
'Unfortunately, sir, it is very much looking as if we have run into a dead end - too many stale clues and all.'
Puri had come to the conclusion that Ram Dogra was ignorant of his wife's actions and no doubt about her past as well.
'I'm sorry to hear that. You must feel very frustrated,' said the Prince of Polyester.
'Failure is not something I welcome or take lightly, sir. However in my case at least, it is a rare occurrence.' He paused. 'That said, sir, all is not lost.'
'Why's that?'
'No doubt our Delhi Chief of Police is hard at work, so we can all rest easy.'
Ram Dogra's laughter was still ringing in their ears as Mummy and Puri left the stand.
They were about halfway down the stairs when the doors behind them swung open with a bang.
'Koomi, just one minute, please,' pleaded a voice.
Megha Dogra hurried down towards them, her eyes moist with tears. She put her arms around Mummy and gave her a warm, lingering hug.
'I
never got a chance to thank you,' she whispered. 'Bless you.'
And then she turned and headed back upstairs to her husband - to her life.
TWENTY-EIGHT
PURI HADN'T SLEPT in his bed for the past two nights and desperately wanted to return home to Rumpi. But there was no escaping work and he spent the next few hours tying up loose ends - most notably identifying Satish Bhatia's hit man, whom Inspector Singh had tracked down of his own volition.
It wasn't until nearly six that Bhatia himself was arrested at Delhi Airport where he'd been trying to board a flight to America, at which point Puri called his client to give him the good news.
'Well done you, Puri! Very well done indeed!' he said.
'Most kind of you, sir,' answered the detective, swelling with pride.
Now seemed like a good time to bring up the cost of the Mercedes Benz that had been written off and the ten lakhs Puri had lost to Full Moon.
'I can never quite get my head around all your lakhs and crores, Puri. How much is that in real money?' asked Scott in response.
The detective gave him an approximate figure in US dollars.
'Aaah . . . right . . . I see.'
'My sincerest apologies, former Deputy Commissioner,' Puri felt compelled to say.
'Yes, well, not to worry, Vish. Send me the bill and I'll get it sorted. Now back to the case. I still don't understand: did Bhatia have Faheem Khan killed or didn't he?'
'Sir, I believe you have what you and your associates wanted all along: the gambling syndicate is exposed for all to see.'
'Absolutely. And like I said, well done you. But you didn't answer my question.'
'Sir, I'd ask that you don't press me on this point. It was a matter of revenge - nothing to do with the world of cricket whatsoever.'
'Surely you're not going to just let it go?'
'Believe me sir, if evidence was to hand I'd not hesitate in pursuing the case. But nothing is there. It was a perfect murder - a perfect butter chicken murder we can say.'
Scott let out an uneasy sigh. 'Well I suppose you've got no argument from me. We'll just have to leave it at that. As far as the match fixing goes, the next step's to inform the IIC, obviously. You'll need to send me all the details. It's going to create a shit storm. Headlines for weeks.'
'Talking of which, sir . . . I regret to inform you that I don't wish my name to be associated with the case.'
'Oh come on, you can't be serious, Vish! You deserve the recognition!'
'Undoubtedly, sir. But it is often the way here in India. Better to remain in the shadows so to speak. Unfortunately this will hardly be the end of betting on cricket, sir. Other bookies and all will step in for sure. People are so obsessed with gambling, actually. And there is no way it can be legalised. Too many special interests involved. Better they don't become aware of my involvement.'
'Well, if that's how you want it . . .'
The detective hung up the phone as Elizabeth Rani entered his office bearing a cup of chai. From his disconsolate expression she guessed that, not for the first time, he wasn't going to be able to take credit for solving a major case. Knowing how much he hungered for recognition, and how much it would pain him not to be able to show up the Dehli police chief, she decided to try to perk him up.
'Sir, I don't know how you do it,' she said. 'There is not another detective in all of India who could have exposed the entire betting business.'
'Thank you, Madam Rani. As usual, you are quite correct. It was a considerable achievement, I must say. But let it not be forgotten that I received valuable assistance along the way. Had Major General Aslam not been good enough to provide me with certain information, then only the God knows where we would be. Just goes to show that in Pakistan, also, there are individuals striving for truth and justice. That is something we would all do well to remember, Madam Rani.'
'Yes, sir.'
Before Scott called, Puri had been in the process of dictating the details of the case to his secretary. This was something the detective always did at the conclusion of an investigation while events were fresh in his mind.
They now picked up where they had left off, with Puri recounting Megha Dogra's words in the VVIP stand.
'Sir, there's one thing you didn't mention,' said Elizabeth Rani when he was finished.
'Tell me.'
'Megha Dogra, the lady who poisoned Faheem Khan. How did she do it exactly?'
'If I was a betting man - and thank the God I am not - I would put money on one of her husband's syringes. He is diabetic. That is not common knowledge by the way. Being a man in his position, he keeps his disease top secret.'
'How did you come to know?'
'His complexion is waxy. That is a sure sign. Yet to be one hundred per cent sure, I got his manservant followed. Yesterday, only, he visited the chemist to pick up a supply - of insulin and syringes.'
'Aconite, also, is readily available,' added Puri. 'But she could not be sure of the dosage. Thus one pooch at Kotla got put out of his misery. And later, at dinner, she added something like double the amount to Faheem's Khan's butter chicken.'
'But how, sir?'
'It was easy, actually. Upon her return from the ladies' room, Megha Dogra found his seat unoccupied. She stopped to do chitchat with Mrs Anita Bhangu. She was wearing a shawl - it being cold outside. Thus when she leaned over the table to pick up something or other, the syringe could not be seen. Injecting the poison took seconds, only.'
Elizabeth Rani shook her head slowly from side to side. 'Personally I don't know whether to sympathise with her or not. She suffered so much . . . and yet to do such a thing . . .'
'It is impossible to fathom, Madam Rani. But that is the human mind, no? An eternal puzzle, we can say.'
Elizabeth Rani saved the case file on her laptop computer and closed the lid.
'I'm afraid there is one other matter for your attention,' she said. 'Your client, one who lost half his moustache, Satya Pal Bhalla . . . he called again today. He's demanding his payment be returned forthwith.'
'Seems I will have to give it to him,' said Puri with a sigh. 'The moustache case has hit a quagmire, actually.'
Handbrake had visited all the five star hotels in Delhi without coming across a newly hired doorman. Calls to the manager of the Palace on Wheels and the Maharaja Express, both luxury trains that employed mustachioed porters, waiters and bearers, had also proven fruitless.
'Thank you, Madam Rani, I would call Bhalla later, only,' said the detective. 'For now, some meter down is required.'
Puri could tell there was something on Handbrake's mind. However, it wasn't until they were halfway to Gurgaon and the detective had finished talking on the phone with Tubelight - and suggested he and the team take some well-earned offs - that the driver spoke up.
'Boss, one thing, I think, perhaps you should know,' he said in Hindi.
Puri's nod in the rearview mirror was encouragement for him to go on.
'You asked me to search for a doorman who'd been hired in the past few days.'
Another nod.
'At one hotel there was a doorman who'd been on leave - sick leave. He'd come back to work only a few days back. It's probably not important but--'
'He had a moustache?' demanded Puri, suddenly alert.
'Big one.'
'Which hotel?'
'The Durbar, Boss.'
Puri was struck by a terrible thought. On the night Faheem Khan was murdered, Mummy had said something about the Maharani of Alwar staying at the hotel.
'By God! Turn around! Jaldi!'
Handbrake couldn't turn around. By now they were on the Expressway and there were barriers on either side of the road. He had to drive three miles to the toll court and make a U-turn. In the meantime, Puri called the hotel. He asked for the manager and was put on hold. For the next ten minutes he had to listen to the muzak version of 'Greensleeves'. Finally with a frustrated 'Arrey!' he hung up and called back, insisting the operator connect him to the front desk.
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The concierge who answered said that the manager was on his break and offered to take a message.
'Tell him the Maharani of Alwar's Golkonda Diamond is to be looted and he should revert urgently!' shouted Puri.
'Yes, sir, I'll pass it on,' replied the concierge, nonchalant.
Half an hour later, they pulled up in front of the Durbar. The front doors were unmanned. Puri found Mummy's assistant manager friend, Rajneesh, on duty and asked him about the whereabouts of the doorman.
'He's having his khana, sir. Something is wrong?'
