Midnight at Malabar House (Inspector Wadia series)

by Khan, Vaseem

  Moments later, she found herself standing beside a granite statue of Mary, eyes focused on the path that wound around the cathedral’s eastern flank. She settled into a shooting stance, bracing herself against the statue. Warmth from the stone radiated into her shoulder. She breathed in, attempted to restore a centre of calm.

  Shankar appeared around the edge of the cathedral, still dragging Blackfinch. She realised that she could shoot him in the back now and end this. But what if the bullet travelled through him and into his hostage?

  She sighted down the barrel. A twig cracked under her foot, the sound like a rifle shot in the silence.

  Shankar whipped around, pulling Blackfinch with him, a curse escaping the Englishman.

  Shankar’s eyes widened. He pressed the tip of the knife against Blackfinch’s throat. A bead of blood slid down the blade. There was something wild in the man’s eyes. Persis recognised the bloodlust that had led Shankar to murder an entire family. This was not a man to be reasoned with. Surat Bakshi may have transformed himself into the urbane Adi Shankar, but at his core he would remain a deeply fearful man, ruled by a savagery of nature that was part and parcel of his character.

  And a man’s character was his fate.

  Persis sighted down the barrel of her revolver and squeezed the trigger.

  Chapter 29

  25 January 1950

  Malabar House was unnaturally quiet. She had expected no less. It was the day before Republic Day. Most of the team had begged time off to spend with their families preparing for the celebrations. She had considered staying away, but somehow it had not worked out like that. Her suspension had ended the night before and she had found herself overtaken by an irrational desire to be at her desk, if only for a few short hours.

  Suspension. The sting of it still lingered. On an intellectual level, she understood the inevitability of it. The events at St Thomas Cathedral had left her superiors with little choice.

  Two days after she had confronted Shankar, she had been hauled before a panel of senior officers. The panel had been chaired by Additional Deputy Commissioner of Police Amit Shukla. Ravi Patnagar, head of the state CID, had also been present.

  To her surprise the atmosphere had been subdued. She had expected the worst; the night before, terror had paralysed her, the fear that she would be stripped of her uniform.

  It quickly dawned on her that a different dynamic was at work. They were not there to condemn her; they were gathered to find a way to save themselves.

  Seth had been right. The fact that she had become a national celebrity during the Herriot investigation, the fact that they had lauded her, now made it all but impossible for them to condemn her without condemning themselves. They couldn’t release Maan Singh and declare his innocence without a significant loss of face. Nor could they ignore the evidence that her renegade investigation had uncovered.

  They had spent hours poring over that investigation. To her surprise ADC Shukla had displayed a policeman’s curiosity; his manner grew animated as she detailed how she had pieced together the events that had led to Sir James’s death. Patnagar seemed less impressed.

  When they were done, they asked her to step outside.

  An hour later, she had been invited to return. That hour had been the loneliest of her life. She could only imagine the debate that had raged behind those doors. Her heart leaped into her mouth as she entered the room; she stared at their faces, attempting to read the verdict from their expressions.

  ‘You have left us with quite a dilemma, Inspector,’ said Shukla. ‘You have disobeyed direct orders, pursued an enquiry you were explicitly told not to pursue. Can you imagine the chaos if every officer acted as you have?’ He paused and she had to restrain herself from yelling into the silence. How could they be so – so blind?

  Shukla appeared to read her mind. ‘You are young. I don’t mean that as a criticism. Your ideals are the ideals that underpin this service. Do you remember Bhagat Singh? The martyr? He once wrote: “The sanctity of the law can be maintained only so long as it is the will of the people.” But the people are fickle, Inspector. They believe in myths and legends, heroes and villains. We don’t share the Greek love of tragedy; we prefer our heroes to be infallible.’ He sighed. ‘It is the decision of this panel that you will be suspended from duty for a short period but will face no further censure. Upon your return, you will remain at Malabar House in your present capacity until we can decide what to do with you. Personally, I think you are too good an officer to waste your time there. But it is too early to judge whether that promise will be fulfilled. You are headstrong, Persis, and while I may privately applaud you for it, the fact remains that you cannot be trusted.’

  She straightened her shoulders. ‘What of Maan Singh? What of the investigation?’

  It was Patnagar who spoke. ‘The investigation is closed. It will not be re-opened.’

  She stared at him in confusion. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘You don’t have to underst—’ began Patnagar angrily, but Shukla waved him into silence.

  ‘Did I not just tell you that the public are unwilling to accept weakness in their heroes? How can they trust us to maintain law and order if we admit that we are wrong?’

  ‘But—’ she began, only to be cut off by Shukla’s raised hand.

  ‘Be content that you have solved the case. The guilty party is no more.’

  ‘But what of Maan Singh?’ she repeated. ‘He must be set free, exonerated.’

  ‘I have spoken with Singh, explained the facts of the matter. He does not wish to be released.’

  The words were deafening in her ears. ‘Impossible!’

  Shukla raised an eyebrow. ‘I assure you, the man wishes only to be remembered as the killer of Sir James. By his own twisted logic, his acceptance of guilt shall release his family from the disgrace brought upon them by his father.’

  ‘But he will hang for a crime he did not commit! How is this justice?’

  Shukla gave a sad smile. ‘Justice can take many forms, Persis.’

  She gaped at the man. ‘What of Meenakshi Rai? Her confession?’

  Shukla exchanged glances with Patnagar. ‘I take it you haven’t heard?’ He shifted in his seat. ‘Meenakshi Rai committed suicide in her cell yesterday. She strangled herself with the dupatta of her sari.’

  Shock rooted her to the spot.

  ‘We managed to keep her arrest out of the newspapers. As far as the press are concerned, Adi Shankar shot himself because of financial problems at his club. His heartbroken fiancée, Meenakshi Rai, then committed suicide.’

  ‘You can’t do this,’ she whispered.

  ‘It is already done.’

  ‘What about Lal, Campbell, all the others who heard their confession?’

  ‘All have been spoken to. They have seen the wisdom in our chosen course of action.’

  She wrestled with her desire to scream. To shout. To give vent to the anger and frustration that threatened to burst out of her and burn down the room.

  Instead, she took a deep breath. Her father had warned her that there would come a moment during the hearing upon which would pivot her whole future. What she said and did then would determine her fate. Along one path would be rage and perhaps a moment’s satisfaction; along the other: suppression of her will, but the chance to continue to do good in the world.

  She stared straight ahead, into the future.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she said.

  She stirred from her thoughts as Pradeep Birla entered the office. A smile cracked his dark features as he spotted her.

  ‘So, how does it feel? You solved the case.’

  She realised that no one else had asked her this question, not even her father. She had focused so intently on the hearing and subsequent suspension that she had not had the opportunity to reflect on the fact that, ultimately, she had achieved the task that she had set herself – to unmask Sir James Herriot’s killer.

  She blinked. ‘I feel – I feel . . .’ She
tailed off, seized by a sudden melancholy. They had given her the case believing that she would fail. They had obstructed her at every turn. And still she had prevailed.

  And yet . . . the death of Meenakshi Rai, killer though she be, churned uneasily inside her. The beautiful socialite had been lied to, manipulated, and had ultimately committed the worst of crimes, believing that she was protecting the man she loved.

  Meanwhile, Singh would hang for a crime he did not commit.

  The truth had been subverted; it left a bitter taste in her mouth.

  Perhaps this, more than anything, affirmed for her that she had chosen wisely. She was more than just India’s first female IPS officer. She was an instrument of the law.

  ‘My wife would like to invite you to dinner,’ said Birla. ‘She is quite taken by the fact that you outrank me. She is a very progressive woman.’ He seemed pained by this revelation.

  The invitation surprised her, and she found herself staring at him. But he seemed sincere.

  ‘Thank you. I accept.’

  After Birla had left, Persis lingered for a moment, enjoying the moment of unusual quiet.

  George Fernandes entered the office. He froze as he spotted her, then nodded, took off his cap and sat down heavily at his desk.

  ‘I hadn’t expected you back until after Republic Day,’ he said.

  ‘I hadn’t expected you back at all,’ she replied.

  He stared at her in confusion.

  ‘I saw the number on your notepad. Aalam Channa’s number.’

  His eyes widened, but he said nothing. His hand fidgeted on his knee.

  ‘It wasn’t Oberoi feeding him information. It was you.’

  He couldn’t meet her eyes.

  ‘Why did you do it?’

  ‘You wouldn’t understand.’

  ‘Try me.’

  He raised his chin, something defiant in his eyes now. ‘I’ve given my life to the force. I did everything they asked of me. And then, one mistake, and I am condemned. Cast aside, to live out the remainder of my career . . . here. Channa promised me a way back. He has contacts at state CID – Ravi Patnagar. I was told that if I could provide information about what you were doing, that if ultimately it might lead to you – to you being removed from the force, I would be transferred back to a central unit.’

  ‘You tried to sabotage my career,’ she said flatly.

  ‘You have no right to be here!’ he exploded. ‘You are a publicity stunt. Policing is not for women. What future do you think you have? Do you really believe that men will ever follow your orders?’

  She was taken aback. She had never guessed that such currents of prejudice ran through the seemingly mild-mannered Fernandes. It was another valuable lesson.

  Her face hardened, then she stood, placed her cap upon her head. ‘I conveyed my suspicions to ADC Shukla. You will be investigated. If I were you I would begin praying that you don’t lose your liberty as well as your career.’

  She considered saying more, but then realised that she had said enough.

  Exactly enough.

  Chapter 30

  26 January 1950 – Republic Day

  The langur sat above the hoarding – a technicolour poster for the latest Bollywood blockbuster, somewhat defaced by trails of pigeon excrement – watching her closely as she parked the jeep and stepped outside into the afternoon sun. The grey-brick building before her reminded her of a Gothic mausoleum, looming darkly over the city.

  She walked briskly into the entrance, spoke briefly to the security guard, then made her way down into the bowels of the building.

  Pausing momentarily outside a door marked FORENSIC SCIENCE LABORATORY, she gathered her thoughts. She smoothed down the front of her blouse, pushed a frond of hair behind her ear, then stepped inside.

  Blackfinch was bent over a workstation, in flannel trousers and a white shirt rolled to the elbows, peering into a microscope, his spectacles pushed back into his hair. He appeared not to have heard her enter. She waited, debating with herself how best to interrupt him.

  The decision was made for her by a loud clacking at the window. She turned to see a crow land on the windowsill, pecking at the pane.

  Blackfinch looked around, saw her, and stiffened. She noticed that a bandage still obscured his right ear. He stared at her, then turned back to his microscope.

  She moved forward into the room, feeling acutely conscious of her appearance. Perhaps it had been a bad idea to put on a dress, and these uncomfortable – yet undeniably stylish – shoes that Aunt Nussie had gifted her a year ago.

  ‘I’m surprised to see you here,’ she said. ‘I’d have thought you’d be out celebrating the birth of a nation with your old friend from England.’

  ‘It’s not my nation,’ he said stiffly, without turning around.

  ‘I disagree. Locard’s principle, right? No contact fails to leave a trace. The British were here three hundred years. That’s a lot of contact.’

  He grunted. She attempted to move around into his line of sight, but he shifted himself so that he maintained his back to her, lighthouse fashion.

  She sighed. ‘I take it you’re still upset with me?’

  ‘Why would I be upset with you? I mean, it’s not as if you shot me. Oh wait. That’s precisely what you did.’

  ‘What do you want me to say? I apologise. I didn’t mean to shoot part of your ear off.’

  ‘You could have killed me!’

  ‘I took a calculated risk. If Shankar had got you to his car who knows what he might have done. You were never in any danger from me. I scored 96 per cent in my pistol proficiency test at the academy.’

  ‘That’s heartening to know,’ he muttered.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she repeated. ‘You twitched at the last second, otherwise I wouldn’t have hit your ear.’

  ‘So it’s my fault?’ He turned to face her, his cheeks red.

  She thought it might be amusing to tell him that he looked attractive when he was angry, but restrained herself. She suspected he wouldn’t appreciate the sentiment.

  ‘You’re reckless, Persis,’ he fumed. ‘And one day it’s going to get someone killed. Someone you actually care about.’

  Something rose unbidden to her lips. She bit down on her tongue. The confusion of feelings that had brought her here seemed suddenly daunting, a complexity beyond her ability to unravel. Perhaps it would have been better to have stayed away.

  ‘I wish you a speedy recovery,’ she said stiffly. ‘Thank you for your assistance with the investigation.’ She turned and walked out of the lab, her heels clacking on the tiles.

  Outside, the langur eyed her stonily from his perch as she stalked back to the jeep, swore, then got inside, and swore again. She closed her eyes, leaned back momentarily.

  A thumping on the window. Blackfinch’s face peered in at her.

  She rolled down the window, waited for him to speak.

  ‘I’ve been invited to attend fireworks and whatnot. Six p.m. at the 360 Club. I don’t suppose you’d care to attend? There’ll be supper and speeches. Possibly dancing.’

  She looked away, her gaze alighting on a woman by the side of the road feeding her child from her breast, her eyes the milky white so common to poverty in the new republic.

  ‘Let me think about it,’ she said.

  Author’s Note:

  The Ghosts of Partition

  We often think of Partition as a matter of historical importance involving nation states, macro-level politics, and major world figures. But the truth is that Partition had – and continues to have – an enduring effect on individual lives. Millions died, millions more lost their homes, their businesses, the lives that they had known. Studies have estimated that between two to three million people went missing in the state of Punjab during the movement of populations and have never been accounted for.

  The chaos of Partition cannot be blamed solely on Mountbatten and British policy. Subcontinental politicians must shoulder their share of the blame. And in
dividuals too. Those ordinary citizens who allowed themselves to be incited into hatred and religious xenophobia, who set aside decades, sometimes centuries of friendship, who took up sword and flame to terrorise their neighbours and compatriots, to murder men, women, and children in a frenzy of bloodlust that even now is difficult to comprehend.

  My own father retained hazy memories of being forced from his village in Punjab as a boy. He was one of the fortunate ones. The violence passed him by and he settled in a village in Pakistan, a mirror image of the one that he had left behind. In his twenties, fortune brought him to the UK where he settled in London, where I was born.

  My father passed away last year at the age of 82, having spent many more years in Britain than on the subcontinent. He identified as a Brit and a Pakistani but he never forgot the India that he claimed was his birthplace. When I, at the age of 23, found myself travelling to live and work in that country (I stayed for a decade), he was overjoyed. My mother was somewhat less enthused. She had been born in Pakistan and had grown up with the hateful rhetoric that even now pits the two neighbours against one another at regular intervals.

  That is the true legacy of Partition. The way it has coloured the perceptions of two peoples who were essentially one, the way it continues to serve as a means by which political interests on both sides of the border can employ hatred and prejudice as a means of deflecting criticism of their regimes.

  One can only hope that the wounds of history are healed in the fullness of time. Only then might the ghosts of Partition, the millions of dead and missing, find peace.

  Vaseem Khan

  London, March 2020

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