The Masala Murder: Reema Ray Mysteries

by Madhumita Bhattacharyya

  I attempted some sort of smile. I was thankful for the darkness.

  ‘And now you know.’

  Shayak gave a brief nod. ‘It looks like the police are here.’

  Two uniformed men came in and Shayak handed over his charges. We followed them out of the dark hallway. I stepped out from behind Shayak and into what used to be the front lawn. What I saw next left me fuming.

  ‘Camera crew?’

  ‘Bastard,’ mumbled Shayak.

  ‘But how did they get here so fast?’

  ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  The cameras got as much footage of Amit and Aloka as possible before the two were stashed safely in the back of a police van. Then they turned their attention back to Sharma who was holding court at the centre of the decrepit lawn.

  As we walked towards the gate, one of the policemen stopped me. ‘Sa’ab wants a word with you.’

  ‘Why?’

  Before I could make my objections known, I had a camera in my face and Sharma by my side.

  ‘Reema Ray, how does it feel to have solved a case of this magnitude?’ asked a reporter.

  ‘Uh—’

  ‘And the perpetrator, Amit, is your friend? Your ex-boyfriend? You were all in school together?’

  ‘No comment,’ I snapped, stepping away.

  The reporter backed off, but Ravi Sharma’s hand was on my arm.

  ‘Reema, what is wrong with telling the truth? All they want is a story.’

  ‘How did they get here so quick?’

  ‘I don’t know about that. They have their sources.’

  ‘And that wouldn’t by any chance be you?’ I said before walking away.

  ‘Reema!’ he called after me.

  Shayak led me back to the car and I collapsed into the passenger seat. It was 3 am; it had been a long, wretched day. In the car, I let out a long lungful of expletives.

  Shayak listened.

  ‘Why the hell would he do that?’

  ‘Because Ravi Sharma’s biggest turn on is seeing his face on the news.’

  ‘He could have had that without me. He could have hogged all the credit, and no one would have been the wiser.’

  ‘Then you don’t understand the media.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘With Amit going on air like he did this morning, Sharma feared he had made a major blunder in his advice to the Mohtas. Which is why he went public with the news about reopening the Agarwal case when he did. He had hoped for a distraction. But

  now that he knows he was right all along, though he failed to act, he wants to gloat in the spotlight. And since no one wants to see an old mug like Ravi Sharma’s on TV, his best bet at maximizing airtime is to have a woman like you by his side.’

  ‘A woman like me?’

  Shayak smiled. ‘Having got to know you over the past ten days, it doesn’t surprise me one bit that you can be decidedly obtuse when you choose to be.’

  ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Only that TV channels prefer pretty faces over ugly, moustachioed ones. And even a self-obsessed prick like Ravi Sharma is observant enough to see that you are downright beautiful.’

  I turned to the window to hide my smile. I couldn’t help but think he was handling me like he might an angry child. But in the moment, it worked.

  Once my anger at Ravi Sharma had come down a notch, I put my head back on the plush seat. ‘It was you who figured out the kidnapping was a hoax, wasn’t it?’

  Shayak was silent.

  ‘From the beginning, you saw it all,’ I said, watching the ghosts of trees zip by.

  ‘I’ve had an unfortunate amount of experience in kidnap and ransom,’ he said softly.

  ‘I knew it was all wrong from the beginning. I simply chose the wrong person to trust. He had me convinced that it was Mohta’s doing.’

  ‘In your position, I may have believed that too. It was only natural.’

  ‘A bit too natural, I would say. I bit too naive.’

  ‘You found them, Reema. I didn’t.’

  I closed my eyes and at first, only pretended to doze. But soon, once the adrenalin had worn off, the past few hours caught up with me and I slipped into a deep sleep.

  I awoke with a jolt to find us parked in front of my house and Shayak watching me with a smile. ‘Sorry,’ I said, fruitlessly running my hands through wild hair.

  ‘No need for apologies.’

  ‘What time is it?

  ‘Around 6.30 am.’

  ‘What a day.’

  ‘Yes, and it hasn’t ended yet. We have one more matter to conclude: the Agarwal murder.’

  My head snapped to the left.

  Shayak looked at me; there was nothing in his expression to indicate that he was anything but serious. ‘Now that we are on the same side, there is no reason to work separately. Take this,’ he said, handing me the file from last night which I never got the chance to see. ‘Go through it. Give me a call when you are done.’

  ‘Want to come in for breakfast?’

  ‘Maybe later. I’ll be back in about an hour.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘There is something that can’t wait.’

  I entered my house and paused to put on the coffeemaker before frantically grabbing the file. And there was that business card again.

  Titanium Securities. First thing’s first: I hit Google and found absolutely nothing. How could that be? Every company had a website nowadays, even if it was a page that read ‘Under Construction’.

  I tried calling Uncle Kumar but unsurprisingly, given the hour, he didn’t answer. And then, I dialled the only bona fide person I knew in the security industry: Terrence.

  ‘What time is it?’ came his groggy voice.

  ‘I’m sorry, it’s early, I know. But this is urgent.’

  ‘If you like me, Reema, come out and say it. Calling me late at night and first thing in the morning is a funny way of showing it.’

  ‘Terrence, please.’

  ‘What happened last night?’

  He’d probably turn on the TV and see my enraged face outside the house in Digha soon enough anyway. I saved myself the trouble of an explanation.

  ‘What do you know about Titanium Securities?’

  ‘Titanium? What business do you have with them?’ Terrence suddenly seemed wide awake.

  ‘Nothing really, as of now. But I might.’

  ‘Wow, Ray. They are only the best security agency in the country.’

  ‘Then why haven’t I heard of them?’

  ‘Because that is how they operate. Titanium is an elite security company, possibly the most elite in India. Based out of Mumbai. Over the past decade or so, they have revolutionized the way private security is run. They are famously discreet about their operations—who and what they guard, and how. The head of Titanium is a mystery. I did my fair share of digging around when I had toyed with the idea of applying for a job with them. It was rumoured that the chief had been an army intelligence man who had quit the game to set up his own shop. But that was about all I could unearth, since he does no press. Ever. Not to promote himself or his company. And he has never breathed a word about a client, though around half of Bollywood, the entire cricket team and a number of parliamentarians have been spotted with guards who may or may not belong to the Titanium clan.’

  I felt relief clouded by a surge of dismay. How could I have missed it? First Amit, and then Shayak—how could I have been so wrong about them both? Though I had been drawn to Shayak from the moment we had met, I had let my imagination run so far away from me as to have severed all ties with reality.

  ‘Hey, how about it, Ray,’ said Terrence, interrupting my thoughts. ‘They just mentioned you on TV!’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘On News Now—they are showing Amit and Aloka being led away in handcuffs. The newscaster just mentioned you, that you had helped the cops crack the case! Woohoo!’

  ‘Did they show any footage of me?�
� I said, bracing for the worst.

  ‘No. Too bad. But why don’t we celebrate this over a drink tonight?’

  ‘Thanks for the offer, Terrence, but I think I’ll pass.’

  He was still trying to convince me when I hung up.

  Name mentioned, but no video. It could be worse. But I knew the damage, for the time being, had been done. Anyone associated with the Agarwal business who had watched that news would know that all the questions I had been asking had nothing to do with my story—and that suddenly made me a significant threat.

  It was with a sense of urgency that I turned my attention back to the contents of the file.

  There was a document compiling the data that had been gleaned, I assumed, by Shayak through his sources.

  The police found nothing at the Agarwal home. No signs of poison in the food or other household sources.

  And then, crucially, there was the doctor’s preliminary report. Agarwal had been brought in with diarrhoea and resulting dehydration, respiratory distress and a host of other problems. He didn’t respond to any medication and finally suffered multi-organ failure. He had been ill, according to these documents, for seventy-two hours.

  A poison that took days to act? That did not show up in the blood work in any way?

  And then there were the photographs. Mrs Agarwal’s spotless home. Agarwal’s bedroom. His office. The desk. The computer. That strange snuff bullet.

  Finally, the list of visitors Agarwal had received in the days before his death. One name stood out, prompting a forgotten memory to the surface.

  I closed my eyes as it finally all came together.

  twenty-one

  It was 10 am and Khana Khazana was already bustling with activity. I walked in to find the dining area empty, but I could hear the shouts of the kitchen staff, the clatter of pots and pans, the sizzle of tarka, the smell of spices.

  Spices. I had known at once that something had been wrong with what I had seen in the Khana Khazana pantry. The stockpile of saffron in those small jars: it was way too much saffron for any restaurant to stock. And from a distance, how had I recognized it as saffron in the first place? It hadn’t been a brand I had seen before on a store shelf somewhere; I had seen it last in Agarwal’s office. They were the samples for his gourmet store. The saffron wasn’t real—it was orange thread used for mock-ups for Agarwal’s investors, the ones he had shown me during our interview. They shouldn’t have been in the Khana Khazana pantry but they were, stolen from a man dead or alive.

  I needed those samples.

  I decided the best way was to brazen through it. I walked straight into the kitchen and turned the handle to the pantry. It was locked.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  I turned around and found Manish standing there.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I asked.

  ‘This is my wife’s restaurant. What are you doing here?’

  ‘The other day when I visited,’ I said, falling back on what was becoming an old trick, ‘I think I dropped an earring in the pantry.’

  ‘So why didn’t you call or something?’

  ‘It was a gift from my grandmother; I’m very attached to it. Can you please open the door so I can check?’

  ‘I’m sorry but I don’t have the key.’

  Just then the kitchen door swung open and there stood Vineeta, panting for breath.

  I took a step forward. ‘Vineeta.’

  She let out a little cry and looked about in panic. The kitchen stopped in its tracks, everyone watching Vineeta as she scrambled towards the counter and grabbed a knife. Arm raised, she turned to face me, her features twisted into an ugly grimace.

  ‘What are you doing?’ cried Manish.

  ‘Vineeta,’ I said, ‘put down the knife. It’s over.’

  The weapon trembled in her hand.

  ‘The police will be here any minute. You can only make it worse for yourself now.’

  She looked from me to her dumbfounded husband, her face contorting with despair. ‘How did you know?’ she asked.

  ‘It doesn’t matter now. But there are a lot of people in this room, and you don’t want to hurt any of them. Give me the knife, Vineeta.’

  I took my eyes off Vineeta only long enough to register that Shayak had entered the kitchen through the back entrance. He crept down the passage filled with open-mouthed cooks to about five feet behind Vineeta. He pulled his hand out of a pocket in which I assumed was his gun. But firepower would not be required. On seeing Vineeta’s listlessness, he simply closed the distance and reached out and grabbed her knife-wielding right arm with his left from behind. She let out a small cry, but Shayak kept his grip tight around her wrist while he quickly removed the knife with his other hand.

  And it happened in a second. Shayak let go to hand the knife safely back to one of the cooks behind him and Vineeta dashed past him towards the back door. I didn’t even bother to chase her—I knew she wouldn’t get far. Since Shayak entered from that way, a rotund lady in a chef’s hat had placed a big round vat right in the doorway before stepping forward to ogle at the action.

  Vineeta ran straight into it and fell down in a heap.

  ‘Oh, my rasgullas!’ cried the chef, watching the round white sweets fly through the air and land all around her boss. Vineeta was sprawled in an awkward heap on the floor in the centre of a galaxy of confectionery.

  ‘I wish I could say I was sorry. But I don’t think I am.’ Vineeta sat at a table in the restaurant mopping sticky syrup off her arms.

  There would be no lunch service today. I had hung the ‘Closed’ sign outside the restaurant and Shayak had asked the bewildered staff to leave. Manish sat sulking in a corner.

  Vineeta was in a daze, passion spent, anger diff used. Far from being sinister, she seemed more than a little ridiculous, hair clinging to her skull, the smashed remains of rasgulla stuck to her kurta. She sat there in syrup-drenched clothes, vaguely smelling of cane sugar and staring through the window onto rain-lashed streets, the suddenly grey sky mirroring the mood. ‘So, you have really called the police?’

  ‘Yes, we have,’ Shayak said gently.

  ‘What will happen to me now?’

  ‘I really don’t know.’

  There was a pause, and I watched Vineeta’s expression turn from fear to cold composure. It was the look I had come to associate with her, the mask summoned to hold her demons at bay.

  I roughly knew the chain of events, but I still couldn’t understand what triggered it. ‘What happened, Vineeta?’

  She shook her head, sadness returning to those elegant features. She looked from me to Shayak and back again. ‘You know where they are?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Bring them,’ she said, handing me a key.

  I walked over to the pantry, where she had brought me in haste for the hushed, hurried chat the other day. I unlocked the door and quickly found the crate of jars exactly where I had last seen it, on the shelf—the green-and-orange labels with the words ‘Spice Route’ in a Devanagari-inspired font. The dal starter kits were behind them. Cheesy in execution but a good idea, nonetheless. An idea that could never have come from Agarwal. I had instinctively realized this even as he was sharing the concept with me. But I had no idea that it would become a motive for murder.

  I carried the crate back to the dining area and placed it on the table.

  ‘This was my idea,’ said Vineeta. ‘A chain of gourmet stores that would change the way Indian food is perceived and prepared. I made the mistake of sharing it with that bastard Prakash Agarwal.’

  Vineeta dipped her towel in a glass of water and continued to rub the syrup off her hands. ‘He stole my plan. He went to Mayank but by then your brother,’ she glanced at Shayak, ‘had had enough of his slipperiness. So, he found another investor for whom these mock-ups were made and was getting ready to open his first store in London. I assumed I would be involved, of course, but he just laughed in my face when I suggested it. That is what I get for pillow
talk.’

  Try as I might, I couldn’t imagine this woman letting Prakash Agarwal touch her.

  She shook her head slowly. ‘That was my biggest mistake, of course. Letting him get under my skin. I was in debt, and he bailed me out. Big time. I hadn’t paid him back for the past year; I couldn’t with my husband cutting the restaurant loose. Through it all, Agarwal supported me. He enjoyed it, having power over me, to use that leverage to squeeze everything he could.’

  ‘You knew what he had done to Mallika?’

  ‘Yes, she told me, though not for years after we became friends, after I was already in debt. By that time, I have to say I wasn’t inclined to believe her, though I was careful not to leave my daughter around him alone. Mallika was always so different with the men. Always looking to be rescued. Siddhartha, Abhimanyu, it was the same with all of them, and I wasn’t so sure—or perhaps I didn’t want to believe what she said about Prakash.’

  I thought of Vineeta’s husband’s brazen appreciation of Mallika at the dinner. I had wondered then that their friendship had survived such strains. It apparently hadn’t.

  ‘But I wouldn’t have done anything this drastic till I realized that if I didn’t act, my daughter would have to drop out of college thanks to my debt and I would have to lose the restaurant. And then I saw these.’

  She picked up a jar of faux saffron and unscrewed the top. ‘I asked him why he couldn’t include me in this business; I didn’t mind being his partner if he was willing to invest in it. He just laughed and said he had already made enough of an investment in me, that he expected something in return apart from sex.’

  ‘And then you learnt you had access to a powerful poison,’ I said. ‘Ricin. A waste product of the castor oil manufacturing process, which your husband was just beginning to extract.’

  Vineeta nodded slowly. ‘Yes. My husband’s latest business venture. A pharmaceutical company doing research into cancer treatments approached him for a small supply of the stuff, which they believe may help kill tumours. It wasn’t hard to go to the factory and take a little.’

  ‘Swallowing ricin doesn’t always result in death, and an injection is difficult to orchestrate. That’s why you came up with the idea of putting it in a snuff bullet.’