Last Victim of the Monsoon Express

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Last Victim of the Monsoon Express Page 3

by Vaseem Khan

‘I’m afraid that is where my work ends and Chopra’s begins.’ Homi put the metal object into an evidence bag and handed it to his friend. He put the paper into a separate evidence bag and set it to one side. Then he stepped back and pulled off his gloves. ‘And that, gentleman, is pretty much all I can do for you at this point.’

  Chopra turned to Fairbrother. ‘Did the train stop anywhere in the night?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge. But we can easily confirm that with the night driver. Why?’

  ‘Because if it did not then we can rule out the possibility that our killer came aboard after we left Mumbai.’

  The driver was summoned, a small South Indian woman by the name of Gita Viranjali. Standing in the passageway outside the cabin, she answered Chopra’s questions in impeccable English, white teeth flashing in a dark face, confirming that the train had travelled through the night without stopping. The next scheduled stop was in an hour’s time, at New Delhi.

  Chopra checked his watch. It was a few minutes before 8 a.m.

  He thanked the driver, who headed back up the corridor. Before she left she stopped. ‘Sir, there was something else. I do not know if it is relevant to you, but . . .’

  ‘Please tell me.’

  ‘Last night, I came from the driver’s cabin to take some air on the viewing platform. And—’ She hesitated.

  ‘Don’t be afraid,’ said Chopra gently. ‘If you saw or heard anything it is important that you tell me.’

  ‘That is the thing, sir. I am not sure what I heard exactly. But it sounded like a gunshot.’ She gave a shy smile as if the whole thing was ridiculous.

  He considered the revelation. ‘Could it have been anything other than a gunshot?’

  She shrugged. ‘Yes, of course. We are on a moving train. There is a lot of localised noise. I could easily be mistaken.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘I am not sure. I did not check. But it was shortly after one a.m., I think.’

  ‘Thank you for coming forward.’ He watched the woman leave. A gunshot? Could she be mistaken? At any rate, Neil Bannerjee had been stabbed to death, not shot.

  ‘At least we now know that the murderer is still on this train,’ he said, turning back to James Fairbrother. ‘Tell me, how many people are on board?’

  Fairbrother turned to the rugged-looking man who had accompanied them, dressed in the uniform of the Railway Protection Force, the RPF. ‘This is Alok Singh, head of security for the mission. He has a full roster of all those aboard.’ His tone was harsh and Chopra suspected that words had already been exchanged between the two men. Singh looked like a man whose career had just flashed into smoke before his eyes. He felt a twinge of sympathy for him. It was easy to blame the shepherd, but the truth was that sometimes all the security in the world couldn’t stop a committed criminal.

  Singh cleared his throat. ‘Forty-eight people boarded the train at Mumbai. Two drivers, two engineers, six cabin stewards, four general staff, three security personnel – including myself – five dining staff, a publicity team of two, and a guest roster of twenty-four. This includes the official Pakistani delegation of four, the Indian delegation of similar strength, a number of other aides, civil servants and spouses, and Mr Fairbrother and Ms Howe. Plus one elephant.’

  Homi gave the man a wooden look. ‘I think we can safely discount the elephant as a suspect.’

  Chopra turned to Fairbrother. ‘How many people know about Bannerjee’s death?’

  ‘Just us and the cabin steward who discovered the body. Bannerjee had requested that he be woken at seven and helped to dress. The steward immediately alerted Singh, who came to fetch me.’

  ‘Very well. The first order of business is to prevent news of the murder from leaving this train – if you are serious about containing the incident until we know exactly what happened.’

  ‘I am,’ said Fairbrother solemnly.

  ‘In that case, we must round up every mobile phone and Internet-enabled device on the train.’

  The Englishman looked sceptical. ‘How will we possibly accomplish that?’

  ‘I suggest you tell everyone that we have had a security breach. Some sort of virus that may have infected some of the devices aboard. As such, they must all be taken in and examined.’

  ‘No one will believe such an absurd explanation. There will be uproar.’

  ‘Undoubtedly.’ Chopra turned to Singh. ‘You may have to be forceful.’

  Singh squared his shoulders. Here was a chance to redeem himself. ‘It will be done.’

  ‘After that,’ continued Chopra, ‘I will interview everyone aboard. We cannot keep the death a secret for long. I will tell each person what has happened as I interview them. By then their phones will be with us, so they will have no means of informing anyone else.’

  ‘But what will we do once the train gets to Delhi?’ asked Fairbrother.

  ‘This train will not get to Delhi. You must ask the driver to detour around or through Delhi, before heading straight to the Wagah border.’

  Fairbrother looked aghast. ‘Have you any idea what you’re saying? There are all sorts of political heavyweights awaiting us in Delhi ready to pose for pictures with Bannerjee.’

  ‘Do you think they would like to pose with his corpse?’

  ‘Perhaps they won’t notice,’ muttered Homi. ‘One more stuffed cadaver in Delhi shouldn’t attract too much attention.’

  ‘You will have to make up an excuse,’ said Chopra. ‘Tell them there was a delay in the night and you have fallen behind schedule, necessitating the detour.’

  Fairbrother looked troubled but said no more.

  Chopra waved a hand at the chess set and the two whisky glasses. ‘Bannerjee entertained someone in here last night. Who? Was it his killer or someone else? Either way we must find out.’ He turned back to Singh. ‘While I complete the interviews there is something else that must be done. A search of the train.’

  ‘What are we looking for?’ asked Singh.

  ‘The murder weapon. I will search Bannerjee’s cabin now, but my assumption is that the killer took the knife.’

  ‘We’re on a moving train,’ said Fairbrother. ‘Surely the killer would have discarded it during the night?’

  ‘That is a possibility,’ admitted Chopra. ‘But put yourself in the mind of our murderer. Once Bannerjee’s body was discovered the police might go back down the track and look for the knife and any other discarded evidence, such as bloodied clothing. A long shot, but why take the chance? The killer knew that we were due to stop at Delhi. The chaos the death would generate there would provide ample cover to slip out with the murder weapon.’ He turned again to Singh. ‘I will conduct the interviews in the dining carriage. While I do so you will search each person’s cabin.’

  ‘Is that even legal?’ protested Fairbrother. ‘These are VVIPs, Chopra. They won’t just roll over and agree.’

  ‘If anyone protests, tell them this is a matter of national security.’

  ‘Do you intend to go through their luggage too?’ persisted Fairbrother, aghast at the possibility.

  ‘It wouldn’t be much of a search otherwise.’

  ‘They’re not just going to hand over the keys to their suitcases. Have you any idea who you’re dealing with? Some of these people could get the prime minister on the line if they wished it.’

  ‘And that is why we will not ask their permission nor tell them what we intend to do. Singh will break open any locks. When they return to their cabins they can call God himself if they wish. By then we will have achieved our objective.’ Chopra turned to Singh. ‘Your cabin must also be searched, and those of your security personnel. I will do that personally once I have finished here.’

  Singh looked uncertain but nodded his assent.

  Chopra spent the next fifteen minutes carefully going over the dead man’s suite. He found nothing to shed further light on Bannerjee’s killing.

  Once satisfied, he asked Singh to lead him to his own cabin.

 
The Monsoon Express comprised nine cars in total. A driver’s car at the front where the two drivers worked and slept. Three sleeping cars for the passengers; a lounge car for socialising and cocktail hours; the dining car, which also included a galley where the food was stored and prepped; a staff car with a solitary cabin for the chef and cabins for the various onboard personnel, who all bunked four to a room, including Singh and his staff of two. The final compartment was the goods car where Ganesha was currently berthed. A passageway stretched the length of the train down the left-hand side, with interconnecting doors between cars. There were two viewing platforms, one at the front between the first sleeping car and the drivers’ carriage and one at the rear just behind the goods car. A person could move from the back of the train to the front with ease by using the corridor. To Chopra this meant that anyone on the train was a potential suspect in Bannerjee’s killing, certainly as far as means and opportunity were concerned. Ultimately, as in all such cases, it would boil down to motive.

  Who wanted Bannerjee dead?

  Why?

  The search of Singh’s cabin did not take long. He and his two colleagues had brought little luggage aboard. The cabin itself was too small to hold much.

  ‘I shall return to the dining car,’ said Chopra once he was done. ‘I leave you and your men to collect all the phones and to send me each person to be interviewed. Let’s start with our VIPs.’

  Less than a gentleman

  The process of interviewing all those aboard the Monsoon Express took almost three hours. During that time Chopra remained impassive in the face of shock, indignation, insults, and various threats to have him hauled over the coals for his impertinence. He remembered an old saying of Homi’s: ‘Do you know what the V in VIP stands for? Voluble.’

  Throughout it all he stuck to his prepared script. He asked each person about their connection, if any, to the victim; when they had last seen him; whether they had seen or heard anything untoward in the night. He noted closely their reactions to the news of Bannerjee’s death – no one gave anything away.

  The Indian delegation proved useful, in between the histrionics, in building up a profile of the murdered man. Bannerjee’s deputy, a man named Pravin Sharma, was particularly helpful in this regard.

  Sharma was in his fifties, a handsome, slight man who wore a suit well. He had worked with Bannerjee for a number of years and considered him a friend.

  ‘Neil was born in Calcutta, but moved to Delhi in his early teens. His father was a senior civil servant and was posted there in the seventies. Neil grew up surrounded by politics; I suppose it was inevitable that he would decide to run for office. He made the leap in his twenties, in Mumbai, where he was elected as a Congress Party member. For a while he was a particular favourite of the Gandhis, particularly Indira’s son, Sanjay, who was a close friend for some years. When the Congress star waned following the Emergency, he managed to keep his head above water, moving north. In 2005, he was elected chief minister in Jammu and Kashmir, where he was lauded for quelling the local insurgency which was at its worst for some time. Following this success, he was invited back to Delhi. Given his experience in dealing with our Pak counterparts, he was considered an ideal figurehead for the Indian side of this goodwill mission.’ Sharma looked morose. ‘Not that any goodwill will remain now.’

  ‘Can you think of any reason why someone would wish to murder him?’

  ‘None,’ said Sharma emphatically. ‘He was a charming man. Highly intelligent and very capable. You cannot wade through Indian politics for as long as he has without picking up a few naysayers but he was always careful never to cultivate genuine enemies.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw him?’

  ‘We parted company after dinner. He was revising his speech for our stop in Delhi this morning and wanted to get back to his suite.’

  ‘Tell me about his family.’

  Sharma raised an eyebrow. ‘Wouldn’t it be better to ask his wife?’

  ‘His wife is aboard?’ Chopra cast his mind back to his search of Bannerjee’s cabin. There had been no sign of a woman’s presence.

  ‘You didn’t know?’ Sharma rose to his feet, pointedly buttoning his suit. ‘Perhaps we should talk again when you have more information. This whole business of confiscating our phones – I understand what you are trying to do, but it is no good. An incident like this cannot be swept under the carpet. Whatever you discover, the fact remains that Neil Bannerjee was murdered aboard the Monsoon Express whilst representing his country on a goodwill mission. Whether our neighbours had a hand in this or not really won’t matter. Sometimes facts are less important than perception.’

  He gave a brisk nod, turned on his heel and left.

  When Bannerjee’s wife arrived Chopra could not hide his momentary surprise.

  ‘You are Neil Bannerjee’s wife?’ he asked, as Kimi Rawal slid into the seat before him. At least it explained why she was aboard the train.

  In the light of day, the woman was even more attractive than he recalled. Neatly dressed in a sleeveless blouse and white pantaloons, with a bob of short hair. Designer shoes with stiletto heels. She wore heavy make-up; a smear of scarlet lipstick gave her a sultry quality that seemed to underline her status as a star of the screen. He remembered now that her brief blitz of fame in the frantic world of Bollywood had come courtesy of a series of vampish parts. Rawal had been typecast early on in her career as the sleazy mistress, the volatile extracurricular lover. She had thrown herself so wholeheartedly into such roles that she had commanded a loyal following, often eclipsing her ‘mainstream’ contemporaries. She had never been deemed leading lady material, but for a number of years she had ruled the front covers of Mumbai’s glamour magazines. Chopra recalled a particular byline: ‘The face that sank a thousand marriages’. If the tabloid gossip was to be believed Rawal’s onscreen persona had infected her personal life.

  ‘I am afraid I have bad news, Mrs Bannerjee,’ he said now. ‘Your husband is deceased. He was murdered last night, in his suite.’

  Her eyes widened and a gasp escaped her.

  Finally, she spoke: ‘What is this all about? Why have they taken our phones?’

  ‘As I said last night, my name is Chopra. I am a private detective. I have been asked to investigate your husband’s death. At this moment we do not know who killed him. Until we do, it has been deemed unwise to permit the news to filter out into the wider world. Given the circumstances, I am sure you can understand why.’

  She stared at him, then reached into her trouser pocket for her cigarettes.

  Chopra refrained from informing her that smoking was prohibited on the train. He watched her light the cigarette and haul in a deep lungful of smoke. Eventually, she appeared to regain her composure, though he couldn’t help but note that she had neither fallen to pieces nor shed a tear at the announcement of her husband’s death. Then again, people took such news in different ways. He’d known murderers blub their eyes out at being told of their wife’s death, only to discover days later that the grief-stricken husband had held the hammer that had bludgeoned the poor woman into the afterlife.

  ‘I want to see his body.’

  ‘I am afraid that won’t be possible. I have placed his cabin off limits.’

  ‘I am his wife, dammit! You can’t stop me from seeing him.’

  ‘Under normal circumstances I would not,’ said Chopra. ‘But the crime scene must remain undisturbed. Should I be unable to identify the killer, this matter will be handed over to the police.’

  ‘At least tell me how he was killed,’ she pleaded.

  ‘He was stabbed.’

  This gave her pause.

  ‘Mrs Bannerjee, can you explain to me why you are not staying in your husband’s suite?’

  She looked at him sharply, then her shoulders sagged. ‘There is nothing sinister to it. My husband is an insomniac. He tends to work at night. I prefer not to share a bedroom with him. Even at home our sleeping arrangements are somewhat unco
nventional. Tell me, are you married, Chopra?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Twenty-five years.’

  ‘Then you know that any marriage that lasts learns to make accommodations.’

  He acknowledged the point with a small tilt of the head. ‘Where did you stay last night?’

  ‘I was in the cabin of one of the Indian delegates. Aparna Sen.’

  ‘But you weren’t with her all night.’

  ‘You know that I was not. I couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘Your husband isn’t the only insomniac, then.’ He leaned forward. ‘When was the last time you saw him?’

  ‘I went to his suite after dinner. We chatted for a while, then I left.’

  ‘You didn’t go to his room when you woke up in the night?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘When you were with him after dinner, did you argue?’

  ‘Why would you say that?’

  He pointed to the side of her cheek. ‘You have a bruise. You’ve tried to disguise it with make-up.’

  She caught her lip between her teeth. ‘No, I—’ She stopped, perhaps realising that denial was futile. ‘I play tennis. I was hit by a ball. I lost concentration for a second. A silly thing really.’

  He observed the way her gaze slid away from his own. She was lying. He felt certain of it.

  ‘How would you describe your marriage, Mrs Bannerjee?’

  ‘I suppose you mean were we having problems.’ She smiled grimly. ‘No. We were happy.’

  ‘Do you have children?’

  ‘Neil has a son. From his first marriage.’

  ‘He was divorced?’

  ‘No. His first wife passed away. Cancer. I will have to call his son. That’s why I need my phone back.’

  ‘I’m afraid you will have to bear with me.’

  ‘He lives in the States. It will take him a day to get here. I must let him know as soon as possible.’

  Chopra ignored this. ‘Is there anyone aboard this train who would have wanted to harm your husband?’

  ‘He was a charming man. That’s how we fell in love. We met while I was shooting a movie in Delhi. As you’ve probably noted he is quite a bit older than me. But he had a roguishness about him, an easy confidence. He was used to getting his own way and there was something I liked about that.’ She tapped her manicured nails on the table. ‘There were times when he could be difficult, times when he was less than a gentleman. But, no, there’s no one aboard who could possibly have wanted to . . . to do that to him.’

 

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