The Case of the Love Commandos

by Tarquin Hall

  • • •

  Facecream covered her head in a chunni that had survived Yadav’s wanton vandalism and took a wide circle through the fields until she reached the riverbank. A diminished brook meandered down the middle of wide, sandy beds dotted with rust-colored boulders. Downstream, amidst a rippling haze of heat, she could make out a few trucks superimposed against a bridge and what appeared to be an army of ants, some digging, others walking back and forth with pans of shale balanced on their heads.

  A well-worn path led along the bank through the abundant tropical vegetation. With every other step Facecream disturbed some form of fauna. Butterflies with wings as richly patterned as Persian carpets fluttered into the air. A mongoose scurried through the undergrowth. Further on, a family of monkeys objected to her presence, screeching at her from up in a tree.

  A breeze brought with it the same sour vinegary smell she’d detected on her first morning in the village. It got stronger as she drew nearer to a small brick building that had been constructed amidst a copse of trees, effectively camouflaging it from the air or indeed the nearest road.

  Facecream crossed some well-worn tire tracks leading to the riverbank and then ducked down out of sight. She’d spotted a couple of men standing outside the building. They were both wearing white masks over the lower half of their faces, but she recognized one of them as Rakesh Yadav. He and the other man talked for a couple of minutes, their words too hard to make out. Then Yadav walked off in the direction of the village, while the other man put on a pair of plastic goggles and went inside.

  Facecream stole forward to get a closer look. There were a few rusty barrels stacked against an outside wall. They had leaked something corrosive onto the ground. She knew what the smell was now—acetic anhydride. That explained why Yadav and one of his goons had blemishes on their hands. Even from ten meters, Facecream could feel a burning at the back of her throat.

  Keeping low, she stole past the building unseen and continued along the path. Half a mile farther on, she spied five or six women crouched by a pool of water in the middle of the riverbank. Recognizing two of them as Dalit mothers with children enrolled at the school, she strode across the sand toward them.

  “Why did you not bring your children this morning?” demanded Facecream, her anger suddenly spilling out.

  The women carried on with their washing, eyes downcast.

  “Answer me,” she insisted.

  “We were told the school is closed,” said one of the women, whose name was Poonam.

  “You were threatened?”

  She replied with a jiggle of her head and then went back to scrubbing a shirt.

  Facecream stood over them in silence for a few seconds. The rhythmic sound of their washing echoed the grinding poverty in which they were trapped.

  “You came to me for help,” said Facecream. “But I cannot help you unless you are willing to make some effort yourself.”

  “It’s not safe for you to remain in the village,” said Poonam.

  “I know. I’m leaving. But I can still help you if you are willing.”

  She took a business card from her pocket and handed it to her.

  “Here, take this. It’s an address in Lucknow. Go there and ask for Kukreja Madam. Tell her I sent you. She knows about your case. She will give you the help and advice you need.”

  Poonam took the card and slipped it inside her sari blouse and continued with her washing.

  Facecream lingered for just a few more seconds, then turned and followed her tracks back across the sand.

  Puri needed a stiff drink. Fortunately, he was headed to the Gymkhana Club, the one place in Delhi where members were served throughout the day, indeed the one place in the hectic, burgeoning capital that offered a certain tranquillity and civility sorely lacking in today’s crass society, assuming you didn’t run into the harridan wife of Col. P. V. S. Gill (Retd.), of course.

  Puri was soon standing in reception checking the typed notices pinned to the bulletin board. A new one had gone up since the detective had last checked. It appealed to male members not to clear their noses into the basins of the cloakroom while other members were present. Keeping this in mind, and praying that the rubber soles of his orthopedic shoes wouldn’t attract the attention of Mrs. Col. P. V. S. Gill (Retd.), who was no doubt lurking somewhere about the club just waiting for an opportunity to catch him on some alleged violation of club rules, he proceeded to the Terrace Bar.

  He found Dr. Subhrojit Ghosh already seated at a table in one corner. His friend greeted him with the words, “Chubby, you look terrible. When was the last time you slept?”

  “I did not enjoy one wink last night, actually,” admitted Puri as they embraced.

  “Want to tell me about it?”

  For a split second, the detective felt like pouring his heart out. The truth was that the Love Commandos case was teetering on the brink. Unless he could locate Ram ahead of Hari and whoever else was out there scouring Uttar Pradesh for him, there was little hope that he would ever get to the bottom of the affair. But worse, he’d just been informed that he had been removed from the Jain Jewelry Heist case. His now-former client, Mr. Rajesh of First National Hindustan Insurance Corporation, had called the office to say that he’d hired another private detective to take over the investigation. Most Private Investigators was “history,” he’d said.

  Still, Puri wasn’t one to “crib” when he was down.

  “Good of you—later maybe,” he told his friend, and then called over the waiter.

  “Make mine a small one—I’m in surgery later,” said Dr. Ghosh, as Puri ordered himself a “double-peg whiskey” and a plate of chilli-cheese toast.

  “Shouldn’t you be at Vaishno Devi?” asked Dr. Ghosh, once the waiter had completed the usual requisite form filling and chit counting.

  “So much of work is there,” said Puri.

  “That sounds familiar. When was the last time you had an off?”

  “Please, no lectures, Shubho-dada.”

  “You’re right. What was I thinking? You’re a hopeless case. Now, tell me about Mummy. I hear she locked some intruder in the cupboard?”

  “Some total Charlie came to the house with a fake ID—one of those scamster types. So Mummy-ji welcomed him in with a smile, showed him the whereabouts of the meter and locked him under the stairs.”

  “Marvelous! And is it true she’s up for some award?”

  “As if she needs any further encouragement. God only knows what’s going on at Vaishno Devi. Rumpi was tight-lipped when I talked to her a while back.”

  Their drinks arrived. Puri raised his glass, took a big gulp and let out a long, satisfied sigh. The chilli-cheese toast was quick to follow and he attacked it like a man who hadn’t eaten for weeks.

  “Now I want to know what’s going on with you, Chubby,” said Dr. Ghosh, who stuck with the salted cashews. “I’ve never seen you so fed up. Something’s eating you.”

  “Nothing I can’t handle, Shubho-dada,” Puri answered with a wave of his hand.

  “We all need a shoulder to cry on, Chubby. Tell me. Perhaps I can help.”

  The detective sighed. “You’ve seen the Vishnu Mishra case on TV?” he asked.

  “The Thakur accused of murdering the Dalit woman?”

  “Her son is missing, also.”

  “Wasn’t he trying to elope with Mishra’s daughter?”

  “Correct,” said Puri. “A Dalit boy and a Thakur girl. What the world is coming to, I ask you?”

  Dr. Ghosh regarded him with almost pitying eyes. “Come now, Chubby, times are changing. You sound like a Thakur yourself.”

  “I’m not one to discriminate against caste.”

  “Then what have you got against two people coming together?”

  “Let them come together provided their parents and family are in agreement.”

  Dr. Ghosh scoffed. “And since when are elders all so wise? Just look at our leading politicians. Hardly one below seventy. And arrogant be
yond all measure.”

  “You believe youngsters can do better?”

  “They could hardly do worse. You know my views on the subject, Chubby. The family model is too stifling. Our young people are not taught to think for themselves. That’s why you’ve got this paralysis. We could do with a bit of revolution.”

  “I’m in no doubt that our politicians are a bunch of crooks. But it is the family that binds India together—the values we share, of common decency and community, that stops it from falling apart. I, for one, am against anything that threatens it.”

  “And caste? Does that bind us all together, Chubby?”

  They both fell silent for a minute or so, each lost in his own thoughts. When Puri spoke again there was not the slightest hint of animosity in his voice, a testament to the high regard in which he held Dr. Ghosh and the value he placed on their friendship.

  “Talking of caste, I wanted to pick your brains so to speak,” he said.

  “Anything, Chubby.”

  Puri told him about his visit to ICMB and the work they were doing.

  “They’re taking blood samples from illiterate village types, paying them one hundred rupees, only, and getting their thumbprints on some consent form.”

  “Well, that’s clearly unethical. But to be honest, even with the best intentions in the world, it’s very hard to police. Indigenous communities from South America to Australia have been exploited.”

  “Seems communities who’ve intermarried over generations offer rich pickings, is it?”

  “Amongst groups who’ve remained endogamous over long periods, mutations occur in the genes, Chubby. This can create disadvantages and weaknesses, but it can also prove an advantage. Sickle-cell anemia is a good example. Those who carry the recessive gene have been found to have a very high resistance to malaria. So, yes, once we find these mutations in the genes and the chromosomes, there’s the possibility of developing treatments.”

  Puri sat forward in his chair, placing his drink on the table in front of him as if he needed his hands free to think.

  “Let us imagine I take the blood sample of a certain young man and find something worthwhile in his DNA and I want to do further tests and all …,” he said, his eyes almost feverish.

  “Are you asking how much blood would you need?” asked Dr. Ghosh.

  Puri gave an eager, childlike nod.

  “Well, that would depend on how many tests you were carrying out. But I would imagine a number of samples would be necessary for comparisons.”

  “And if your laboratory lost power over many hours during load shedding?”

  “Your samples would be ruined.”

  The detective took out his notebook and flicked back to the notes he’d made after his conversation with the Swedish director, Bergstrom.

  “After all the failures on the national grid, we had to build our own power plant.”

  “That’s why they needed Ram,” concluded Puri. “He was giving them blood and in return they were paying him for his services.”

  Nineteen

  The Vaishno Devi treasury was housed in a building a short distance from the shrine complex. It contained a vault into which daily contributions were placed after all the coins and notes had been sorted, counted and bagged. From what Mummy and Rumpi could gather from a priest to whom they spoke, the vault was watched over at night by a lone security guard employed by a private firm. This security guard, who was obese but had previously been considered reliable, had fallen asleep. A thief—Inspector Malhotra apparently believed the job had been the work of just one—had then entered the building via a skylight and shinnied down a rope.

  The priest also told them that the vault’s combination lock had been opened with the use of sophisticated safecracking equipment, including a diamond-tipped drill that had been discarded at the scene. The thief had then escaped with an undisclosed sum.

  “Must be that Weasel Face priest was the one doing drugging of the security guard using sleeping tablets,” said Mummy as she and Rumpi stood outside the treasury watching the police come and go.

  “How do you know he’s not the thief?” asked Rumpi.

  “Why he would do climbing in through the roof?”

  “But he could have the loot.”

  “Doubt it. Remember he was on duty inside the shrine.”

  Rumpi made a face. “You’re absolutely sure you didn’t doze off last night, Mummy-ji? Perhaps just for a few minutes?”

  “Don’t be silly, beta.”

  “And there’s no way Dughal could have climbed out the window?”

  “You’ve seen his size, is it?”

  “Well, then surely we should find your Weasel Face and find out what he knows.”

  “Hardly he is going to tell us how Dughal decamped with the loot.”

  “So what are we going to do?”

  “Watch and wait. And trust to the God.”

  Mummy’s fatalism paid off about an hour later when Inspector Malhotra and his jawans suddenly emerged from inside the treasury and made off down the hill. Mummy and Rumpi followed at a distance. The police wallahs soon arrived at their guesthouse and entered. The manager was waiting for them. He was holding a rucksack and a mountaineer’s climbing rope.

  “We found it under the bed in room seven, sir,” the clerk told Malhotra as Mummy and Rumpi entered the guesthouse and loitered on the edge of the reception, eavesdropping on the conversation.

  “And where’s the occupant?” asked the inspector.

  “Gone, sir.”

  “When?”

  The clerk gave a shrug.

  “Describe her to me.”

  “Young—I’d say thirties, dark hair, athletic type.”

  “When did you last see her?”

  “Last night when she checked in, sir.”

  “What time?”

  The clerk thought for a minute, then answered, “Around nine, nine thirty. I can’t be sure. We were very busy. One hundred percent occupancy.”

  Malhotra asked to see the register and the clerk duly pointed out the entry made by the aforementioned guest. “That one: Gauri Nanda, a Delhi address is given,” he said.

  “And you haven’t seen her this morning?” asked Malhotra.

  “No, sir, she must have gone.”

  “Where’s the night clerk?”

  “Sleeping.”

  “Where?”

  “Upstairs.”

  “Fetch him.”

  The young man was sent for and appeared a few minutes later bleary-eyed and with his trousers on back to front.

  “The woman in room seven—Gauri Nanda. You remember her?” asked Malhotra.

  The night clerk gave a petrified nod.

  “Did she leave the guesthouse at all last night?”

  “I … I don’t re-remember,” he stuttered.

  Mummy piped up. “Inspector, I witnessed her leaving,” she said.

  Recognizing her voice, Malhotra turned slowly around with a look of fatalistic resignation. “Mrs. Puri,” he said, injecting a sense of inevitability into his voice.

  “Yes, Inspector. I’m a guest here, also.”

  “And you saw this young woman—Gauri Nanda.”

  “Correct.”

  “And she left her room in the middle of the night?”

  “One o’clock, exactly and precisely.”

  “Was she wearing this pack?”

  “Correct.”

  “And you saw her return, madam?”

  “After three o’clock give or take.”

  “Did you see her leave again this morning?”

  “Negative, Inspector. Beyond six thirty I was taking bed rest. So tired I was.”

  Malhotra thanked her, his graciousness tinged with faint bemusement, and then asked the manager to show him Gauri Nanda’s room. He spent less than five minutes inside and left without making any significant discoveries.

  “Suspect is female, thirties, going by name of Gauri Nanda. I want any female matching her description hel
d at the bottom of the mountain for questioning,” he could be heard saying into his walkie-talkie as he and his jawans swept back through reception.

  When they were gone, Mummy approached the manager.

  “Kindly tell me when exactly this Gauri Nanda made her room booking?”

  The manager checked his computer. “One month back, madam,” he said.

  “Kindly do checking of another reservation. Name of Dughal,” Mummy said.

  He obliged her, quickly confirming that it had been made on the same day.

  “They were made within half an hour of one another in fact,” he added.

  Mummy stepped away from the desk.

  “You think she was Dughal’s accomplice?” asked Rumpi.

  “No doubt about it at all.”

  “You mean Dughal was just the mastermind?”

  “Could be,” answered Mummy, although there was a degree of uncertainty in her voice.

  She made her way down the corridor and found the door to Gauri Nanda’s room open. There was a cleaner inside sweeping the floor. Apart from the rucksack, he said he’d found nothing else out of the ordinary. Mummy had a look around herself and came across nothing either. She then asked to see the Dughals’ room, which was yet to be cleaned. Inside, it was a mess, with sweets wrappers, empty Coke bottles and takeaway boxes scattered around the place.

  When Mummy stepped into the bathroom, something crunched beneath her chappals. Kneeling down, she found some sand scattered across the floor. There were more traces in the shower around the plughole.

  “It must have got into his shoes coming up the mountain,” suggested Rumpi.

  “He wasn’t doing walking, na,” pointed out Mummy.

  They wandered back down the corridor and stopped on the steps of the guesthouse. Some pilgrims who’d made the ascent overnight passed them, elated at having reached the summit. A couple of sedan chairs appeared, both occupied by overweight Punjabis whose expressions showed none of the sense of achievement exhibited by the pilgrims on foot.

  Seeing them and the porters who bore their weight triggered a question in Rumpi’s mind. It left her lips, however, as a statement.

  “You’d think the Dughals would have taken a helicopter up the mountain, seeing as they chartered one to go back down again. It really can’t be that comfortable sitting in those chairs for hours on end.”