by Monabi Mitra
‘All right then, here’s what you do. Tell the photographer and the sample people to wait for me. But first, get the doctor out of there and get him to make the complaint before the others make him change his mind. Send him back to the PS immediately.’
Now that Sudip Pyne had made his point he re-entered the police station glowing with triumph. This time, he actually stamped after the duty officer and pretended to grumble about the time as he settled down in his chair. It was 3 a.m. but, for once, Dr Pyne didn’t mind his mother being taken to the lavatory by the night ayah. This was exciting, this was excellent, he would show those blonde ladies and their ilk what he thought of them and their ways. Red lipstick at one in the morning! Sudip Pyne sniffed and began to reconstruct the night’s happenings.
The duty officer began writing in a large unformed hand that straggled across the page. It took them fifteen minutes to sort out the night’s happenings and condense them into an official document. Sudip Pyne read over what was written, nodded, and leaned back in satisfaction. The Boses’ agony had just begun.
Back at the house, Bikram and Chuni Sarkar were coping with an enraged household. Nikki Kumar had rushed up to Bikram the minute he entered and wasted precious time babbling about old acquaintances and Shona Chowdhury. ‘It’s a blessing to have someone civilized to talk to. This man just won’t understand that there’s nothing wrong with Robi, I mean, he’s dead, but that was natural, considering his health.’ It took him a while to shake her off.
There was chaos at the dead man’s house. The gates were unattended because the durwan was inside. The room opposite the bedroom had been converted into an impromptu waiting room where five men and women sat hunched on chairs. The officer-in-charge had summoned the most competent sub-inspector he knew from his area, who was now taking down the names, addresses and relationship with the deceased in a big diary with a brown cover. The corpse was being photographed by a fat man with a florid moustache and stinking socks. Another man was busy collecting vomit and froth samples. Robi Bose was dead and all around his non-being was the busy machinery of life, clicking pictures, clinking glass bottles and sniffing in corners.
Though the room was luxuriously furnished, it was still an invalid’s room. There was a wheelchair, a walking stick and a jumble of medicines on a marble-topped table. The man who had been collecting samples now came over to the table and began to note the names of the tablets before dropping them into a plastic bag.
Nisha Bose was sitting quietly on a chaise longue. Her face was slightly puffy and she clutched a wet tissue in one hand but there was nothing else to indicate that she had become a widow in the last two hours. When she saw Bikram, however, her eyes widened in surprise. She was clearly unprepared for him. Bikram hesitated. Was he to approach her as a police officer or as a social acquaintance? His ingrained reticence inclined him towards the former, but there was death in the room and a certain decorum had to be maintained. Besides, a friendly attitude might make things easier. Thus he sat on the chair Chuni Sarkar had set for him before Nisha Bose and said, ‘I am sorry for this intrusion but I hope you will understand my predicament.’
‘And I hope you will understand mine.’ She spoke in measured tones and her face was pale. ‘What that doctor suggests, is it really necessary?’
‘I think it is. You see, if someone has raised certain questions, it’s usually better to complete the formalities required and get matters over with. That way you can be in the clear, especially later on, when you file for insurance claims and things like that.’
‘But it makes all this so hateful, so sordid. I mean, to live one’s last years like that and then to be tormented further by an autopsy and things like that. Oh, will his spirit ever be at peace …’ She broke down and two large tears rolled slowly down her cheeks.
‘I know exactly how you’re feeling, and doubtless I would have felt so, under such circumstances. But it’s always better to be sure rather than live one’s life in a cloud of …’ Bikram paused. ‘A cloud of uncertainty,’ he finished. Then he went on quickly, ‘I promise to be as quick as possible about the … about it, in fact, I’ll talk to the doctors and they will cooperate.’
Nisha Bose shook her head and murmured, ‘If only I could have got Toofan Kumar on the phone, all this wouldn’t have happened.’
Bikram turned his head away so that she could not see the sudden surge of anger. Toofan Kumar had been out of town for a day and had returned by the late-night flight, and had doubtless forgotten to switch on his phone once back home. He could only visualize the trouble that would have been caused had Toofan Kumar been informed.
To distract her, Bikram asked when her husband had last eaten. He seemed to have touched something there. She shot him a quick, furtive look and said, ‘Around 10 or 10.30 p.m., I think. I’m not too sure, because I had some guests over. I went up to bed, around 12 a.m., I think, and found him lying on his back, sleeping. At first, I didn’t look too closely, his head was turned away from me, so I brushed my teeth and changed and scrubbed my face, then went down once to see if they had cleared up downstairs. It was only when I went to bed that I, I realized he was cold, and, and …’ There was a pause, then Nisha Bose continued breathlessly, ‘I screamed and cried out for Buro. He took one look at Robi and said, he’s dead. Mithu made me sit here, and then they made some telephone calls, I don’t know to whom. I was feeling sick, sick! He had been alive only two hours before, and then this!’
Nisha looked past Bikram with unseeing eyes, as if she were living through it all again. Her forehead glistened with sweat and night cream. Her hands shook as she raised a tissue to her mouth.
‘Where did he eat?’
‘In his room.’
‘Did he have anything to drink this evening?’
‘A glass of Scotch, diluted with lots of water, so mild it tasted like a digestive. One glass only, because he had been begging for one for months. I didn’t think it would do him any harm.’
‘Who served him?’
‘Buro, of course. He’s the man who looks after Robi, I mean, looked after him. God, this is terrible!’
‘Has Buro been here long?’
‘Long enough, about five years now. He came right after the stroke.’
‘How much can he be trusted?’
She drew in her breath as she looked at him, and there was something like alarm in her eyes. ‘You’re not suggesting that Buro had anything to do with it? That’s impossible!’
‘You’ve said that before, on my last visit here, and you say it again now. Why do you trust Buro so much?’
Nisha Bose looked searchingly at Bikram and their eyes held. Then she lowered hers demurely and said, ‘It’s illogical, I know, but, but, I believe in him. He would never do us any harm.’
‘And the others? There is a maid you trust too. Do you think she could have made a … mistake tonight?’
Some of Nisha Bose’s composure had returned. ‘You’ve got an admirable memory, Mr Chatterjee. Yes, I trust Mithu, besides, even she was in the kitchen the whole evening. It’s difficult to get her up here on normal days, so I don’t think Mithu would have been here on a day like this.’
‘But she might have, all the same,’ Bikram persisted.
‘Well, if it comes to that, anyone could have.’ Nisha Bose shrugged her shoulders. A gleam came into her eyes. ‘That means eight or nine people to interview, including my sister-in-law, Tara. Have you spoken to her yet? I think she’s in the next room.’
‘I think I will, thank you. One last thing. Who makes the beds at night in your house?’
She looked quickly at him again and looked away. ‘Buro usually does, but he didn’t, tonight. He was too busy.’
‘But would your husband go to sleep on an unmade bed? He was very particular, from the little that I remember of him.’
‘Normally he wouldn’t, but tonight there was too much work and he came up because he was feeling tired, so he just lay down anyhow.’
‘On the bedco
ver?’
‘Yes, I mean no, oh lord, I don’t remember. Why do you go on about that hateful bedcover like that doctor? When I came up he was lying on the sheet, with the cover down over his body, like it is now. That’s all I know.’
Bikram rose. ‘Would you permit me to take a quick look around the house?’
‘By all means.’
‘And this room?’
Nisha Bose swept her hands around her. ‘It’s all yours.’
‘One other thing. Have you checked the almirahs and cupboards where you keep your valuables?’
There was the ghost of a smile on her lips. ‘I have. Everything’s safe. You needn’t ask me to inventory my losses, apart from Robi.’
Before leaving the room Bikram paused before the bed. The dead man was lying peacefully, his mouth a little open, as if he’d died mid-snore, one arm flung out, his pyjamas bunched up slightly around his ankles. Bikram turned to Chuni Sarkar and asked in a low voice, ‘Did you examine the body?’
‘Yes, we did. No marks of injury, I checked.’
‘Did you get the bedcover?’
‘I looked around for the one Pyne claimed they had substituted but found nothing. Perhaps he was wrong.’
‘Have you got all the statements?’
‘Yes Sir, and I’ve talked to the cousin also, she’s in the next room. Do you want to have a go at her?’
Bikram hesitated, then made up his mind. ‘No, I’d rather look around the house. You can let the friends and relatives go, if they want, and get the body shifted to the morgue once you’ve finished.’
He lingered in the room a little longer, taking in the furniture, looking for things which would give him a personal view of the dead man and his family. But it was an oddly discomfiting room, without photographs or books or pictures. The furnishings, though luxurious, were impersonal.
He opened the bathroom door and found a plastic bucket in which there were a pair of trousers, a pair of shorts and an expensive T-shirt in red and black. On a clothes peg hung a woman’s underclothes and another pair of trousers, also a woman’s, along with a white top, all flung haphazardly. He looked at the washstand and found a tongue cleaner, a bottle of liquid soap, but only one toothbrush. A bedpan stood in a corner and bottles of disinfectant stood ranged on the window sill. The bathroom was clean, but smelled of urine, probably from the urine pot Robi used. Bikram closed the door and wondered if he could open one of the wooden wardrobes that stood ranged against the wall, but decided against it. Nisha Bose still sat on the sofa and he knew he would feel uncomfortable and self-conscious looking through personal belongings before her.
On the landing were two more doors, one leading to a room where the friends and relatives had assembled. Bikram passed that one without so much as a second look and paused before the last one. He remembered it as being shut the last time. Feeling faintly guilty, he gingerly opened the door and stepped in. It was dark inside. He waited for his eyes to get accustomed to the darkness and then pressed a key on his cell phone. In the blue glimmer of the luminescent display screen he could just make out where the switches were. The room sprang to light and Bikram blinked. This was not one room but two. He was standing in a small anteroom, ten feet by ten, used as a dressing room. Three sides were lined with built-in wardrobes with full-length mirrors on each, the fourth had a large table with a smaller mirror mounted on it. The effect was disconcerting. Bikram stared at himself, reflected in various angles, an almost insane multiplicity of images. A door led out from beside the table and Bikram peeped inside. He switched on the lights—there were big old-fashioned switches—and nodded his head slowly. Yes, this was Nisha Bose’s room. The bed was covered with an elegant bedspread, flowery satin curtains hung on the windows, fat lace cushions were scattered on a patterned durrie and a tallboy carried photographs of herself, CDs and books. In a vase drooped a bunch of withering sunflowers. Another door, locked, presumably led out to Robi’s bedroom. Two other doors, fashioned in the old style with long glass panes, looked out on to a veranda. Several perfumes mixed together to give the room a special fragrance. Bikram was sure the room was kept locked when Nisha was not around. Bikram idly wondered how often the Bose couple shared a bed, and how much time Nisha spent in her boudoir. Feeling like a voyeur, Bikram stepped out of the room and closed it softly behind him.
He went down the steps lost in deep thought and made a quick round of the rooms downstairs, the pantry, the kitchen and the outhouse, with an abstracted air. He stood in the garden and inhaled deeply. A bird hooted, and another, and soon a long trail of koels took off in a burst of chirrups, which meant that dawn was breaking and night was almost at an end. Bikram stood for a minute, drinking in the clean smells, then yawned and turned to go. He looked at his watch. It was 4 a.m.
He was about to go back inside when he hit his foot against something. The light was bad and once again he had to use the pale half-light of his cell phone. It was the dustbin. Actually, it was a large tin drum used at construction sites, now overflowing with empty cartons and refuse. Bikram bent over and caught the sharp smell of onion and coriander chutney. He could dimly make out chicken bones, paper napkins, string, leftover food and a piece of twisted foil. He gingerly picked up the foil. Something fell at his feet. Bikram groped around on the ground, then straightened up and looked at what he had found. In his palm rested five torn strips of medicine, the kind where the tablets have to be pushed out from the back. He took the strips into the kitchen and held one of them up to the light. B. No. 281 … 9P, Mfd 11 … Exp 11 … Schedule H Drug. It was so torn and mutilated that he could barely read the letters. Tramadol … Diazepam … He counted the empty squares. There were five strips of ten tablets each and all were empty.
6
The morning after Robi Bose’s death, Bikram Chatterjee was shaving when Toofan Kumar called. Bikram sighed. He had been expecting the call but nevertheless had hoped it would never come.
‘Good morning, Sir.’
‘It never is good when you are around, Bikram. What’s this about you ordering a post-mortem for Robi Bose? And why didn’t you tell me that he was dead?’
‘I thought it could wait till morning, Sir. I would have reported to you in any case.’
‘How could you wait when practically the whole city was there! And why did you register a case? The man has been ill for years. It was just a bloody stroke.’
‘The doctor they called in didn’t seem so sure. He tried to convince the thana and then called me.’
‘And convinced you to make unnecessary trouble! Don’t you know that the Boses are one of the most honourable and distinguished families of the city?’
‘Honourable and distinguished families face a higher risk of murder, Sir.’
‘Will you stop being so dramatic? Murder! What are you trying to suggest?’
‘That we wait for the report.’
‘Nisha Bose is a personal friend, Bikram. How dare you suggest a PM without consulting me?’
‘If she is well known to you and yet didn’t telephone you when the trouble broke out, perhaps she too wants an investigation, Sir,’ said Bikram with studied innocence.
There was a moment’s silence as Toofan Kumar worked this one out. ‘If you don’t stop this investigation at once I’ll have you transferred.’
‘The body is at the hospital already, Sir,’ answered Bikram but Toofan Kumar had rung off.
The king rageth, thought Bikram, and resumed his shaving. The phone rang again. Bikram put down the razor and connected without looking to see who was calling.
‘Busy?’
Bikram had been expecting Shona’s call, though they usually took care not to ring each other in the morning when both were gearing up for the day. Bikram took a deep breath to reorient himself.
‘Sort of.’
‘Can I help?’
‘You’ve never asked me that before.’
‘You might think I’m intruding. It’s hard work with you as it is.’
‘
Then why today?’
They had been together for too long to circle and hedge.
‘I suppose you’ve guessed why.’
‘Don’t listen to Nikki Kumar, Shona. She’s no good.’
‘She’s a friend, Bikram, and important to me.’
‘Some friend.’ He did not bother to hide his contempt.
‘We’ve been through this before, Bikram. Let’s not begin this now, at nine in the morning.’
She sounded tired. Bikram could imagine her sitting on her unmade bed, chin resting on knee, head bent over the receiver, the day’s appointments already tinkling on her cell phone.
‘Did she tell you to call me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘You know why.’
‘She thought you could change my mind?’
‘She thought you could do something.’
‘Did you think I would listen to you?’
Silence, then softly, in almost a whisper, ‘No.’
Was she crying? She often quivered on the verge of it. He wondered often what exactly it was that she found in him.
He said, ‘How is your mother, Shona?’
‘Okay.’
‘How were Dolly’s pre-tests?’
‘Fine.’
Silence. A series of beeps announced a long line of calls in waiting. ‘I have to go now, Shona. I’ll talk to you later.’
She sighed. ‘Bikram.’
‘Yes?’
‘Be careful.’
Then she rang off, firmly, as she always did.
The day had started unpromisingly and got gloomier as it went on. When Bikram reached office he found a stream of visitors waiting for a variety of reasons. Two or three people had been sent by his superiors, including Toofan Kumar, because they had lent money in various murky deals and now wanted the police to do some arm-twisting. There were also complaints from tenants about landlords, landlords about tenants, from fathers about young boys eyeing their daughters, and daughters about fathers assaulting their mothers. Most were there by some special reference from one or the other of Bikram’s superiors and demanded special attention and courtesy. All through, Bikram’s phone kept ringing as the journalists who hadn’t been able to corner him early in the morning now kept up a steady interrogation. Was it true that the body bore signs of knife injuries? Had Robi Bose led a sinful life? Did the wife kill him alone or with her lover? And why were the police harassing the widow instead of arresting the servant who was obviously the one who did it. But of course, it was probably suicide.