‘How did you feel about that?’ asked my father.
‘I can’t say that it went well. But we were trying—him more than me. Then when this horrible thing happened, Amit came to me.’
‘What are you doing about it?’
‘It’s slow right now. There isn’t a lot to go on at this point.’
‘That’s not what I mean.’
‘Baba, Aloka’s safety is more important for now than my feelings. She used to be a friend too, once upon a time. Don’t you remember that lovely weekend her family took us on for Aloka’s birthday?’
‘Of course. Near Digha somewhere. You were so excited. But you still haven’t answered my question.’
‘I’m over him, Baba.’
‘Don’t give me that bullshit.’
‘Baba—’
‘I know that you are over him—that’s not my point. But I can still see the scars, even if you try to hide them.’
‘I won’t give him any more than I need to. I have put him behind me. He has no power over me.’
‘Then why haven’t you let any man come close to you for the past three years? You have become so guarded.’
‘I was a teenager when we got together! Maybe I have just become more cautious with age. People change, don’t they?’
‘I know you believe that. That’s what I’m most afraid of.’
thirteen
I was up at what most journalists would consider the crack of dawn the next day, no alarm clock needed. I made my coffee and retreated to my bedroom. Amit was still asleep on the futon in the living room.
I turned on my laptop and searched the news sites for any developments on the kidnapping. It was still making headlines but, from what I could see, the content of the articles was more speculation than fact. And the police seemed to have revealed precious little though they did confirm that after the first ransom call, there had been no further contact from Aloka’s captors.
Time to change track: I fished through my bag and found the scrap of paper Mrs Agarwal had given me with her husband’s business partner’s information.
I searched for Mayank Gupta’s company online, as well as Agarwal’s company, Gourmet Express. It became clear that Gupta’s operation was much larger and diversified than Agarwal’s, but I learned nothing about how the two were connected.
It was time to make another call to Paresh Patel.
‘Still interested in the Agarwal case?’ he asked. ‘I’m afraid I have no fresh information to share.’
‘Not strictly about the case itself. I was wondering whether you had dug up anything about Agarwal’s business?’
‘Not much, except what I read in your article. But before the case was dropped by the police, I contacted the Calcutta Restaurant Association. They keep track of local entrepreneurs and told me they did have a file on Agarwal.’
He gave me the number of the local representative: Vineeta Solanki. ‘She owns a restaurant as well,’ Patel told me.
‘Yes, I have met her. Thank you.’
I hung up and dialled Vineeta’s number.
‘Vineeta?’ I said. ‘Reema Ray.’
There was a brief pause and I wondered whether she remembered me. ‘Yes, Reema,’ she said at last. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m fine, thanks. I was looking for some information on Prakash Agarwal’s company, and I have been told that the Calcutta Restaurant Association keeps track of restaurants and allied businesses, and that you are the person in charge there.’
Another pause. ‘I will have to check if we have anything on Gourmet Express.’
‘It is a little urgent,’ I said. A small lie again. ‘I am writing a follow-up piece on Mr Agarwal’s death and how it will affect local restaurants.’
‘Why don’t you give me a bit of time to pull up the file? I should have something for you by afternoon,’ Vineeta said finally.
In the meanwhile, I focused my attention on Manish Solanki. I wasn’t sure why he seemed so resentful of Mr Agarwal’s strained relationship with Mallika and the congenial one with his wife. But I knew I would get nowhere by interviewing him without any ammunition, so it was for this that I went in search.
Solanki’s office was on N. S. Road, and there was one person I knew who had his tentacles in every inch of Dalhousie Square’s office hub: DDG. Instead of calling, I decided to drop into his office for a visit, to give him less of an opportunity to spurn my request.
DDG’s business card led me to an old building behind the high court. His offices were large but cramped with books and files lining every inch of the wall. I wondered how he found anything in here. What floor space was left was full of a big wooden desk and his hearty frame.
DDG was dictating notes to his harried assistant and didn’t look up as I entered the room. I stood waiting as he finished. Finally, it was his assistant who noticed me.
‘Sir?’ he bleated.
DDG looked up as saw me. ‘Reema ji?’
‘Sorry to disturb you like this.’
‘No problem, no problem. Please sit.’
I sat down on one of the wooden chairs placed in a neat row across from him.
‘Kamal, bring us some tea.’
‘Sir,’ he said, rushing from the room.
‘Tell me, how can I help you, Reema ji,’ he asked.
‘I need to find out about a man in connection with the Prakash Agarwal case. I thought you might know him through your work.’
‘Who is this person?’
‘He is a businessman by the name of Manish Solanki. He lives in Calcutta but is in the lubricant industry with a factory in Assam.’
‘What kind of lubricant?’
‘Castor oil. If I am not mistaken, you had mentioned that you had some contacts in Assam?’
‘Oh, I know many people in Assam. Many of my clients in tea and other sectors are there.’
‘You might have some common acquaintances?’
‘Castor oil, you said?’
‘Yes.’
‘I think I may know someone. How is he involved in the case?’
‘His wife is a business associate and a friend of the deceased.’
‘You suspect that there was some hanky-panky going on?’ he snorted.
I ignored this and he didn’t press for more information, picking up the phone and dialling.
‘Satish ji,’ he said, drawing out the ‘ji’, ‘this is Dutta Gupta. Yes, yes, I am very well. Thank you, thank you. Do you by any chance know someone by the name of Manish Solanki from Assam?’
I watched as he took out his handkerchief to wipe the beads of sweat dripping down the side of his face, despite the mouldy draught blown into the room by the clattering old air-conditioner. My eyes moved towards the remarkably black moustache hanging above his upper lip, jutting out like the stiff bristles of a shoe brush, bobbing up and down like a single entity.
‘Haan, haan. Sounds like same person. Can I send my friend Reema ji to meet you? She needs to know about this Solanki.’
He nodded and scribbled on a piece of paper in front of him.
‘Thank you, Satish ji. She will be there.’ He hung up and tore the slip of paper from the notepad and handed it to me. ‘Satish Gandhi. This is his address. He is expecting you any time today.’
‘Who is he?’
‘My wife’s sister’s neighbour’s brother-in-law.’
‘And he knows Manish Solanki?’
‘Same community, you know. And he is also accountant and handles books for many tea gardens in Assam. He knows most people there.’
I thanked DDG and immediately headed over to meet Satish ji. It turned out that his office was just a couple of buildings down, with the same smell of dust and the same rickety old staircase. When I walked into the office, however, I was surprised at how modern the interior was—all laminate and glass.
The receptionist waved me through to Satish ji.
‘Mr Gandhi?’ I said, presenting myself in the small but neat office.
‘You mus
t be Reema,’ he said. ‘Please come in.’
‘Thank you for agreeing to see me.’
‘Dutta Gupta ji said you wanted information on Manish Solanki.’
‘Yes.’
‘May I ask why?’
I hesitated. I had expected this, but I still wasn’t sure how to tackle it. I finally decided to go with a version of the truth that didn’t involve implicating him in the murder. ‘I am a private investigator, and he may be a person of interest in a case I am looking into.’
‘What case?’
‘I’m afraid that is confidential at this point.’
Satish ji’s eyes narrowed. But he either seemed to conclude I was harmless enough, or he was not the kind to turn down the opportunity to gossip, and launched into his story. ‘Manish Solanki is a man who is well known among business circles in Assam.’
‘Why?’
‘There aren’t many people who he is on good terms with. And in a close-knit community, particularly those with Calcutta roots, word gets around.’
‘Could you be a little more specific?’
‘He has stolen land from his own community’s people. Slowly, slowly encroaching. Then he sabotaged one of his other neighbours, who he knew was financially vulnerable, by contaminating his land and then making an offer to buy him out. The poor man had no alternative but to sell.’
‘Why didn’t he go to the police?’
‘With what? It was all rumours. What could they have done?’
‘Any reports of violence?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘Is he doing well?’
‘Very. That is why he is even more hated. Now, he’s hired agricultural scientists to improve yield and create by-products from the castor oil production process.’
‘What about his wife?’
‘In the community here, she has a good reputation. But she hardly goes to Assam. Before you came in, I called one of my relations to ask about them so I could give you correct information, and he said they see her once every few years. She was there a few weeks ago, though, for a family wedding.’
‘And she and her husband …’ I trailed off.
Satish ji looked at me blankly.
‘They have a good relationship?’ I concluded.
‘What do you mean?’
I thought I had been plain enough, but I stumbled on awkwardly. ‘I have heard suggestions that they may have had … er … problems.’
‘I would be surprised if they didn’t. Solanki has a bad name when it comes to the ladies, as well.’
‘Manish Solanki is having an affair?’
‘Not one, but many. I assumed that’s why you were here. That maybe the wife had hired you.’
‘Oh no, that’s not it.’ This time, at least, Solanki’s philandering wasn’t my primary concern. If he was having an affair, however, was he trying to paint his wife as a possible cheater amongst their circle as a means to an easy divorce?
‘Do you know if Mrs Agarwal may have any similar … interests?’
‘Not in Assam. But what she’s up to when her husband is away for months is anyone’s guess.’
The compact dossier on Gourmet Express at the offices of the Association left me impressed once more with Agarwal’s achievements. In the absence of virtually any competition, there were few restaurants in Calcutta that weren’t his clients, and he had also expanded to Siliguri, Durgapur, Jamshedpur and Guwahati.
But there was one thing notably absent from all the literature—financial data. The office did not have it. Not a surprise, given that Gourmet Express was a privately held company and such information was not in the public domain. But there was a brief bio on Mayank Gupta from a press release given out the year before during a symposium on business opportunities for Indians in China. Gupta, based in Hong Kong, catered through orders made online to all of China. With the growing presence of South Asians in the country, his timing had been fortuitous. He was also involved in the trade of carpets and gems, and had been consulting with a few top Indian designers and a lifestyle brand that had since opened up shop in the Far East, businesses with which Agarwal did not appear to be involved.
Agarwal seemed only to be associated with the eastern Indian operations. Perhaps he would also have marketed his new line of gourmet food kits through Gupta. I was left wondering why an apparently respected businessman of international repute would join forces with one as slimy as Agarwal, no matter how well connected he was.
I left the office and called Vineeta once again. ‘Thank you for the file,’ I said.
‘I hope it was of use.’
‘It was, but I do have some more questions.’
She hesitated for a moment before finally asking me to come around to her office at 4 pm.
Vineeta’s office was way too cold, and I sat shivering there for nearly half an hour before she saw me. Sitting in front of her, I felt the chill even more. In her own territory, Vineeta seemed far more formidable than she had at Mallika’s home, in the shadow of an unruly husband.
‘Thank you for seeing me,’ I said, hoping to induce a thaw.
She said nothing, watching me with a rather fixed gaze. Was she still embarrassed about her husband’s behaviour during our first meeting? Or had I merely caught her at a bad time?
‘I was hoping to gather some financial data about Gourmet Express,’ I explained. ‘I didn’t see anything on that in the file.’
‘I don’t think I am the right person to talk to about that. Since I run an Indian restaurant, I wasn’t even one of Prakash’s clients.’
‘And in your capacity of secretary of the restaurant association?’
‘That really is more of an honorary position. I am a volunteer whose job it is to make sure things are running smoothly,’ she said.
I persisted. ‘But you were friends with Mr Agarwal.’
‘Yes.’
‘Close friends?’
‘I don’t know about that.’
‘You must have some idea about the business then.’
‘All I do know is that his will be a hard void to fill.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Many restaurants in town depended on him.’
‘Are you acquainted with his business partner Mayank Gupta?’
‘Only with his business credentials. He has a business based in Hong Kong.’
Vineeta was doing her best to give me information she must know I already had. ‘Mr Chakravarty felt that he was undercut by the prices Gourmet Express offered when they entered the market.’
‘Yes, they did discount, but that would not have been enough to get most people to change suppliers. Gourmet Express had a far more comprehensive range, better quality and service.’
‘How did you two become acquainted?’
‘I don’t know, Reema. It was years ago. Maybe through common friends.’
‘Does Mallika know him?’
Vineeta’s eyes narrowed. ‘You should ask her about that, I think. Not me.’
‘I have been trying to contact her, in fact,’ I said, trying to sound unconcerned. ‘Would you happen to know if she is out of town?’
Vineeta looked taken aback. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t know, actually. I haven’t seen her since …’ she trailed off. She hadn’t seen her since the dinner during which her husband had created that memorable scene.
I nodded. Just then a large group of tourists came in, with a flag-bearing tour guide. Vineeta stood up.
‘I guess I should get going. I wouldn’t want to keep you from work.’
She walked away, and as I turned to leave, I took a quick look around the restaurant floor. That is when my eyes found his.
Coal-black eyes, watching me from across the room, set in the impassive, inscrutable face last seen finishing my nachos. Shayak Gupta.
Then the crowd of tourists, ever growing in number, converged to conceal the wall against which my watcher had been leaning. A moment later, when the wave had passed, he was gone.
I quickly exited and looked around. But darkness had descended suddenly, and I could see no one. I felt my cheeks flush and asked myself why Shayak’s presence—or absence—bothered me in the least.
I was already home when I saw the missed call from Santosh da. In an effort to keep his phone bill to a minimum, he would never, ever complete a call or even send a text. It was a good thing Santosh da was such a nice man, or else I would never have bothered to call back. But as always, I did now.
‘Reema, I think I’ve found something,’ he said. ‘It might be nothing, but I think you should know about it. Can you come to my office?’
I felt like I had been shuttling across town like a public bus for the past few days and didn’t feel like making the trip. ‘Could you tell me over the phone?’
‘Of course, of course. I forget that you have given up your office and are no longer my neighbour. As I said, it might be nothing. But for some time, since you have told me about this whole business, I have been wondering why the name Prakash Agarwal sounded so familiar. It is a common name, so at first, I didn’t think anything of it. But it kept nagging at me. So I looked through some of my old files and found something in one of my ActNow documents.’
ActNow was an NGO that worked with women who had suffered violent crime and Santosh da consulted for them from time to time.
‘It was in a case study I had gone through when I was drafting the PIL for stronger police action against sexual harassment last year. It mentions a number of cases on public record that were categorized as eve teasing, which should be regarded as sexual harassment. It goes back about thirty years and is quite an extensive document. One case was about a young girl in Calcutta who had complained that she had been assaulted about twenty-five years ago. The matter was reported, but the girl finally backed down when the police told her charges of attempted rape wouldn’t stick. They told her that, at best, she could get him for eve teasing. The man’s name was Prakash Agarwal.’
I felt a kick to my stomach. ‘Are you sure it is the same man?’
‘That is the problem. This was all so long ago that there is nothing that might identify him conclusively. No photographs, no biographical details.’
‘Where did this incident occur?’
The Masala Murder: Reema Ray Mysteries Page 12