MONEY TREE (32 page)

J
oey Kutzov hated the heat. He hated being out of New York. He hated flying. He hated Warwick Stanstead for sending him to this hellhole. But most of all he hated Erin Wishart and Ted Saddler for being the cause of his misery and discomfort. They would surely pay.

Joey was getting the treatment. No-one had told him about taxis that didn’t have air con. Or suspension. No-one had thought to mention that the place stank and there were goddamn fucking elephants and camels in the fucking main street! This place was a 3-ring circus! H
is perfect English-cut suit - 5,000 bucks, hand tailored by Quinn’s of New York – was a wringing mess of limp cloth and sweat. He cut no chic figure now.

His sweat-darkened shirt gaped at the neck and the tie weighed him down like a noose. His chubby, child-like body felt inflated like a Michelin man. He had hardly been able to get his $800 shoes on when they landed, and now, as the taxi bucked and jerked its way into New Delhi, they pinched and rubbed on his sweat-encased feet.

By the time he arrived at the Hilton and checked in, his fine blond hair was plastered to his reddened scalp, and his blood pressure was off the dial. He shook off the attention of the bell hop who pleaded to carry his case up to his room. He didn’t need help and sure as hell didn’t intend to pay for it. When he took the wrong turning and missed the elevator bank, Joey could be seen on the hotel security screens - had anyone been watching - kicking plant pots and screaming. He stormed back to the lobby and demanded directions before finally shouldering his way through his bedroom door.

Joey peeled off his ruined suit, showered, and made a large dent in the minibar collection before he was ready to make the first call.
A couple of lines of coke and he’d bounced back. His call resulted, half an hour later, in a knock on his door. Joey answered it wearing a white Hilton towelling robe and bathroom slippers. His manic eyes still registered persecution. Two young Indian men in smart dark suits stood nervously on the threshold. One had a scar from nose to right cheek. The other carried a briefcase. They introduced themselves as Akash and Pratik. Joey made them sit so he wasn’t shorter than them.

‘So what the fuck happened? Tell me in your own words. From the time you picked them up.’

‘You mean the Americans?’ gulped Akash, unsure of this milk-white man with the baby face and the unkind eyes. Akash was a hard man, out of the back streets of Old Delhi, and he had used a knife and a gun on more than one occasion. But he was rocked by the mad fury and impatience of this little man. He fingered his scar nervously.

‘What the fuck else do you think I’m talking about? Don’t you guys speak English for chrissake?!’ Joey’s temper hadn’t cooled. It was just capped.

The two men looked at each other. Pratik took over. ‘Everything was perfect. It was all beautiful, sir. We were waiting and ready. But the taxi driver did not do his job. He says the big American had a gun and was going to shoot him unless he stopped. So he stopped too soon.’

‘A gun? Are you sure? For chrissake what’s a fucking reporter doing with a gun? Are you sure?!’

Pratik knew there was no gun, but somehow it seemed better if there had been one. Indeed there might have been one, which was just as good. The event had already happened. Nothing could be done about it now except explain it in a way that made the white man less unhappy and less angry.

‘Absolutely, sir. In fact he shot at one of our men. That was when they got away. You see we did not think there would be a gun. Just like you. So we did not bring any ourselves. Guns are so noisy, you see. So when we threw ourselves on the taxi and tried to stop it we were most surprised.’

Joey squinted at them. ‘So the big guy starts popping away and then drives off in the fucking taxi, calm as you like? That’s what you’re telling me? This guy is some kind of special fucking agent or something? Special forces. Like the guys who got Bin Laden?’

‘That may be right, sir.’ Akash thought that this would be a helpful thing to say as well. The more impossible the odds, the better and braver they sounded. ‘Indeed it may well be that this American is not a reporter but is from the FBI or CIA.’ This was good. This was making the story much better. Akash began to believe this version.

Joey got up and began to pace. The white robe was too big for him and he looked like a pampered toddler. With a similar tendency to tantrums. The two men watched him, fascinated by the virginal white of his legs.

‘Maybe you’re right. It kinda fig
ures. What kind of gun?’

Akash had the quicker imagination. ‘It was an automatic. Big calibre. You could tell by the noise and by the hole in the glass of the taxi. A big gun.’ Pratik nodded gravely in confirmation.

‘Shit. Shit! Ok, let’s do some planning. Do we know where they’ve gone?’

‘No, sir. They checked out and went to the train station. That is all we know. I have a sister who works at the Hyatt Regency and this is all she could find out. She is very friendly with the doorman. They gave the doorman a big tip and told him to tell the driver to take them to the station.’

‘Just the two of them?’

‘Oh no, sir.’ Akash was proud of this information. ‘They went with an Indian woman. And an Indian man was with them but he stayed behind, then got another taxi.’

‘Where did he go?’

‘Back to the People’s Bank. In the old city. We know his name.’ Akash paraded his detective work. ‘He is the manager of the bank here. He is Mr CJ
Kapoor. And we think the woman who went with the white people was the daughter of the chief of the bank.’

‘His
daughter? Ramesh Banerjee’s daughter?! Where were they going with his daughter for chrissake?’

‘They took the train. A Shatabdi Express.’

‘Great! Where does that go?’

The two men looked at each other unwilling to disappoint the very white man now, but unable to come up with a suitable answer. Then Akash made an effort. ‘There are many such trains. But this one stops at Agra.’ Pratik brightened at this. ‘Ah yes, Agra,’ he said meaningfully.

‘What the fuck’s at Agra?!’

‘It is the Taj Mahal, sir.’

‘You’re telling me they went fucking sight-seeing?’

Akash was offended that his imagination was being challenged. ‘It is very normal is it not? All visitors want to see the Taj Mahal. Especially men and women. It is very romantic.’

Joey looked at his colleagues as though they’d just grown another head each. Was this likely, he asked himself? What the hell would this pair be going sight-seeing for? Or having some sort of fucking rom-com excursion? They get attacked by a bunch of idiots with knives one day and the next they go and play at tourists. Oh yeah!

‘How many men have we got?’

‘Many, many. How many do you want sir?’

‘We need to cover every train station, every airport – local and international – and every five star hotel in Delhi. Got it?  I want the alarm bells to be ringing the moment this pair is sighted. Got it? But nobody goes near, you hear? You just get on the phone to me and don’t lose them this time! Got it?! And I need a gun. Did you bring it like you were told?’

Pratik proudly unclipped his cheap, pseudo-leather briefcase and took out a bulky object wrapped in cloth. He undid the cloth and held out a dull grey handgun. Joey took it and hefted it and checked it was the Browning M1935 Hi-Power that he’d specified. It looked too big in his hands, but he’d always been lucky with this model. He pulled out the clip and checked it had its full fourteen rounds of 9 mm shells. Satisfied, he slammed it back into place and sat back with the gun in his lap.  

‘Ok, now beat it till you’ve got something to tell me.’  He waved the gun at them and motioned them to leave. ‘The
money’ll go into your account.’         

They left the very white man sitting in his bathrobe, sliding the clip in and out with a loud click, and aiming at the mirror.

T
he police truck rolled up to the village square trailing a dust cloud that had heralded its approach for three miles. The sandy particles shimmered listlessly in the intense afternoon light. Two police constables in creased khaki leapt out of the canvas-covered back and a lanky sub-inspector and his driver stepped down from the front cab. The sub-inspector smoothed his thin hair back and placed his black cap squarely on his head. He hitched up his gun-belt on his scrawny hips, and tucked a swagger-stick under his arm. His face lost some of its frown. He walked round to the side of his truck and inspected a large dent. They had collided with the wall of a house on the way in through the narrow street. This would need a report. The thought irritated him, like the whole wretched business of being here.  

Though it was the time for sitting indoors out of the sun, the village elders were summoned and a noisy crowd quickly enveloped the small group of police. Emotions were running high over the robbery. Nothing as exciting had happened in the village since the officials had come to tell them about the dam and why their river would have to be moved.

The sub inspector faced them, thwacking his stick into his left hand for emphasis. He bawled at them, his voice surprisingly deep for his thin chest. 

‘How can I learn what is happening if there is so much shouting going on?! I must have a sufficiency of  quiet!’

He was shouting in English. He couldn’t or wouldn’t speak the local dialect of these rustics. English was still the language of the governors, no matter their colour. He was sweating under the brim of his polished peaked hat. He was wondering why the commissioner had taken him off the lucrative drugs busting unit and sent him out into the countryside among these barbarians. One constable on a motor bike would have done.

Quiet fell across the crowd as Anila and Meera moved through and stepped up to the front row. Meera faced the policeman.

‘My name is Meera Banerjee. I am the area manager for the People’s Bank.’

The sub-inspector recognised the woman’s name. She was the trouble-maker who had made the complaint. If he had his way he would start with her, given her a roughing up to check her story and to repay her for the long, hot ride he’d endured. But he could not touch her. She had top contacts. This had been part of his briefing. The woman was talking again. As if she was an equal.
The nerve of her.

‘And this is my client, Anila Jhabvala who was robbed. All the money of the People’s Bank in this village has been stolen and we want a suspect arrested.’

The sub-inspector sweated harder. His annoyance grew. This had gone from a reported theft of a few rupees, to being a bank robbery! He wasn’t sure how that had come about but he knew what to do about it. There was a routine that could be applied to any situation. It would be an uncomfortable visit for someone, but it would get results.

‘First, you must furnish the details to me. We must complete an Accusation form. We will sit here and we will write down all the details. You will tell me when the money was stolen, and who
m you suspect of perpetrating this criminal deed.’

He signalled furiously at his three men and out of the back of the truck, they dragged a small trestle table and two folding chairs. They set them up carefully in the shade of a neem, shoving aside the people who had already claimed that vantage point. The sub-inspector, importantly, eased himself behind his desk, his long legs forcing his knees against the underside. He laid his baton with precision on the table, so that it sat as a symbol and barrier between himself and the complainants.  A constable sat at the edge, on the second seat and took out a notebook and a set of crumpled forms from a battered briefcase. 

‘Find another chair. Find two.’ He called out impatiently. Two stools were passed through the crowd and Meera and Anila sat down. ‘And push that crowd back!’

His two remaining constables drew their long clubs and began to flail the people with a practised brutality that pleased the sub inspector. The crowd eddied back several feet, and like a tide exposing a rock, left two shining white faces stranded in front of the sub inspector. A chill ran down the inspector’s spine. The white people were gazing at him fearlessly and with frank curiosity. This unnerved him. What were they doing here and who were they? He hadn’t been briefed about them. White people tended to have authority and were important. He couldn’t imagine any tourist coming to this god-forsaken hole. He reached for his stick.
He aimed it.

‘Who are you, please?’

Ted and Erin moved forward, Ted towering over the tableau.

‘Good afternoon, officer. My name is
Ted Saddler. I’m a reporter from the New York Tribune. This is Miss Erin Wishart. She is a representative of an international bank that is working with Miss Banerjee’s bank.’

Ted
smiled and waited for the sub-inspector. The sub-inspector was beginning to think that the police commissioner had a grudge against him. First this stupid little village has a bank robbery, next, they send a reporter from an international newspaper to cover it! And this very pretty white woman with impossible eyes was an important banker! Disquiet was added to annoyance and turning him angry.

‘This is not for reporting you understand! I cannot allow notes being taken. It is all sub judice you understand.’