The Case of the Love Commandos (22 page)

In order to leave his audience in absolutely no doubt that it was Vish Puri whom they were pursuing, Pappi then drove to the nearest Tibb’s and ordered a chicken frankie. From there, he planned to lead Puri’s tails on a merry dance around South Delhi.

The real detective remained in his cubicle for a few minutes out of necessity. Once he’d washed his hands and paid the janitor, he stepped onto the street and hailed an auto. His destination was Nizamuddin East, a so-called colony of South Delhi. But just in case one of Hari’s people had got wise to the switch, he told the driver to take him to INA Market. There, he wove a path through the labyrinth of ramshackle stalls, stepping over live chickens and open drains and ignoring touts offering everything from cans of imported baked beans and Iranian pistachios to cheap bras. He then headed down into the Delhi metro and took the train one stop to Jor Bagh. From there, he hired a taxi from the nearby stand.

He was about halfway to his destination when his phone rang. It was an Agra number.

“This is Satyajit Dasgupta. I got a message from Shaadiwaadi saying I should call you—regarding Anju?”

He was referring to Dr. Basu.

“You two were going the marriage way, I understand?” asked Puri.

“Yes, that’s right.”

“How long you had known her, might I ask?”

“A few weeks.”

Nothing untypical about two people getting married so quickly even amongst the educated elite, reflected Puri. “It is my understanding you were with her the night she met her death,” he said.

“Do you mind telling me what this is about? The man at Shaadiwaadi said you believe it
wasn’t
an accident?”

“I do not believe—I know for certain.”

“You’re saying Anju was murdered?”

“Correct.”

“What makes you say that?”

Puri explained his reasoning and asked whether Dasgupta knew of anyone who would want to murder her.

“I can’t think of anyone,” he said. “She was such a warm, caring person.”

“Dr. Basu was content with her working situation, is it?”

“Well, no, not entirely. She was leaving her job, in fact. I think there were personal issues.”

“She mentioned any one individual?”

“She wouldn’t have discussed that sort of thing. We’d only met a few times.”

“A marriage of convenience, so to speak?”

“I don’t see the relevance of that question.”

Puri felt like pointing out that it was entirely relevant. Dasgupta might well have killed Dr. Basu himself, and that made the nature of their relationship relevant. But he let it go for now.

“What all were your movements the night she died?”

“We had dinner at Silk Route.”

“What time exactly?”

“I got there at nine.”

“And Dr. Basu?”

“She was already at the table.”

“What time you left?”

“Almost eleven, I think.”

“She drove herself, is it?”

“That’s right.”

“She had some drink?”

“Drink? Anju was strictly teetotal.”

Puri thanked him for his time and was about to hang up when Dasgupta suddenly remembered something.

“When I arrived at the restaurant, she was sitting with someone—a young man,” he said. “He got up and left after I arrived.”

“You saw what he looked like, what all he was wearing?”

Dasgupta proceeded to provide an exact description of Ram Sunder. He then asked Puri whether he thought the young man could be the murderer.

“In point of fact, no. But it is entirely possible he knows the identity of the killer,” answered the detective.

“You mean you haven’t spoken with him?”

“He’s missing, in fact.”

“Since when?”

“Saturday.”

“But I saw him last night.”

“Pardon?” Puri felt stunned.

“I went to see a movie and he was outside hanging around. He was wearing a baseball cap, but it was definitely the same guy.”

The detective didn’t know whether to celebrate or scold himself for being a damn fool.

“Which theater exactly?” he asked.

“Sanjay Cinema.”

“Sanjay Cinema! Of course! Tulsi said they were regulars!” Puri almost howled.

He thanked Dasgupta profusely, hung up the phone and gave himself a light slap on the forehead. How could he have been so slow on the uptake? Ram had escaped his abductors and gone to ground. Everyone else—Hari, ICMB, no doubt Vishnu Mishra, too—had figured it out. No doubt they all imagined that Ram was his client and were hoping he’d lead them to him.

Puri felt the lack of sleep suddenly catching up with him and made an unscheduled stop at one of the posh, overpriced coffee shops that had sprung up all over Delhi in the past few years. He downed two double “expressos” and felt the caffeine revitalize his system as assuredly as the magic potion in
Asterix
. It was then that he realized his advantage. He was holding a trump card—the Queen of Hearts. And that might—just might—give him the edge.

Rumpi burst into the room.

“Mummy-ji, wake up! You were right!”

She knelt down next to her mother-in-law and took her by the arms. “Can you hear me? I said you were right. And he’s getting away!”

The rest of the family stirred from their slumber.

“Who’s getting away?” Chetan yawned from his pillow.

“The shrine’s been looted exactly as Mummy predicted!” Rumpi gave her mother-in-law another shake. “You’ve got to wake up. I’m sorry! I should have listened to you.”

Her mother-in-law’s eyes flickered open. “What is that you said?”

Rumpi repeated her news and this time Mummy sat up. “But the whole night long Dughal was very much present in his room,” she said.

“It can’t be a coincidence, it just can’t,” said Rumpi.

Mummy stepped into the bathroom to change into her
clothes. “What time it is?” she asked when she emerged, now fully alert to the crisis.

“Quarter to eight.”

“Must be he is planning to abscond by helicopter!”

She and Rumpi hurried out of the guesthouse and made their way up the hill. It took them ten minutes to reach the helipad. They found the Dughals, together with their porters and baggage, waiting on the far side of the landing area.

Mummy and Rumpi attempted to reach them but were prevented from doing so by two security guards, who pointed up at the sky at a helicopter that was preparing to land.

The downward thrust of its blades forced the ladies to turn away and put their backs to the wind, their chunnis beating against their shoulders like flags caught in a gale. Shielding their eyes, they watched over their shoulders as the helicopter touched down, the door opened—and out stepped none other than Inspector Malhotra of the Jammu force.

Much to Mummy and Rumpi’s delight, he, together with three jawans, made a beeline for the Dughals. He interrogated them for a few minutes and their bags were searched. Even the contents of Mrs. Dughal’s handbag were given a thorough inspection. Nothing untoward was discovered, however. No bundles of notes, coins or gold. Just packets of diet candy bars (the jawans ripped open each and every one) and dozens of blister strips of weight-loss pills.

By the time the helicopter blades had come to a stop and Mummy and Rumpi were able to circumnavigate the helipad, Inspector Malhotra had excused the couple.

“But, Inspector, I’m telling you he’s the one,” protested Mummy. “He was working with one pandit. The other one on the train. I witnessed them doing discussion of the robbery plan and such.”

Before Malhotra could reply, Pranap Dughal himself objected.

“Inspector, I’ve had enough of this woman’s accusations,” he said. “First she accuses me of stealing her son’s wallet. Now of robbing the temple.”

“She’s out of her mind!” screeched Mrs. Dughal. “She’s been following us wherever we go!”

“That’s right—even watching us through the gap in her door. I want to make an official complaint!”

“Is this true, madam?” asked Malhotra.

Mummy held her head a little straighter. “Responsibility is on my shoulders, na,” she said in a defiant tone.

The inspector placed his hand on the back of her arm and gently led her away. “Madam, I will not tolerate interference with police business,” he said once they were out of earshot of the Dughals. “I request you to return to your guesthouse.”

“But Dughal did hiring of one helicopter. Just he’ll be getting away.”

“Rest assured, madam, I have closed all airspace. Like everyone else, including your good self, the Dughals will have to leave on foot.”

Malhotra signaled to his jawans and they all marched off in the direction of the shrine.

The porters repacked the Dughals’ belongings and the couples’ caravan started down the mountain path.

Rumpi watched them leave with a puzzled frown.

“I told you this Dughal is a clever one,” said Mummy.

“But if he didn’t leave his room all night and he doesn’t have the loot, then surely he wasn’t involved.”

“Definitely he is involved.”

“Then where’s the money?”

“Just we must find out, na—and the clock is doing tick-tock.”

After their success in tracing Kamlesh’s last steps, Facecream and Deep had spent Tuesday night in a cheap hotel in Lucknow.

They returned to the school at seven A.M. and found the gates wide open.

Papers and activity books were scattered across the compound. Facecream’s clothes, bedding and suitcase lay in a blackened, smoldering pile beneath the banyan tree. In the classroom, they found all the chairs upended. The packets of chalk had been crushed, the pieces of slate snapped in two.

The kitchen had fared no better, with all the pots and utensils pulled off their shelves and the clay water-storage vessel smashed to pieces. The food Facecream had bought—rice, oil, ghee, pulses—was all gone.

“They’ll be back,” said Deep. “And if they find you here, they’ll kill you.”

Facecream knew he was right, that the smart thing to do was to gather up any belongings that had survived and turn right around and flee. Puri wanted her back in Lucknow, where there was still a killer to track down. But she couldn’t bring herself to go without at least saying good-bye. She’d
raised the expectations of the children, and even some of their parents.

Keeping Deep here, however, was far too risky.

“I want you to take your bike, go up the lane and wait for me next to that little bridge over the irrigation channel,” she told him. “You know the one? Good. Keep out of sight. If I don’t join you in two hours, you’re to take my phone and call this number here.” She showed him Puri’s entry on her mobile. “That’s my boss. Explain to him what’s happened and he’ll send help. Here’s some money.”

“I want to stay—you might need me,” said Deep.

“You’ve helped enough. Now do as I say.”

The boy shifted his weight from one leg to the other and pouted.

“I said go!” she ordered.

He gave a slow, heavy nod and walked over to where his bike lay on its side. It had escaped any serious damage at the hands of the Yadav goons. After straightening out the handlebars, he strapped on his blocks.

“Please hurry,” he said, addressing her for the first time as “didi”—“sister.”

“Keep yourself hidden,” she said. “I’ll join you soon.”

Facecream watched him go and then set to work. Having dowsed her smoldering belongings with a bucket of water, she set about collecting up all the pieces of paper. It took twenty minutes to straighten out the classroom and make a tidy pile of the broken slates and chalk.

By eight o’clock, she was ready to greet her students and sat waiting beneath the banyan tree. But not a single child appeared—nor any women seeking her advice or help. Rakesh Yadav had warned them off.

She’d been beaten; it was time to face it. The odds were insurmountable. Facecream tied up her few remaining belongings
in a bundle and left the compound, her eyes brimming with tears. Without looking back, she started up the lane to find Deep. But after less than a hundred yards, she stopped suddenly. To the right, a path led through the fields. She hesitated for a moment, struggling with her convictions. Then she turned off the lane and hid her bundle beneath some straw. With her khukuri sticking out of the front of her belt, she searched for a way down to the river. She was going to skirt around the village to reach the Dalit ghetto. She’d have her say. Then it was up to them.

Delhi’s arbitrary zoning laws prevented businesses from operating in residential areas, yet the authorities turned a blind eye to doctors, architects and lawyers operating out of basements. Some of the city’s top advocates were to be found working underground, a phenomenon that had always struck Puri as ironic and, in many cases, appropriate.

Ramesh Jindal’s address was in B Block, Nizamuddin East, which boasted well-tended gardens used exclusively by the residents. Bordered on the north by the magnificent sixteenth-century tomb of the Mughal emperor Humayun, and the Nizamuddin railway station to the east, it was termed a “posh” or “upscale” colony with the odd foreign correspondent sprinkled amidst a predominantly aging Punjabi population.

Puri found a house number on the outside of the building but no sign indicating that Jindal’s chambers lay within. Through a letterbox window at the foot of the building, however, he spied shelves lined with bound leather tomes and a couple of young men in black trousers and white shirts who looked a bit like human penguins.

Passing through a dirty ground-level parking area and stepping over a mangy cur that lay curled up on a doormat,
the detective descended a narrow stairwell. The door at the bottom opened into a small, brightly lit reception that was conventionally furnished. A pretty young receptionist’s eyes appeared over a marble countertop.

Puri didn’t have an appointment, he explained, but wished to speak with Jindal on a “most important and pressing matter, actually.”

“It is regarding the death of Dr. Anju Basu,” he added.

The receptionist promptly picked up a phone and, reading the detective’s name from his card, communicated his request.

“Sir asked you please wait” was the verdict.

The fact that she’d provided no indication whether the wait would be ten minutes or until nightfall neither surprised nor fazed him. Information was never a commodity readily shared in India, least of all by receptionists. Puri was just grateful that she hadn’t sent him packing and, having settled himself into one of the comfortable chairs in front of her desk, set his mind to figuring out how best to tackle Jindal. He’d learned from a couple of contacts that he was a top criminal lawyer and had defended some especially unsavory characters in his time, including the son of a cabinet minister charged with shooting dead a young socialite woman at a function. In recent years he’d also had some success with public litigation cases. He was currently arguing before the Supreme Court on behalf of a village of tribals in Odisha who claimed a steel plant had poisoned the local water supply.