by Monabi Mitra
Since this sounded indelicate and suspicious, he hurried on to his third point.
‘Number three. Nisha Bose, the third suspect, had the easiest access to her husband, to his food and drinks. Motive: to get rid of someone who was becoming increasingly burdensome. Evidence, resisted a post-mortem from the outset, insisted that the death certificate be given and her husband’s death be passed off as natural. Also, was a pusher herself, and possibly a user too. Which brings us to an additional motive—that her husband found out and threatened her with action and she took the easiest way out.’
Bikram finished but the other two continued to stare dully at the wall.
Finally Ghosh stirred. ‘Can we leave out the people at the party now? We did prepare a list, but I don’t think it’s been followed up. Where is it, Chuni?’
‘In my office,’ said Chuni Sarkar shamefacedly. He had forgotten all about the names and addresses of the men and women at Robi Bose’s house on the night of his death that had been so painstakingly prepared by an assistant sub-inspector and then dumped unceremoniously by Chuni in a brown envelope in his drawer. No one had followed up on them because of the unspoken hope that the case could be solved without such a large and complicated investigation.
‘But why leave it in your drawer if the case is being dug up here?’ asked Ghosh maliciously. ‘I suppose you haven’t looked a single person up from that list?’
‘Of course I did,’ lied Chuni Sarkar vehemently. ‘Half were travelling and the others were not available when my men called on them. And after that, well, I do run a police station, you know? If it was that important you could have asked one of your own men to take over.’
‘Very well, let’s first look at what we’ve got,’ said Bikram, heading off the quarrel. ‘Forgetting the wild-card entries like mysterious party guests, who do you think did it?’
Again no one spoke, till Ghosh and Chuni Sarkar began together. ‘Buro,’ said Chuni Sarkar at the same time as Ghosh said, ‘Tara.’
‘Why?’ said Bikram looking at Ghosh. ‘Why settle on Tara?’
Ghosh shifted uneasily. ‘I don’t have any definite proof, obviously. But the girl seems too self-sacrificing and meek; today’s girls aren’t really like that. I’m sure she was suppressed, no, what they call it, repressed, and took it out by bumping off her cousin. With the money she’d inherit after selling off the house she could have got any boyfriend she wanted.’
‘But Robi wanted to settle her claim in any case, so why take the trouble to murder him?’
‘She wanted her share as a matter of right, not a claim settled by her father and cousin. Besides, she also didn’t think the death would be suspect. A sick man dies in bed and everyone thinks it’s expected. No one expected a nosy Sudip Pyne to turn up as he did!’
‘What about Mithu the maid and the durwan?’ asked Chuni Sarkar. ‘Can they be exonerated?’
‘Yeah. And what about the tailor and the masseuse and the electrician who came to fix the fuse and the man who walked by outside their house the evening before, talking on his cell phone at 7.56 p.m.?’ Ghosh asked his question in a wretched voice. ‘Chuni! We’ll never get anywhere at this rate!’
Then he turned to Bikram. ‘What about your ideas?’
‘I haven’t any,’ said Bikram truthfully. ‘To tell you the truth, this kind of domestic murder isn’t quite my thing. Give me a political crime or rape or robbery any day.’
‘That’s nonsense,’ said the faithful Ghosh. ‘You excel in crime work of every kind. So?’
‘We each go our own way,’ said Bikram. ‘Chuni goes back to Buro and you can interrogate Tara Bose since you have some misgivings about her.’
‘And you, Sir?’
‘I’ll take the last slice on the plate—Nisha Bose.’
At 5 p.m. Tara was called by the doorman at Wisdom Press to the pantry.
‘There’s something important.’
‘Such as?’
‘Your cousin’s murderer has been caught. Look, there he is coming out of jail, no, wait a minute, the court. He’s been remanded to police custody.’
Tara followed Buro’s familiar figure which now looked strange and almost unreal on television. She remembered his insolence and barely camouflaged contempt each time she visited Robi’s house. Now here he was, stricken with fear and shame, looking away from the camera as it panned over his face.
The reporter’s voice declaimed breathlessly on the death of Robi Bose, the suspicion on the durwan and the maid, and the fact that the police had finally arrested the attendant. While the voice-over, mixing fact and fiction, created an eerie account of Robi’s final moments, the camera showed the Bose house, their garden, Mithu peeping out from behind the gate and a single shot of Nisha wearing sunglasses and driving away in a car with tinted windows.
‘Is that your sister-in-law?’ It was Anju, Tara’s friend and colleague, asking the question. ‘Wow, she’s quite something.
Tara turned away and returned to her desk with her mind in turmoil.
She thought for a moment, then picked up her handbag and took out her telephone book. The number was there, nestling protectively in the middle, copied out once in her own handwriting but also preserved in the original slip which he had given her. She picked up the phone and dialled. There was no answer. Tara retried, then gave up and thought some more. She returned to the telephone book and hunted for Ghosh’s number without any success. Finally, she called the pantry attendant and asked him for what she wanted. The man was excited at being part of a drama that had potential to merit the attention of prime-time television. He said, ‘My cousin works in the government. You want the number of a Mr Ghosh of the crime branch, right? The one we saw on television just now?
‘Yes. I had his number but I seem to have misplaced it.’
‘No problem, I’ll get it in a minute.’
The man was as good as his word. Tara quickly dialled before she had time to change her mind.
Ghosh sounded hurried and annoyed when he picked up. On giving him her name, however, there was a grim silence.
‘I’ve just seen the news on television. It couldn’t have been Buro,’ Tara said.
The line was so quiet that she thought Ghosh had hung up.
Actually, Ghosh was trying to work out where he could interrogate Tara. ‘Would you like to talk about it?’
‘Yes,’ said Tara.
‘You can come to our office at about 7 p.m. and tell us what you want to say. I will hear you out.’
‘Won’t Mr Chatterjee be there too?’
‘No, he’s out on some other work.’
‘But I want …’ Tara stopped herself in time. Ghosh groaned inwardly. This was an emotional tangle he could have well done without! On the other hand, she might have a vital clue.
‘I’ll call back later, when you’re not so busy,’ mumbled Tara miserably. She had bungled it. What must he think of her?
Feeling sorry for her and angry with himself for not thinking on his feet, Ghosh softened his tone. He had a fifteen-year-old daughter at home and had a good idea about girls and their infatuations. But then again, he was a careful man and wary of Bikram spending too much time with young female witnesses. So he said, ‘If there is anything important, you can tell me now. After that we can meet some other time and I’ll promise to get Bikram Chatterjee along.’
‘No,’ said Tara, tears of shame stinging her eyes. ‘I can tell you over the phone. Robi had only one drink which Buro mixed for him. He couldn’t have put in anything without my seeing him. It is highly unlikely that the stuff was mixed in his food because Robi had only boiled vegetables and toast with margarine for dinner. And as for his Horlicks …’
Ghosh waited.
‘I mixed his Horlicks for him,’ said Tara in a voice that combined sullenness and defiance. ‘In which case you should let Buro go and arrest me.’
Bikram drove up to the Bose residence once more and looked at the bougainvillea and the sunflowers, the smooth whitewas
hed walls, the narrow patch of grass. The iron gate was shut again and the durwan was nowhere to be seen. Opposite, a television van with the name of the channel scrawled picturesquely on its sides straddled the pavement and half the road, and forced cars to travel single file.
He had forgotten the members of the press, who now rushed up to him. His leg hurt, his throat hurt, his mind rankled and now this!
‘Have you come to make further arrests? Any new clues to follow up after the confession?’
‘No comment!’
‘Why not?’
‘There will be a press briefing soon and the inspector general or the SP will brief you.’
‘But you are the investigating officer; why not say a few words now?’
‘Go away,’ said Bikram testily. He stood fiddling with the locked gate when one of the reporters said, ‘The durwan’s been absconding since morning. You’ll have to climb over.’
And gift a first-rate picture to you, thought Bikram. All his hopes of catching Nisha Bose and her household unawares vanished. He would have to give notice and wait for someone to open the gate. Bikram climbed back into his car and turned back the way he had come.
He got Mistry to stop the car as they rounded the bend, then climbed out. One of his guards was in uniform while the other was in civvies. Bikram motioned to the uniformed one to follow him and cautiously crept back. The TV van blocked the road and just as well. Bikram crept along the road, head down. At the house just before the Boses’, he stopped and rattled the gate. A man wearing the uniform of a private security agency opened the gate slightly and peered, then stared at Bikram and his uniformed guard.
‘Let me in,’ said Bikram. The gate opened further and Bikram and his guard pushed in.
‘Who are you?’ demanded the sentry.
‘Shut up,’ said Bikram and left Lalbahadur to deal with the man.
He walked quickly to the wall on the left and continued along it. The wall was high but manageably so. About a third of the way down, Bikram found what he wanted—a reduction in height and, on the other side, he could see Nisha Bose’s backyard with the kitchen and the jackfruit tree at the far end.
‘Lalbahadur!’
He came running, followed by the scandalized sentry clucking and fussing.
‘Get me over, my leg’s giving me trouble.’
As Lalbahadur hoisted him over, Bikram told him to go around, get the car and park before the Boses’ gate. Then he scrambled over the top.
He took the kitchen entrance because he knew that would be open throughout the day, as kitchens are wont to be, even in a house that has seen death and disaster. He could hear the murmur of voices. His intention had been to loom up behind them and catch them unawares but his foot struck the door and set it shuddering open. He looked in and found the durwan and Mithu staring at him open-mouthed.
He walked in nonchalantly and said, ‘Keep quiet and go out in front. Move now. Into the pantry and the dining room. Yes, not a word or you two will be the ones to be arrested after Buro.’ On an inspiration he added, ‘There’s a swarm of policemen covering your house anyway. Where is she?’
‘In the bedroom.’ It was Mithu who answered. The maid looked at the stairs and looked away and Bikram could tell she was frightened.
‘Which one, hers or her husband’s?’
‘Her own.’
‘Switch on the fans here and in the drawing room.’ He turned to the durwan. ‘Go and wait in your room at the gate and let my car enter. Close the gate at once because there are reporters outside.’
He took the steps two at a time, which was difficult because of the heat and his bad leg. The house was hot and he was perspiring freely. He heard the slow whirring of the fans as they started up and cranked noisily, which was why he had asked for them to be switched on, so as to camouflage his footsteps. Let me not blunder, oh Shona, pray for me, he said to himself. Then he softly tried the door handle and entered.
He stood in the middle of the room lined with mirrors and he randomly thought how he felt like the character played by Bruce Lee in the movie Enter the Dragon. He tried not to look at the split and fractured Bikrams that moved backwards and forwards from the mirrors but was momentarily transfixed by them, for Bikram could never go by a mirror without looking at least once. Then he looked around at the bedroom.
It was empty.
From the bathroom came the sound of running water and he hoped Nisha would come out fully clothed. While he was considering his next move the bathroom door opened and Nisha Bose came in. She was wearing a scarlet housecoat and her feet were bare. Her hair was tied in a ponytail and there was a white patch under her nostrils. Nisha Bose was bleaching her upper lip.
When she saw Bikram her hand flew up to her face and smudged the bleach, then she opened her mouth to scream but shut it without a sound. ‘Hello,’ said Bikram. ‘May I sit down?’
‘Your sense of humour is delicious,’ said Nisha Bose. ‘Deliriously delicious! Fantastically so! Did you arrest my maid and durwan as well and walk into an empty house?’ She had recovered herself almost immediately and was as winsome and self-possessed as ever.
‘They let me in,’ said Bikram. ‘They were happy to do so, and there was no unpleasantness. Would you like a sponge to dab it off?’
Without waiting for an answer, he took a white sponge pad and handed it to her. Their fingers met for a second and both looked down. Her skin was cold against the heat of the day, and Bikram could feel his skin crawl. Then he turned round and sat on a chair and motioned her to one before him.
‘So, what can I do for you?’ Nisha’s voice was steady, with no hint of surprise or discomfiture at the way in which he had entered her bedroom or the reasons behind it. She seemed to be relishing the scene.
Bikram took a deep breath for courage. ‘It’s Buro. He’s been talking. About you and your … friends here. And the parties you had. What can you tell me about that, Mrs Bose?’
‘Nisha, call me Nisha.’
‘Very well.’
‘May I call you Bikram?’
‘If you answer my question, yes.’
‘How many men have you got hidden behind the door to take down every word?’
‘Go ahead and check for yourself.’
‘I will.’
Nisha slipped to the door and opened it while Bikram watched her in amusement. She returned and stood before him.
‘Turn out your pockets.’
He did. There was a monogrammed handkerchief, three pens, a small pocket notebook and his revolver.
‘You came armed?’
‘I can leave the gun on the table if you want?’
‘That might make you more desirable, yes.’ Nisha’s eyes twinkled.
Bikram slipped open the chamber and took out the cartridges, then laid the revolver down on a small table crowded with magazines and other odds and ends. With the revolver on top, the room looked more and more like a Bond scene. Then he put back his handkerchief, arranged his pens in his pocket and held out the notebook open at a page.
‘Does this name sound familiar to you?’
‘Sheikh Hassan, alias Apple, of the Dhoor Syndicate? It’s all nonsense and drivel to me!’
‘It’s related to the question I asked you but you sidestepped. Buro has been talking about rave parties at your house. Do you deny that?’
She looked at him, laughing, and said, ‘Of course I deny it. Buro might have been feeding my guests something but that was without my knowledge. All I did was to step up the music and set the food and help my guests have a good time. Buro was in charge of arrangements. I would be busy looking after Robi, and had very little knowledge of what Buro actually did to make my guests comfortable. He may have pandered to their whims now and then. How would I know?’
‘And you think he murdered your husband?’
‘That’s what you say, Bikram.’
‘What do you think, Nisha?’
‘He must have. I trust the Indian police. When they say somethi
ng, I believe it.’
‘Did you kill your husband?’
Her voice was still calm, edged with satisfaction. ‘What a shocking thing to say! Do you know how widows are treated in our society? Can you even imagine how much I loved him? It is sad to see wonderful men like you tainted by the muck you handle every day to even think of dirty things like this.’
‘Buro might say you did!’
‘Let him, by all means.’ She sounded almost bored now. ‘The testimonial of a shady drug-dealing beggar! I’ll hire the best lawyer to defend myself if anyone should dare proceed against me.’
Bikram sat very still. There was nothing more he could do. He had come here with an unformed idea in his mind, a kind of vague certainty that if he could get Nisha Bose alone he could charge her with her husband’s death, catch her off guard and see if he could get a confession. That was why the stealth, the need to catch her unprepared, take her by surprise. But the woman was almost inhuman in her composure. She sat before him, her eyes a-glitter, easily elegant in her housecoat, teasingly rendering Bikram’s plans to nought and sparkling in the knowledge that she was unassailable.
‘Are you done?’ She broke in on his thoughts. He looked up and into her face, gleaming softly in the electric light, a sculpted perfection seated amidst the shambles of her kingdom.
‘I’ve finished,’ said Bikram. ‘There’s nothing more for me to do.’
He rose to leave. The carriage of his body suggested a great, tragic defeat. His eyes turned into pools of sorrow, running over with the anguish caused by the hopelessness of the case and the pain in his leg that was now radiating to his lower back. He reached forward to pick up his revolver.
‘Wait,’ said Nisha and put her hand over his. Her touch was light yet firm and her nails, coloured in a delicate shade of pink, rested alluringly on the back of his hand. ‘Don’t go!’