by Monabi Mitra
‘It’s not as simple as that.’ The ex-secretary, industrial reconstruction, government of West Bengal, now adviser to the Asian Development Bank, was sufficiently mellowed by Toofan Kumar’s Chivas Regal to clear his throat and come to the policeman’s defence. ‘Servants’ rights are always welcome until your own house is burgled, Madam Mehta! Then you’ll come crying to our good man here and clamour for justice and the immediate arrest of everyone who works for you, regardless of alibi and intent. Toofan is a good officer and has an excellent track record, I’m sure the culprits will be booked soon.’
A thrill of joy shot through Toofan Kumar as he gazed slavishly at the ex-secretary and congratulated himself on having invited him. Who knew, this man might even be able to put in a word for that UN assignment.
‘I still think it’s the cousin,’ said Sheeba of the bobbed hair obstinately. ‘Why else would a young girl in her senses spend so much time with an invalid? Must have made him sign a will or something. A shot of cyanide when no one was looking.’
‘From where would she have got the cyanide?’ asked Parry Prakash. ‘A shopping mall or the local chemist?’
‘Easy. She’s got a boyfriend who gets it for her. A medical rep carrying a black bag with whom she makes out in the evening at the Academy of Fine Arts. Or Victoria Memorial. That’s where they go for their pleasures, don’t they?’
‘I don’t think she goes to Victoria Memorial, oh no. She looks very different.’ Mr De, who had contributed very little to proceedings beyond rushing to get people drinks and offering snacks, startled everyone. Though a frequent invitee to these parties, he was much like a junior player on the substitute’s bench, cheering and waving, but never allowed on the playing field. They all looked at him.
‘You know her?’ Malti Mehta added in an undertone, ‘You would!’
Mr De was nodding and beaming all around. ‘We saw her. At Nikki Kumar’s party! Nisha Bose brought her along and introduced her to some of us. One of the few girls wearing a sari. She spent a lot of time in the library talking to Mr Dawson.’
‘I know!’ said Dolly Dewan. ‘I too saw her. She was standing near Shona Chowdhury and that handsome policeman, that guy, oh what’s his name, Rahul or Vikram or something. Her boyfriend. Shona Chowdhury’s, I mean.’
‘Bikram Chatterjee.’ The young police officer, presently the apple of Dolly’s eye, who felt that he should join the conversation but didn’t quite know how, cleared his throat. An opening at last! ‘Deputy superintendent of police, Bikram Chatterjee. Very efficient and dependable. He came down to my area once to look into some arms smuggling case. I was really impressed.’
‘So was I,’ Dolly Dewan put in breathlessly.
‘I thought he looked quite arrogant,’ said bobbed hair disapprovingly. Shona Chowdhury had once snubbed her at an embassy party and she was not inclined to speak favourably about anything connected with Shona.
‘Arré Toofan, what have you done?’ said Parry Prakash mischievously. ‘Such a delicious cop lurking around in your department and you don’t invite him here for the ladies to enjoy.’
‘I, too, have heard of him,’ said the ex-secretary unexpectedly. ‘Good reputation. Good work. Builds a fine rapport with the people around him.’
Toofan Kumar, who had felt the turn in conversation to be unendurable but dared not openly disagree with the ex-secretary, muttered something and got up to fix a drink. Just then, Thakur sidled in with the telephone which he delivered to his master with an elaborate salute. Talk of the bloody devil, thought Toofan angrily, as he excused himself and went in to the bedroom.
On May Day morning, Bikram and Shona discussed the case, and where it stood, in the garden house overlooking the river.
‘What do you think happened, Shona? Have you heard any gossip about these people?’
Shona shook her head. ‘I know what you know, which is what the others know too. I don’t think I’ve heard anything else, certainly nothing about raves with drugs and things like that. Nisha Bose is too chic for all that.’
The room was half-darkened, the curtains were drawn and the air conditioner hummed happily on the wall. She was sitting on a rocking chair with her feet stretched out before her and propped up on the edge of the bed. Bikram could smell her lemon verbena perfume and while one half of him was drowsy and contented, the thought of Robi Bose kept the other half hatefully hyper-alert.
‘I’ll make some inquiries tomorrow,’ she said. ‘It will be difficult, because everyone knows about you and me, but I’ll try. In the meanwhile,’ went on Shona, ‘why don’t you try Mr Dawson? At the very least you can talk things over with him. His experience as a police officer might be able to help you, certainly much more than I ever can.’ And Bikram, not wishing to waste their stolen moments on Nisha Bose, agreed.
That evening, Bikram and Shona met Mr Dawson in an elegant room hidden amongst the fluted cornices of one of the old British houses in Calcutta’s business district. The address was an exclusive meeting place for businessmen and bureaucrats and Mr Dawson, filled with pleasure at being able to meet Bikram after a long time, rose energetically to meet them. Had Tara been there, she would have recognized the old man at Nikki Kumar’s party who had offered her soup and spoken so politely to her.
‘Bikram and Shona, again! What a perfect couple, each growing more handsome and graceful as the days pass. It is time for the wedding bells to ring.’
Mr Dawson had never questioned them on their relationship, for his fondness for Bikram had overridden all considerations of middle-class morality, but lately, his courtesy had turned impatient.
‘He says he doesn’t have the time,’ said Shona mischievously.
They sat down in a corner of the lounge which, Bikram noticed, was empty. Mr Dawson had picked the perfect place for their meeting.
‘How are things in office? Prem and I played golf last week, and I understand Toofan’s giving you trouble.’
‘It’s my fault; I haven’t been able to deliver for a long time now. How can I expect the love and respect of my seniors if I don’t show results?’
‘Dear, dear. This calls for some emergency measures.’
Mr Dawson turned round and flicked his fingers at a waiter. ‘Some of that excellent wine you served last time, please.’ Then he smiled, reached across, and patted Bikram on the shoulder. ‘I know what you’ve come for. Shona called soon after you, unofficially, to brief me. I too have been thinking.’
The waiter arrived with the wine.
‘In a way it’s easier for me because I know Nikki well, and have a little more insight into her life. You don’t know about their chanting group, I suppose?’
Bikram shook his head.
‘I didn’t either, till Nikki told me. Took me quite some time to get it all out of her, but in the end my methods prevailed. Also, she needed to get some money across to her scallywag of a son who’s known distantly to my daughter in the US. I told her my daughter could pay him the money for the time being and Nikki could return it later. Ragini works in the World Bank, you know, and is doing well.’
The waiter reappeared with two plates of cheese, crackers and olives. Mr Dawson looked disgusted. ‘What we need is some good old-fashioned kebabs and tandoori prawns. Can you get that for us, please?’
He continued. ‘There is, of course, a group within a group. The chanting group meets every seven days at Nisha Bose’s residence and spends time doing Tibetan and yogic chants. They have a boy from Sikkim who comes in to teach them, and other instructors from Bihar and Orissa, as well as someone from Goa.
‘What she did not tell me, I got to know from someone else. Who he is, Bikram, does not concern us right now. What I got to know is that the inner group meets twice a week at Nisha Bose’s house for quite a different sort of nirvana. They begin, apparently, with the lights low and the music soft, but by 1 a.m., the music is turned up high and the drawing room is in shambles.’
A plateful of prawns, their pink tails sticking out decorousl
y, arrived. Shona took one and bit hungrily.
‘Nisha’s a strange woman, is she not?’ Bikram looked up to find Mr Dawson looking at him curiously.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘She seemed too polished, too … how shall I put it … too finished, for all that.’
‘And there, perhaps, you made an error in judgement. Not every beautiful woman is a Cleopatra. She had been faithful, at any rate, to Robi, and the two, though childless, had an outwardly hassle-free marriage. I say outwardly because there might have been tensions within of which we know nothing. It is always difficult to believe that a marriage is perfect if one party is plain compared to the other; though, if both man and wife are evenly matched in beauty and brains, it’s difficult to predict the state of that marriage either.’
Really, thought Bikram, his comments are really loaded today. Could he have had a beer before we arrived? Shona’s ears had turned pink and she fiddled with the napkin on her lap.
Mr Dawson hit his stride. ‘After Robi Bose’s illness, Nisha found herself in the peculiar position of being unattached and yet attached. She had a few flings here and there, but Robi was always a strain on her. Besides, I think, he became a worrier, went on and on about his health and was an embarrassment in public. Finally, you’ll have to think about the one aspect of their lives we haven’t discussed yet. Money! Where did the money come from—with Robi’s job gone—the money for the parties and the clothes and the servants and the trips abroad? Yes, Bikram, Nisha Bose travelled frequently even after Robi’s illness.’
Bikram’s grey eyes had almost become transparent as he contemplated the rim of his glass. He remembered the polished silver on the sideboard, the table linen in the enormous pantry and the bin outside overflowing with party refuse. He also remembered the empty packets of Tramadol tablets.
‘So you see, Bikram, this crime, if it is one, goes a long way back.’
Bikram looked up to find Mr Dawson smiling gently at him. ‘And the evidence is something I can never put together, and the charge sheet, if ever there is one, cannot contain so much speculation. I’ll just have to dump this one and wait for the press to forget it,’ said Bikram bitterly.
‘You could pass it off on the cousin,’ said Mr Dawson. ‘Wasn’t she the one seen with him last? Toofan would be delighted. Do you think she did it?’
Bikram shrugged his shoulders. ‘Going by the letter of the Investigation Manual and all we were taught as probationers, she could have, but, I don’t know, somehow, I always felt she was out of it all.’
‘So you, too, thought there was something murky going on there, even before you stumbled upon the drug angle?’
‘It was just an instinctive feeling I had.’
They rose for an early dinner. Over a sumptuous spread of minestrone soup, penne arrabiata, linguini with pesto sauce and apple crumble, Mr Dawson also informed Bikram that Robi Bose’s cousin had been present at Nikki Kumar’s party, seemed a pleasant and interesting girl and had, in fact, been introduced to Bikram before she blushingly withdrew. ‘I didn’t see her leave, but she seemed to be very much like a fish out of water there. You could find out also why she had been invited to Nikki Kumar’s house at all.’
Shona, over a second helping of apple crumble, remarked how frightening it was that a retired police officer seemed to know everything about everybody, much more than an officer still in service did.
The Swift drove into Bikram’s police housing parking lot with a squeal of tyres and Shona stepped out. In the car, they had talked of Mr Dawson and what he had told them over dinner and then Bikram had sighed and shaken his head. ‘No point in thinking of all that now.’
In the lift, they met Inspector Rafat Khan and family from flat 6B, who nodded briefly and sniffed disapprovingly. The cook made a great show of banging the door of the pantry shut, to communicate a tactical retreat, and they linked arms and walked into the bedroom.
Bikram’s mobile phone rang. It was the Control Room.
‘Bad phone,’ said Shona snatching the instrument from Bikram and flinging it away. ‘Come here!’
Later, Bikram made a crucial mistake—he called Toofan Kumar. Having mulled over the case on his way back, he had formed a theory but, instead of letting things remain till the next morning, he found himself listening to Toofan Kumar’s telephone attendant’s voice that evening. Bikram had unconsciously made the call thinking, perhaps, that he should get the unpleasantness over before the work week started. Also, Shona was beside him. He could face anything with her nearby.
‘What is it?’ snarled Toofan Kumar.
‘It’s about the Robi Bose case, Sir. There are reports of occasional rave parties being thrown at the deceased’s house. We might have to explore a drug angle in this case.’
‘A what angle?’
‘Drugs. Recreational drugs. There may have been rave parties going on in that house and someone from the family may have been involved.’
‘I want a quiet life, Bikram, but you just won’t allow me to have one, will you? Nisha Bose and drugs? Do you realize what you’re suggesting? Who puts these things into your head?’
Bikram could feel a familiar pounding at the back of his head, a feeling he frequently encountered when talking to his boss. ‘I’m sorry but I am just reporting what I learnt during my investigations. The truth, in fact, which is usually unpalatable.’
‘What is most unpalatable is your manner of speaking!’ roared Toofan Kumar. ‘I don’t care what you have investigated. The servants did it and if you were a good officer you would know how to fit facts to conclusions and not the other way round. And may I remind you that there was a first-class quarrel with some female cousin over property a few days before he died, so if it isn’t the servants it’s probably Tara Bose. Learn to use your brains.’
Curious, thought Bikram. He knows the girl’s name, most unusual for him. He must have been discussing the case with someone else recently. Was he at a club or a party? He said, ‘If it’s a matter of gain, Sir, then who stands to gain the most? Nisha Bose. She gets the house, freedom and a chance to live life anew. If it’s a question of gain, I’d put my bet on Nisha Bose.’
‘You were rotting in some goddamned place near the Sunderbans before you came to Calcutta, weren’t you?’ asked Toofan Kumar in the tone of a man holding himself back with the greatest restraint. ‘How would you like to take a walk there again? I’ll have a word with the inspector general tomorrow about your transfer orders.’
Something snapped inside Bikram. All he could think of was the image of Toofan Kumar that popped into his mind—Toofan brutalizing and frightening witnesses, fitting convenient conclusions to facts so that the men and women he favoured could be spared; a travesty of all they had been taught at training school. Shona put out a steadying hand.
He said, ‘I’m sorry, Sir. Tomorrow, I’ll see to it that we’re not troubled any longer by this distressing thing. We’ll cite lack of evidence and close the case. That would be convenient for all.’ He hung up before Toofan Kumar could make a comeback.
14
The group that met in Prem Gupta’s room the next morning was sombre. The coffee went cold and the biscuits remained untouched. Toofan Kumar scowled, Ghosh sulked, Chuni Sarkar looked worried and even the ever-perky Sheena Sen looked nervously around her. Bikram had obviously not slept the night before. There were furrows along the sides of his nose and his face was haggard. His eyes burnt with a peculiar restlessness and his fingers played incessantly with themselves.
Then Prem Gupta cleared his throat and began, ‘What we need to do here today, gentlemen, is to go back and give our full attention to the death of Robi Bose. That is easier said than done, because, through long years of experience, I know how exasperating a case becomes when you keep having to break off in the middle to attend training programmes on police participation in community welfare—here he nodded at Toofan Kumar—register two hundred other cases and look into daily law-and-order situations, as my good friend Chuni Sarkar does—he
re he graciously inclined his head at Chuni—attend to VIP duty and the whims of the local politician—he looked at Ghosh—or be deflected into other cases.’ Prem Gupta dared not look at Bikram. He then coughed and shuffled through some papers. ‘The case was registered as a murder under Section 302 at 3 a.m. on 9 April, Monday. The complainant was a Dr Sudip Pyne, the doctor sent to the Bose residence to attend to the dead man. The doctor refused to issue a death certificate, suspecting an unnatural death, even though the man had suffered a cerebral thrombosis and was an invalid. The body was later taken to a government hospital, Robi declared dead on arrival, and sent for post-mortem examination. The report endorsed the ‘unnatural death’ theory and said that an overdose of painkillers and tranquillizers had resulted in cardiac arrest. The case diary further mentions that a party had taken place at the Bose residence that day, that Robi Bose had been fidgety and disturbed, both on the fateful day and the previous day, that he had eaten his dinner alone in his room along with a glass of Horlicks, and that when his wife came up to bed, finally, she found him dead on the bed. The officers discovered empty medicine packets hidden in the rubbish dump in the garden and the doctor complained that a bedcover had been switched. A cousin of the dead man’s was one of the last outsiders to see him alive. Possible suspects include this cousin, the attendants and other staff, his wife as well as any of the other guests who could have easily nipped up to his room. Assuming it was murder.’
‘Assuming it was,’ said Toofan sourly. ‘Sometimes some men assume too much. All this song and dance because of a junior doctor who didn’t like to be roused out of bed at 1 a.m.’
‘Chuni, what do you think?’
Chuni Sarkar had been dreading this moment. He excelled at fence-sitting and now he would have to take sides, one way or the other. He adjusted the collar of his shirt awkwardly and swallowed hard. ‘The death was so sudden, Sir, it could be anything. The circumstantial evidence points to a sudden stroke, but then, money was being stolen there a little while before. I’m wondering whether that could have had anything to do with it.’