Last Victim of the Monsoon Express

by Vaseem Khan

  Since retiring from the bench Khan had served as a vice-chancellor of the Islamia Law College, Karachi, and continued to sit on various bodies, including the Judicial Commission of Pakistan and the Pakistani branch of the International Law Association.

  Chopra tapped the phone against his thigh, mentally sifting through the information.

  Justice Khan had clearly enjoyed a highly successful career in Pakistan. What possible reason could he have had to harm Neil Bannerjee, an Indian politician who he claimed he had never met until now?

  He considered what he knew about the two men. Could their lives have intersected in the past?

  And then he remembered something James Fairbrother had said, about Khan having ancestral links to Kashmir. Presumably this meant that his family had originated there; possibly he still had relatives there. And Neil Bannerjee had made his name in Kashmir by suppressing one of the many insurgencies that had convulsed the state in the decades since Partition.

  He picked up his phone and texted Shekhar Basu. Is there any connection between Khan, Kashmir and Neil Bannerjee, the politician?

  Ten minutes later, Chopra’s phone pinged.

  Shekhar’s text began: This is old news, but may be what you are looking for. It made a splash in legal circles, both in Pakistan and here, so it stayed with me. The message was accompanied by a snapshot of an old newspaper article.

  As Chopra read the article, he realised that he had the outlines of a possible motive.

  He found the judge in his suite, shoes off, lying on his sofa and watching a movie. It was an Indian classic, Sholay, about two petty criminals employed by a former policeman to defend a village from bandits. The movie, Chopra recalled, began with a tumultuous sequence with the protagonists aboard a moving train being attacked by bandits on horses.

  ‘How can I help you, Chopra?’ said the judge, sitting up.

  Chopra set down the revolver on the coffee table. ‘We found this in your luggage. It was fired last night. I dug out the bullet from a wall in Neil Bannerjee’s suite.’

  ‘I suppose there’s no point talking to you about the unconstitutionality of your search?’ said Khan mildly. He did not seem overly perturbed.

  ‘There were two whisky glasses in Bannerjee’s room. If I were to test the fingerprints on those glasses against yours I suspect I would find a match.’

  Khan’s eyes remained on the gun. ‘There’s no need,’ he said, finally. ‘I admit, I went to Bannerjee’s room last night. We shared a drink.’

  ‘You took your revolver with you. I suppose it was your intention to shoot him.’

  ‘You’re a former policeman, talking to a former judge. You know better than to deal in unsubstantiated suppositions.’

  ‘You pulled a lot of strings to ensure you were on this train. You brought that revolver along precisely so that you could use it to kill Bannerjee.’

  ‘Now why would I want to do that?’ said Khan softly.

  ‘Because of this,’ said Chopra, and held up his phone.

  Khan’s deep-set eyes flickered over the picture of a young woman in a breezy T-shirt, sunglasses in her hair. She was captured in a pose of easy-going confidence, the world at her feet.

  ‘Sadiya Mirza. Thirteen years ago, she came before the Pakistani Supreme Court, charged with the crime of blasphemy. It was claimed that she had insulted the Prophet Muhammad whilst working as a UN aid worker in what was then called the North-West Frontier Province, bordering Afghanistan. She was reported by local religious clerics with whom she had come into conflict as she sought to help women in the region. She was subsequently sentenced to death. The case was eventually appealed to the Supreme Court, where she was acquitted – by you. The case caused a sensation.

  ‘She left the country, and ended up working in India, in Kashmir, your ancestral state. Indeed, it was where her ancestors had also originated – perhaps that was one of the reasons you were drawn to her case.

  ‘A few months later, she was killed when a police action ordered by Neil Bannerjee during his tenure as chief minister of Jammu and Kashmir led to weeks of unrest. As a Pakistani national, Sadiya was immediately targeted. She was killed on the first day of rioting.

  ‘Bannerjee came out of it with his reputation enhanced, the hard man of Indian politics, willing to do what was needed to clamp down on the alleged insurgency. Others paid the price for his ambition, including Sadiya.’

  ‘She was just twenty-one,’ said Khan, his gaze hollow. ‘All she wanted was to improve the lives of others. To help the helpless. To fight injustice. I thought that I had saved her from the fire. But they got her anyway.

  ‘Bannerjee ordered the action against the advice of the local police chiefs, against the advice of everyone with any sense or reason. He did it simply so that he could prove something to the media. She – and so many like her – died so that Neil Bannerjee could gain another headline.’

  ‘When did you decide to kill him? Why did you wait so long?’

  ‘I was a Supreme Court judge. I could not – would never – do anything to besmirch that office. It was only once I stepped down from the bench that I began to dream of Sadiya, of all that she was and all that she might have become. Even then, it wasn’t until I discovered that I had terminal cancer that my thoughts began to coalesce into something concrete. That was the same week that I heard about Bannerjee’s selection to lead the Monsoon Express mission. That was the thing that finally made up my mind. How could I let this man, whose terrible lack of judgement in Kashmir had killed so many, had exacerbated the old hatreds that have consumed so many lives, masquerade as the face of Indo-Pak détente? Could I, in good conscience, sit back and watch this man become prime minister of India? A man with no scruples, no morals; a man willing to use divisiveness to further his own political ambitions?

  ‘Kashmir is the land of my ancestors, Chopra. I have watched it used as a political tool since childhood, by men like Bannerjee. I wanted to strike a blow, for justice, for what is right. I had nothing to lose.’ He shook his head. ‘The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing. Burke was right.’

  ‘What happened last night?’

  ‘I knocked on Bannerjee’s door at around one a.m. I took the revolver with me. He was still awake, working. I told him I couldn’t sleep. He invited me in for a drink; he’d already ordered a bottle of Highland Park single malt Scotch. I’d introduced him to it earlier that day and he’d taken a liking to it. He poured me a glass; we chatted. All the while my mind was working – was I really going to do it? I remember him walking over to the sideboard; I remember standing, taking the revolver from my pocket, waiting for him to turn.

  ‘At first, he thought I was playing some sort of practical joke. I told him why I had forced myself aboard the Monsoon Express. He became angry, threatening. And then, when he realised I truly meant to kill him, he begged for his life. My finger became heavier and heavier on the trigger. I saw Sadiya’s face; I wanted to end this man’s life, for her . . .

  ‘But in the end, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t take a life. Bannerjee hadn’t murdered Sadiya, no more than he killed any of the others that have died in Kashmir over the decades. Fate killed her, and there was nothing I could do to change that.’ The old lawyer stopped, his eyes glistening. ‘I aimed the gun at Bannerjee, then fired into the wall behind him. He didn’t even cry out. I think he was in shock. I said nothing more. Simply turned and went back to my suite.’

  Chopra considered the judge’s testimony. It had the ring of truth. It explained the gunshot that the train driver Gita Viranjali had heard, it explained the whisky glasses, it explained the bullet he had dug out of the wall. It was not beyond the bounds of possibility, however, that Khan had later returned, his conviction renewed, to murder Bannerjee with a knife.

  As he moved to leave the cabin, he recalled something else. ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘did you and Bannerjee play chess?’

  ‘What?’ Confusion moved over Khan’s face.

>   ‘Bannerjee was engaged in a game of chess last night. Was it you he was playing?’

  ‘No. I do not play chess.’

  Chopra turned again to leave, but was stopped by Khan. ‘Perhaps you should ask Mary Ribeiro.’

  He turned back. ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘Because I was seated with her at dinner last night. She mentioned she had been a chess prodigy as a child.’

  Women who mean business

  Mary Ribeiro was in the lounge, chatting to the murdered man’s wife. The two women were bent together, seemingly deep in conspiracy. Chopra wondered whether Ribeiro had told the newly minted widow that her husband had made a pass at her. Would it come as a shock to Kimi Rawal? The pair had been married a decade; it was unlikely that she was unfamiliar with her husband’s habits or that he had successfully hidden them from her. The man had attempted to seduce another woman right under her nose, after all. It demonstrated a distinct lack of discretion. Perhaps this was the real reason the couple slept apart.

  He moved forward to interrupt them, asking Ribeiro whether she would mind stepping away for a moment. Raising an eyebrow, the woman rose gracefully to her feet, a martini glass in one hand.

  He led her through to the emptying dining car, where the waiting staff were mopping up after the lunchtime service. Chopra realised that his own belly was rumbling. But food would have to wait.

  ‘Has anyone told you that you are a very serious man?’ said Ribeiro as she slipped onto the seat opposite him.

  ‘All the time,’ muttered Chopra.

  She sipped her martini then flashed him a dazzling smile. ‘What is this about?’

  ‘I have just discovered that you were a chess prodigy.’

  ‘What of it? This is India. Everyone is a chess prodigy.’

  ‘Last night Bannerjee was engaged in a game of chess. The game was still under way when he was murdered.’

  She stared at him and then burst into a wild bray of laughter. ‘Are you telling me that you think I killed Bannerjee? Because he was playing chess? My goodness, Chopra, you are positively the most delightful man I have ever met.’

  He found himself disconcerted. Rarely had he witnessed someone accused of murder react with such mirth. At the very least there should have been denial, a measure of bluster. But Mary Ribeiro appeared utterly unconcerned.

  ‘It will be a simple matter to fingerprint the chess pieces and compare them to yours.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ she said, leaning back on the upholstered seat and crossing her legs.

  ‘You deny being in Bannerjee’s suite last night?’

  ‘Of course I deny it,’ she said. ‘In fact, while I’m at it, I also deny assassinating Gandhi.’

  He gave her his sternest glare. ‘This is not a joke.’

  She gulped down the rest of her martini, then stood. ‘Murder is a masculine proposition, Chopra, like so much in this country of ours. You are barking up the wrong tree.’

  With that she turned on her heel and walked back towards the lounge car, leaving him with the distinct feeling that he had missed his mark.

  He made his way back down to the dead man’s suite, where he slumped onto the sofa, leaned back and closed his eyes. He could feel the investigation slowly winding its tentacles around him, like a creeper strangling an oak. Each time he thought he had made progress he found the ground giving way beneath him. It was a case of two steps forward and three steps back. And then one step sideways.

  What was irrefutable was that Neil Bannerjee had been murdered and that someone aboard the Monsoon Express was responsible. James Fairbrother and Ellen Howe had all but admitted to a motive. Justice Kadir Khan had confessed to boarding the train with the express intention of harming Bannerjee. Pravin Sharma had every reason to want the Indian politico out of the way. And then there was Mary Ribeiro. Something about the woman bothered him, but the precise nature of that unease continued to elude him. Her cavalier attitude, the lengths she had gone to place herself on the train, her own admission that Bannerjee had attempted to seduce her.

  He opened his eyes and looked across to the coffee table, where the chess set remained in mid-game.

  Had Ribeiro been here last night? If so, why? According to her own testimony she had rebuffed Bannerjee’s advances. But what if that had been a lie? Chopra could not fathom why such a woman would demean herself with a man like Bannerjee, but he had enough sense to know that his own biases might be at play here. Didn’t they say that power was an aphrodisiac? And if the predictions were sound – that Bannerjee was a future prime minister in the making – then surely even a woman as successful and forthright as Ribeiro might find herself succumbing to his less than obvious charms.

  And yet . . . Just now she had been deep in conversation with Bannerjee’s wife. Would she really have been able to do that if she had slept with the woman’s husband the evening before, or indeed had a hand in his death?

  And what of Kimi Rawal? The actress was something of an enigma. Her story about sleeping apart from her husband, now that he reflected upon it, lacked that essential quality he associated with the truth. It couldn’t be just her husband’s insomnia that had led to her moving out from Bannerjee’s palatial suite to share a cramped cabin with another passenger.

  There had to be more to it.

  He reflected that though he knew of the woman, he knew very little about her.

  And then he realised that there was an easy remedy for his ignorance.

  He took out his phone, but was interrupted by an incoming call. It was Iyengar from Usha International, the sewing machine company.

  ‘I have dedicated myself wholly and solely to your problem, sir,’ he said. ‘The search of our archives was most revealing. This bobbin was manufactured in 1977. It was sold as part of a case shipped from our Haryana factory to Mumbai in February of that year. The case contained one hundred bobbins and was purchased by a general store called Patnayak & Sons. Would you like their address?’

  Chopra wrote down the name of the retailer, thanked the man, and ended the call, before dialling the number he’d planned to call before the interruption.

  The voice that answered was female, urbane and warm. ‘Chopra, how nice to hear from you. I trust that you are well?’

  ‘Very well, Mrs Verma. Though the same cannot be said of the situation I presently find myself in. I wonder if I might beg a moment of your time? There are some questions that I must answer and you may be of help.’

  Bijli Verma was a one-time screen goddess, a Bollywood diva who, at the height of her career back in the eighties, had ruled supreme. Her depictions of forthright Indian women had gained her a legion of admirers, a young Chopra among them. As for most red-blooded males of his generation, Bijli Verma had represented the ultimate fantasy, unattainable and untameable. He had come to know the woman on an earlier case, the kidnapping of her film star son. Resolving the matter had earned her undying gratitude.

  ‘This sounds ominous,’ said Bijli.

  ‘You have no idea.’ Chopra could not tell her more, but she took this in her stride. ‘Have you heard of an actress called Kimi Rawal?’

  ‘Come now. Surely that isn’t the question?’

  He smiled. Bijli’s reputation for straightforwardness was well deserved. ‘No,’ he said. ‘The question is: what do you know about her marriage?’

  Bijli allowed a moment to pass before answering. ‘She married Neil Bannerjee, the politician, but I suspect you know that. Bannerjee has been in the press of late – the man who would be king. In fact, if I recall, the pair of them are currently aboard the Monsoon Expre—’ She stopped. ‘Why do I suspect you know this too?’

  ‘I really cannot reveal the circumstances of my enquiry,’ he said, smiling to himself. The woman was as sharp as he remembered.

  ‘Ever the man of mystery,’ she remarked. ‘They’ve been together a while now. I actually attended their wedding, as did anyone who was anyone in Bollywood. A stomach-turning affair, even by the standards of th
e movie business. The bride looked beautiful in a designer sari, the husband not so much. But then, she didn’t marry him for his looks.’ Chopra was glad that he had never been on the wrong side of Bijli Verma’s opinions. ‘They’ve had a good run – or at least a run. But from what I hear the marriage has drifted into choppy waters.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘The rumour is that Rawal is trying to divorce him. But he’s digging in his heels. Refuses to even acknowledge the possibility. It isn’t about love, you understand. The relationship has been dogged by stories of his tomcatting for years. It’s all to do with image. Bannerjee can hardly chart a course for the prime ministership whilst towing a nasty divorce in his wake.’

  ‘How reliable is this rumour?’

  ‘Between us, it’s more than a rumour. I happen to know the lawyer handling the divorce. He’s an old Bollywood hand. I recently bumped into him at an awards dinner. Two gins and the man is a positive fountain of gossip. You’d think for a lawyer he would be more discreet.’

  After ending the call Chopra dwelt on what he had learned.

  Why had Kimi Rawal lied to him? Why, indeed, had she even bothered to come on this journey, given the state of her marriage?

  There was only one way to get the answers he needed.

  He walked to the door, opened it and beckoned in Singh’s man, standing guard outside the crime scene. ‘I would like you to fetch someone for me.’

  Ten minutes later, Rawal entered the suite.

  At first, she merely took in the room, and then her eyes alighted on the shrouded form on the bed. Chopra carefully studied her. The woman seemed to stiffen, but aside from a tightening of her cheek muscles there was little reaction.